Red Dead Dufus

Hello world, I write cowboy porn.

[altergoat02]

[drizzledrawings]

POV: you’re trying to teach him his name but he still doesn’t get it

[altergoat02]

[altergoat02]

[altergoat02]

[gingersnapbrat]

Need I say more :P

[moeitsu]

I’d pick his hair out of my mouth, then say thank you and go back for more.

I’m getting my tongue up in all of that

[f--hawk]

One outlaw vs geese.

[redwritr]

A Fine Predicament

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader 3K words | smut | 18+ mdni Heat in the shadows featuring drunk, horny Arthur, public sex

a/n: i got stuck in a crowd and had a whim of plotless filth that got out of hand i apologize

He’s here somewhere.

Far below, the regulars of the Parlour House swarm into a Friday evening’s reveling sprawl, clamoring and plotting, carried to their notions and impulses by the cascade of the piano and a strong current of whiskey and shine.

From the upper level, where you stand at the railing, the crowd of hats and heads winds and swirls within itself like algae, and as a bark of laughter overtakes the piano, you spy Sean on both elbows at a table, where he spouts wise on politics at Trelawny sitting back from him with patience wearing thin though manners ever stalwart. The crown of Dutch's hat is a quiet black spot near the bar. 

In all that crowded, smoky haze, Arthur is nowhere to be found. You lost him ages ago after the second clink of glasses, and Missus Adler hooked your arm for a third, though he had stood there looking half-amused, halfway rankled as you were stolen away. Ever since, through the interior and the night outside simmering with insect chirrups and the scent of night blossoms, you had circled and loitered, almost jumpy with hope that around the side of the building he’d startle you just by standing there, one boot back on the wall, his brim angled low. Or sitting lazily on the hitch post talking to Georgia. Or leaning by the jasmine vining the trellis, smoking a cigarette and waiting for you to find him, having watched with keen amusement all along, you clearly hunting and hoping as he kept just out of sight. Climbing the stairs outside. Crossing the balcony, checking left and right as you wandered back in. 

Now stalking along the rail. Where you turn sideways to slip past two middle-aged men in their summer linen. And where, from between a fig tree and a fountain of ferns, a hand darts out, snags your waistband, and drags you, shimmying backward, like a trap, into the lap of an outlaw. 

He grunts contentedly as you land back against his chest and his big paws immediately push up and curve around your breasts. “Took you long enough.”

Jesus, Arthur, they’re right down there –

His left hand claws overtop yours on the arm of the chair, and his fingers begin to curl and stretch between your fingers to the web. Casually, he gazes over your shoulder as he takes a long and humming taste of your neck. “Who. Where.” Blindly untucking the side of your blouse to slip his warm hand inside. “Ain’t no one watchin.”

When he’s drunk and has a feasting handful of your breast like this, he gets more careless with his words, like you debase him in the very depths of his substance. He holds you closer still, and you’re forced to straddle his lap as you watch for any noticing stares on the upper level.

Where girls all around laugh and touch their swollen hearts in the company of dull-faced men, whose eyes and thoughts slide into dark places, but no one appears to pay you any mind behind the scant veil of greenery. Where, at your back, Arthur fumbles with his fly under the cover of your full skirt, and you sit pretending you don’t feel his strong wrist beneath you, which holy god is not his wrist at all, you discover as he pulls his hand free to find your breast again. And it dawns on you now he might have had this in mind when he asked you earlier to put on that damn skirt.

“You wearin drawers?”

“This isn’t what I thought you meant to happen.”

He sits higher, his whiskers scraping your cheek as he surveys the room over your shoulder from the armchair and calmly kneads and fists your breast. “Well I thought about rentin a room,” he drawls, shifting and compelling his erection harder into your ass cheek as he takes a casual nip at your jawline. “But I don’t think I could stand up.” He smirks.

“You better hope you don’t have to.”

