Send Us Your Smut - Up the Wall - by Bree
Here's a saucy story that we received from Bree. Enjoy...
Up The Wall
"Mmm, no, no, we have to stop, there are people here.”
“Nobody’s watching. It’s late, it’s dark, everyone has somewhere to be..”
“But my skirt – “
“It’s dark,” he purrs right in my ear, the teasing reminder accompanied by his cool hand sliding under my shirt to grip my waist. There’s a draft now, and the cool breeze sends a deep shiver down my spine. My hips circle helplessly into his, sinking myself an inch further onto his thick cock for just a second before I collapse back against the concrete wall.
We haven’t been out here long – just enough time to find a shadowed corner, push just enough of our clothes out of the way to get him inside me – but something about this, right here, is shocking and abrupt and exhausting. I already feel well used and put away wet, and I haven’t even come yet.
He leans into me a little harder, pushing me painfully into the alley wall with a grunt. I gasp tightly and arch into him, trying to pull myself farther up his body so that our hips align better, get him deeper in me, all without taking my feet from the ground.
If we’d been home – or, really, anywhere but the alley behind a bar that is far too dark and boring to take itself so seriously – I would’ve clawed my way up his frankly phenomenal chest, stuck my tongue down his throat, and let him fuck me into the wall until I passed out.
As it was, the most either of us can manage was a slow tilt-and-withdraw of our hips, and it is maddening.
I knocked my head back against the wall, hoping the momentary pain would distract me from the desperation tearing me apart. He takes this as an invitation to suck a painful mark into my throat, far higher than I’ll be able cover with a jacket or sweater. I gasp down shuddery lung-fulls of cool, dank air, and try not to faint.
I can feel my orgasm building, shaking in my belly and unravelling all the tension in my thighs. I whimper and buck faster against him, the thick rub of him inside me – no condom, not nearly enough lubrication, natural or otherwise – hot and tight and perfect.
The door fifteen feet to my left slams open, electronic music spilling out into the alley as a harried bartender bursts outside for a quick smoke break.
He pauses his thrusts automatically, and under any other circumstances I might have been the one to shove him away, to maintain some dignity, but I am too. fucking. close. to stop now.
I tug him down with one hand at the nape of his neck, closer with a hand on his hip.
“Don’t you fucking dare stop,” I growl in his ear, ducking my head immediately to bite the collar of his shirt when he stabs up into me so hard and fast I could have sworn he hit my cervix.
“Don’t stop,” I pant as my orgasm crawls from my spine to the tips of my fingers and toes and then back, “Don’t stop.”
He smirks against my temple, and holds me tightly against his shoulder to muffle the sounds of my cries as my orgasm shakes me apart in his arms. I barely notice when his smirk dissolves, and his breaths turn heavy and rough against my cheek.
I do notice when he slips a hand between our bodies to press his thumb against my clit. I jack-knife against the wall, barely keeping enough presence of mind to remember the bartender smoking a cigarette barely ten feet from us, and that he is inside me. He covers my mouth with his, and God, that is perfect, he is brilliant. I moan loudly in appreciation, and the sound is lost in his perfect, perfect mouth.
His thumb draws a slow circle around my over-sensitive clit, the friction almost painful, but so, so good. His wrist has to be bent at a horribly uncomfortable angle between us, as his fingers are fanned up over my stomach beneath the bunched-up fabric of my skirt, but if he isn’t complaining, neither am I.
I love this, though I’d never admit it – the way he makes me feel small. His hands are huge, his gorgeously long fingers covering nearly the entirety of my quaking stomach. Even with his knees bent and head ducked, he is still tall enough to cover my entire body with his.
Another slow push of his thumb against me, this time accompanied by a flick of his nail, had me clamping down on his cock, shaking and crying as another orgasm crests and breaks in the space of a minute.
His free hand cradles my jaw and his tongue slides messily along mine, stealing the breath from my lungs. He keeps thrusting up into me, the motion of his hips less subtle with every second, and his thumb keeps circling, circling, circling, and I can’t tell if he is dragging my orgasm out or pushing me face first into another one but it is good.
Finally, when I am nothing but a shivery mess of orgasms and sweat permanently fused with the wall behind me, he stiffens against me, crouching further to finally get the angle he needs to push into me all the way, which forces his mouth away from mine, but leaves my neck a very convenient place for him to hide.
I stroke my hands through his sweaty curls as he spills inside me, hot and thick and so damn much.
I can’t help but dart a quick glance at the bartender, who is crushing out the last of his smoke beneath the heel of his boot, a smirk on his face as he adjusts the waistband of his trousers.
Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light.