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Authors: Paul Hellion

Tags: #erotica, #public, #exhibitionism, #exhibitionist, #farewell, #rimming, #assplay, #couple, #blowjob, #sex, #airport, #erotic romance

Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, couple, public, rimming)

BOOK: Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, couple, public, rimming)
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Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, public, rimming)

by Paul Hellion

Published by Peccadillo Press, 2013.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

DIFFERENT SORT OF BLUE (COUPLE, BLOWJOB, FACIAL, CUM, PUBLIC, RIMMING)

First edition. July 14, 2013.

Copyright © 2013 Paul Hellion.

Written by Paul Hellion.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, couple, public, rimming)

The sky is a dark, dark blue;
quiet, still, peaceful. But you aren’t. You’re a different sort of blue right
now.

The car scurries off and you steer,
following the curves and bends and subtleties of the road. You sneak one glance
at me, sitting in the passenger seat. Five minutes ago I had gotten into some
long, undefined, enthusiastic tangent about something-or-another. Now my head’s
slumped, asleep, resting on my shoulder, and you smile a little to yourself.

There's half an hour to the drive
to go. It's chilly outside, with light lasting fog from the heavy rain that had
kept us up all last night, and even inside the car it's not as warm as you'd
like. It's an artificial warmth: nothing sincere or genuine about it, another
reminder of today.

There’s a certain warmth you want
right now — closeness, you decide, and yet here you are driving in the
opposition direction.

I doze in and out of consciousness,
jerking my head straight, looking at you, the rear view mirror, the side
mirrors, the dashboard, my own hands. You whistle some half-remembered tune to
yourself.

"Fuck," I murmur,
groaning, really, "I'm just so tired." I shift in my seat. I rub my
hands together.

You nod, keeping your eyes on the
road. It's a straightforward journey, which is not to say that the road's
always straight. "Oh, it's good," you respond.

I mumble something inaudible to
counter that. My hand reaches out to rest on your lap, rubbing lightly, feeling
against your jeans. "Of all the days in the week the airline could choose
to make only one flight out for my route, it has to be today."

"And it has to be a 6am
flight," you muse aloud.

"Yeah."

"Don't yawn."

"Hmmm?" I yawn. I can't
help it.

You yawn, too.

"I told you not to yawn. And
go back to sleep. It's fine."

"Will you be able to drive
while I nap? Might get lonely."

"It's fine."

These words sound distant,
indifferent. Both of us pick up on that. You see my mouth open just a slight
bit, about to mention it. You find yourself at the brink of apologizing for it.
But for reasons known only to ourselves, we keep quiet.

The rest of the drive is silent.
You don't put the radio on because you want to be able to think. Yet, you can't
think; it's too silent.

Instead your mind flashes down to
earlier last night, at 9pm, laying down and facing one another in bed. My hand
was on your thigh, then, too, a touch perfectly duplicated here as you drive
and I try to catch more sleep. Your mind flashes to a kiss, brief, wordless.
Your mind flashes to clothes coming off. Your mind flashes to buttons, zippers,
folds.

Your mind flashes to another kiss.
It's a slow, soft kiss, and there are words spoken in the background of the
kiss, unheard in the swelling undercurrent of passion as the kiss escalates.
Your mind flashes to the words. You concentrate. "I don't want to
go," you hear the words speak to you.

"It's fine," you reply.
Your mind jolts you back to reality, back to driving. You've been driving
slowly. You clearly haven't been paying that much attention to the driving. The
car is neatly cruising along on the line separating both lanes.

Your mind flashes to blankets and
covers and pillowcases.

Your mind flashes to fingertips.
Fingertips. You remember the feeling of of fingertips tracing a path along your
skin. They press against your neck. They press against your side. They press
against your breasts. They press against your thighs.

Your mind flashes to slow, paced
breaths. Yours. It's raining outside, heavily, and the rushing sound distracts
the both of you. You look at me, then out at the window. "Hope it doesn't
get much worse," you hear me say, before burrowing my face against your
stomach, kissing.

I start kissing and you inhale
sharply. You're tingling inside. You're not feeling warm; you're feeling hot.
You know this might be the last time we'll be this intimate, physically, for a
long, long time. You want to avoid doing this for that reason alone. You
stiffen. I don't seem to notice.

