Tears On His Pillow

TEARS ON HIS PILLOW

Tommy’s bed was twice the size of the one I slept in back at my poky flat at the edge of town. In fact, his entire bedroom was twice the size of mine, and he had so much stuff in it I couldn’t fathom how he could write as well as he did. Clutter messed with my head, my concentration, but Tommy seemed to thrive on it.

He was an erotica writer, and a damned good one, too. I loved reading his stories at the best of times because they were hot enough to burn, but my interest in them had doubled lately. There was something in his most recent works that made my love for them personal and intense.

I was in them, because I was Tommy’s latest muse.

He hadn’t ever taken notice of me whenever we were in the café that sat between his office and mine, even though we saw each other every day for probably a year. But he saw me do something during an argument with an ex one chilly autumn day, and it instantly and completely changed our simple ‘good-afternoon, enjoy your lunch’ dynamics.

That’s why I was here, in his house. That’s why I was holding onto the footboard at the bottom of his bed, being fucked by a pretty guy I’d never seen before in my life. Tommy was sitting at his writing desk with a pencil in his hand, watching, committing the acts I was performing for him to memory so he could commit them to paper once it was all over.

A hand in my red hair yanked me away from the footboard. I was on my knees now, my neck bent at an awkward angle.

“Oh fuck, yes!” My cry was hoarse, coming from a throat that had been stripped raw by all of the primal screaming I’d been doing for over an hour.

Whoever the guy was, he had a hell of a way with his cock. It wasn’t all that big, but it was granite hard, and he knew exactly how to angle it to get the most out of every thrust. I wanted to reach for my clit, but he held me by both arms. He’d done it intentionally. Tommy had stipulated that there must be plenty of tit bouncing, and he was getting his wish right now.

Each time our bodies slapped together, ripples ran over my skin, and every inch of me quivered. My breasts were small but they moved, and I’d been fucked so violently and for so long I was sure the ligaments would be stretched all to hell by the time it was done.

“Flip her onto her back with her head over the side of the bed.”

Tommy’s command was met instantly. I was thrown like a ragdoll, my skull almost cracking on the wooden floor. My fuck buddy saved me though, ramming his cock back into me and picking up the pace. He hit the exact spot with precision as if there hadn’t been a position change at all.

I’d done this dozens of times now. Let someone fuck me so that Mr Writer could turn me into a spectacular piece of fiction. He never wrote the reality, though. I’d been a queen with her champion, a beauty lost on a desert island and seduced by the leader of the native tribe. I’d been a mermaid, a nymph, a creature from another planet. He never once wrote about me being fucked by the prostitutes he paid for.

“Oh God, I’m gonna come,” I wheezed.

Blood was rushing to my head. My pussy was greedily sucking at the hardness inside me, almost like it was trying to make it longer, trying to make it swell to fill me completely. And then I was coming, making my own breasts shake with quick, sharp slaps.

The fucking stopped and, with a series of gut churningly sexy little cries, the guy between my legs splattered my belly with rivulets of cum. Rather than lift me back up, he lowered me to the floor and stepped over me. I shifted to my knees, waiting for the instruction I knew would be coming next.

But Tommy did something he’d never done before.

Rather than give his usual command, he nodded to the prostitute, gave him his money and waited silently by the door as he dressed and left.

I peered up from my place on the hard, cold floor, wondering why he’d changed his MO. Had I displeased him in some way, or had he just not liked his choice of partner? My eyes were on him as he stalked to his desk. He looked much more dishevelled than usual.

His trousers were unbuttoned, but still zipped up. The used to be white shirt he always wore tucked neatly into his waistband was half hanging out, and that was partially unbuttoned, too. And his hair. His sexy, dirty blonde hair rested on his shoulders, one side tucked behind his ear, framing his profile. Pointed nose, long lashes, pronounced lower lip…

For the first time in four months of hanging out in his room, I wanted him to fuck me. I didn’t just want to inspire his mind, I wanted to inspire his body too.

After scribbling down a few scratchy words with his pencil, he dropped it on the table and turned to me. One hand on his hip, the other buried in his hair, dragging it away from his face. His eyes were wild. I’d seen them like that once before. It was at the party he’d taken me to at New Year. The place had been full of artsy types, and Tommy had been crazy and unpredictable.

