Redfaced, huffing, holding her pale hamstrings apart and high in the air, I thrusted myself in and out of the blondehaired girl below. Her face contorted anxiously, excitedly as I felt the folds of her narrow lovetunnel reluctantly and moistly part to accommodate my lengthy and granite invasion. Back and forth and slow and slick with delicious little pops I plugged the opening, sometimes remaining inside her and still for a longer period so as to savor our consummation, to relish the knowledge of her insides being transmitted to me by my throbbing cock. Impatient and tortured by my languorous and indulgently slow deliberations, she twisted and thrust her hips sharp up at me like a disco dancer, biting her slightly swollen red lip hard with her teeth and looking up at me with an ultimately seductive and devilish smirk. Her eyes were fiery and laden with raw teenage lust, twin vacuums which held me and soon consumed me and locked me helpless into the fiercer rhythm that was cogent to her desire. In moments I was bucking into her almost without control, she still a step faster and ahead of me, wildly rotating her hips in a swirling vortex of blenderlike intensity: hot, tight, wet vagina snagging a lengthy cock and rotating it through three hundred and sixty degrees of geometric ecstasy, me withdrawing only slightly so as to feel more acutely the sensation of complete consummation to the hilt when I jerked back in.
In her every action and expression the shadows of her tragedy lingered - like the blight of a stubborn pimple that governs the makeup of a woman, so too did the inexorable weight of her suffering direct and determine (and moil about her physical form as a ceaseless wraithlike reminder) the course of her actions. Her father was a meth dealer from Knoxville Tennessee, and she had left her little sisters in the care of her mentally ill mother near the Cherokee Indian Reservation to search out the father and bring him back home. She needed him to help raise her little sisters; they were running out of money faster than she could scrounge it up without spreading her legs.
She did odd jobs on the road - such as the job she was doing on the day I met her, freshly nineteen and just months graduated from high school. The scene: a crispy dry gray Appalachia day with brittle leaves that crunched underfoot, me out for a run barechested through the countryside and her chopping wood with an axe for an elderly couple. Fate, someone once told me, swings to and fro on tiny hinges; had not something in her stare not reached down to plumb the depths of my desires and twanged something in just the right way that made me think of having sex with her, I would have never turned around, would have never pretended to ask directions nor accepted the glass of water nor invite her to dinner that evening, would have never once known the taste of salty lust on her lips when she plunged them into mine, would have never truly known the near apocalyptic and epileptic event that the orgasm of a woman properly sated could become.
And perhaps I triggered something mechanical within her, her who had an empty space within her where no male had ever been, where she had never allowed a male to be and thus did not know what could happen when she opened that space to outside violation. And that was what I did, I violated her, I violated this tortured and suffering and lovelust starved mountain girl with good wide hips and a good right amount of muscle and fat on her, and it was not just that which I fucked, but also all of her scars, the endless scars and many of them still open wounds, and the weight of her entire traumatic life, all of that was held on her skin and around her feminine curves and well-maintained rugged outdoor body, and inside her too, up inside the narrow empty space between her legs where no man had been before me and inside her anus too, which I also screwed hard per her command and remorselessly, indulgently.
Outside the gray day raged, dun colored clouds and constant fronts of rain washing over the windows and seeming, with each successive squall, to renew the insatiable coital instinct within her. To say I fucked her would be true, but not as true as to say that she fucked me. She enjoyed watching me on top of her, liked to penetrate me with that stare and those great big green girl-woman eyes laden with lust; enjoyed, the friendly way I used to enjoy beating my friends in basketball, watching me suffer as I tried to match her movements, her intensity. It was if she knew the task she had appointed me were hopeless; for every five times I spent a load in her, she came once. But our frantic collisions were about more than just stamina and flexibility, they were a competition of passions, a match to see who could race to their most primal selves first and most completely, to see who could slip behind and take refuge in the sexual cocoon of primordial lust.
Of course these competitions were never close, and today was no exception. This was a machine of sex who knew that she sought lust for escape, and yet still did not do it haphazardly, nor destructively, but rather with a sort of indulgence that eased the darkness and the suffering which seemed a permanent part of the architecture of her expression . An architecture which typically remained predominant until she was in the throes of, or at least clearly proceeding towards, one of her near-epileptic fits of orgasm.
Her comings were something entirely inhuman, a thing of legend, of fantasy beyond fantasy of the most imaginative and creatively nymphomaniacal young male. They exceeded even the deepest and most twisted deviations of my own often perverse imagination. In the moments immediately preceding her orgasm her entire body would turn ultra-sensitive and electric, emitting some kind of aura or pheromone which almost immediately triggered my cock into spasming and spraying her cervix with my seed. As this happened, despite my semiconcious state, I was still aware of the entire universe seeming to shrink to only her body and its rapid and violent quakes, the heaving bosom, the teeth that would dig into the muscle of my neck (and more frequently than not, draw red blood), the long lustrous legs that would lash out like wild horses, the vise-like clench of her vaginal muscles holding my spurting length absolutely immobile, like two slick and soft squares of rubber superheated and slammed together rigidly about the cone that has been eagerly trapped between.
Now I paused, feeling my testicles begin to tighten and my cock buried and well enveloped deep within her vagina. She let me stay still for a moment before flipping us over; her period of lusty observation and gameplaying was over, and another veneer was to be peeled back from the animal within. As she remounted me and began sharp violent thrusts of her hips which nearly yanked my cock from its socket, I thought back again to that day I had met her.
That first night we did not talk very much. She was reluctant to - not shy, not scared, just reserved, as though the process of trusting me and opening to me were one which must be undertaken very slowly if at all, for fear that she should unravel too quickly and too absolutely under any verbal foreplay, any witty or charming flirtations which she could have elicited from me with a bit more of a smile from her perpetually wet red lips. Instead she watched me, carefully and not unkindly, levering upon me that same stare which had made me turn around when I ran past her in the countryside, a stare which flared with intensity as the night wore on, as she watched my sincere attempts to understand her, get to know her, as she understood who I was, understood that I would not lie or deceive or cheat anyone and most especially not her. Never before had anyone ever stared at me with that sort of focus, intention - certainly it was sexual and seductive, yet too there was an element of surprise, as though she had been startled to find something pleasant placed immediately before her.
I joked with her endlessly, for what seemed like years, within those hours that we sat at dinner and walked about town and eventually back to my apartment. I made one move, one gesture to hold her hand when I thought I'd been particularly successful with some stupid punchline, and she melted. Her hand slipped around mine firmly and when we stepped inside the door to my apartment she used her other hand to steady my chest against the wall and slip her tongue deep into the back of my mouth.
Electricity ran through me, something about this reflective, tragic, carefully withheld girl - woman - was more intensely sexual than even the most outrageously pheremonic and busty supermodel. My gear shifted from wanting her to open her heart and soul for me to wanting her to open her legs for me (in reality, the two were inextricably linked). We tore into one another in the half dark, stripping rapidly and with trembling fingers. I laid her on my bed, naked and breathing heavily, my hand over her vagina, my penis pressed against her warm uplifted hamstring and migrating slowly towards that tightened puckered slit-place just inches eastward (where it would (unbeknownst to me) one day find something that was literally beyond my own fantasies), when she placed her hands on my chest and pushed me back.