“Nah. Javier and Charles are busy talkin to them belles at the bar. Sean’s…piss-drunk somewhere. Dutch won’t come lookin himself without Hosea, and him, I got no idea.” 

He leans you forward while he wrenches the fabric of your skirt and petticoat behind you out of the way, and with a small waft of air you feel freshly exposed and poufy, cooled between your legs as his hand burrows underneath, and he finds and immediately grips your inner thigh. When he feels the cotton of your drawers already soaked through, his middle finger strokes longingly up the center seam, and his voice is born of whiskey and smoke. We’ll be quiet, he barely whispers, humoring you if anything, nipping at your neck. “Unless you ain’t.” And he begins to work the waistband of your drawers down over your hips.

“The bath is right over there.”

“You need one?” 

“No –” 

“Rear up a second –”

And in one jaunty buck he lifts you up several inches, slips them down to mid-thigh, spreads his legs, and pulls you back between them as you blush furiously and grab the arms of the chair. 

“It’s got a door for god’s sake.” 

“Skirt’s doin a pretty good job.” He clears his throat softly, settling his hips and a thrilling swell of temptation underneath you.

“You are drunk and crazy, Arthur Morgan.” 

“That I am, milady.” He pecks the side of your neck, and with no doubt in his devilish mind, the scratch of his smile and the heat of his mouth immediately begin to wear you down. The tip of his tongue tests your earlobe before he swiftly sucks you there. And when he adjusts himself, you pant to feel the full naked staff of his cock now standing hot and tacky between your legs and his fingers tenderly parting your lips around him. “Ain’t that drunk though.”

You frantically fluff the front of your skirt to cover his noticeable protrusion. “You sure about that?”

“Are you?” he teases, darkly.

With a huff, you glance over your shoulder, and find yourself suddenly staring into his eyes, your noses inches apart. A breath longer than you’ve ever dared before. The mirth diminishes in his face, and the vitreous luster of green and gold in his eyes shines dear, and his lips part like your name half brought to mind now lost in a stolen breath.

It doesn’t break the spell when you reach for his glass on the side table. Take a drink while he watches your hand, the glass to your lips, the burnt little kiss of whiskey. The swallow clutching your throat; he swallows likewise dry, and takes the glass away. And biting your lip, you dare to rock just slightly up and down his rigid shaft, squeezing him between your thighs, and he moans into your neck as you face forward again.

And with your eyes on the blurring patrons all around, and no one seeming to pay you any mind, and his fond breath at your ear and his full desire caressing you constantly, wantonly, his hand full of brazen confidence gripping your upper thigh, all risk begins to kindle, and catches you with a searing rush.  

Christ if I could, I'd lie between your legs right now, he confesses at your ear - oh lord, you feel yourself melting, you are going to melt right here behind the backs of the old men sitting at blackjack, in view of the younger man and his companion in the banquette, and a flow of unashamed honesty at your ear released in warm whiskey fumes - Sit on my mouth. Lower yourself on my tongue and I will lick you till you cry my name.

This outlaw, getting bold, running his dick between your slick-wet thighs. Make you come so hard I’ll have to carry you back to camp. He groans. Fuck that’s pleasant –

Can we do this? you pant, already nervous and trying not to squirm with need. Picturing yourselves caught the moment he comes, through his quiet seething exhalations, a flush painted over the tops of his cheekbones, sweat shining his crushed expression. 

Only one way to find out. He kisses your neck again. Your say. 

Whatever the hell you think you’re doing, against every protest in your mind, you find yourself nodding, and he’s gladly raising your hips, and with a gratified hum guiding his head solid and smooth between your lips to the warm notch of your body and starting to slide through, his full length carving up inside until you’re sitting on his lap so tight his balls bulge under your cunt. 

For a moment, you’re frozen, all at once nerve-wracked and weak and aching to writhe, scanning the crowd for any watching eyes.  

Shh, don’t move, now. Don’t make a sound.

And there in the rowdy noise and low gaslight flicker of the Parlour House, his left arm belts heavily over your waist as he gives you a slow thrust and his opposite fingers under your skirt stroke up your thigh and seek your clit.

