Netskirts #11

The 1970s porn mag she bought on eBay showed up at my door three days ago. A laid-back librarian type whose crotch already throbbed, she swore its wrinkled centerfold had charmed her in days gone by. Tonight she’s ready. She stands naked under weak neon, skin reflected faintly in my dusty mirror. Smear of gloss on her lips. Hard nipples already stiff from the night air, legs spread like an animal caught in the frame. Old-pine scent mixed with her musk wraps the room. The blue-bound album cracked open beside us; dog-eared pages glow soft pink, even fuzz edging perfect triangles of bush I remember from 1973 movie houses. She runs a bitten fingernail across the stained crease where the model’s thigh leans on chrome – then rides the slit by direct comparison. My thumb goes to the swell in my jeans, pushes denim aside and fists my cock, slow and deliberate. Ball-squeeze every three strokes. She watches, not shy now. Full lips part; her tongue flicks out, practice feints toward empty space. I step forward. Without breaking eye contact she drops one hand between her thighs, spreads gleaming wet cunt lips, rows a middle finger in and out, slow, then faster, knuckles slick. All the while the printout cunt stays untouched except by her glance – the cold all-weather cousin she craves. Tension ratchets. She lets the pillow bank behind her calves. New gravity shows the pink undercarriage, tighter rear bloom briefly exposed. Scissoring legs open wider, lower back arching off the gray rug. She draws the same used finger out, circles the rim of her own asshole, plunges once, experiments, retreats shaking. She hands me the small pump bottle; drizzle line strikes me straight down shaft to balls, chill kisses before skin warms it again. In control now, I align, crown at pucker, press forward steady while her hand reaches under, fondles my balls. Long exhale turns into whine. Inch by inch, sudden give, heat clasps me so goddamn tight. She smiles with teeth – victory that hits like a slammed car door. I bottom, hold, count breaths for forty heartbeats, then finish the journey back up her slick grip. Stroke after stroke, careful, dragging. The magazine model watches silent and flat in eternal sprawl as we move above her like runaways burning a stolen mattress down. Speed grows, wet slaps fill air, hair sticks across her forehead. She tongues at her ripe nipples, teeth graze one, eyes glassy. I hitch her thigh higher around my waist. Inside the ring pulses over ridge, nerve-flame everywhere. Silky drag-tug runs straight through me; I almost break, curse, pull back to the dangerous half-inch, hover, slam in again. Her broken throat words sound like spitting rain: louder, harder, fuck. Another minute later a low growl coils from her mouth. Her cunt rhythm clamps uneven, my lead. We surf the finish line seeing eyes flare wet. Candle flickers, shadows slap the flocked wallpaper, the hubcap notches outside rolls the last measured mile on some empty desert highway.