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Literary Smut

Erotica by J. T. Langdon

One more night. The last two weeks have been nothing less than amazing but now things are winding down, and tomorrow I'll be gone. Not for good, not forever. But still gone. Still not with you. I don't want to leave; you don't want me to go. We've already talked about when I can visit again (in early May, I can drive back with my sister) but it is not soon enough for us and doesn't ease the pain we both feel. It is palpable, like a fog, hanging in the air until we almost choke on it. We have made love many times in the last two weeks. Sometimes soft and gentle, other times ferocious . . . the hunger making us crazed. It is always satisfying. You've been with him, too. Did I think you wouldn't be? Did I expect him to just sit there for two weeks while you and I dallied whenever we found time? I'm not that foolish. Of course you are going to be with him, of course he is going to have you. I have listened to the sounds of your lovemaking . . . muffled sounds, yes, but ones I recognize from sharing your bed. And yet you are different with him. That is neither good nor bad. It just is. You played with him this morning. It's Saturday, so of course you would have. How long have I known about this routine? Since we became lovers? Even before? It doesn't surprise me, or shock me, or even hurt me. It just is. And like so many other Saturdays, I imagined the two of you together, much easier now having seen you naked, knowing how you move, knowing where to touch you. And I have watched him, too, undressing him with my eyes. You knew I would. You know I want him. Oh yes, I want him. Not with the hunger or desire or depth of feeling that I want you, but it is still wanting that courses through me and makes me ache when I imagine him inside you, and you loving it . . . loving him.

One more night. That is all we have left. I want to be with you again. Your eyes tell me you want that, too. But we can't just steal away. He has gotten comfortable with me, perhaps even used to me. Maybe--dare I hope?--he even likes having me around, looks forward to my company. But that is so far removed from what we want, what we would ask of him, and I have resigned myself to the fact that it will be a long time before I feel your warm, naked flesh under my mouth and hands. Sitting there, does he even realize what I'm thinking? Oh, he must. How can he not see the desire in my eyes when I look at you? He asks about dinner, his voice interrupting my thoughts. You tell him it will be an hour or so. He gets that look. Yes, he gets a look. I know it well, so I have no doubt he sees the same look in my eyes. He must. I try to maintain a blank expression when he heads toward the bedroom and I am ashamed of the feelings that stir within me. I could handle you being with him that morning. But again? Knowing I can't have you? It makes the corners of my mouth twitch, the only outward sign of my annoyance and frustration. But that is all it takes. You notice, and see I'm hurting. There are no words for the moment. We just look at each other. I blink first, getting up to leave. But you stop me with a hand on my arm. There is a look in your eyes that I am also familiar with, and it makes my heart pound. You lead me into the bedroom. He is almost naked when we arrive. His expression darkens and his brow furrows, puzzled. But he says nothing. Nothing at all. He says nothing when you lock the door. He says nothing when you point to the bed and order me to sit. He says nothing when you kiss me and begin to undress. I divide my attention between watching you reveal more of your body -dear God, you are so beautiful- and watching him . . . not just his reactions, but his body too. Yes, I am looking at him. And he knows it. I can see he is unsure, and I can imagine him calculating the next logical step like a master chess player contemplating each move toward victory. But then you are naked, in bed, waiting, touching yourself, stroking your wetness. And it gets to him. He wants you much more than he is bothered by my being there. He finishes undressing, his cock half-hard. His eyes meet mine and without words I tell him yes, Nick, I am looking at your cock with more than passing interest. He blinks and slides into bed with you, kissing you, hands on you . . . oh God, his hands are on you. He touches your breasts, he fingers your cunt. His body moves with yours in a rhythm perfected over the last twenty years. I watch you . . . yes, I watch you. I watch how you move underneath him. I see the desire . . . the want . . . the lust. Is it always there, lover, or does feeling me next to you make a difference? I am in a daze. He plunges his cock into you and I watch, transfixed, as you take the length of him into your cunt. Oh God . . . oh God . . . oh God. He is fucking you. Right there in front of me he is fucking you. He is sliding his cock into your pussy, and it is so beautiful I have to fight back tears. Your touch jolts me from the trance. I look down at you . . .seeing the pleasure in your face . . . your desire for me . . . your desire for him. You pull me to you and our lips meet. The kiss is fierce, desperate. His cock is still inside you. Your hands are pushing my shirt up. His cock is still inside you. I pull my shirt off, kiss you again. He is still fucking you. Oh God, Maggie. He is fucking you. I stretch out next to you, our lips fused together, a hand at your breast. Your nipple is hard and when I pinch it between my fingers you moan into the kiss. Your hands are on me, working at my pants. He is still pumping his cock into you. I have not met his gaze since we kissed. I am naked now. We are kissing. He is fucking you and I finger your clit. You come for us. For both of us. Your screams are muffled by our kiss but you come, hips jerking, his cock inside you and my finger rubbing your clit. He keeps thrusting into you, not
finished yet, but close, so close. He thrusts one last time, plunging into you, coming. I can feel the warmth of his cream oozing out, over my fingers. God, I want him. I move down you with kisses, over your belly, and he pulls out when I arrive. I go down on you, licking your pussy, tasting him inside you. Your fingers twine in my hair, holding me tight against you, and I fuck you with my tongue like he just did with his cock. I can feel him next to me, and then he is there inside you again, licking you, like I am. Our tongues flutter over your cunt, sometimes meeting inside you. You arch and moan, muttering breathlessly, as we lick you . . . both of us, licking you out of your skin. You come again . . . again . . . for both of us. I notice he is hard again and want him. There is tension in the air. Which one of us will break it? I put a hand on his shoulder. He does not stop me. I trail my hand down his chest. He does not stop me. I reach down and stroke his half-limp cock to full erection and he does not stop me. I take him into my mouth and he does not stop me. I hear your groan and know you are watching. Yes . . . you are . . . you are watching me suck him off. I tongue the head of his cock and lick up and down his shaft before taking him into my mouth again, swallowing him, stroking him off with my lips. He comes inside me and I take it all, every drop. Then I feel hands on me. Yours? His? I don't know. I have his softening cock in my mouth still and there are hands on me, stroking me. When I come it's with his cock still in my mouth, moaning around the head, his taste and yours on my lips.

One more night. That's all we have. But we'll spend it as lovers.

story © 2000-2014 by J. T. Langdon

JT Langdon, a bipoly vegetarian currently living in the midwest, is the author of the erotic lesbian novels Lady Davenport's Slave, The Claming Of Amber, and Sisters of Omega Pi.

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