No Words Necessary

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When you’ve been with someone for a certain amount of time, words aren’t always necessary. You know each other’s rhythms and cadences. When I stretch like this, it means that. If he looks at me like that, he wants this.

It doesn’t mean words aren’t needed. Of course they are. Frankly, my happiest moments occur when I’m chattering away to John Brownstone. (Whether he would count those among his happiest is another story entirely.)

But sometimes you can move in concert with each other, knowing what the other wants and needs, without ever saying a word.

I don’t know what woke me up. Was it the new normal of randomly waking up before my alarm or did I feel the air between us change, even in sleep?

Sex. He wants sex. Finally.

He grabbed my leg to swing it over his own, spreading me wide.

Orgasms. He wants me to come. Finally. And also, do I want to? Maybe. Let’s see what he does. I don’t need to. 

Due to a serious lack of attention recently, my clit practically exploded from the first stroke. Instead of leaning into the moment, I curled in on myself.

Too much. Way too much. We can skip this part. Just grab the lube.

He would not be denied. I would have an orgasm, and he would give it to me, force it from me, pull it out of me. He grabbed my leg again. I relaxed into the moment, determined not to fight it.

Seconds? Maybe minutes later? Time moves strangely when you’re fucking in the pre-dawn hours. He hit the right spot in the right way, and I bucked and shimmied against him. Liquid heat flooded my cunt.

Yessssssss!

We moved into position, one we can do in our literal sleep. My bum against his pelvis, hips angled so slit and cock align perfectly. It should have been an easily slide in, but as usual, my body had already dried up, going back to sleep.

As he pulled away, I knew what I would hear next. The click of the lube jar, the muffled thwap of his cock dipping into the cream, and then the sound of the lid being applied diligently followed by the careless toss of an already forgotten jar. The mattress sank, and I arched my back again, ready for the easy impaling to follow.

We fucked as we do. Fingers mashing into flesh as cock sank into cunt. This time, oh glorious kink gods above, he pulled my hair, less worried about hurting me in a bad way and more focused on hurting me in a good way. I could have orgasmed from the sensation alone.

When it was over, I stumbled around the bed, bleary-eyed and boneless. Pee, clean cunt, clean cock, and back into bed. We curled back into each other, dropping back into sleep.

I never heard him get out of bed, and I fought wakefulness until the sun was high overhead. A grunted good morning and a mad dash to make a cup of coffee. The day began seamlessly with little more than an “I love you.”

Late that night, we finally talked about it.

“Well, I think I fucked you good this morning.”

“Finally. And yes, it was good.’

“Good.”

And that was that. Sometimes words really aren’t necessary.

Welcome to Masturbation Monday! If you’ve noticed, I mention lube nearly every time I write about sex. One, it’s the way of my body lately that it just doesn’t naturally lubricate all the time. Two, we have a favorite, if you’re curious: The Butters. Use code KAYLA and get five percent off your purchase. We truly don’t use anything else anymore, and we recommend it to everyone. Yes, we’re an affiliate, so if you make a purchase with our code, I make a commission — it supports my coffee habit and our kinky fuckery, so there’s that.