That's all the tweet said last night: "two chairs, one cock." An amusing reference to the 2 Girls 1 Cup video that took over the web once upon a time. Two chairs, one cock. What could that possibly mean?
I'll tell you.
Photo by Bill Gracey.
I'm lounging on the couch, waiting for him to get ready so we can go to a party in Beverly Hills. I'm exhausted and begin to drift off to sleep when I suddenly feel his hands part my thighs and push up the short red dress to expose nothing underneath.
"You have to get ready," I protest, in that way people have of protesting that conveys less and less determination with each word.
He's not paying attention. Or maybe he is and he simply doesn't care. He's lost in the folds of my pussy, his lips and tongue synchronized, coaxing my sexual response cycle. It doesn't take much. But he doesn't stop. Orgasm isn't the point with him -- or with me, for that matter. It's the transcendental state of hyperstimulation we reach when we're tangled together, where for a moment two perfectly intelligent beings lose their ability to form any sort of coherent thought.
Slowly, he rises and picks me up. He's wearing his pants, shoes and an undershirt. I can see he's already hard. He takes me to the bar, setting me on the edge of a stool. He pulls up my legs, so they're bent at the knees and raised high. I can see my pussy glistening in the vague light of the next room.
He drops his pants. There it is, his cock, like some feat of engineering -- huge, hard, a drop of precum on the tip. For a moment I wonder about the male human. Unlike a lot of mammals, humans don't have a baculum, or bone to assist erection. It's massive on its own, fueled only by the --
He's inside me, I lose my train of thought. Slow, deep strokes, first. He pulls my tits out of my dress. I clench him with every muscle in contact with him, from my hands to my thighs to my cunt. He's so hard and so deep inside me.
I want to feel him against my tits. Somehow, I remove his shirt without missing a stroke, and press his chest against mine to feel his body heat. My nipples are still sensitive from his attentions earlier and the night before and the night before that and the one before that. They get no rest, and now everything they touch brings them to life.
He starts pounding into me, it feels so good, I pull my thighs apart with my hands, balancing treacherously on the stool on my pelvic bone. He puts an arm behind my head and pulls me close, devouring my lips until I'm gasping in his mouth.
I want to fuck him back. Slowly, I lift each leg over his shoulders and elevate myself on my hands. Gripping the sides of the stool, I begin to swing powerfully into him, looking into his eyes until I lose concentration again and disappear into a trance-like state. I come in and out of it, in flickers, so I don't quite remember how long we did this, only that my knuckles are white and my elbows so strained that they'd moved beyond pain and into lightness.
I look down and see him, thrust forward as I move back and forth, his cock appearing and disappearing. Over and over. I'm at a plateau, the rush of another orgasm moving in a straight line across the horizon. It feels like I'll never get there, and like I am already there at once. I drop my head back and he bites my neck.
"Turn around," he whispers and I come back from my trance -- long enough to lower my legs and turn around to offer myself to him, gripping the granite bar.
His legs are long enough that I don't have to adjust my height. He plunges into me and I arch my back. I begin to move as well, thrusting back to meet him. So deep, so hard, so fast. We're both panting, I'm cumming and dripping down my thighs.
He slows me, teases me, massages my pussy with each stroke, filling every aspect, then pulling out and making it beg for his cock with only his head nestled in. His other hand reaches around the front to play with my clit, but he holds me in place still, my hips bucking to take him all in.
Then he slams into me, powerfully, and the force makes me cum again. I lack the faculties of speech at that point, though it's possible I was moaning and screaming -- I don't know. My body was taking so much sensory data, it had ceased reading it. It was wave after wave after wave of a force greater than myself lifting me out of my body into a state of delirious floating.
He picks me up somehow and moves me without pulling out. He sits on his arm chair, with me positioned over him, facing away from him. I lay back against his bare chest as he begins stroking me slowly again, and playing with my clit. My nails are digging into the arms of the chair, I want him to pound into me.
He knows. He's teasing me. I put my legs down and use them to propel myself up and down on his cock, balancing myself on my shoulder blades against his chest. Up and down, up and down until he's moaning, too, and he's fading, too, unable to control my movements or his own.
Fluid. There is so much fluid, we're sliding over each other at impossible speeds. He's so hard it doesn't diminish the sensitivity. I'm plateauing again, suddenly cast into a hyperaware state of his pulse through his cock. I start to cum, hard, finally released from my drugged state of plateau, and my response cycle pushes him over the edge.
He grabs my hips and slams me down into him, then pulls me up and slams me down again and again and again as his hot cum shoots into me.
And then everything stops except for the echos of orgasm and the pulse in his cock and the sound of our breaths, racing.
I turn my head and he kisses me, and we stay like that for a while, with him still inside me, my cum and his cum flowing onto the chair.
Two chairs, one cock.
