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Fuck Mountain
© 2001 by G.  Gregory



The western sun sank slowly toward a ridgeline adorned with the spiny fingers of naked poplar trees.  Angular shadows from the porch railing sprawled lazily across the porch, slowly pointing toward evening.  The chains supporting the porch swing he sat in squeaked in rusty protest every time he moved.  Evidence of a mature season was everywhere, as a light October breeze chased a dozen or so crusty leaves around the corner and held them hostage in a whirling dance, disturbing his solitude.  The rustling sound ceased when they fell to the weathered boards of the porch, abandoned by the departing breeze.  His eyes closed slowly, as his tongue slipped out to moisten his upper lip—searching for evidence of what his mind remembered of her.  He inhaled deeply and slipped into a mental review of many sweet memories.

Any time thoughts of her came into his head everything else he was doing stopped to allow him to savor whatever images were conjured up.  A private smile graced his lips as he made his first selection.  It was always a treat when visions of her exquisite thighs were featured in his subconscious.  This afternoon he watched behind closed eyes, as they parted for him in a silent request to feast upon the prize that they framed.  Once more his tongue slipped out, this time moistening his lower lip, and once again searching for a shred of evidence that this was more than just a memory.  His cock did not care, and it began to swell with approval.

Their sex was always incredible, even the encounters when one or both just needed to satisfy a quick rush of desire.  It may have been after a long day at school or after some distracting event at work had followed one or both of them home.  It didn't really matter.  Their sex was magic.  It transported them to another place—a place where nothing else mattered.  Then there were the times when they chose to be in that other place for hours, and his full intentions were to drive her to the edge of insanity.  Nothing pleased him more than to have her offer herself to him when his desire burned to taste the sweetness tucked behind lacey, barely-there silk panties.  Enabling her to come drove him wild, and to her benefit, it made him as hard as stone.  Fucking her was so much better after he had driven her to the highest point, pushing her over the edge of that mythical mountain of lust.  Quite possibly, he would push her or throw her over the edge several times.

One might think that being ‘thrown' from the edge would be a little uncaring—one-sided maybe—but when he did it, it was quite to the contrary.  He took her to the highest place on the mountain willingly.  She always wanted to go there with him ­ and to be thrown? Hell, she wanted to be flung bodily into the mists.  She wanted to plunge off the loftiest pinnacle into the nothingness that was left after both mind and body had been wrenched from her control.  She wanted to fly on the flat of his tongue.  She wanted him to lick and suck her until she no longer cared about anything else, or was unable to care, or whichever came first.  He loved it when she told him how much she ached for his mouth.  He longed to hear her whisper into his ear how badly she needed to feel his lips and tongue on her pussy.

He adjusted his position on the swing, moving his hips so that his hardening cock could unfold and rise upward in his pants.  Another whiff of evening breeze stirred the random leaves into crisp applause only to fall silent once more, waiting to listen to the second act of the passion play that grew more vivid in his mind.

Nothing compared to the lust he could stir up inside of her.  But then, that was not entirely true.  The lust she could stir in him ripped through his body like a flash fire.  Her soft breath against his ear whispering sweetly for his mouth was enough to make him crazy with desire.  His cock twitched, as the breeze carried a phantom ‘lick me' past his ear.

The journey up the mountain was always a memorable one.  Even after having made the trip many times, he always discovered something new, something remarkable.  There was always a subtle difference either in the way she would squirm under his attentions, or possibly in the way she would catch her breath.  One might think that a gasp was a gasp, but not so to his discriminating ear.  Her reactions were like snowflakes, each of them beautiful in their own right, but having delicate markings of uniqueness.  His contribution always changed a little too.  It might be some little twist; a new lick that lingered for the first time, or a nibble in uncharted territory.  Their respective lusts became synchronized to the point that they became sex.  They slipped into a state of fuck.  His mouth became her fuck.  Ultimately, they were consumed by fuck, as they scaled the heights of Fuck Mountain.

