410. Sand Dunes at Midnight

Down the metal corridor another door was locked and comm turned off. Yul pushed her head, face down, into her pillow, her back arched like sand dunes at midnight, her arse upward, ripe as low hanging fruit. Words were gone, replaced with moans and grunts through gritted teeth, and lips were wet with the spume of desire impaled. Rog held her hips as one might hold a bull in the chute. Turgid and tumid, tight and taut, muscle hard and aching, pulsing and throbbing, a lance rigid and full disappeared and reappeared as a shadow on the wall and what appeared to be a flag slapped the shadowy facade as if whipped to and fro in a summer squall.

Yul grabbed the headboard, her arms spread as wings, as if to open her lungs, as if to open herself. Her bellowed breathing gulped air, driven by the furnace between her firm legs and with eyes half shut, watched, dreamlike, as the rhythmic dance of light and shadow seemed orchestrated, punctuated, hammered and pounded like primal drums before feast victorious.

Lifting her chest, the curve of her back deepened, and where the round of her moons shone in the soft light, the labor of Rog's domestication glistened as raindrops on wax. Steady and strong as a steam engine ascending under load, Rog worked his painful lust into hers with the vigor of a ranch hand roping calves before the coming storm. Her hips seemed small in his hands and his grip would leave its mark in the days to come, but passion knows neither consequence nor accounting. Past and future were held at bay on the alter of now, and with each thrust, with each pull and push, as rotation met rotation, slap greeted slap, and desire released nature's clear oil, heated with the friction of feral craving, his lubed piston, from glistening velvet head to oak rooted base, remained firm in purpose, intent willful, result encouraged.