In Summertime Saga

We were in my room.

She'd woken me at five thirty whispering "Jenny" and we'd gathered the robe and the boxers and padded down the hallway in the dark and closed my door and fallen back into bed and I'd been asleep again in thirty seconds with her back against my chest and her hair in my face.

When I woke up again the light was different. Pre-dawn grey coming through my curtains. The room was cool and the sheets were warm from both of us and Debbie was on her side, facing me, her head on my arm. Her fingers were tracing the line down the center of my stomach, the one Kevin's gym work had put there.

"You're staring," I said.

"I'm touching."

"Same thing."

"It's not." Her fingers traced lower. Along the muscle above my hip. "You've gotten so..." She didn't finish. Her hand was warm and her nails were short and the touch was light, curious, learning the shape of me.

"Show me more," she said.

I looked at her. Her face was calm. Her eyes were grey and clear and the guilt that had been there in the first round was gone. Whatever she'd been carrying about Frank and the sheets and the pillow had burned off somewhere between the crying and the sleeping and the waking up. What was left was a woman who'd spent years not being touched and had just been touched and was deciding she wanted more of it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She held my gaze. "Show me what you know."

I kissed her. Rolled her onto her back, kissed her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts. She arched up into me and her hands went to my shoulders and I was hard already, had been since her fingers started tracing.

I sat back on my heels. Took her hips. Turned her over.

She went. Onto her stomach, then up on her hands and knees when my hands guided her, and she looked back over her shoulder at me and her face was flushed and her lips were parted and her hands were shaking on the headboard and she wasn't stopping.

"Like this?"

"Like this." I ran my hand down her spine. Her skin prickled under my palm. She was on all fours on my bed with the grey light from the window on her back and her ass and she was holding the headboard with both hands and her knuckles were white and she was trembling.

"I've never-" She started. Stopped. "Not like this."

"We can go slow."

"Don't go slow."

I put my hand on her lower back. Steadied her. Positioned myself behind her. She was wet from earlier, from the rounds in her room, and when I pressed the head against her she opened and I pushed in.

"Oh-"

Different angle. Deeper. The position changed everything, the depth and the fullness. Her fingers tightened on the headboard and her head dropped between her arms and a sound came out of her that was lower and rougher than anything she'd made during the first round.

I pulled back and pushed in again. Slow at first, despite what she'd asked, letting her body adjust to the new depth. She was tight from this angle and every thrust made a wet sound that was louder in this position because there was nothing between us to muffle it.

"Ah-"

Her breathing was already gone. Through her mouth, fast, each exhale punched out by the thrust. Her back was arched and the pre-dawn light caught the sweat starting on her spine and her hair was falling across her face and her fingers on the headboard opened and closed in time with my hips.

I picked up the pace. My hands on her hips, the grip firm, pulling her back onto me as I pushed forward. The bed started to creak, a small rhythmic sound joining the wet slap of my hips against her ass. The room was warming from our bodies and the cool air from the window hit my back and her skin was hot where I held her.

"Ah- ah-" Matching my pace. Getting louder. She was trying to be quiet and failing, each thrust pushing a sound out of her that she couldn't hold back. Her ass rippled with each impact and her shoulders were down and her hair was hanging and she was gripping the headboard hard enough that her arms were shaking.

"Harder," she said. Into the mattress.

I gave her harder. The rhythm went from measured to fast and she pushed back to meet me, her hips finding their own counter-rhythm, grinding, and the wet sounds got louder. My cock was surrounded by heat, tight and slick, and every thrust bottomed out and she made a different noise each time I hit deep.

I leaned forward. Put my hand in her hair. Gathered it, held it, tilting her head up just enough that she could breathe. She gasped.

"Oh god- that's-"

She pushed back harder. Her knees were sliding on the sheets and sweat was building where her skin met mine. I put my other hand on her hip and the pace was fast now and steady and the bed was loud and she was louder.

"Nn- ah- right there- don't you dare stop- ah-"

She'd never said don't you dare to me before. The woman in this round was bolder than the one who'd cried during missionary an hour ago.

I reached around. My right hand leaving her hip, sliding down her stomach, between her legs. My fingers found her clit while my cock was still inside her and I circled it and she slammed her hand against the headboard.

