America: Chapter 21
The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
America
Chapter 21
Justin
"Don't!" I shout, the only word I can think to utter, before I am thrust back against the shelves, and a strong hand covers my mouth.
"Shh! Justin, it's me," he whispers, unnecessarily. His breath on my face, the smell of his skin... even in pitch-blackness, I know it is Brian. He pulls his hand away, needing it to right himself after slipping on some press tiles strewn errantly on the floor.
When he recovers, I can feel his face, inches from mine. His hands are on the shelf edges at either side of my head, trapping me in front of him. For several moments neither of us speaks. I should ask what he is doing here. How he found me. But I cannot open my mouth. I am too...captivated...by the feeling of being close to him, again, after so long a separation. My heart shudders in my chest, like a hummingbird finally having found its supper. I can't think, can't speak, can't reason. Nothing exists at this moment but the diaphanous barrier between our two bodies.
It was said that men on the Crusades, having been at war for twenty years, would return to their homeland and collapse, lifeless, to the soil. All their energy had been poured into one single driving ambition--home--and they had no design or purpose for what would come after. I feel something like this now, weak-kneed and mute, in Brian's intangible, questioning hold.
Of their own will, my hands reach tentatively up to his face, burning at the sudden contact. He grasps me to him unexpectedly, pressing our chests together in a crushing embrace. I exhale a shivering breath, feeling the rapid pulse of his heart against my own. It is falling into a pool of water, after months of agonizing thirst. Almost too overwhelming to bear.
Without words or suggestions, our lips are pressed together, tongues furious to taste and touch every inch of each other. All that is unsaid between us--and all that was said horribly in the past--is gone. We are two bodies only, determined as magnets to reunite.
His hands roam my back wildly, clutching and tugging at my thin shirt, before ripping it clean off my body. I gasp in surprise and excitement, finding my heartbeat newly elevated. Fumbling a bit in the cluttered darkness, he is soon on his knees before me.
In one clean tug, he has my breeches around my ankles. He works off my shoes and stockings with furious drive, until I am fully unclothed. My solid, heavy shaft bobs before his face, in time with my labored breaths.
I feel his hands grasp my hips, and furious, sharp kisses along my inner thighs. I feel my knees begin to shake in anticipation. His tongue now, in little wet circles, dances along the crease between my thigh and groin. I moan in hypersensitive frustration, feeling my pelvis shifting forward with its own needy urgency. How can he bear to be so patient?
My question is answered forthwith, as he finally takes my weeping cap into his mouth, suckling it hungrily. I groan immodestly, the sensation of warmth and wet and that intoxicating pull... My hands are lost in his soft, unruly hair; my spine in a taut arch. My head falls back against the shelf behind me in a dull, painless thud. This is, quite literally, breathtaking. But I need more.
"Brian..." I moan in a whisper, feebly pulling him back into a standing position. My eyes search the darkness for his, finding only the vague shape of his face. I press my turgid, swollen member into his own groin, stiff beneath his tented breeches.
I whisper again, this time hotly at his ear. "Please..." It comes out a desperate whine, the bare vocalization of my need. "Don't make me beg for it."
He moans from deep in his throat and grasps me to him. His lips crush mine, bruising, biting. Somewhere, I taste blood, and it inflames my senses like gunpowder. He lifts me off of my feet, still kissing me, and then we are stumbling, falling backwards over some things and sending others crashing to the ground.
Then the back of my thighs hit the hard edge of something--a table. We fall over onto it, Brian on top of me, my loins humming at the familiar feel of his weight between my legs. Sharp...somethings...on the table stab into my back, but to free them would mean releasing Brian from my hold, and I won't. Can't.
His hands fumble between our groins, desperately trying to free himself of his belt. Finally, I feel that enormous, velvety rod, pressed against the bone of my pelvis. My legs are up and around his waist before he has even worked his breeches down to his knees.
He falls forward, dropping to his elbows on either side of me. My knees are pressed into my chest, and I will not wait for preparation. Feeling that large, smooth horn pressed teasingly against my ready hole, I grasp his hips forcefully and draw him into me.
I cannot help my scream at the pain of it; raw, hot, sharp. Indeed, for the first few seconds it seems that the sting is all I can feel. Brian clasps a hand over my mouth as he fills me completely, and my shout becomes a muffled groan. He begins to move in short, fast jabs, stretching my hole wider and wider, breathing warm sighs of pleasure against my neck. And as always, in that mysterious miracle, the pain gives way to awesome, staggering bliss.
His pace quickens, as does his breathing. Pounding, driving into me, his force is animalistic...and exhilarating. I have never been so rapidly spiraling towards release, so ecstatically high with pleasure. Through unfocused ears I hear the table underneath us, its lurid bang bang bang against the wall. In my head I hear more, more, more.
Brian's sighs escalate to short, urgent groans. The raw, burning edges of my hole are almost numbed by the onslaught; I feel now only what's on the inside. That secret, unnamed treasure deep within me that he strikes, over and over, like the perfect chord in a towering, inevitable crescendo.
Jagged, miscellaneous objects--ground between the tabletop and me--are digging into my back, but I feel no pain; only drops of wet, sticky blood. I grasp his hand--still pressed against my mouth--sharply in my teeth, a feral gesture of possession. I bite down hard and see shots of colored light--his pain or mine, I can't distinguish--then pure, white dizzying rapture; then nothing but black.
