Dark Desires of the Soul

It’s only supposed to be a massage.

She undresses him to his shorts, strips herself naked while she stands beside the bed regarding his lean, muscled body, and then removes the last vestiges of his modesty.

“Front or back first?” she asks.

“Front,” he replies, surprising himself.

She eases herself onto the deep mattress and then straddles his thighs. He glances down at his cock, little sense of anything but vacuum within the flaccid flesh. The sight of her nakedness barely stirs him, and he curses himself. She uncaps the bottle of baby oil, smoothes it back and forth across her palms until the liquid’s chill has been banished, then presses her soft hands down against his chest.

There is something in the gesture that sends a spark leaping from one synapse to another. One spark becomes ten becomes a thousand becomes a shimmering explosion of hidden light and ideas.

In an instant, his fantasies come alive within him.

Almost at once, his cock begins to swell, and lengthen.

She squats over him, works his broad pectoral muscles, her fingertips brushing over his nipples. Twin shimmers of sensation streak on converging paths past his navel to his loins. She feels him becoming hard against her thigh, looks down, brings her gaze back to his and smiles lasciviously.

Her hands inch down his chest.

“You like that,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he says, meaning it, but it isn’t the whole truth; it’s not the only reason - not even the main reason - for his stiffening cock, for his engorging libido.

The dark desires of his soul hold that particular key.

She leans forward, kisses him deliberately, her mouth gradually melding with his, her tongue losing its reticence as desire flows ever more strongly through her. She reaches down between her thighs, aligning his shaft with the tight cleft between her labia. She slowly licks her fingers, uses her spittle to lubricate the joining of their flesh. Then she begins to flex her hips, rubbing her sex against him with delicious, agonising slowness. Every tiny gasp of pleasure that escapes her pursed lips stiffens him a fraction more.

But in his mind, he can only see her rubbing her cunt against a stranger’s cock, and the vision excites him so much, so blackly.

Soon she is wet, dripping, gaping. He can tell that she wants him inside her already, that she needs his hard flesh to sate the maddening craving, the gnawing ache to be filled.

“Don’t rush,” he whispers. “Take the time.”

She moves lower, until his cockhead is actually between her swollen, conch-coloured lips. Its tip nuzzles at her clitoris with every downstroke she makes, smearing nectar across the tender nub. She shudders. They both know how easy it would be for either one of them to move his cockhead a fraction lower, until it is nestling within the portal itself; how easy it would be for her to sink, for him to thrust, and he’d be inside her, filling her, buried to the absolute hilt.

The lingering feeds their physical pleasure, and his secret fantasies. And yet inky clouds of despair hover in the back of his mind at the bitter knowledge that she does not share all his wanton fancies, does not think as he does, cannot fathom the workings of his desires.

Perhaps never will.

Her gasps of pleasure are becoming longer, more pronounced. He knows that she won’t be able to resist the allure of his hard cock for long, that he won’t try to stop her when she finally succumbs to the yearning and eases him inside her flesh. In the end, she lasts a few minutes longer, slowly grinding out her pleasure against his shaft, two-thirds of the way to a shivering orgasm by his reckoning, before she settles over him, easing herself down until his cockhead is slipping between her inner labia, descending along him, his cockhead slipping deeper inside her, deeper, deeper, its corniced edges dragging deliciously along the moist, rippled walls of her cunt, until there’s nowhere left for either of them to go.

She gasps when his cock touches her womb.

He reaches around to cup her taut buttocks. “Do you want to meet them again?”

“Yes,” she gasps, rising and falling slowly over his length.

“What will you take from it?”

She’s silent for a moment. “Pleasure. Lots of lustful pleasure.”

“With her?”

“Yes, with her.”

“You like the taste of pussy, don’t you? You’ve missed it.”

“Oh, yes.” There’s a tremor of palpable excitement in those two words.

“What else will you enjoy?”

She kisses him before she answers. Her mouth tastes faintly of the strawberries they ate at lunch. When her voice returns, it’s little more than a whisper. She always does this when they talk of sex and fantasies while they fuck. It’s as though she’s ashamed to permit her words more veracity.

“Kissing her,” she says in that hushed voice. “Kissing her soft mouth while her breasts are tight against mine, our hard nipples touching, pressing our cunts together, making each other come.”

She sighs as some sweet memory becomes physical for an instant.

“You come easily like that, don’t you?”

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Can you feel her cunt as she comes against you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you have any idea how delicious it is, watching you coming like that? Seeing you, listening to you? You like me watching don’t you?”