Slowly, clenching his legs, he pushes up deeper, and lowers, one agonizing thrust after another, lifting and sinking with your body in this secret act, his breath shaking. You have to keep closing your mouth as every slow surge threatens to spill your moans like warm honey.

Oh fuck, you feel good, he mouths at your ear. 

Someone’s going to know, Arthur - 

Them peckerwoods don't got a damn idea, he mumbles brokenly between wide wet kisses down the back of your neck to your shoulder. I could be tellin you – a story in your ear – about – the saddle Sean – used to have. 

Saddle –

He thought he got a bargain. But it had a – curious horn. A smile breaks his kiss. He rests his head against yours

Curious – A little breathless, you grasp his knees as if this is an entirely ordinary way to sit, primly rocked and urging on his lap.

You couldn’t deny – from the front or the side – he appeared to suffer a constant stand –

You are the worst liar–

Oh my honor as a gentleman. He bites at your neck now, and sucks with a lewd whorl of his tongue. No one had the heart to tell him – but if I had such a saddle I’d be – of a mind to watch you ride it –

To your stunned horror, at that moment, a man walking along the balcony turns his slender hips, a little stagger in his step. And immediately stops when he sees you, where you sit helpless with your hands propped on Arthur’s thighs, your skirt in complete disarray, and his dick loaded so deep inside you that you’re trembling.

Arthur’s hand rises from your lap and shuts your jaw for you.

“Arthur.” John raises his beer, and leans right goddamn there on the railing.

Behind you, he has to swallow. Trying to suppress his breath to keep silent, though you can feel his chest and stomach pumping against your back. “What is it.” His right fingers motionless on your clit. They twitch.

But then, while John says something neither of you can comprehend watching his mouth, Arthur carefully stretches his fingers long. He branches them around his base lodged tightly between your lips spread thin, wetting them as he reaches with his left hand to the side table and lifts his glass to John and takes a drink. His middle finger strokes your clit so lovingly it’s downright evil how natural it is to him, three feet away from John, who must be dead drunk if he can’t figure out what’s happening right before his eyes.

And it feels like the fight of your life to keep a straight face with an erect cock slowly gliding in your cunt. The instant you try to put your mind on something else, your body begins to give in, and if you think about his tight and constant thrusts your cheeks begin to burn.

“I was just tellin her about Sean’s old saddle.”

“What sadd– oh.”

“She didn’t believe me.” He gives you a slow thrust and hits so deep you realize you’ve moved your hand over your belly as if it might show. His fingers cup and stroke you smoothly all the while, and he fucks so languidly that he seems to be enjoying this. Whereas you might have to kill him later.

Or make him pay the same. When you clench him inside and reel your hips around in a small circle, so delicate you might only be adjusting the waist of your skirt, he stops moving. Or rather, trembles as ripples of this constricting, agitating gyre spread through him and you imagine him struggling not to be as visibly rocked as a goddamn canoe. 

John rubs his jaw and shakes his head. “Strangest saddle I ever seen. Useless for a lasso.”

And you cannot be sure for the life of you if he’s being bone-dry or is, in fact, so utterly oblivious to all matters of sex that he could only define screwing as an act of carpentry.

“My point is made, thank you.”

“You seen Dutch?”

“Can’t say I have.” He speaks tightly, goddamn meaning to shift in his seat and move inside you with a little churn. Your stare goes blank, to feel so lovingly bruised inside and spurred from the outside and the sudden strange possibility that John knows.

“He was lookin for you.”

And what if he knows? Is this some unspoken competition? You can’t look at him, and glance down, fairly sure there is no visible rustle beneath. What is entirely visible, you notice, is you, the mottled flush on your chest glowing hot as the amber lamp nearby. And if he knows, he watches calmly.

Arthur clears his throat. “Well, tell him he can come find me.”

