Stroke

I’m introing this post because it’s the most plotless piece of stroke fiction I’ve ever written *grin*. I’m still playing with writing in the male POV, even though this is in the third person. Although visually not a problem, I’m not sure this will classify as work-safe. In fact, if you’re male, I certainly hope it doesn’t.

Flash Fiction: Stroke

His eyelids slide closed and the image is there again. He has nurtured it, refined it, rolled it around so many times in his mind, it has become an instant trigger for his lust. It is no longer just a mental picture; it has become heavy with sensation, sound and motion.

So blood-engorged, the skin covering the head of his cock is shiny with tension and precum. It lies cradled in the plump valley of her dark crimson slit. As he moves his hips, his cock slides back and forth through the splayed channel. One moment her hard, swollen clit is visible and unhooded, and in the next his cock obscures it. This is what he sees.

With every stroke, he spreads more of her juices through the velvety flesh. The wet noise sounds like kissing, like licking. His memory of the sound brings a flood of saliva and triggers an aural hallucination of the moans she made.

So wet. So wet that he feels it bathe his balls as underside of his entire length lies in contact with her burning cunt and his cockhead rests on the pale skin above her pubic bone.

His oil-slicked grasp is warm, stroking blind and lost in that microcosm, where he draws back to angle his cock downwards and plunge deep into the tight, weeping warm interior of her cunt: the pressure around him so delicious it makes his eyes water and his breath falter.

The memory is obscenely vivid, the truth of it rises up his torso, displacing organs, moving muscles, pushing a groan from his chest. And for a few unbearably sweet moments, he would live there, die there, be reborn there, until the one thrust that changes everything with the violence of a revelation. Then comes the knowledge of the beginning of the end, the absolute certainty that, after this, there will be no more like it.

He pulls his cock out, the withdrawal such a delicious battle with her tenacious grasp that he almost doesn’t make it. But, laying his twitching shaft back between the fluttering folds, the spasms send his seed in hot, liquid pulses over the inflamed flesh, spilling creamy white over crimson.

It works, every time. His frantic stroking stilled by the onslaught of pleasure, he roars and erupts over his tight, gleaming fist.