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
America
Chapter 21
Justin
"Don't!" I shout, the only word I can think to utter, before I am thrust back against the shelves, and a strong hand covers my mouth.
"Shh! Justin, it's me," he whispers, unnecessarily. His breath on my face, the smell of his skin... even in pitch-blackness, I know it is Brian. He pulls his hand away, needing it to right himself after slipping on some press tiles strewn errantly on the floor.
When he recovers, I can feel his face, inches from mine. His hands are on the shelf edges at either side of my head, trapping me in front of him. For several moments neither of us speaks. I should ask what he is doing here. How he found me. But I cannot open my mouth. I am too...captivated...by the feeling of being close to him, again, after so long a separation. My heart shudders in my chest, like a hummingbird finally having found its supper. I can't think, can't speak, can't reason. Nothing exists at this moment but the diaphanous barrier between our two bodies.
It was said that men on the Crusades, having been at war for twenty years, would return to their homeland and collapse, lifeless, to the soil. All their energy had been poured into one single driving ambition--home--and they had no design or purpose for what would come after. I feel something like this now, weak-kneed and mute, in Brian's intangible, questioning hold.
Of their own will, my hands reach tentatively up to his face, burning at the sudden contact. He grasps me to him unexpectedly, pressing our chests together in a crushing embrace. I exhale a shivering breath, feeling the rapid pulse of his heart against my own. It is falling into a pool of water, after months of agonizing thirst. Almost too overwhelming to bear.
Without words or suggestions, our lips are pressed together, tongues furious to taste and touch every inch of each other. All that is unsaid between us--and all that was said horribly in the past--is gone. We are two bodies only, determined as magnets to reunite.
His hands roam my back wildly, clutching and tugging at my thin shirt, before ripping it clean off my body. I gasp in surprise and excitement, finding my heartbeat newly elevated. Fumbling a bit in the cluttered darkness, he is soon on his knees before me.
In one clean tug, he has my breeches around my ankles. He works off my shoes and stockings with furious drive, until I am fully unclothed. My solid, heavy shaft bobs before his face, in time with my labored breaths.
I feel his hands grasp my hips, and furious, sharp kisses along my inner thighs. I feel my knees begin to shake in anticipation. His tongue now, in little wet circles, dances along the crease between my thigh and groin. I moan in hypersensitive frustration, feeling my pelvis shifting forward with its own needy urgency. How can he bear to be so patient?
My question is answered forthwith, as he finally takes my weeping cap into his mouth, suckling it hungrily. I groan immodestly, the sensation of warmth and wet and that intoxicating pull... My hands are lost in his soft, unruly hair; my spine in a taut arch. My head falls back against the shelf behind me in a dull, painless thud. This is, quite literally, breathtaking. But I need more.
"Brian..." I moan in a whisper, feebly pulling him back into a standing position. My eyes search the darkness for his, finding only the vague shape of his face. I press my turgid, swollen member into his own groin, stiff beneath his tented breeches.
I whisper again, this time hotly at his ear. "Please..." It comes out a desperate whine, the bare vocalization of my need. "Don't make me beg for it."
He moans from deep in his throat and grasps me to him. His lips crush mine, bruising, biting. Somewhere, I taste blood, and it inflames my senses like gunpowder. He lifts me off of my feet, still kissing me, and then we are stumbling, falling backwards over some things and sending others crashing to the ground.
Then the back of my thighs hit the hard edge of something--a table. We fall over onto it, Brian on top of me, my loins humming at the familiar feel of his weight between my legs. Sharp...somethings...on the table stab into my back, but to free them would mean releasing Brian from my hold, and I won't. Can't.
His hands fumble between our groins, desperately trying to free himself of his belt. Finally, I feel that enormous, velvety rod, pressed against the bone of my pelvis. My legs are up and around his waist before he has even worked his breeches down to his knees.
He falls forward, dropping to his elbows on either side of me. My knees are pressed into my chest, and I will not wait for preparation. Feeling that large, smooth horn pressed teasingly against my ready hole, I grasp his hips forcefully and draw him into me.
I cannot help my scream at the pain of it; raw, hot, sharp. Indeed, for the first few seconds it seems that the sting is all I can feel. Brian clasps a hand over my mouth as he fills me completely, and my shout becomes a muffled groan. He begins to move in short, fast jabs, stretching my hole wider and wider, breathing warm sighs of pleasure against my neck. And as always, in that mysterious miracle, the pain gives way to awesome, staggering bliss.
His pace quickens, as does his breathing. Pounding, driving into me, his force is animalistic...and exhilarating. I have never been so rapidly spiraling towards release, so ecstatically high with pleasure. Through unfocused ears I hear the table underneath us, its lurid bang bang bang against the wall. In my head I hear more, more, more.
Brian's sighs escalate to short, urgent groans. The raw, burning edges of my hole are almost numbed by the onslaught; I feel now only what's on the inside. That secret, unnamed treasure deep within me that he strikes, over and over, like the perfect chord in a towering, inevitable crescendo.
Jagged, miscellaneous objects--ground between the tabletop and me--are digging into my back, but I feel no pain; only drops of wet, sticky blood. I grasp his hand--still pressed against my mouth--sharply in my teeth, a feral gesture of possession. I bite down hard and see shots of colored light--his pain or mine, I can't distinguish--then pure, white dizzying rapture; then nothing but black.