Women Seeking Women #148

She slipped in like she owned November. Eleven days late, found a bed that smelled like someone else’s sins. The kind of late that tastes different—thick in the back of the throat, tight under the ribs. First, the denim slid down her hips, denim heavy with want. Nothing soft about it. Skin meeting the stale air, goose-flesh rising where the belt had carved a red seam. When the shirt came off, the swell of her chest caught the light, nipple pulling taut, pink and begging notice. Then the scent: between her thighs, raw, almost copper, almost sweet. Old blood and new heat tangled there, a drip she tried to swallow back with her pride. Lights stayed off. She stayed wet anyway. Split open on the bedspread, knees butterflied, cunt slick in its own bruised colors. He stood over her, belt buckle clinking in the dark. She looked up, mouth half-open, finger hovering at her clit like she needed permission but wouldn’t wait for it. Air thick, breath short. The sheets would smell of her tomorrow, and he’d probably fuck someone else in them. She grinned, bitter. Kissed with too much teeth. Tongues slid, hands pawed greedy. The wet sound of fingers pushed inside her—slow, curling, one knuckle hooking up against the swollen spot that made her clench around nothing. Thick drool trailing from the corner of her lip. She arched—tits flattened to ribs, hips rocking without rhythm now. He caught her nipple between knuckles, twisted until she hissed, then ground his cock against her belly, the heavy head smearing pre-cum. She reached down, slick her palm, wrapped him, stroked twice, thumb circling the crown with lust and spite in equal measure. He pushed her knees wider, notched the fat head to her slick opening, thrust home in one drag-all-the-way thrust. That low, ugly sound left her—half moan, half guttural laugh—when he bottomed out, cervix nudged, the blunt punch making her thighs quake. Every drag out came sticky; every slam back in sounded wetter. Sweat sheened, skin slapping. Her fingers dug crescents into his forearms, nails drawing thin red lines like consent and violence switched shirts. He ground in deep when he came, grinding, pulse jerking, filling her to the point it spilled back out around his cock on each thrust. Breath wheezed. Silence except the tick of an old wall clock. The kind of silence that hears blood moving under skin. Later, she lay splayed and gaping, cunt fluttering, come leaking down the crack of her ass in cooling rivulets. Red pulse still throbbing inside her, mouth open, chest heaving. Outside: streetlight licking the blinds. Inside: the smell of skin, spent, not quite satisfied, somehow needing it rougher next time around.