You spin your head around in shock, but his eyes merely gaze at you as inside his cock seems to swell and harden alarmingly. If he fears what’s coming, he makes no sign of it, merely shifts to put his glass down and takes the opportunity to push up again, and you gasp and cough and find yourself staring at John’s crotch and the unmistakable shape at his upper thigh. 

He’s rubbing his forehead. “It’s your balls on the line, not mine.”

“Not yet.”

Then batting his hand at you with a slurred good-night, John shambles away toward the balcony outside again.

Arthur kisses and growls behind your ear. You liked that did you?

I don’t know whether to slap you or –

I always wanted you to. He sucks a small spot on your neck and urges a tight, barely moving thrust, and you feel his breath come harder with yours, open-mouthed and hot on your neck.

Oh you’ll get your due.

What’ll you do to me.

You grind him back and forth, thick and hard as a goddamn fencepost. Tie you up. 

Oh fuck keep goin, what else. His fingertips rapidly rub your clit and he kisses the nape of your neck; his breath steams there, teeth locked in a light bite, his tongue flicking your skin between light sucks like he’s imagining your cunt as he stirs you relentlessly and you start to shake as the pangs grow unbearable.

Smack you till you come. Churning yourself on his wet curve. 

Ohh goddamn – you’re suhh – His voice splits and he strokes you harder, and even though you catch one man staring straight at you across the room you don’t give a damn now, getting fucked in the shadows by the outlaw at your back mouthing between slack, distracted kisses,

Oh there you go sweetheart –

You strain to stifle curses, silently begging for release, resisting it, praying it will be quick, as if you’re facing an execution and the inescapable end, clenching him inside as both of you start to lose control.

All you can do is barely suppress a moan that dies in a whining breath, as you succumb to his shameless hips, succumb, willingly disgraced by the obscene slide of his entire length, the hard and slippery ream. Let them know and see him take you, all these drunk and mindless folk, let them see the wanton relief two worthy souls can find together. 

Fuck – sh-shit – he hisses as his breath quickens and he clamps you down. His body goes heavily still. And then jerks slightly as he huffs three shuddering times against your spine, his shaft pulsing lewdly between your lips like the hard throb of his heart. His fingers there never stop, and then in turn your whole body seems to gasp in a warm soul-baring flare, and give way. You pant, staring blankly at nothing, at the whole muddled room that must have turned by now to witness this scandal shamelessly spilling before them. Your only safety is his arm that slings you to his chest. Both of you shaking and coming down in the strange dilating dawning sound of the crowd, without the slightest idea of how loudly you’ve just moaned, or how rumpled and fucked you must appear. But they carouse on beyond the drunken veil, not another set of eyes still watching, if they watched at all. 

No one to notice you rising so slowly off his cock that you feel his whole contour pulling out and trailing wet along your thigh.

Carefully, he eases your drawers back up, soaking through with his silky spend, and he wrestles with his fly before he slouches back in the armchair in a wretched slump and pulls you with him.

“Well I much prefer it uninterrupted.” You pick up his glass and polish off the whiskey. 

“That is fair.” His thumbs are busy swirling circles on the small of your back. His fingertips curl into your hips. “How shall I make it up to you?”

You turn in place, and rest your elbows on his shoulders and run your fingers in his hair, a sensation almost intolerably sweet to him as his head lolls back on the chair, and he gazes down his still-pink cheeks. 

“Take me someplace, far from here,” you say, as if it takes you any time at all to decide. "Far from anyone."

“Yes ma’am.”

“And make me cry your name.”