“I love you watching.”

“Tell me the truth: you like it when we’re both watching you, don’t you? Me and him?”

The briefest pause. “Yes.”

“The two of us sitting together at the end of the bed, looking up along your bodies, between your thighs. Watching your vulvas as they press tight together, your lips pink and swollen and gleaming. Did you know that your cunts flex when you fuck like that? That we can see them opening and closing like exotic flowers, see inside your secret flesh?”

“Oh God…”

Her voice trails off as she loses herself for a few moments in the pleasure of his descriptions, in the union of their flesh. He reminds himself to slow his thrusts. It’s so easy to lose control like this: her riding him eagerly as the waves of fantasy build inside his mind, adding more and more to his physical satisfaction.

And yet he feels trepidation. He’s never sure how far he can push her, not even in fantasy. If he suggests the wrong thing, describes something that’s unpalatable to her, even in fantasy, he can see it, feel it in her a nanosecond later. For the ten thousandth time in his life, he considers biting down on his dark desires, concealing them from her again.

But his needs cry out to be heard.

“Would you enjoy feeling my tongue on your cunt, on hers, on both of you together? Your cunt against hers, my tongue on you, in you, then on her, in her. My tongue slipping between your clits, pleasuring you both.”

“Oh, yes.”

He pushes a little further. “And all the time, having his cock between your mouths. Both of you kissing his cockhead, licking it, sucking it. Your tongues lapping along his shaft, kissing each other around his hard flesh, feeling my tongue on you.”

“Mmmmmmm.” It’s something of a hedge; nowhere near as good as hearing her say “yes” with lust and passion, but her sigh holds a note of pleasure rather than disapproval. It emboldens him.

“And then we swap, my cock to share with her mouth, his tongue pleasuring her cunt, then yours, then both of you together.”

She gasps. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You know I would.” He closes his eyes. “Looking down, seeing your tongues dancing and twirling against my cockhead, listening to your moans of pleasure as his tongue finds your clit, as it penetrates you, as it makes you come.” He takes a chance on the past. “Like he did when he went down on you as you watched me making his wife come with my mouth.”

“Yes.” Her eyes close. There’s a conflict within her; he can see it in her expression, in the way her body stiffened fractionally at his words. But conflict means that there is pleasure inside, fighting the uncertainty, the fear, the regret. It means that there’s a part of her that enjoys the memories.

Does that part of her want to relive the experience?

Does that part of her want to go even further?

God, he hopes so.

He steels himself.

He tries to find the words, and suddenly his vocabulary is lubricated with dust and grit and black, caked oil, just as it always seems to be at these moments. He knows what he wants to say. He wants to tell her how he’d like to watch her sucking the stranger’s cock until he comes in her mouth, to watch his seed dribbling down from the corners of her lips. How he wants to sit on one side of the room and watch while the stranger and his wife pleasure her in tandem, take her from him to the centre of the bed and ravage her from top to bottom with their lips and their fingers and their tongues. How he wants to watch the stranger slowly thrusting his erection against her thigh as he suckles on her breast and fingers her clitoris. How he’d love to watch her rolling a condom down over the stranger’s hard cock before using his cockhead to pleasure her clit, to make her come. How he aches to see…

He stalls.

He could just say it all aloud, describe his desires with straightforward aplomb, but he knows that would only grind her to a silent halt. The words he really needs - the ones that will woo her lust, that will coax her libido towards surrender - elude him. He’s smelt them, tasted them, even grazed himself against them, so many times before. They’re so close now, hovering at the very edge of his reasoning, tantalisingly beyond his reach.

In the end, he settles for fucking her with long, powerful strokes, gripping her arse, dragging his nails across her skin, the tempo gradually increasing, his pubis hard against her clitoris with each entry until she explodes screaming above him. And while she’s still gasping and trembling from the orgasm, he skilfully turns her onto her back, enters her again, slowing the pace until the flush of her climax has passed, then increases the tempo again, thrusting deep, steady, letting her feel all of him, every inch, his come-laden balls heavy against her cheeks until she is gasping and trembling afresh.

“Oh, fuck yes!”

As the physical pleasures build within him, he releases the clamp on his mind, lets it pour over all of those dark desires he’s craved for so fucking long. And as he peaks, spilling his lust deep inside her, his cock and his balls pulsating in delicious synchronicity, he can’t stop himself from wondering if he will ever find the words that he needs, or if she will ever want to hear them, no matter how eloquent they are when they arrive.