The squeak of the porch swing fell on deaf ears, as he spread his arms onto the back of the swing and eased his head back.  He was too deeply entranced by his lusty reverie to acknowledge anything in the present.  The subtle pivoting motion of the swing transported him—reminded him of the slow swivel of her hips, as she moved under him, reaching for the lips that had just released the first, hot, teasing breath.  Her scent intoxicated him.  Every aspect of devouring her was worthy of remembering.  He drew a deep breath in through his nose, lips pursed tightly together.  Cool October air filled his lungs.  His brain enhanced reality, adding a hint of recall, reminding him of her heady scent, and creating a wish for the wafting heat of her sex to grace his face.

He marveled at how one of his favorite things to do to her was so in tune with what she craved with equal enthusiasm.  With measured patience, he would cradle her bottom in his hands and breathe deeply of her scent.  Sometimes, the tip of his nose would barely brush the surface of her panties while he fought the urge to take her into his mouth straight away.  There was something about fighting that urge that accelerated his lust.  Opening his mouth to exhale hot evidence of his lust was the catalyst that always triggered her hips to roll up in a silent request for contact.  The muscles in her thighs would contract, as her heels dug into the mattress.  Lean muscles flexing along the insides of her thighs sent continuous messages of permission along his cheeks and shoulders.  It was all he could do to keep from lifting her to his lips and sucking her right through her panties.

The anticipation of touching her for the first time was a delicious rush.  Making her squirm and rise up off the bed to meet his mouth allowed him to tease her with the tip of his tongue.  He would swirl and dance his tongue lightly, tracing, sliding upward across the silk surface of her panties which would become increasingly wet with proof of her own rush of anticipation.  Allowing her knees to spread farther open, offering him full access to her treasure, always seemed so obscene, so gloriously dirty and obscene.  It was her most complete act of submission—spreading her legs with such a willing hunger.  Soft lingering kisses through parted lips on the insides of her thighs would normally prompt her to spread her legs still farther, shifting her hips to whichever side he delivered those gentle, slow kisses attempting to direct his mouth to where she ached most of all.

He exhaled into the deepening gloom of approaching night.  A smile of remembered satisfaction curled at the corners of his mouth.  A strong hand squeezed a rock-hard cock that stood erect inside his pants.  Closing his eyes once again, he disappeared back into the comfort of his memories.

Short gasping breaths were his normal cue that their journey was continuing higher.  The climb up the mountain was becoming steeper, and her momentum was building nicely.  A slow undulating motion of her hips accompanied a trance-like state when control of her destiny belonged exclusively to him.  She was a slave to his mouth, his lips, and what she craved most of all, his wide, flat and very talented tongue.  If it were possible to be addicted to a man's tongue, she qualified.  He knew that she ached for it, and he relished the process of licking her into a private frenzy.

Patience was not her virtue.  It never was when it came to wanting his tongue.  She was a junkie, vibrating for a fix.  Despite lying on her back, he knew that she wanted to roll over on top of him and straddle his mouth so very badly.  He could sense that every fiber in her being screamed for her to roll him over onto his back and take what she wanted.  He projected mental instructions that echoed in her head to climb onto him and grind her pussy into his mouth—to fuck him—to fuck herself to completion on his mouth.

He shifted his weight on the swing again, flexing hard, as thoughts of her riding his open lips flooded into his head.  He sucked in the cool evening air through clenched teeth before unconsciously opening his jaws to exhale, reaching with hungry lips for the vaporous taste of a memory.

He knew it would happen sooner or later.  There would be a point in their journey to the mountaintop where her passion and desire would reach critical mass.  Possibly, within her mind, she was straddling him, but more than likely she would be flat on her back holding his head in both hands.  Either way, they both would get what they wanted.  He loved it when she would finally pass that point where she lost all control and clutched his head, pulling at him, coaxing, wrapping her legs around his back, and grinding herself against his mouth.  That's when they would burst through the tree line and sprint for the summit.