Knowing his eyes would rival fire for light.

a/n: you bet your damn butts i'm writing that restraints-and-smacking sub-arthur one-shot

i’ve completely lost track of any taglist because i have the organizational skills of a preschooler and probably made a note in four different places, i am so sorry 😣

Masterlist

[shootybangbang]

under the cut: when i get really frustrated while drawing i draw myself biting the subject to motivate myself to keep going

[shootybangbang]

[reference] by @morganismss

[benevolentvulture]

Visit Original Link

Jolene by Dolly Parton except it’s playing downstairs while you’re laying up in the loft of a cabin listening to the thunder and rain hitting the roof tiles above you

[yakowo]

he loves his horsey <3

(I enjoy drawing the old guard so much)

[molotovgrifter]

by far the best stranger missions in the game

[gino77gino]

New art commission ^^

[reddeaddufus]

...upcoming scene... 🥰

[outlawruben]

Do y’all ever wonder if Dutch and Hosea knew they were going to raise an absolute UNIT like Arthur? Like he was once a skinny and rambunctious 14 year old street orphan and they took a chance on him and fed him as he grew into a fucking BEAST who is arguably bulkier than the two of them combined, and has become the main brawn of the gang.

This is basically just an Arthur Physique appreciation post but GOD DAMN.

[photo1030]

It’s like breeding a football player

[twola]

bred to bend me in half 😏

[redwritr]

Portrait of a Man Undone

Arthur Morgan x  F!Reader 

smut (18+), nsfw, mdni

3K words

Smut, fluff, and a little pining. Lazy comfort. Experimental role reversal?

Far too long.

There is a fine view from here, in the soft daylight of the room, with your right cheek on his stomach and his fingers lightly combing your hair. In the mirror that you've moved across from the foot of the bed, the light begins to shimmer. 

He is relaxed, on the slippery verge of sleep, while you take in the details of this situation, the arrangement of yourselves, draped and quiet on the bed. Birds of late summer trilling outside in the shade trees. And this sight. A reflection of his inner self in this moment, lying contented and unhidden in a thick gooseneck curving toward his left hip, slightly darker than the skin of his thigh. 

Afternoon sunlight makes a glowing tangle of his curled, dark blond thicket, all wheat-colored waves and shadows. Your breath stirs the trail of hair from his navel down. There is a slight rustle as your fingers comb through it, and your head lifts and lowers with his breath. It is like you are parts of the same whole, a body or a well or an engine, each enticing the other; an arm moves, air begins to draw. You are careful not to move too fast.

With your head at this undeniable proximity, and lulled by the evenness of his breath, you start to consider how long he will remain in this lovely unagitated posture. Perhaps he’s already asleep, and perhaps you will keep him suspended in a half-dream if you begin to slide your hand down his firm and hairy thigh. 

You might be daydreaming too, unsure if what you just saw is an inkling of greater fullness or the mere lift of your angle with his inhalation. You brush the backs of your fingernails light as streamers down his thigh to his knee, and you outline the shieldlike shape of his kneecap as if you have no intention of reversing your path. 

And this, naturally, incites an unmistakable twitch before your eyes. 

His fingers in your hair have stopped. His stomach, for a moment, grows tight.

You blow another light breeze down the trail of his belly to the base of his cock. The smooth reposed curve seems to stretch awake and alive as if he senses your own arousal.

You love his cock in the morning, when it's as its hardest and ruddy and standing against his stomach, revealing the proud throatlike ridge of its underbelly, and he drags you to his front, lazily urging against the muscle of your ass, until he guides himself between your legs, gets his arm under your knee, and slowly fucks into you, stretching to the full extent of his reach inside.

You love it when he walks naked from the bath, still dripping, and his cock hangs long and thick while his mind is on private things and he distractedly dries himself with a towel.

As he did not five minutes ago. The towel lies in a wet fan on the floor.

Against the shaded side of the barn - he would have had you right there. He nearly did, as soon as John walked out of sight, and he took you by the jaw and pinned you to the wall. Your hands between you fought at his fly and he kissed you like he had been starved for your mouth the last hundred miles or more.

And you love his cock now, beginning to grow heavier, straightening toward his hip, the tip of his head budding at the edge of the sheath of foreskin. Its taut swell calls to mind a fish, smooth and strong. There is a light freckle halfway up his shaft, off-center, and you're not sure whether he knows that it marks a spot of deeper sensitivity, or whether you alone hold this secret to his pleasure. You often graze and lick around it at first, until he starts to breathe harder. When kissed, or busked by a finger, it seems to touch him at the very base of his spine, and without fail causes his hips to lift. 

