microfiction · sexy fiction · wording

Too Much


Thu, 19 Nov 2009 00:03:26 +0000

Too Much is a little piece I wrote about Moll and Theo, two characters from The Victorious, one of the settings on Clockwork Lullabye.  Is flowed out of my easy and sweet, and I’m a bit fond of it.  As it’s filed under ‘erotic fiction’, I expect anyone who oughtn’t be reading it not to.

Too Much

Three days they’d spent in loving.  Three days and three nights, and he’d missed two fights.   He’d be short rent, and she hadn’t eaten in so long her belly had ceased howling and settled grumpily into a sullen ache.

Somehow, she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

It had been mad, at first.  They’d torn at one another like two rabid animals, clothes and then skin paying the price of their long fasting.  Arms, legs, bellies, thighs, shoulders, backs, every slice of flesh was laid down on lust’s steaming altar.  Each time one of them finished they broke apart to lie gasping and exhausted, sometimes not bothering to disconnect.  It was easier that way.

Over the hours (minutes? days?) they were gluttons, stuffing themselves full with one another.  If it had been food,  Moll imagined that she would have felt her belly push out, as tight as a drum.   Somehow, though, they were never sated: each bite made the hunger sharper.  Even her laughing health and his strength couldn’t last forever, though, and they found things slowing.

Now, he sometimes spent ages kissing her breasts, his rough hands stoking her hips.  She spent hours  nibbling and sucking at him, licking up the sweat of his body and swallowing down the salt, his scent, his love. He worshipped her as if she were a shrine, and again and again she pulled him over her, her thighs parting like temple gates, accepting him joyfully.  He was slower then, exhaustion wearing on them both; neither was content to stop.  No, they slowed, and over the days the aches set in, it became harder and harder. Still….

Three days, and by the end they were both sore, there were faint smears of blood on the sheets.  Hungry and exhausted and aching, she turned to Theo, brushing a sweat-damp lock of hair from his brow.

“You wore me out.”  He gave a flattened chuckle. “Too much?”  His voice was rough, from disuse or moaning.  Moll flopped onto her back, running her hands over breasts and belly, feeling sweat slide under her fingertips.