To this day I still didn’t know what he’d taken.

Now, he looked the same, but different at the same time. His eyes were wild and his lips were moving quickly as if he were in the middle of an urgent conversation with someone I couldn’t see. He cocked his head once or twice, then jerked forward.

Settling on the edge of the bed, he cupped my chin. Looking into his eyes I could almost see the madness he always told me he had in him. But when he spoke, it was with the tenderness I’d come to adore him for.

“I still want you to do it,” he said, drawing me up onto the bed. “I still need to watch you do it, but not for someone else. This time I want you to do it for me.”

One of his long fingers traced the oval curve of my face. I kept my eyes on him, blinking a few times. Lowering my head so that I was looking up through my lashes, I pouted.

Tommy took a breath and held it. He stared at me with a look so intense I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to give him what he wanted. I needn’t have feared, though. After a few more fast blinks I felt heaviness in the corners of my eyes. My vision blurred a little, and then one fat tear rolled down my each of my cheeks.

Exhaling roughly, Tommy reached down and unzipped his trousers. His cock sprang free, slapping off his stomach with a soft thud. As my tears began to flow freely, he began to stroke himself. My chin trembled, a few emotionally charged sobs slipping quietly from between my lips.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

It was time for me to do something I’d never done before. Every time I’d done this, I’d just sat and cried. I’d poured my heart out for a man who didn’t want to touch me, while a man who had been paid to wanked over me as though my tears were the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. But this time Tommy was taking more, and so was I.

Leaning forward, I hovered my face over his groin. His hand stilled and I stared up at him, both of us waiting for it to happen. After just a few seconds, I felt a tear drip from my bottom lip. It splashed on the tip of his cock.

His hand pressed against the back of my head, but I didn’t need the encouragement, because I was already moving. Taking the tip of him in my mouth felt like the single most important thing I’d ever done. It felt transformative, and I gave it everything such a significant moment deserved.

Tommy’s moans were intoxicating. The taste of his skin and precum woke something in me that I could feel calling to the madness in him. It wasn’t an antidote to it, though. Wasn’t a cure. It was my own madness, and I knew it complemented his perfectly. I looked up at him again, and the widening of his eyes told me he’d seen it.

Pulling me up, slipping his tongue into my mouth, wrapping my hand around his cock and holding it there while he slowly thrust his hips back and forth. Dragging me onto his lap, making me straddle his thighs…

“Erato!”

The word was whispered into my mouth as my vaginal walls closed around his cock. It was a nickname he’d given me just after he’d seen me crying in the café, and I had no idea what it meant. But I loved the way his smile wrinkled his nose when he called me it, and the passion he said it with now made me love him just a little bit, too.

I fucked him slowly, clinging to him just as he clung to me. Taking his clothes off without stopping was a feat to be proud of, and I kept going until he was groaning and both of us were sweating.

Faster and faster, deeper and harder until I lost all sense of rhythm, rocking against him completely out of sync. Orgasm made me shudder and stop, but Tommy kept going until he called out the name he’d given me once more. It was his turn to shudder and stop, holding me close to his body as he emptied himself inside of me. I’d fucked dozens of men in this room, but he was the only one I’d allowed to do that.

Tilting my chin again, he smiled at me. The madness was still in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. It wasn’t new, though. It had been there all the time, I just hadn’t known what it was until now.

“What will I be in your next tale?” I asked, brushing his hair from his beautiful face. “A duchess? A vampiress?”

Tommy laughed, holding my hand against his cheek. “No,” he said. “In my next tale, you’re going to be the first muse an erotica writer has ever fallen in love with.”

Masturbation-Monday-badge-small
Week #122

 

8 thoughts on “Tears On His Pillow

    1. Hi Tilly,
      It’s lovely to hear you liked it 😀 I might well be posting some of Tommy’s writing soon so keep an eye out 😉

  1. I love this…using a live “subject” as his muse, hiring a prostitute to get the details just right, and then that wild, wanton need to know the muse personally. So damn hot!

    1. Your comments always make me happy, Kayla 😀
      I confess to taking a little time out after writing this one to put the Fella out of my misery, lol.

    1. Yes, I believe we probably have. I know I’ve fallen just a little bit in love with one or two of my muses, and that was on appearance alone.

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