You run your fingers along my hair.
One hand props you up, making you sit up a little. Your mind flashes to what
you're wearing. You have your bra and panties left. I have my shirt, albeit
unbuttoned. You lift one foot to press your toes against my thigh, and make
tentative steps closer to my crotch. I'm hard already. You feel your sole press
against the tip of my cock. You push it back just a slight bit. I continue
kissing your stomach, descending these kisses slowly but surely, to the band of
your panties.

I can trace my lips around the band
of your panties, caressing lips against fabric with a certain reverence (all
hail that triangle of cloth covering my prize); I can trace my hands up and
down the sides of your hips. I want you with a deep desire, and no moan I
convey to that curving band can capture it.

My hands massage your back,
starting from the lower back, edging upwards, stopping at your bra, and my
fingers try to unhook your bra and free your breasts. It's not exactly an easy
thing to do, and I've failed in the past. But luck is on my side, and it comes
off, and you help remove the bra, dropping it to the floor, next to the bed.
You try stimulate me with your foot, but something about doing that just feels
silly. You try to rub your sole against my cock. It feels awkward, ungraceful.
You stop. Not without a smile, though, because that awkwardness can be overcome
with just how eager you want to reach out and grab me, taking me by the mast.

Back to the driving. A road sign,
illuminated by the beam of the car, tells you how many miles 'til the highway
exit to the airport. I'm snoring a little.

Your mind flashes to me kissing
your clit gently now, pulling back the clitoral hood, finding that mound,
kissing with wet lips. I kiss your clit tenderly. You know exactly how this
feels. You've felt it a hundred times in the past, and it still never fails to
excite you. You begin moaning. All that desire channels into your moans. You
know you went through four boyfriends before you met one who dared to give your
pussy a kiss; it took you another five boyfriends before you met a man who did
it well. It’s an academic exercise at this point, trying to compare these
memories: did he, old and long forgotten he, lick you better than I do? Does he
do this?

I flick my tongue out and lap
around the hood of your clit, then downwards in a confident stroke along the lips
of your pussy. I go down, and then up, and then down again. I catch your taste
against my tongue, sweet as ever, and sticky, moist. I go back to your clit.
You sit up now. Both hands support you, pressing with open palms against the
mattress, while I continue to eat you out. Your legs spread wider and wider
with each new ripple of pleasure.

"Mmmmmmm," you murmur — 
just as you murmur while you drive now that you're recollecting this — and I
intensify, sucking and kissing and licking your clit ever faster, then slower,
moving in parallels with the way you're inhaling and exhaling. You're wetter
and wetter. My licking elicits more and more of your juices, and I rub my chin,
my cheeks, my nose in your juices as I trace new patterns to your clit.

Your hand brushes to your pussy
while I continue to eat you out. My beard tickles the lowest section, near your
anus. Your hand wipes your inner thighs, moist from the teasing.

“May I?” I murmur with a dark, low
tone matching your moan. My tongue pricks pressure down on to the lower
confluence of your labia, where your pinkness comes to an end before the pause
of skin that precedes the perfect punctuation stop that makes the rim of your
anus.

You don’t know what to think.
“Y-yes,” you say, because all you can care about is that my tongue continues
coursing all over you. You’ve come so accustomed to my mouth lapping wet laps
around your body, be it your neck or your pussy, that you twitch right then
realizing that that’s the thing you’ll miss the most when I leave. You can
taste the minutes before departure already. It drives you wild.

Wild with agony.

Of course I dive in to rim your
ass, slicking my lips with the ripples and wrinkles adorning the hole. “Exit
only,” you once joked. You’ve since revised your opinion, the first time I
pressed you down against a wall and teased the entrance of your pussy with my
cock... letting a thumb stray to find your ass and push in with a gentle jab to
greet the penetration.

My tongue runs circles around your
ass, muffled moans of pleasure vibrating against you, a beating heart of
sensitivity the more I flick my tongue up and down the anal entrance, the more
I curl my tongue around you to taste you all over. The implicit taboo and the
surprise delight you garner from me rimming your ass makes you wetter than
ever. Your hands play with yourself. In one swift motion you go straight to
trap a hard, at-attention nipple between two fingers; languidly, another hand
reaches down to make sure your clit doesn’t lose that ember of heat while I
give my full attention to your asshole.

And in a minute that same hand
leans over and reaches to my cock, and with the light coat of your juices still
on your palm, you start to jerk me off.

