Suspicious Mind...

What is she doing?

What is she doing though?

Late evening, dusk, half light, stood in the garden chatting with him over the low wall that separates our gardens? Ours and his. What are they doing?

She went to collect the washing drying on the line.

"I've just got to get the washing in. Back in a minute."

The two of them stood there now. Alone. Talking.

Again.

Yes... Again.

Again.

Its not the first time.

"Oh yeah," she's said before, brushing it off, "He always comes out when I go out. I can't get away. He just likes to chat."

There they are again.

Again...

The sun's sinking, the light fading fast. Too fast. Chatting. I think. I'm told.

But, on the washing line behind her. Her knickers. Fluttering in the warm summer breeze behind her head. Right in his eye line. How many pairs? Four? Five?

Tiny, intimate little flags, saluting her. Framing her. Give her a title. Writ large, I imagine, the headline.

Why did she stand there?

Right there?

His eyes repeatedly flitting from her face to her knickers. Chatting? Yeah? Flicker. Talking about nothing, flicker. Inane. Flicker.

But, she's swaying, gently, twirling her hair in her fingers. She's taken the band from her hair, letting it hang down, unconstrained.

When did she do that?

Rubbing the top of her legs together a little, running her hands over her hips, and her tight arse. Pausing a little, leaving a hand on a firm, round cheek for a moment. She's... Yes. Unconsciously? Tracing the line of her knicker elastic across the cheek. I think. Biting her lip perhaps?

Definitely laughing. Smiling for sure.

Is she beginning to feel something? Something physical, a stirring in her chest? In her stomach? Between her legs? An invisible nuzzle? A pressure? Something building? The sensitivity of her skin becoming sharper, heightened. As she senses what he's thinking.

What he MUST be thinking. Surely.

The thoughts in his head, the pictures in his mind. Surely.

She's becoming very conscious of her body, of her shape, of her stance, the space she's occupying. Aware of her feminity. Very aware she's a woman. Very aware of that area, that part of her, between her legs, very aware of the need, the desire, the want.

His? Hers?

The warmth, the hotness, between her legs. Tingling? Aching? Yearning? Wetness. Very aware of him, his manliness, his eyes. His thoughts. Acutely aware of the man stood in front of her. The man looking at her. Both talking, but neither really listening. Both waking to the feeling, the connection, feeling the unspoken.

The unspeakable.

Beginning to relinquish.

What is she thinking?

While they're chatting?

While the two of them talk about... nothing in particular? But the pictures in her head are becoming so vivid, so real. She can't help it. Can she? There's no denying it.

Why does she think she can hide it? Ignore it?

She can't. It's physical. It's the widening gulf between her mind and her body. The flesh. The primitive. Immediate.

And... Her... pussy. Oh, her pussy. Her pussy's hot, her pussy's so wet, her knickers are damp. Moist, sticky, fragrant. She can smell it, smell her knickers, smell her wet pussy. How can he not smell her? How can he not smell her pussy? How can he not smell her... cunt! Her pussy crying for his cock, weeping for his cum.

She just wants him to jump the wall that separates them.

And then.

In the almost dark.

She's on her back.

On the grass.

And she's roughly pulling open her jeans and hurriedly pulling them down around her ankles, managing to get one foot out of them. Pulling the leg inside out. Her knickers, silky, pink, still on. Her fingers stumble before she catches the lace fringed elastic. She urgently pulls them aside, feeling the cool evening air shocking, sharp, against her wet pussy.

He's quickly down on his knees pulling his clothes down. Down, only far enough, just, far enough. His already hard cock jumping out. Clothes moved enough for him to get to her beautiful, firm, wet pussy and for her to find his, already hard, hot, dick. She's pulling her legs up, parting her knees. Spreading them wide. Wide apart. He scrambles between her legs so he can get his hungry cock into her, into her primed, wet, open cunt. Her fingers holding her knickers to the side of her hot, plump, red lips. The two of them, breath quick and shallow, moving urgently to get him inside her, his solid cock quickly into her soft, warm, wet, desperate, pussy. She guides it with her hand, gasping as it moves, wet with precum, between her lips and to the entrance of her creamy, receptive....

