by Cordelia deBraganca
(03/10/10)

Kevin is fucking Emilia, his body curved over her arched back. Her hands are clutching the sheet, her cheek pressed against the mattress. He's stroking into her long and slow and dreamy, neither of them close to coming yet, his hands gentle on the small of her back.

Emilia's eyes are closed. They're closed because she's thinking about Terry, and pretending that it's Terry fucking her this slow, this sweet. Terry was never such a tender lover. With him, it was usually a flurry of limbs and thrusts and sweat that left her achy and covered in little bruises. Sometimes she wished that he would do this, just this, slow and deep with that thick, thick cock while she rocked back into him. But he always talked to her when they fucked, asking her to tell him her fantasies, panting words of encouragement into her ear on harsh beer-perfumed breath. It makes her miss him sometimes. Him and his cock.

Terry's at work, but he's just staring at the empty glow of the monitor and thinking about Lindsay, who told him never to call again. He's reliving the first few hours of their brief affair, slick and frantic hours where they couldn't get enough of each other. He was grinding into her hard, biting her shoulder, and she wrapped her legs around his ribs and squeezed, her hands tangled in his hair and her voice crying "oh oh OH," and he can almost taste her sweat. She smelled like peaches. Terry groans softly aloud and then stiffens, hoping no one else in the office heard him.

Lindsay is curled up in her girlfriend Carole's arms, half-drowsing, remembering last night. Intimate, familiar, her arms around Carole's soft thighs, her tongue on Carole's tiny clit, sliding two fingers deep inside as Carole arched and shivered and tumbled her over onto her back, neatly arranging them into a 69 position with the ease of long practice, her clever tongue curling around Lindsay's clit just right, her breasts crushed against Lindsay's middle, her cushiony pussy pressing down until the whole world is Carole. Then afterwards, the sweet long kisses, their flavors mixing, coming down from the high, little aftershocks shivering through Lindsay until she fell asleep with her face pillowed on Carole's warm full breasts.

Carole is thinking about that day in college, years ago, with her hot roommate Katherine and Katherine's boyfriend Lewis. They'd been drinking some horrible cheap wine coolers and watching Monty Python, and suddenly drunken Katherine had put her head in Carole's lap and reached up to curl her hand around the back of Carole's neck. Carole glanced at Lewis, and he was nodding and smiling benignly, drunker than Katherine, so Carole leaned down and kissed Katherine, the angle strange, the taste of wine coolers and warm girl, and Katherine put her hands on Carole's breasts. They ended up naked on the floor, mouths sealed together, Carole drinking in Katherine's groans as their fingers worked busily in each other's groins, their bodies pressed against each other from mouth to thigh, with Lewis passed out naked and boneless half-on the couch.

Katherine is standing in the shower, her back braced against the wall as she moves the spray from the shower attachment over her clit, one hand pinching her nipples hard, biting her lip so she won't cry out, and the image in her mind is of that guy that works at the bookstore, Evan, and his big, long-fingered hands, and how they would feel cupping the cheeks of her ass as he fucked her against this very same shower wall, and she feels her knees start to buckle as she drops her hand to spread her lips and better expose her clit to the water.

Evan is in the bathroom at work, his cock in hand, thinking about the guy he met at the Rock last weekend. Wes was skinny and pale, but he had a gigantic gleaming beauty of a cock once Evan had coaxed him back to his apartment. Evan wished the condom hadn't been necessary, but he'd dutifully gloved the thing in rubber before taking it into his mouth, slowly, until his nose touched pubic hair and Wes was shaking and gasping and trying desperately not to thrust and choke Evan. Evan had pulled back as slowly as he'd gone down, swirling his tongue around the domed tip, then plunged back down until the cock was half-buried in his throat, and Wes's back arched up off the bed and he made a little breathless scream that was so incredibly hot.

Wes is fucking his wife Sophie, hard. She's bent over the back of the couch, her hands white-knuckled on the rough fabric as he plows into her. Sophie makes little breathless sobbing sounds, and Wes turns his head away and tries not to hear her, to see her. He fucks her harder, harder, trying to hammer through her softness to reach that place he's only found with the boys who pick him up in the dark. Sophie whimpers his name softly, and he wonders absently if he's hurting her. But she doesn't complain, so he keeps going.

Sophie wishes she'd married Kevin when he asked. Her cheek jolts against the back of the couch and she wonders when Wes will be done, if he'll ever be done. She doesn't know what's wrong with him, why he's changing. It's probably her fault anyway. A shock of either pleasure or pain shoots through her and she groans. Wes doesn't seem to notice. Not like sweet Kevin, who always took as long as she needed to coax her into one of her shy orgasms, who stroked and nibbled and gently slid his smooth cock into her without any resistance. Thinking of Kevin, she arches her back and gasps. Wes doesn't notice. She should have married Kevin.

Kevin is fucking Emilia, his eyes closed and his hands running over her back, the curves of her ass, smoothing her hair as she tosses her head back and moans beneath him. His mouth is curved into a smile of absolute bliss, his breath comes in slow purrs of pleasure as he rocks against her, deep, absorbed entirely, bending forward to wrap himself around her and bury his face in her tangled hair.

And Kevin is thinking of Emilia. Only Emilia.

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