The Distraction Game
Ada and I are in a little cottage on the far west coast of England, a few kilometers out of the village, nestled in the trees on a cliff overlooking the sea. We’ve been together for about three weeks now. We’ve been fucking for two of them. We rented this place a few days ago, and other than one run to get groceries, we haven’t put our clothes on since the moment we stepped inside. We fucked lazily this morning when we woke up, spooning, again after lunch, her pushed up against the counter, caught in the act of washing a few plates, her arms all covered with soap suds.
Now, it’s the late afternoon and I’m laying naked on a lawn chair on the porch, cold beer beside me, book in hand. It’s a sunny day, unusual for England, with a soft Spring feel to the air, warm and wet, like sunshine after the rain. The sun feels good on my skin, and I am deeply content.
Ada is sitting on the other chair, naked, guitar in hand. Her short-cropped dark hair is mussed from our lovemaking, and sticks up around her head in fetching disarray. She has wide hips, smooth, strong legs, full breasts. Nipples puffy from kissing, nipples that, if teased, will stiffen out, large enough to tug at, to take into your mouth and play with for days. Her legs are crossed, and with the guitar sitting on top of them, frame the dark fur of her pussy.
Her brow is furrowed with concentration, looking at her notes of a song she’s trying to write, but she notices me watching her and smiles. White teeth, full lips, green eyes. “Am I distracting you?”
I smile back, just enjoying looking at her. “Not in a bad way.”
“It’s good practice,” she says. “If you’re ever going to play music with me, you’ll need to know how to deal with distractions.” She sets down her guitar. “What are you reading?”
I show her the cover. Anais Nin: Delta of Venus. She grins. “Perfect.” She stands, saunters over, sits down at the foot of my chair. “Read it out loud,” she says, “and don’t stop.”
I clear my throat, and start to read. In the story, Mathilde is going to South America; she’s opening an opium den. At first, Ada just listens, attentive. She sprawls across my legs like a cat, wriggling in between them, under them. She lays her head on my thigh, rests her hand on my waist. As I read, she traces her fingers in widening circles around the inside of my thigh, moving up and up until she’s brushing her fingertips across my balls. My voice falters, just slightly, and I can almost feel her smirking. I regain my composure, keep reading. Ada begins to caress me, touch me softly, then kiss me, up and down the shaft of my cock. Despite fucking twice already today, I feel myself beginning to harden under her mouth.
She takes it slow. Maybe she wants to hear the whole story. She covers my cock with little fluttering kisses, then longer ones. I feel her tongue between her lips on my skin. She slides her hand under my testicles, lifting them gently, kissing each in turn. My cock is fully erect now, wet with her kisses, but I keep reading. She takes one of my balls into her mouth, almost experimentally. Her tongue plays with it, and again, my voice falters. Again, I regain my composure, keep reading.
In the story, Mathilde is naked in her opium den, being covered with the kisses and caresses of her many lovers. Between my legs, Ada wraps her forefinger and thumb around my cock and takes me into her mouth. She moves her lips up and down the shaft slowly, caressing it with her tongue as she does, squeezing with her hand. I feel the pressure build, feel my voice go hoarse and uneven. My breath catches and I have to struggle to continue.
I feel the orgasm coming and have to stop, mouth open, muscles clenching. But Ada stops me, holds me there shaking until the orgasm fades back into the background. When I open my eyes again, she’s still holding my cock, and is grinning at me triumphantly. “I win,” she says. “Distracted you.”
I set the book down beside my beer and sit up. Pull her face to mine and kiss her. Her soft, heavy breasts slide across my cock as I do, press against my chest, and I press her hold her body against mine. Her lips are warm and salty with the taste of me. Her body yields to my touch, and she moves against me, melting into the kiss.
“You haven’t won until you do better,” I say, when our lips part.
Her head goes back, and she looks at me. “Oh,” she says. “Now it’s on.”
She untangles herself from my legs and stands up, picks up her guitar. Then steps over my lawn chair, straddling me standing, her pussy above my belly. I slide my hand up her thigh, dip my fingers into her. She’s dripping wet, and her hips move at my touch. “What should I play?” she says.
I take my time, feeling her. I let my thumb slip through her lips over her clitoris, just graze it. She murmurs, her hips moving at my touch. “Play me something new,” I say.
She crouches over me, reaching down between us to hold my cock in place. Then, with a soft exhalation, she slides down onto it. Then she straightens, pulling in her knees so that she’s sitting on me the way you’d sit on a chair. She rests her guitar on her knees and shifts her weight, letting my cock move inside her. “Mmm,” she says. “I could get used to this.” She sits up straight, and begins to play.
A new song, about sex and longing and chance encounters. About love, of course. She smiles as she plays, the way she normally does, but this time also rolls her hips, rocking back and forth on me in time to her own song. Her eyebrows raise. See? they seem to say. I can feel the vibration of her voice through my cock, can feel when she pulls in a gusty lungful. I’m awestruck, in love; I forget about the contest, all I can do is flex my thighs and roll back my hips and give her something to sit on.
A flush spreads across her face, across the tops of her breasts, and between verses she gasps with silent pleasure, bites her lip, fighting visibly now to retain composure. But she lights into the final verse strong, her voice ringing out through the trees. The finish is sweet, poignant, and laced through with oncoming orgasm. She plays the last chord strong, lingering, and then finally gasps, laughing. I sit up in a motion, taking the guitar out of her hands and moving it aside. “I win!” she says. “I — “ and then my mouth is on one of those big, sensitive nipples, stiff now with her arousal, my lips and tongue tugging at it, and she’s moaning, uncontrollable, coming like a thunderstorm.
Once, Ada made me watch while she played with herself, not letting me touch her or myself. The sound of her coming then was almost enough to drive me over the edge. Now, it lights my soul on fire, and I come in a crash, holding her body to mine, kissing her on the mouth, her breasts pressing against my chest. She’s shaking with the orgasm, muscles rigid, and whimpers against our kisses as I groan against them.
Then all we can do is hold each other, shaking, until it passes. When it does, the breeze is suddenly cool on our bare, damp skin. Ada’s shoulders pebble with goosebumps goosebumps. Her hands lighten their grip on my back, and begin to caress me, tenderly. She rests her head against my shoulder and sighs. After a moment, she says “I’m still pretty sure I won.”
I give her a squeeze. “I’ll accept defeat.”
She kisses me. “I’ll take my reward later.” She smiles, then shivers. “For now,” she says, “how about a bath?”
Cover image courtesy of Alexander Master on Flickr.