"Fuck-"

Debbie didn't swear. Debbie said sweetie and honey and goodness and oh dear. Debbie did not say fuck.

She said it again.

"Fuck- Arthur- I can't- it's too- ah- don't stop- fuck-"

The double stimulation was taking her apart. Her arms gave out and her face went into the pillow and her ass stayed up because my hand on her hip was holding it there and my fingers were on her clit and my cock was deep inside her and she was shaking. Full-body tremors that made her thighs vibrate against mine.

Her hand went flat against the headboard. Palm pressed hard. The tell.

I sped up. Both hands working. Fingers circling faster, hips driving harder. She screamed into the pillow. A real scream, muffled by the cotton, her whole body clenching around me, her pussy gripping in hard rhythmic pulses from root to tip, and her hips bucked against my hand and my cock and she was gone. Her stomach clenched and her thighs shook and the scream died into a long broken moan.

I held her through it. Slowed my hips. Kept my fingers light on her clit as the aftershocks rolled through her and each one made her twitch and gasp and grab the pillow tighter. She was soaking. My hand between her legs was slick and the sounds of my fingers were obscene in the quiet room and she was shaking and her breathing was ragged and she'd just screamed into a pillow and she was done.

Then I pulled out. She shivered at the withdrawal, the sudden emptiness, and a whimper came out of her that she'd deny later. The cool air hit my cock, slick and glistening, and I took her hip and rolled her onto her back.

She looked up at me. Her face was wrecked. Red, damp, her eyes unfocused, her hair plastered across her forehead, her mouth open. She was still shaking.

"I want to see your face," I said.

She nodded. Her arms came up and I caught her wrists, both of them, and pressed them above her head against the pillow. My hands around her wrists, firm. Her bruised wrist was under my left hand and I adjusted, shifted my grip higher, away from the marks Igor had left. She noticed. Her brow pulled tight and she pressed her wrists UP into my hands, giving me the weight.

I entered her again. Missionary. Face to face. Her legs wrapped around my waist and I pushed in and she was so wet the sound filled the room and her eyes went wide.

"Ah- oh-"

I held her wrists and thrust into her. My weight on my knees and my grip and her body open beneath me and her face right there, inches from mine. She couldn't look away because I was right above her and her hands were pinned and she was looking at me while I fucked her and her mouth kept opening on sounds she couldn't control.

"Arthur- nn- I'm going to- ah- again-"

I went harder. The bed frame was hitting the wall in a steady rhythm and her tits bounced with each thrust and she was biting her lip and her wrists were pressing up into my hands and her pussy was clenching around me and I was close, closer than I wanted to be because watching her face was doing more to me than the friction.

"Look at me."

She looked at me. Her eyes were glassy and wet and her mouth was open and she wasn't behind them anymore and she was looking at me and I came.

Her name between my teeth. My hips drove deep and I finished inside her and the heat spread and she clenched around me one more time and her legs pulled me deeper and her fingers curled under my grip and I dropped my forehead against hers and breathed.

We lay there.

The room was getting lighter. The grey was turning to pink at the edges of the curtains. Her legs were still around my waist and my weight was on her and neither of us moved for a long time.

I let go of her wrists. Rolled off. Onto my back. The ceiling. My ceiling, the popcorn texture I'd been staring at since Day 1.

Debbie was on her stomach next to me, her face in the pillow, her body still.

Then, muffled: "I'm going to hell."

I stared at the ceiling.

"If it helps," I said. "I've already been."

She laughed.

The laugh started in the pillow and came out sideways and it shook the bed. A real laugh, full, the kind that makes your stomach hurt, and she rolled onto her side and pressed her face against my ribs and laughed until her shoulders shook and the laughter turned wet at the edges and she was crying again, the good kind, and she pressed her face harder against my ribs.

I put my arm around her. She pressed her wet face against my ribs and laughed and cried and her body shook against mine and the bed moved with her and the sunrise was coming through the curtains and the room was turning gold.

"I need to make breakfast," she said, her voice wrecked, her face still against my ribs.

"Yeah."

"Pancakes."

"Okay."

She didn't move. Neither did I. The sunlight was creeping across the floor and Jenny would wake up eventually and the world outside this room was waiting.

For now, she was laughing against my ribs and the room was gold and I let it be that for another minute.