Red Love

Chapter 8

[ŁÉMÓŃ WÁRŃÍŃG]

You look at him in confusion, and he gives a mischievous grin in response. Shivers run through your frame as the speedster shifts lower, capturing a nipple in his hot mouth and flicking the tip with his tongue between sucks and nibbles. You slide a hand behind his head, keeping him there, intertwining your fingers with his ruffled brown hair. His free hand spreads your legs before gliding back up to caress the soft flesh of your chest; the spit-slick fingers finding their way to your entrance, dripping wet with arousal. Fingers lightly stroke the folds, gingerly, teasingly. Pleasure sparks through you in waves, soft and sharp and unsatisfying. You moan, rolling your head slightly and pushing him against your chest.
"Hurry up, Scout," you whine.
The Bostonian pushes against your hand, standing upright and gazing down at you almost wickedly. He sniggers and crouches down, giving you little to no time to comprehend his plans when a sudden surge of pleasure consumes you. A strangled, startled moan rips from your throat as he greedily laps and licks your core, flicking your sensitive clit with his tongue and rolling it in circles. His breath is hot on your moist skin, leaving a cold, neglected sensation afterwards. Soon two fingers, slick with your own saliva, join, stroking gently and teasingly. You buck your hips; the Scout pins you down, making you groan in frustration and impatience.
"Oh for the love of the F-"
You are interrupted by your own lewd cry as he slips the two digits in, curling them and inducing a breathy moan from you. You squeeze your eyes shut and claw at the table, gasping from the combined sensations of his tongue licking and fingers thrusting slowly, leisurely so. The hand holding your hips down slips away, travelling lower to fondle with his length, dripping with precum from lust and neglect. The runner moans, brows high and furrowed, eyes closed from the rolling waves of contentment as he strokes himself, nearly losing concentration of pleasuring you. Sweat rolls down both your brows and neck, both skin flushed and hot, the air cool and sharp, and the pleasure so tempting and sinful and unsatisfying. The pace quickens. Your breath hitches.
You weakly prop yourself up on your elbows and push yourself upright, entangling your fingers, slick with sweat, with the speedster's hair and holding him in place. You pant and gasp each time bliss overwhelms you, then a whine escapes from the back of your throat. Pleasure builds up gradually from your core. You are close, and he is no fool not to notice.
Immediately he pulls away after a final lick, swiping his fingers clean with his tongue. You lay back down; groaning and creaking your eyes open to gaze at him dazedly. "W-why did you stop?" you ask shakily, still shuddering from the dying glow of mocking thrills. "D-don't stop, Scout, please."
The Bostonian stands up properly and smiles at you; his lips are glistening with dampness. "What made ya think dat, toots?" He caresses the soft flesh of your hips, running his thumbs along your jutting hipbone before slipping down to grope your bottom, resulting in a small squeak from you. A hand leaves to hold himself firm and cajole his lust, hotter and harder. He shifts slightly and looks into your eyes.
"No turnin' back now," Again the Scout's voice—heck, even his eyes—drips with brimming sincerity. "Ready?"
You clench the edge of the table with both hands and nod, wearing a challenging bravado to mask your anxious excitement of shaky breaths and shudders. "Bring it,"
The Scout's grip around your hips tightens, and suddenly, though not unexpectedly, he pushes inside. Your breath is caught in your throat simultaneously as a pleasured hiss did from his lips, the sensation of fullness and having someone—hot, hard, yearning, lusting, wanting, needing—inside of you seemingly alien. It was far more superior to fingers or tongues, stretching you from what his digits had left prepared. It did not even matter if you were not his first, because from how he slouched over you slightly, huffing and blushing from the sudden overwhelming tightness and heat, it told you that he has not experienced such in a long time.
You push yourself up slightly, encouraging him to move with a kiss. The taste of yourself still lingers on his tongue, thick and somewhat sweet, to honestly admit. The runner groans into your mouth, grasping your hips with both hands firmly as he redraws slightly, only to push back in deeper. Any pain and discomfort is almost instantly replaced by soft, building billows of bliss as he pushes against the hot wet walls of your core.
The speedster's hold on your hips tighten, as though desperate, and he gradually quickens in pace. He breaks the kiss with a moan, shifting his head to whisper sweet nothings; the warm air of his breath tickles your ear, accelerated when he traces the shell with the tip of his tongue. He moves to suck on your neck and you claw at his back with blunt nails, mewling and moaning and a complete mental wreck.
For a moment, the Bostonian's voice breaks through the thick fog of pleasure: "Stamina, toots, let's see... how long... you'll last..." he whispers between pants, each pause right after a particularly rough thrust, each thrust accompanied by lewd squelching and the slap of thighs. He slips your knees over his shoulders and speeds up with no reluctance or objection on your end. He runs a sweat-slick hand upwards.
You manage a weak, breathy laugh. "Ironic... coming... from you,"
The Scout does not bother replying, too occupied with caressing and groping your breast with his free hand in attempt to make you come first. Incoherent words of how hot and wet and tight you were leaves his lips; he whispers and mumbles about loving it, about loving you. "You friggin' love dis, doan'cha, toots?" he growls when he finally has enough breath, enough sense and coherency. Two pairs of dog tags jingle and clink, the only sound different from your pants, your moans, your lustful cries.
He begins to slow down deliberately, tortuously. "Go on, say it, scream it; it's only you an' me, toots."
You groan in frustration and buck your hips. "Sonovaglitch, just end it already,"
"Sorry what was dat?" he mocks, though weakly and panting. "I couldn't hear ya over my awesomeness."
You manage to conjure up enough breath, and you do not know nor care whether you are screaming or not this time because he cuts you off with a greedy messy kiss and doubles up the pace from where he left off. He pinches a hardened nub roughly between his fingers, rolling it and rubbing it as he fucks you senseless. Crashing waves of pleasure and desire wreck your body merciless, building up with intensity until you could take no more.
Mind-blowing bliss, sharp and sweet, envelopes and consumes you, so strong that it is almost painful. You cannot tell whether you are breathing or yelling or crying, too distracted by the sensations, of the knowledge that it is just you and the Scout, heavy breathing and trembling, sweaty bodies. Your legs dangle limply from the edge of the table, no longer on his shoulders. You can hear faint chimes of metal above you, and you know he is hovering, supported by a hand on the table, the other still gripping your hip. You feel, rather than hear, his throaty pants and incoherent groans. He is still going, but not for long.
With your convulsing walls milking him of all he's worth, both volume and pitch of the runner's lewd words rise as he picks up the pace, cursing and swearing dirty promises that you fail to comprehend in your dazed state. But you do register the loud cry of your name and the warm, sticky fluid along your front afterwards. Your eyes flutter open to gaze up at the panting speedster in his stupor. He locks gazes with you and softly pushes his lips against yours one final time. Gasps and pants for breath follow behind a wet squelch when the kiss breaks.
"So," you start, lips forming a weak grin, "Scout stamina training?"
He smiles. "One you'll never f'rget, toots,"
You chuckle, laying back down slack with a fading blush on your face. Your body is still trembling from the experience.
Best. Training. Ever.