Freshly Squeezed

A flash of a memory of your teeth then, while I bucked and moaned, your cock buried deep.

The shopping cart bumps up against my hip as I switch it from one side to the other, lowering Greek yoghurt and ripe pears into the basket along with figs, honey and a very good sliced ham. There’s coffee too and daffodils, because I can never resist them. I am thinking about what you may want for lunch, or late breakfast. The papers of course. You like to read them in print, turn the pages, ink on your fingers. Your silver rimmed glasses balancing on your nose. I add a pint of full cream milk. We don’t skim. Not on anything.

The late morning air is still chilly, even though it is late spring. I am not wearing nearly enough clothing. Just a slip of a dress I pulled on over my nakedness in hurry, wanting to get out to the shops and back home to you quickly. Thick socks and boots, a hat, and sunglasses for the first time in months. The glare as I lock the door behind me, welcome, but blinding. I throw my coat over the top, so the peaks of my nipples are hidden away, my lack of bra and underwear a secret. I am not sure where they are, devoured by our sheets, perhaps the insatiable succubus under our bed.

I wrap up the daffs, and pack the shopping into my canvas bag. The smell of the bakery next door lures me in, and I add pastries to the haul. A feast, butter grease slick on my fingers, I leave finger prints on the glass door as I leave. The walk home is short, but the farmers’ market blocks the main drag. I stop to talk to =the man selling freshly pressed elderflower and apple juice, acutely aware I must smell of sex. My thighs still slippery with your seed. My skin raw around my mouth. He gives me taste of the apple presse, sweet, full of mud and bees.

Freshly squeezed today, he says, a twitch in his smile

I reach across to pick up a bottle and my coat falls open as my dress gapes, the shoulder strap slips just enough. My pink nipple briefly exposed. The curve of my tits straining against the thin fabric. The cold flushing my skin. He smiles and holds my hand a moment longer than necessary as he gives me my change. The coins warm from his pocket. Where I imagine his cock is stiffening, hard against his jeans. Squeezed

I smile back and tuck the bottle into my bag and cross the road, managing to button part of my coat as I mount the pavement and make my way down our street. The cherry blossoms are just beginning to bloom. Not the full riot of colour yet, no. Just a hint, here and there. A tease of it. Flecks of pink against the grey sky. The resident pigeon flock swoops over the church spire across the park and settles on the school roof across the road. The clouds gather, a promise of rain, my sun glasses laughable now, foisted into my coat pocket. Next to a forgotten lipstick.

I nod to my neighbour as he holds the front door to our building open. His eyes catch mine only briefly, and I imagine something like an acknowledgement of my freshly fucked state. Still sensitive and skittish, the remnants of the adrenalin from our scene.

Did he hear us I wonder? My carelessly loud pleasure, and the low, hard rhythm of yours.

You are still sleeping as I unpack the shopping. I let the radio play, humming along to a what I think might be New Order. I can’t remember the words. But you will. Without missing a beat. The kettle boils shrill against the low buzz of the radio, the steam makes my face hot. I scoop the coffee into the cafe-tiere, let the water bring out the warm, rich aroma. While it brews I trim the ends of the daffs, place them in clean makeshift vases. Pockets of yellow sun for every corner, a favourite part of the season. Tiny luxuries, so essential.

The coffee made, I pop a mug on the bedside table for you, the shower already running. Hot.

I unwind my hair from the tangled plait I had hastily tied while wrangling the shopping tote. My reflection in the bathroom mirror already blurred by the steam. When I step in the shock of the water makes me gasp. My skin is tingling from us just a few hours before. Rope burns on my ankles. A smattering of bruising on my flank. Fingers, deep and blue blooms on my thighs. I lather the soap between my fingers and let it foam over my tits. My bitten nipples. A flash of a memory of your teeth then, while I bucked and moaned, your cock buried deep.

I let my fingers catch between my legs. My clit still sensitive. The wand you used relentlessly forcing wave after wave coursing through me. How I had sobbed when it was so intense my entire leg seized up with cramp and you had to hold my toes to ease it through. You laughing and me feeling ridiculous. Being physically injured by orgasm. There would be worse ways to go… You said and you pushed back into me.

I turn the shower off and towel down my pink skin. I think about the apple presse man again as I cream body with oat milk lotion, I wonder if he’ll conjure up my tits tonight. One stroke, then two … maybe he’ll cum thinking about me bent over the trestle table, his load splattering all over my dress hiked up to my waist, apples strewn on the floor. On display, dripping like spilled apple juice down my legs. The thought makes my cunt clench. That deliciously familiar kick.

You sigh and pull me close as I climb back into bed. I can feel your cock twitch, flush against the curve of my ass, so I lean into it just enough to let you know I have noticed. I am already wet again, your hand slowly reaches down, lifting my leg a little so you can reach into me. I make that soft pitch cat like sound you like as you let your fingers open me up. Your fingers spreading my arousal around my clit as it swells. Lazy. Slow. I moan and grind against you, your cock hard and wet at the tip. The urge to taste you, swallow all of you makes me wince.

I want you in my mouth, Sir… my throat…

I whisper this as I roll you flat on your back. A move you would not normally permit. A sharp sting, or full forced pinning would put paid to that. But in the morning you are more pliant. And happy to let your kitten play as I take you in my mouth. You gather my damp hair in your fingers as I work your cock deeper, the taste of you bitter and salty and sharp. You curse under your breath as my throat opens wider and I swallow, my tongue flush against your length.

Kitten… I want to fill up that cunt. Come on baby, that’s it

You coax me up, and then lie me on my stomach, a pillow under my hips. I can turn my head so I can watch you over my shoulder. I love this angle. The power in your arms as you position yourself, hands securing my waist. The flex in your muscles, the way your jaw clenches so tight as your cock stretches me, the first thrust. You move into me, then, like a tide. Wave after wave of you. Pushing and releasing. The pressure on my cervix making me shake.

Touch yourself … baby I want you to cum as I breed you. Are you ready?

Your voice, low and husky with sleep and need. But soft too. Tender. Your lips on the nape of neck as you thrust into me again and my fingers find my clit, hard and pulsing. Slow, deep and long. The morning rain on the window, the smell of coffee going cold. You burying yourself in me.

When you cum, I can feel it spill out of me. Hot through my fingers and slick against my clit, the sensation pushing me over - every muscle clenching, I bite down on the pillow and sob your name. Your breath on my neck, you pull me into you. Your heart beat hard and fast against my ribs too. The church bells chime out midday. My phone bleeps on the nightstand. A door slams somewhere in the vicinity. The ephemera of the day continues.

I make a fresh pot of coffee and pour the apple juice from the market into small glasses for us both.

This apple juice is good?

Your hands around my waist in the kitchen.

Freshly squeezed today, I am told

I take a sip and let the fruit ripen in my mouth. And swallow.

A new beginning