Then, his cock's spreading her pussy, opening her, and in no time, he's on top of her, he's inside her, he's immediately deep, his whole length on the first stroke. He groans her name, in conjunction, in harmony, with her sharp and then long, intake of breath.

Then she moans, as her delicious pussy tightly embraces his whole hard cock and, oh god, its bigger than she imagined... hoped for... Wished for.

It's better than she thought, it would be...

She feels him, inside her, amazingly, growing even bigger, even harder. She breathlessly stammers his name. Then her arms are pulling him tight to her body wrapping around him. Her legs wide, her knees high, her hips grinding up onto him as he takes her... steals her... fast, hard, urgent. Her hips, her pussy, her cunt, moving, rolling up to him, rolling her hips up to meet his cock, fast, pumping, grinding into him. His head in her neck. Her breath, her moans, the gasps, in his ear. The two of them, in the half light, a single shadowy silhouette now, fucking! Desperately rutting on the grass! Fucking on the ground. Screwing.

It's a fuck, Cock and cunt!

His cock and her cunt!

Everything else? Neither care. it's irrelevant. Immaterial. It's nothing. Of no concern, stacked against the uncontrollable, unstoppable, unrelenting, pure carnal desire they have to fuck. Each other. Her to fuck him and him to fuck her.

There's just his body against her, his breath and, yes, his cock. His cock moving, moving deep inside her, inside her creamy cunt. Her legs wide, open, taking him, swallowing him. Inside her.

Their shared, urgent, stolen, fuck. Their matching, identical, overwhelming need to cum. Her need to feel him deep inside her, and more, more, more, she needs to feel him jerking, spurting, spilling, cumming, unloading deep, deep inside her. In her cunt. It drives the movement of her hips harder, her pussy greedily consuming, swallowing, gorging on, grasping his cock, gripping it tight as their combined movements build. His thrusts uncontrolled, instinctive, quick, rough. The tightness of his arms gripping her, matched by the power of the clench from her arms and legs and from her tight pussy holding him to her. His weight on top of her.

His inescapable need to, not only, be inside her completely, but also to fill her, fill her with his cock and... and his seed, to bury his cum deep inside her, to leave her full of him, to leave all of his cum inside her, to fill her, to fill her up, with all of him. He needs all of it inside her.

And her?... She wants it... She wants it all, she wants it all, all of his cock, and more, she wants his cum, all of his cum, all of his cream, his spunk, she wants it, she needs it. Needs it! Inside of her. Inside her, in her cunt. She needs it. She has to have him cum in her cunt.

Faltering, struggling, she manages to gasp.

"I want it. I want it. Now."

She whispers, breathless into his ear. Holding him tighter, grinding him harder. Locking her feet against the back of his legs, holding him.

"I want it inside me. I need it. Cum in me! Inside me! Cum in me!"

Is it him hearing her, feeling her, close to cumming, that brings him to the edge of his own, or is it her feeling him starting inside her that trips her over the edge? Regardless, of course, they arrive... fall... together.

He's groaning into her neck, his face in her hair as his hips drive, as his body tightens, as his dick explodes, as his cock, deep in her pussy, pumps his cum into her. Deep, deep into her womb. Her pussy flutters and tightens in response as she whimpers and sobs into his shoulder. Her hips jerking. Her pussy pulsing now, grip and release, grip and release, fast and relentless, milking his dick. And he's still driving into her, still fucking her. Her hips continue to respond to him, jerking, driving. She's biting her lip, but not holding back. The loudest of the moans echo as her orgasm overwhelms her. And he's still cumming, still cumming inside her, cumming so hard, so deep and for so long.

She emerges from the darkness, all of a sudden, a surprise.

"Hi," she smiles, "jeez, he just doesn't stop."

"Doesn't stop?"

"Yeah," she replies, laughing, "talking. You can't shut him up. I couldn't get away." She smiles and walks away. Her hair, down, loose, swaying as she walks.

A blade, or two, or three, of freshly mown grass falling from her back.

Empty handed. The washing still hanging in the breeze.