His hair is still damp where your fingers explore and tantalize the firming base of his shaft. Likewise, his fingers spread warm and gentle over your scalp, untangling, combing the length down your back before the distraction of your musing touch is too great.

On all his body, the skin of his cock is softer than any other part, so soft you want to keep your calluses away but he swears he likes your touch more than his own. He likes all parts of your hand. You spider your fingers up and down from his head, his silken foreskin you want to kiss before he nudges himself against your palm. And so you move with him, tunneling your hand lightly overtop, laying him vertical on his stomach, barely touching him with more than the heat of your hand and stroking up and down his changing form. Behind you, he exhales. Your head sinks. The muscles of his ass gather and firm. He pushes up.

But seems to stop himself. All these small tells of his want give him away. Wanting conflicting things. Wanting what comes next. Wanting to prolong this impending goodness and savor your caress as long as possible, after being apart from it so long. Wanting to devour you, fearing the loss of the devoured.

“Come upstairs.” He'd nipped the edge of your ear and left you a little lightheaded around the corner of the barn. 

“You’re exhausted, Arthur. You need a good meal -” Even though you couldn't keep your hands off his chest and his waist and the edge of his fly.

All he did in reply was kiss you so hard he left you panting.

His cock is warm. Becoming full and stiff and large, veins trickling and verging up his thick column to his dark head emerging, blindly seeking sensation. His hips move, slow but strong, asking for your touch. 

It rises, laid angled up his belly, and you halfway wrap him with your hand, petting down the dorsal ridge of his cock, your touch making half contact, then with more weight. Behind you, his exhalation breezes your back as you push harder and feel the low gratified hum in his chest.

An indefinite trepidation ripples from the place between your legs, some primal apprehension that he is nearly too large for you, a little quail in your cunt when you see him fully aroused. His own body senses it, his cock roused from his stomach, levitating, veering between the boundaries of your middle finger and your thumb, and you let him rest in your touch, giving his shaft another adoring pet, and you smile to yourself when it jumps against your palm and slides heavily side to side, and behind you, his breath comes quicker. His hand reaches to the side and takes a handful of your hip and squeezes, letting your flesh spring out of his grip before he lazily, affectionately smacks you and kneads you again.

His muscles thicken in a full body flex, revealing the strong dimple on the side of his hip, one of your favorite landmarks, as your hand teases him, Oh? Oh you want more than this? Is this not quite what you had in mind? Until you finally let him bob, slowly rising vertical in your hovering hand, and he pushes up, thrusting into your fist. Stalling. Again, higher, and then down. Slowly fucking your grip like he wants to linger in this hazy thrill. 

But it is not possible to linger for very long, much as you try. The longer you delay him, and keep your touch soft, the more deeply he will feel his far-approaching arrival. For now, he is distant from himself. His thoughts, like his hand, spreading, circling. About to hunt.

When you see the tight sleeve of his skin slide down from his head and up again, his push and thrust, and the shine of fluid welling at his tip, growing to a drop that wavers and dribbles down and spreads like a gleaming ring on the sliding rim of his foreskin, you nearly move to put your lips on him. To feel the softness of that skin on your love-parched tongue. To savor his bitter salt. To gratify his want completely with the heat of your mouth.

But you want to watch. In a way it’s as if you’ve never seen him. Never looked this closely before being hauled up to his chest, your mouth to his mouth, in the dark, in the shadows while under your clothes, he hooks your drawers to the side, coupling himself to your slippery hole and fucking in.

His hand kneads your ass more aggressively. His calves harden, the chiseled muscles along his shinbones surely burning. The bones of his feet fan up, and his toes spread and contort and crack under this loving torture. His right foot curves inward slightly, suddenly gives way, as if his strength has broken. And his cock fills your hand, huge and rigid with lust, and when you give him a faster stroke he pants, rises to an elbow, trying to drag you onto him like he’s had more than he can take.

