Heat Level: Medium
Sex: Straight, Sexy talk
Elizabeth sits up in bed, editing the last erotica manuscript for the night. She's tired and cranky, especially about the cliches she keeps reading. Especially the one where the woman in the story keeps repeating "Oh God" during sex. Who does that, anyway? Adam has an answer for her, which he demonstrates rather handily.
Now my voice is a whispered echo of his, and the tattered shreds of my argument fall apart along with my thighs. Adam takes advantage of this opening and pushes another finger inside, twisting gently into the moist heat of my body. He quickly finds the single sweet spot that makes me breathless, and his fingers curve inward, pressing rhythmically, insistently. Too soon, my tongue is tipped with the dreaded phrase, and I can't stop it, even when I bite my lip in a vain effort to remain silent.
"That bad, huh?"
"It isn't even a story, just a fuck scene. Big Throbbing Cock and Tight Juicy Pussy, nothing inventive. And Oh God! this and Oh God! that, over and over. I finally had to count them, because I couldn't believe anyone could write such lousy dialogue. Oh God!, eleven times. No one says Oh God! that much when they're fucking, unless they suffer a deplorable lack of imagination."
With a dramatic sigh, I shove the litter of papers off the bed and snuggle under the blankets to wait for him.
He tsks in my direction, chiding me for my arrogance. "That's not true. You say it pretty often." He's smiling, playfully, and I'm not sure whether it's a joke or a challenge. But I am sure that he's mistaken, and my mouth gapes in protest as he discards his magazine and turns off the bedside lamp. "I wasn't counting," he adds, sliding beneath the bedcovers to curl his arms around me, "but I'd bet you said Oh God! a lot more than eleven times last night."
"I most certainly did not," I retort icily, resisting his embrace. I'm offended at the accusation and, even worse, aghast at the possibility that he might be telling the truth. I'd always imagined myself more eloquent than that, even in the throes of passion.
"Elisabeth, you say Oh God! all the time when we're making love," he insists, amused and undaunted by my reaction. "Why not just admit it?"
"Yeah, okay... maybe it slips out sometimes, once or twice, in the heat of the moment. But it's just a noise, a sound effect. Oh God! Like when you stub your toe or discover you've bounced a check. You make it sound like I'm praying for an orgasm or something," I complain.
"It does seem like a prayer sometimes. Especially when you're on your knees."
"Pffft," I say, missing the point of his humor. "I'm an atheist. I don't do that."
I consider the matter closed, and assume I've made whatever point I intended. Ready to forgive his minor transgression, I shift in bed and begin to move closer, but he's not finished yet. He's still having a laugh, too loudly, at my expense.
"I'm an atheist, too," he reminds me, "but I never say Oh God! And, definitely, never during sex."
This may be true, because I don't think I've ever heard him say it. But there's no way I'll admit that now. "Of course you do," I say, frustrated. "Even if you don't realize, it just pops out. The God blurt."
He's too confident, and I'm not. And there's some quirk of my personality that gets the best of me in situations like this. I never know when to shut up, even when I might be wrong.
"Okay, wise ass," I challenge. "So, what do you say when you drop something heavy on your foot?"
He ponders this for only a second, grinning at me. "Ouch," he says, and his hand drifts over my bare thigh, settling comfortably between the argument. I pull my legs together, immobilizing his wrist, but he doesn't seem to notice as he explores whatever he can still reach. One fingertip wiggles free to trace the satin-smooth cleft beneath his hand. I toss him a dirty look and he smiles back, unrepentant.
"You're running late for an appointment and your car has a flat tire."
"'Shit.' And I kick the tire, because that's what real men do." His hand is deliberate between my thighs, that roaming finger teasing the lips of my cunt, idly stroking. He finds my clit and taps it gently, as if trying to get my attention. I do my best to ignore him and resume my interrogation with prosecutorial zeal.
"You've overdrawn your checking account."
"Fuck me," he answers, his smile spreading into a sardonic grin.
"Fuck what?" The adventurous finger chooses this moment to penetrate with sudden boldness. I gasp and try to wiggle away. But I don't try very hard.
"Fuck me," he says again, softer than he should, closer than before, and these words linger against my ear in an entirely new context. Soft lips define the curve of my breast, seeming to wander without direction before discovering a peaked nipple with gentle tug of teeth and tongue. The friction between my legs is no longer aimless, and I forget all about God.
"Fuck me." Now my voice is a whispered echo of his, and the tattered shreds of my argument fall apart along with my thighs. Adam takes advantage of this opening and pushes another finger inside, twisting gently into the moist heat of my body. He quickly finds the single sweet spot that makes me breathless, and his fingers curve inward, pressing rhythmically, insistently. Too soon, my tongue is tipped with the dreaded phrase, and I can't stop it, even when I bite my lip in a vain effort to remain silent.
"Oh God!" I whimper, clutching at his shoulders as I come. And I say it again, and again, and again, helplessly, Oh God! with each burst of pleasure that begins in my cunt and spreads outward, flexing my fingers and toes. And then, just as helplessly, I dissolve in laughter when my mind clears and I realize what I've said.
"Four," he murmurs, and I smile beneath his smiling kiss, chagrined but somehow pleased in spite of my failure.
"Fuck you," I respond, sweetly. My fingers find and encircle the rigid column of his flesh, pulling him closer.
Adam enters me with a muted groan, pushing deep and almost painfully against my womb. His hands slide beneath my hips and lift me to the unrelenting pressure of his cock, holding me so tightly that it's impossible to move except toward him. I strain upward, rocking in a motion that soon becomes uncontrollable, frantic and primitive.
And yes, it is Big and Throbbing, this Cock that fills me, and my Pussy is Tight and Juicy with the madness of wanting, and language fails me again, as it always does when he fucks me. The words form on my lips, unbidden, but I say them willingly now, Oh God! breathing it in and crying it out, no longer eloquent but no longer caring. Reduced at last to the worst dialogue imaginable, I hear myself sob and gasp, moaning to the God of Fuck, moaning the syllables of his name, a torrent of sound as desperate and hopeful as any prayer could be.
Much later, when our frenzied coupling has finally given way to languid movements and contented sighs, I see the smile playing on his face. He doesn't have to tell me what he's thinking.
Yes, I did say it more than eleven times.
Maybe even more than fifty.
And my prayer was answered.
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