Anonymous 2009/03/07 (Sat) 20:47 No. 77041 ▼ File 123648762151.jpg - (180.46KB, 1775x1332 , RenSillyHatsOnly.jpg)
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It’s impossible to kick open an automated, sliding door, so you settle for slapping the top of the doorframe as you enter your room.
“WOW I FEEL GREAT! LIKE I COULD RUN ANOTHER MILE! HOW ABOUT YOU REN?”
Ren, who crosses the threshold only a few seconds after you do, cannot speak due to her heavily labored breathing, but the mouthed “fuck you” and glare of daggers serves adequate communication. Of course your lungs are burning too, but hell if you’re going to let something as silly as respiratory exhaustion get in the way of your victory gloating.
“’FUCK’ ME? AM I TO TAKE IT THAT MISS USAMI HABOURS SOME FORM OF AFFECTION TOWARDS MYSELF WHICH SHE WISHES TO EXPLORE PHYSICALLY VIS-À-VIS MY PERSON?”
Yeah, when you start attempting to lure women into your bedchamber by affecting the voice of a Confederate American Civil War general, you can be reasonably sure that you’re shitfaced. Ren is still catching her breath, sitting on your bed. She waves you to come closer, which you do, bowing and cupping your ear in a comically exaggerated fashion.
“RE-SPEAK YOUR DECLAMATION, GOOD MADAM, IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND?”
“…I’ll explore you physically alright.”
What follows is a series of light jabs to your chest and gut, about half of which you manage to block, with the audial accompaniment of a laugh track punctuated by cries of pain, threats, and an is-that-so for good measure. The end result is Ren straddling your chest and pinning your arms, grinning viciously.
“How am I supposed to undress you when you’re holding my arms down?”
“Who will be undressing whom, I wonder, I wonder?” she asks rhetorically before leaning down to kiss you deeply, rivulets of her brown hair cascading down and tickling your ears. Without breaking the kiss, she lets go of your arms and uses her one hand to cup your cheek and brush the hair away from her face, while the other snakes its way up your undershirt to play with the hairs below your stomach. Freed yourself, you unbutton her already half-undone blouse and slide the other up her skirt. Breaking the kiss, Ren kneels up on her knees and removes her blouse, the suspenders falling off her shoulders.
“Arms up.”
You comply, allowing her to strip you of your shirt. She positions herself further down your body, before leaning down to kiss you again, twice quickly, before leaning back to look at you, taking your hands off her body and putting them in hers. Her face is fully flushed, and her breathing is shallow and rapid.
“This doesn’t feel awkward at all to you, right?” she asks, her voice raspy.
You shake your head dumbly. Another you in another time, in another place, might’ve had reservations about sleeping with your friend, but what right now, here, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“Me neither,” beaming, she stands momentarily so she can drop her skirt.
She places one of your hands on her breast, slipping through the low-cut v-neck of her undershirt, and sits up on her knees so she can unzip your jumpsuit fully. She removes her hat to take off her shirt; you take it from her hand and put it back on her head, now the only thing she’s wearing aside from her mélange gray underwear.
“I like the hat. The hat stays,” you tell her, evoking a giggle from her.
You use your hands to play with her small but pert breasts, while she traces a line up your inner thigh before reaching you underwear, at which she pauses momentarily, with a look of hesitation on her face, as if she hadn’t expected you to be fully aroused yet. She recovers quickly.
With far too much irony in her voice, “I guess that’s enough forepla—mmph!”
You interrupt her jaded jabbering, leaning up and kissing her, then using your greater mass to maneuver so that you’re now on top. Not breaking the kiss, she takes the opportunity to slide your underwear off, and you hers. After giving the both of you a moment to look at each other’s bodies, you position yourself at her opening and look to her for the final confirmation. She nods, and so you enter her.
If there’s any pain, she hides it well; you meet little resistance, and she is already very wet. The sharp intake of air on her part still causes you to take it slow, waiting a few seconds before entering her fully. Ren’s clouded, brown eyes look up into your own, her entire face down to her chest is red as a beet; you can’t know that you won’t regret this in the morning, but let it not be said that it was only for “meaningless” sex, but the consummation of years of mutual physical longing. Ren’s hands roam up your stomach to the chest, teasing your nipples, then tracing your shoulders as you start a slow conjugal rhythm, eventually using your hands hold her against the bed by the ankles. Her hands become increasingly less active as you build up speed, now mesmerized by the sight of her breasts sliding up and down across her chest, as if they were made of gelatin. She doesn’t vocalize, but she communicates well enough in gestures: biting or licking her lips, gnawing on one of her knuckles, scrunching her nose, furrowing her brow, clenching her jaw, sliding an errant strand of hair away from her face, holding her hat against her head, pinching one of her own nipples, sweat beading on her forehead, the hairs on her arms standing on end, fingers and toes scratching you or grabbing at the sheets, tossing her head. It makes you want to see the full spectrum of expression from this girl on your bed, who, aside from some coy glances, seems lost in her own world of pleasure.
You have the opportunity to shift position a few times, mostly just the angle of insertion and how her legs are splayed—free, held fast against the bed by the ankles, one or both over your shoulders, toes between your fingers. Like all good things, it comes to an end eventually.
“M—“
Ren starts muttering rapidly; between the sound of your own heart beat, labored breathing, and the obscene sound of your union, you can’t hear what she’s saying (“Mary”? “Maxey”? “Meira”?), but you know she’s nearing climax, and it’s a good thing, because so are you. When her legs lock around your back tightly, you decide to cheat: Taking of one of her hands up in your own, you use the other hand to give her some direct clitoral stimulation.
“Ahhh!”
It’s a short moan but it conveys its message, signaling the start of that cascade of movement that is the female orgasm. Her walls spasm around you, her heels dig into your back, her fingernails into the back of your hand, and her body is wracked with a series of convulsions, and ends with the arching her back upwards, and mouth agape, calling out to men or women or gods in silent ecstasy. You grunt as you press against her as hard and with as much weight as you dare for fear of fracturing someone’s pubis (is that possible?) or bruising her cervix, shuddering as you feel three pulses of white light shoot down your spine and out into the girl below you, who is now sensitive enough that she climaxes again at the feeling of warm liquid spilling into her abdomen.
“Aah!”
Exhaustion suddenly catches up with you, and you let yourself collapse, still inside her, under the pretense of giving her a brief kiss to the forehead. You bury your face in her shoulder, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of her shampoo until you can get your own breathing under control. You feel the sensation of her hand on the back of your head, fingers running through your hair.
“That was good,” she tells you, voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” There’s no response you can give that wouldn’t be an understatement.
Irony of ironies, Hendrix’ “The Wind Cries Mary” is playing softly through your Pip-Boys, but neither of you are callow enough to mention it, nor are either of you willing to acknowledge its existence by turning it off (and besides, it’s Hendrix, man).