She would watch him.  He knew that she always wanted to watch as he savored her delicate muffin.  To satisfy her visual hunger, he would look up at her, as his mouth slowly came open, and with great flourish, take a mouthful of panty and pussy.  A deep rumbling moan would surface, as purity of satisfaction of her filling his mouth hissed outward through his nose.  The expression on her face would be priceless when he sucked her silk shrouded delicacy into his mouth and began to flex his jaws in a very slow, deliberate chewing motion.  The predictable response was most gratifying.  Eyes would roll back into her head.  Back would arch, as hips rolled up to ensure that he would be able to devour her.  Fingers would cradle his head and curl, digging into his scalp, clutching handfuls of hair, and urging him to eat her completely.  Her head would drive backward into the pillow, muscles straining in her neck, mouth open, struggling to exalt the ecstasy that was wedged side-ways in her throat.  The reckless scramble for the high peak would be accelerating rapidly.

Part of what he enjoyed most was deciding how he would permit her to fly from the edge.  There was no question that she would go, but would he permit her to fly, or would she be thrown? It all depended upon his mood, or shall we say, the degree of his lust at that instant.  She knew she could never predict how she would come, only that she would ­ and it would be hard.  Often he would allow her to run unchecked toward the top of the mountain.  He would run with her, coaxing and encouraging her to fly, wanting her to come hard in his mouth.  Call it improvisation.  Call it making-it-up-as-you-go.  Or call it invention if you must, but how she left the edge would always be a creative endeavor.

Powerful hands gripped the chains on either end of the porch swing.  It amazed him how deeply he could be pulled into a memory by mere thoughts of making sweet love to her.  His cock ached for that slick velvet crease that would be swollen and wet, waiting to swallow every inch of his thickness.  But he knew that it would not be his turn so soon.  He never went first.  Selfishly, he wanted her to come first.  It was always better to fuck her after she had come at least once.  A properly prepared pussy would be swollen perfectly with arousal, begging for, aching for his very thick cock to stretch and penetrate her to the core.  His subconscious began to mull over the options for her initial departure from the peak of Fuck Mountain.

Urgent fingers would telegraph a staccato of pulses onto the back of his head, as she stumbled onto the highest place.  His decision was made in an instant.  It was her time.  She would be flung violently into the gaping yaw of a grinding orgasm.  Muscles flexed in his forearms, as his wrists twisted, snapping the flimsy waistband on her tiny panties.  Yanking her panties from between her legs would catch her totally off guard, momentarily breaking her concentration and startling her with the realization that her bare naked pussy was about to be eaten to perfection.  The palms of his hands pushed her thighs open and he paused, hovering over her, his breath igniting fresh, white-hot flames where a raging fire already burned out of control.  He waited for her to look at him.  Waited for her to look into his eyes and see that he was going to dispatch her from the mountain with no mercy.  He recalled what she had said with incredible clarity when he asked what she wanted.  Lick me.  Umm, lick me now, baby.  Lick my little pussy.  Lick it slow and deep with that gorgeous tongue. .

For the final time he went down on her, plowing slowly through soaking folds of velvet with the flat of his tongue, licking with a deep lingering motion.  And she howled.  She howled like a she-wolf, as he moved down to slide through her again, dragging the flat of his tongue through her quivering pussy.  He covered her from bottom to top with a nasty little flick of her clit to emphasize how badly he wanted her come.  Over and over he licked her, each time his tongue passed over her bursting clitoris she convulsed as though an enormous charge of energy shot through her.  When her fingers uncurled in his hair he knew she was gone—hurled far far from the edge.  He hoisted her off the bed and buried his tongue inside of her, seeking the continuous waves of contractions, each one pulling him deeper, gulping at his tongue, thanking him for hurling her into the seventh heaven.

Air rushed from his lungs.  His eyes came open to find the naked poplars standing silhouette against a rich backdrop of deep oranges and airbrushed reds.  It seemed as though the sun had also slipped over the edge, climaxing, flooding the evening sky with evidence that another journey had been completed with perfection.  He watched the deepening red sky slip silently toward darkness, leaving him with the chill of another night alone...and the warmth of favorite memories.

Copyright 2001 ­ MyErotica All rights reserved.  Re-use only with permission from the author, G.  Gregory 
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