I'm awake now. My eyes are open and
I look straight at the road. I swallow. I look at you. You seem distracted. I
don't want to ask about it. I don't go back to sleep. I just watch the road,
the road signs, what little I can see of the world around us at this hour
illuminated by that dark blue.

You're jerking me. I'm kissing your
clit. The rain continues, becoming white noise as it falls against your window
panes. I bring you to the edge of orgasm while I eat you out. You try to cry
something out as you cross that edge and cum. My name, probably, or at least I
wish, cut off at the end of the second syllable.

You smile while you drive. It's a
personal smile, but I see it, and I smile too. I don't know why you're smiling,
but the beauty of you beaming in happiness like that is enough for me. You
abruptly drive the car off the road, rolling it along the gravel, crunching
sounds under the tires signifying the new path. You park the car right in front
of a tree. Six inches more and you would have smashed into it.

You look at me. I look at you.

You say, in a voice slightly higher
pitched than your usual, "I can't take it anymore. I'm going to miss you
like fire. I just want one last... intimate moment, right now." Your words
fly out like a confession.

"Right now?" I reply
dumbly. Of course you mean right now, your challenging look says.

You nod enthusiastically. You're
already unbuckling your seatbelt. "Let me please you orally one last
time," you invite. The stilted phrasing you use, overly docile and safe,
doesn't even strike me as strange. You tilt your head towards the back seats. I
nod. I unfasten my seatbelt. I stretch over and move to the back. You do the
same.

We cuddle there for just a few
seconds, generating a communal warmth, while you start unzipping my pants,
pulling down, reaching through my boxers, and finding my cock, ready and
aroused for you. I lean in for a kiss, long and passionate. You stroke me with
your hand, before you edge away, to give yourself space in leaning downward to
start sucking me.

It's now my turn to moan,
"Mmmmmmmmmm." Your mouth purses over the tip of my cock, and you
descend, airtight, sucking more. Your mouth starts making strokes up and down,
taking me in your mouth, running your tongue out to lick the shaft as you
descend. My hands feel against your sweater, getting under, tight, fondling
your skin wherever my fingers rest.

You continue sucking, your pace
intensifying, going deeper, taking more of me, and I breathe faster and faster.
I groan, "You'll make me cum if you keep going this fast," an
admission which turns you on more. You want me to cum. You can imagine it now.
You'll suck me until you can feel my cock swell and about to erupt, then you'll
pull away, kissing the tip once, jerking with both hands from the base of my
cock, making me squirt warm cum on your face.

"Please," you say, half a
response to my warning, half a response to your thoughts.

I start trembling, shaking a
little, twisting. "Oh, fuck,” I say. I repeat it. I keep repeating.
"Oh, my love, my darling, that's... too good..."

You use your hands, massaging the
base, massaging my balls, while you suck my cock and go as deep as you can get
in this position. You moan hot with sex each time you suck all the way upwards.
I'm hard inside your mouth, alive, the tightness and teasing and suction inside
making my cock twitch expectantly.

"I'm..." I say, drawing
it long.

You go faster, making sure it's an
explosive orgasm, wanting nothing more than to have me shoot cum all over your
face, against your lips, your cheeks, your chin. Even your sweater. You want a
keepsake to remember me by. "I'm..." I repeat, cutting that off by
whispering, "Oh, you’re magnificent, yes."

You can tell I'm getting super
close. My back pushes against the car door, my head banging against the window
hard. My eyes close. Yours are open, watching my reaction. “My love,” I
whisper.

"Yes?" you respond
breathless in between sucking me hard still.

"I'm going to cum."

You squeeze my cock with your hand
and start jerking me roughly. I moan out many times, and after a few seconds of
this, I cum; cum squirts everywhere, hitting your lips inches away, coating
you. The load is thick, warm, sticky. You smile. "Please," you say,
"More. Cum for me." You keep jerking me in rapid motions, and I
continue to deliver. I squirt shot after shot of cum, the volume decreasing
with each additional shot, most of it hitting your face, or your hand, some
dripping off your cheeks and onto your sweater. I am a shock of pulses, a
single continuous orgasm rippling off my body. One shot misses you altogether.
After the seventh or eighth, I start moaning slower, and you stop jerking me as
furiously, cum still leaking and dribbling from my tip.

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