We shall be home in seven days. By the time you get this, it should be two. You’re every thought in my mind till then. I get clumsy sometimes, missing you, like I’m out of balance. 

You love how it is a branch of himself, fully born of the rest of himself. Strong. His body fills doorways. In all his features, this aspect of him is suggested. The strength of his nose and jaw and his chin when he's teasing you, daring you to take him on. His neck and throat, the stone of his Adam’s apple. The ropes of his wrists. The rounded ease of his upper back. The cables that gird his sides. He draws attention unavoidably, breathtakingly. You have seen him walk into rooms and heard the volume dim, and seen their eyes go round. You have seen men become jealous and aware of themselves in comparison. You have seen others act threatened and make themselves stand tall, and seen him oblivious to it; he has no need to be concerned about them. He has nothing to prove.

Least of all with you.

On a whim, you resist his arms and slide your leg over him, facing away, your back to his front, your legs on the outside of his, both of your knees out wide. Straddling his spread thighs, leaving an open space beneath you that you know he seeks to enter. It bothers him in some way, like a fruit he can't reach. A job unfinished. In the mirror across from the bed, you watch his eyes rest there, between your open thighs. Wanting to fill and fulfill you in every way. His cock hovers, slides to your inner thigh, waving slightly from every twitch.

In the silvery reflection across from your bed, you watch his half-hidden face behind you, intent, nostrils flared, eyes closed for a moment. Next his quiet gaze on your neck, your ear, your shoulder. He kisses you there.

Before he can reach forward and guide himself into you, you take him underhand, cradled in your fingers from this side, and feel his body become still. 

What is it like? To stretch and widen and grow beyond your thin sheath of skin, to get large and heavy and sensitive? To become full and still need? Need desperately. How does he feel the need beyond what is rational, and to be needed? Does he need to fill a place unfilled before, like to satisfy hunger?

All these long, red roads will drive me crazy. I confess sometimes all I see is your braid in my hand. When I get home I will get between your legs and not leave them for a week. I believe I shall exhaust you or die trying.

From this angle, you’re suddenly curious at the sight of his cock, how it appears to protrude from your pubic hair, resting in your hand but lightening as it stiffens, cantilevered of its own structure, jolting, bobbing when you let go to watch him buck up again. 

Hard as cartilage in your hand. 

Out of curiosity, you stroke him, your hand and arm moving the same as when he strokes himself, and you hold him close to your body as you do it again, and notice his breath gone quiet.

In the mirror you meet his eyes, and feel emboldened as he watches your hand and the luminous picture of you holding him like your own appendage, stroking him, nestled between your lips. There is confusion for a moment, as he puzzles out your meaning, this whim. This dalliance of a thought. As if you were joined beyond separation. Your figures in front of you sit blended like shadows overlapped. You wonder if he is uncomfortable to see it, and for a second you consider letting things progress in the way you are used to.

You look up, half worried that he's had enough of this. Perhaps interrupted by a trick of the eyes. 

But he does not stop you. And his hand slides up to your breast as you hold him more firmly, and when you stroke him in earnest, he grips your flesh and pushes against you, following your lead, to his own seeming surprise turned on by the sight of his strong erection between your legs getting harder yet.

The sounds of his surrendered pleasure at your neck, your shoulder begin to thrill you as you stroke. The roll of his head as he warms to the sight in front of him, his proud cock aimed high between your legs, stroked between your slicking cunt and hand like he's your own. His other hand spreads over your belly and holds you close, rolling his hips with yours, teaching you his way with himself as he strokes your clit like he's been dreaming of it.

Gingerly, he takes your hand and regrips you around his cock. Slung lower. Squeezes your fingers to a certain pressure, and strokes up and down. His skin slides tight and smoothly.

