Little Death

Little Death


It was the blush that did it; there was something so tempting about taking that flushed, pink-and-white face between her hands and kissing it that Yoshino simply couldn’t resist. He tasted fresh, like green mint, and she found herself sliding her tongue into his mouth, curling it around his teeth, learning him from the inside out.

He was panting when she pulled away, and his hands had gone to her shoulders. They clenched, now, trying to draw her back. Yoshino went, but not to his mouth; she opened his shirt and bent her head to his nipples, suckling them until they bruised, tender purple flowers rich with blood. He writhed under her, his hands scrabbling convulsively anywhere he could reach.

She stopped when to touch her lips to one sore little bud was to elicit a whimper of pure want from him, hand trailing down his belly, proprietary and predatory. This was her little virgin; forbidden to take his life, she would take his innocence instead, roll it over her tongue and savor it like wine.

Yoshino sucked him down her throat, greedy for the thud of his heartbeat reverberating within her, a second pulse echoing her own pulse just a half-second later. He arched high against her, narrow hips flexed and strained, white skin taut with yearning as he pressed himself deeper against her soft palate.

He keened as he came, a high and thin sound speaking almost of pain instead of pleasure, and Yoshino felt wet as a river to hear it, to feel the tremors of it through his slim frame and the long thighs locked in her arms. She swallowed the tide of salt and heat and did not stop, nursing on him gently at first, then harder until the blood rushed back to his shaft, filling and hardening once again.

“What… why…” he gasped, and she looked up. His belly was sheened with sweat, and his chest heaved with deep breaths, desperately taken. Somewhere along the way, his glasses had been discarded, and black hair stuck to his face and neck in damp tendrils. He looked thoroughly debauched, and Yoshino could no longer wait.

She rose up over him, idly pushing off her clothing until she was bare to him. His hands moved to touch her; she took them and placed them where she wanted, encouraging him to pluck at her nipples and the damp hair between her legs.

He was perceptive; intuition had him sliding his fingers deep without need for instruction, and Yoshino sighed to feel them, hard and solid within the soft confines of her body.

“Quincy,” she murmured, “will you taste me?” He withdrew those artist’s fingers—surgeon’s fingers, tapered and elegant—and lapped them clean.

“More,” he replied, and Yoshino pushed him back, moving forward until she knelt over him. A thin face, a handsome face, an eager face—his eyes, blue oceans, closed as he lifted his mouth to her. She opened herself for him, relishing the press of bone as he buried his face in her, nose and chin jutting hard against her.

She felt the pleasure as a physical thing, a mass in the distance, rushing closer, ever closer and she could not escape it, could not block it out and oh, then his fingers were there again, three of them, stretching and burning and curling and touching and oh, oh, there it was—

Her climax surged over her, a relentless rhythm of ebb and flow, her pelvis rolling, rolling as she thrust herself down against his mouth. She caught herself on the back of the sofa before she fell forward and crushed him, sliding back until his hard organ slid wetly against her bottom.

“Quincy,” she said, “will you fuck me?”

His response was to grasp his erection with fingers still wet from her body, to place it at her entrance and thrust deep. No hesitation, no fumbling. Somewhere along the way, that vulnerability had burned away like morning mist in the light of day. He stared up at her, blue oceans without end, and it wasn’t enough for her. Wasn’t gritty enough, wasn’t deep enough, wasn’t close enough.

Her hands flat on his chest, she levered herself up and off, dragging him off the sofa and behind her. “Here,” she said, reaching back and positioning him. The slow stretch of him in her ass burned, burned, and the pain made Yoshino’s head clearer than it had been in years. But still it wasn’t enough.

“More.”

He obliged, sinking deep, losing himself within with a heartfelt groan of rapture at the tight clasp of her body around him.

“Now.”

He withdrew, thrust again; each stroke wedging him more deeply into her. His pulse was even more evident, this way; Yoshino could almost feel as if she had drunk of him, as if she was consuming his very spirit. Short of taking his life, there was no more complete way of surrounding him with all she was.

His hands had come around her, one clasping a breast and rolling the nipple hard between two fingers while the other hand slipped between her legs to pinch the drenched, swollen bud aching for release. His breath was hot on her neck, his shaft steel as it worked her faster and faster, and Yoshino felt oblivion approach.

She bit into the flesh of her forearm as she came, her only sound a short whine as little pinpricks of pleasurepain rippled over her, spreading outward from groin and breast. Wet heat filled her, pulsing deep, and she tightened herself around him until he moaned brokenly before slumping down over her.

When he was recovered, he withdrew and pulled himself back onto the sofa. Yoshino stood and looked around for her clothes, and so saw nothing when he took her hand and tumbled her into his lap. His mouth covered hers, kissing her deeply at first. She wasn’t surprised; the young often wanted to turn sex into something loving, and she was not adverse to pretending for a short while.

They turned, lay down, curled against each other, and Yoshino drew out the kiss until it was more an exchange of breath than anything else and he was sleeping, blue oceans hidden and calm at last. She pulled away, watching as he sprawled artlessly on the old sofa, and dressed herself and then him.

It was short work to deliver him to a hospital, and she left him there in that sterile white environment. Her belly rumbled. The memory of this tiny death would not fill it for long.