Her Hurt

She beckons him forth, the metallic lipped siren with her sweet addicting nectar. The whore has done her job well tonight. He gulps her down as if he is dying of thirst, a thirst that can only be quenched by the swill of her bitter aftertaste.
Gwen’s taste comes with too many demands, too many questions asked. Her savor is to judgmental, to meddling with her own juices dripping down her thigh she has become invisible to him as he sips at his whores tainted lips. Gwen has no taste, no power, and no ability to reach out and take hold.
And yet she stays even though she thinks of taking on another lover because she wonders sometimes within the hut of her own dark thoughts, does he drink so much now so she will walk away? Does he not want her love? Does he not want her anymore? “I am scared for you,” she had confessed to him. Like all the other women in his past. All the other women who had walked away from him because of his obsession with his bottled whore, and they, like Gwen, were afraid of the ending, a sad ending it might be. Like Poe’s found in a gutter, a wasted life; a life so tormented that Gwen has to take a deep breath to hold back her rage. She loves him, and yet, she is helpless to the true paramour of his heart.
He takes a quick gulp of his tin-can whore, not looking at Gwen, and then he returns to his lap-top and begins to write. Funny how her little game of wanting to write stories together in order to seduce him, to see what he wanted from her, to get inside his head has now become something more serious. And now as he types he stares straight at her, she blushes, and despite her rage at him for ignoring her body moments before, she can’t wait to see what he has written, wondering if it is about her, wondering if later that night they will act it out together.
Like, the first time they had written together, they fucked with such a new urgency and so hard and long she felt his cock still inside of her the next day. And later when she was home working on her own stories her thoughts wandered to how his cock was able to rub against her womb brushing it gradually, and then deepening until she felt the first wave of spasms taking over her, consuming his body within hers.
And now she watches his fingers type along the key board. How his brown hair falls in his face, she wants him on top of her, engorged inside her teasing at her womb, so she can lick up and down his neck letting his stubble tickle her tongue. She wants to feel him inside her. She wants to feel the first wave of her orgasm start to build so she can feel it begin in her toes and shoot up to the rest of her body like a flame of heat that if she allowed it, it would consume her.
How when he is sober—he loves her. Their fucking is sweet and sensual and they melt into each other, but recently the other has been intruding causing his love for her to go flaccid. Causing him to drink at her fold more so than at Gwen’s, and when he does reach for Gwen, it is always with the help of his whore, and Gwen no longer wants to share her bed with her and her sour aftertaste.
She looks over his shoulder to catch what he is writing. The whore is holding his hand while he writes. She brings out his demons and plays havoc with his soul-makes him think about things, makes him write about his past, makes him gulp at her lips more and more. She consumes him, body and soul. And sometimes he tries to fight her, ignoring her call to sip from her metallic lips. But then he gives in, because he does not play the romantic hero well, he is no ones sweetheart, the whore has made sure of that.
But tonight she will not wait until the whore takes complete hold of him, dulling his senses to her want. She brushes lightly at the nape of his neck working her way down to his shoulders, rubbing hard at them. He groans softly as her hands move to his chest. She leans over him and he leans up for a kiss. She tastes the sour remnants of his whore on his lips, but she continues to explore his mouth with her tongue licking at the roof of his mouth and sucking at his tongue. She feels his hands come around her pulling her to him. She falls lightly onto his lap as he pushes away from the table, giving her enough room to circle her legs around him and the chair. She grabs at his back pushing him closer to her. He pulls off her t-shirt and bra all at the same time. Gwen moans as he begins to tease her nipples with his tongue. She loves it when he flicks at them, toying with her.
She closes her eyes tight, feeling his tongue move down her body, drawing circles around her stomach, causing Gwen to pull at his hair for support. He nudges her up to stand in front of him now as he unzips her pants and roughly pulls them down to her ankles, and she steps out of them pushing her stomach against his face and draping her arms over his shoulder for support. He stops his exploration when he feels her shudder against him, and pulls her down to him. He smiles up at her, a slight twinkle of the other resides behind his smile, but Gwen ignores it, plays it out, and uses it to her advantage.
He is still seated but moves his chair closer to her now making her ass lean against his writing table spreading her wide as he pulls her legs to rest on his shoulders. And Gwen can not deny him or herself. She wants him. She wants to feel him inside her. She wants to consume him inch by inch --devouring him if need be-- for the moment that he is hard and wanting her.
Gwen feels the keyboard on the back of her ass and she moves closer to his face. His tongue at her clit sucking at it, lapping at her wetness, and she looks down at him right at the moment he looks up at her. As if knowing, he runs his tongue up and down her pussy fucking her with his tongue. She can’t help but move her hips closer to his face and to grind against him. Never has she felt so exposed before, but she comes for him again as he sucks at her clit with such force that she muffles a scream. He moves up her body unzipping his jeans pulling her off the table and turning her around. He takes her slowly, playing with her, making her reach for him, making her push into him. He stops and pins her arms in front of her, and then he takes her fast in front of his writing table, her hands pinned as she stares straight at the computer screen watching their image of fucking blur the words that he has written overlapping and becoming one as she feels him come and cry out her name, and she knows he is her muse, her “Quende,” her inspiration, regardless of the whore that consumes him, and regardless that she too has become consumed by the siren of her own calling.