You’ve always loved the way he handles his own cock with the same fluency as his guns, sometimes easy and unhurried, sometimes necessary and firm, and you have always secretly wanted him to bring himself to completion while you watch. The few times you’ve tried, he can’t stand to finish alone. He’ll pull you close, or crawl on top of you, his dick hard and beyond ready, like he must enter your cunt or your mouth or die, pained to be exposed to the air a moment longer.

And in this way, you become an apparatus of combination, each working the other, no longer each or other, but melted inextricably in this friction and this filthy gorgeous feeling.

He pulls you higher up his chest and watches over your shoulder as you guide and press his wet cock up into yourself, staring heatedly as he curves up and disappears between your legs. With a ravenous groan he kisses your neck, but you lean forward to prop your weight on his knees, kneeling on the outside, and raise your hips. In the mirror, he half grins in marvel, but when you rise on his dick and fuck him deeper, his face slackens and he’s mouthing goddamn beholding your ass and the sight of your slit swallowing him whole jesus christ before his forehead rumples and his head falls back in ecstasy.

What longing has done to you, only this can undo, his hands biting into your hips, and later, you will allow yourself the gift of the sight of him concentrating, sweating at your back, and let him take your breath away with the furious ream of his cock, thick and slippery up your cunt, that makes you gape and sob in brainless, jolting bliss. Where you will come, hunching like a wolf, as he rolls you deep and slow on his base, praising you, There's my girl. My god, you come so pretty, holding his own orgasm back until he’s seen you through yours. 

But that is later. You kneel up and let him slip out, wet and trailing a shine like dew, and without giving him a chance to catch his breath, you nestle him between your folds and run yourself down his length, sliding your hand down the underside of his rockhard shaft and watching him watch you in this moving portrait, captive to you stroking and fucking and rocking your clit on his needy curve until his cheeks are flushed and his teeth are bared and he begins to pant, shaky, ragged and rough.

Surprise me with what's on your mind, my girl. As you always do.

You stroke faster and steadier along the beautiful curve of his cock, his hard head soaked in your slick, purple and presented, and despite your burning shoulder you work faster, smacking rhythmic and steady against your mons and feeling the most pleasurable arousal build through your pelvis with every languid slide, and hearing him suffer against your back, hips thrusting and rocking like he can’t help it. The knuckles of his toes crack. 

And as his breath catches, you reach down low and knead the clutch of his balls, and it surprises you, how completely he comes apart. His gasps rise in pitch and you feel the pulse unlocked with his broken moan. Between your knees he suddenly discharges spurt after endless spurt on the sheet. You stroke him long and slow back to his base to see the extremity of his strong projection and feel the throb of his ejaculation through your hand milking out his high.

His mouth falls open, shocked. Blue eyes hypnotized by the sight as he comes openly between your knees. The vein in his forehead bulges. 

Dazed, incredulous love swims in his mirrored stare.

When it slows, one more spurt, another dribble, one last jerk of his body beneath you, you glaze a drop of spend over his head with your thumb, and he falls back to an elbow on the mattress, disappearing from you in the glass. You lightly unpalm him, and watch his cock come down, bobbing, relaxing in waves, until it hangs heavy in the cove of your legs, full, sensitive, spent.

Gingerly, you get off him, and lie beside him now, collapsed on the bed, and he groans to stretch his legs out long. For a while he lies there, eyes closed and dozing, and then exhales softly as if newly aroused by a memory so recent it has left its light scent in the room. 

His hand crawls into yours. "My girl, what you do to me." He sighs, shakes his head as he stares at the ceiling.

In the corner of the room, two dark spots mark the floor where the mirror once stood, like the footprints of a departed man, and you glance at it now as he moves onto his side and faces you. In that silvery scene, his hand lifts to your chin and turns your gaze to him, and pulls you close for a sweet and yearning kiss, like a drink that dissolves the pain of longing. After some time, you feel his smile, and the backs of his fingers traveling down your side, over your hip and lower.

"Now you're gonna watch what I do to you."

[shootybangbang]

The Thief

Lee