Desolation - Sex Stories

Desolation

... me. His chest is pressed against mine and I feel the familiar hardness against my lower stomach. There isn’t anything romantic about the moment and it strikes me as ironic suddenly. Two near-strangers making out on a cliff top at midday – it’s like a scene from some predictable rom-com. But Trent isn’t going to last. We both know it. In two days the vacation is over and I go home and he goes back to… whatever life he has. It doesn’t bother me that I know practically nothing about him. I slip my hands beneath his shirt, feeling the warm, tight skin stretched over muscle and bone. He’s still in good shape, despite the drugs. I wonder how long he’ll last, or whether he’ll be smart enough to stop before age gives him that emaciated, yellow look that hard drug users inevitably end up with. His mouth swallows my moan as his hands find my ass, pulling me hard against his erection. Afterwards I’ll regret it. I’ll feel bad, guilty. But right now, it’s too much. Everything depends on wilfully finding that escape. And I know it’s a cycle, but I’m not interested in finding a way out. I can live through the shame and remorse if only for the pleasure. I’ll have to because I can’t live without this kind of thing. He releases me briefly and I watch him grasp at his belt, undoing it hurriedly, rough fingertips finding the zip on his jeans and then he’s finally ready; his cock standing out, hard and proud. I stare and don’t feel ashamed. He knows I’m only after one thing. He’s after the same ...

... thing. There’s no point in being embarrassed or coy. He pushes me against the car, tugging my dress up around my waist. My feet are off the ground. Silver sandals. His hand goes between my legs, no hesitation, his fingers dragging my underwear to one side. I feel him against me, frustratingly clumsy but then he pushes hard and I feel him ease inside me. My breath catches in my throat and I close my eyes. Trent thrusts hard, pushing me against the car. I feel the tension rise in my stomach. My hands scrabble uselessly from his shoulders down his back but there’s nothing to hold onto. I settle for his arms, fingers digging into the hard muscle. Nothing matters. I can hear him breathing hard as he slams into me over and over, his breath at my neck and his hands exploring my body. I feel almost too hot. I can hear the seagulls. Shouts of laughter and screams echo from the beach so many metres below. Everything up on the cliff is so still in contrast, there’s not even a breeze. All that moves is us; smacking against each other desperately, like our release means that much. It does mean that much. The smell of him is all over me, the smoke from his weed, the cheap cologne, it’s almost stifling. Everything seems stronger. The sweat is glossing over me. I hear the sound of my body thumping against the car. The pressure is building in the pit of my stomach. He makes it last, each stroke long and purposeful but there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s like he wants to be sure his cock goes ...