Serious Moonlight - Sex Stories

Serious Moonlight

She came like a thunderstorm, cried out and spilled forward with a breathy sob, bouncing down onto the carpet and flipping over in a single elegant motion. He fell back onto the floor in the opposite direction, his chest pounding, gasping for air. He let his leg lop over hers. For long moments, they lay in the dark together, letting their breathing settle, their hearts slow. A gibbous moon shone through the windows, unhurriedly hid behind a shelf of clouds, reappeared, and filled the room with moonlight, throwing long shadows across the motel room.

The floral scent extant when they first entered the room was long gone. The room reeked of sex now.

The belt was still around her neck, in a loose curl, inches away from his hand. Ripped fabric draped her shoulders and waist. She stared up at the ceiling, placidly tracing a wet fingertip along the horizon of her hip.

“Fuck,” she said.

“Fuck,” he agreed.

“That was so fucking hot.”

“Yes.”

“I mean,fuck. That was…. It was like….”

“It was hot,” he summarized.

She absently traced her breasts and stomach with her finger as they talked. She said, “It was like another place. It was like I didn’t know where I was. Like I wasn’t even there, like I was dreaming it.”

“It was like drugs. Like dropping acid. The whole world changed.”

“Exactly! Like dropping acid.”

“Like Alice.”

She smiled. “Yes, like Alice,” she said. “Down the rabbit hole.”

“And into Wonderland.” He returned the smile.

Her hand ...

... paused and felt at a spot on the skin just below her left breast.

“You bit me!” she said.

“I bit you,” he echoed, his body still, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“You left a mark.”

“Yeah.”

She raised her head to look. “You, like, drew blood.” She craned her head to examine the area more closely. “Here, look.” She cupped her breast in her hand and lifted it. He turned his head to see a tiny dot of abraded skin, and teeth-shaped bruises already forming.

“Savage.” She gave him a half-playful slap on the leg.

“I like biting you,” he said. “I marked you.”

“You love saying that, don’t you?”

“Yes. I love marking you. Marking you with tooth and claw. And cum.”

“Isn’t that from a poem?” She recited, “Nature red in tooth and claw?”

“And cum. Don’t forget cum.”

“I don’t think cum is in the poem.”

“It should be.”

She laughed. She said, “Remember, that first time? When you held out your hand, and I took it, and you led me up the stairs?”

“Of course, I remember. I will never forget.”

“I was surprised,” she said. “It was so gentle. The way you held my hand. I expected you to be just as gentle when we made love.”

“I hate that phrase.”

“I know you do. I didn’t know that at the time. Fucking. You prefer the word ‘fucking’.”

“Yeah. “‘Making love’ is so bloodless. Sanitized. Like a Hallmark card or something.”

“I know,” she said.

“There can be just as much love in fucking as there is in making love. More maybe. Because there are fewer ...