Page 2 of Sherwood
My reply was immediate. “I don’t need to.”
And then without any further warning, her mouth pressed down on mine, unlike any kiss I’d ever had before. Her tongue demanded entry, searching out every corner of my mouth once she pushed her way inside, and never had I realized that someone could part my mouth, that someone could spread it, play with it, make use of it.
My mouth could be used.
The revelation of it was shocking, almost breathtaking in its implications. I knew what oral sex was, of course, but my experience had been limited to hearsay and fanfiction, and in those two things, there’d always been a veneer of generosity over the act. Yougaveoral, like a gift, and it was gratefully received: a kindness, a benefaction.
But.
But I could beusedfor oral. Someone could hold me by the hair, just like Lox was doing now, and then they could fuck my mouth. I could be an accessory, a plaything—and I trembled just thinking about it.
She cupped my breast, hard enough to make me gasp, and she smiled against my mouth at the sound. “Too hard, little fox?”
“Never,” I panted. She bit my lower lip in response. “Never.”
She pulled back to look at me, those eyes again flicking over my face like she was trying to gauge if I were telling the truth or not. A sharp, icy fear splintered through my chest at the idea that she might stop, and before she could, before she could step away, say goodbye,leave, I did the only thing I could think of. The only thing that made sense, and then the only thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
I sank to my knees in front of her.
“Marian,” she said.
Nothing else.
Her hand was still in my hair.
“Let me,” I whispered. “Let me.”
She didn’t speak…but she moved a single booted foot to the side and widened her stance. And when I reached for the buttons of her ACU jacket, she didn’t stop my hands. She didn’t stop me from unbuttoning the jacket and parting the fabric to reveal a neatly tucked T-shirt, and she didn’t stop me from working open the ribbed nylon belt threaded through the loops of her trousers.
With her hand still in my hair, I exposed her, getting her pants open and far enough down her thighs that I could see silky red curls and the barest hint of slick, pink skin. She slid her fingers in my mouth, pressing down on my tongue, as if seeing how wide I could open, and then she said, “Suck.”
And I did, I sucked on her fingers until her eyes were darker than I’d ever, ever seen them.
She abruptly pulled her fingers free and pushed my face against her cunt. Her ACU pants kept her from opening her thighs as wide as would be convenient, but she didn’t seem to care if it was convenient for me or not. She held me there until I found an angle that worked, until I pressed hard enough to find what she wanted me to find.
When I eagerly licked at the hard pearl of her clit, she grunted my name. Breathless and wounded, like I’d just kicked her in the stomach.
I knelt on the floor, my dress spilling around my knees and my hair mussed and my lipstick all over my face, her camo everywhere and her belt hanging open, and I didn’t think heaven could be any better than this. Any better than Lox’s hot cunt, the way she fucked my mouth as if she’d paid for it—and the noises she made as I let her, harsh and soft, harsh and soft.
I had no idea what I was doing, had never gone down on anyone before, but that didn’t matter, not like this. I wasn’t fucking Lox—shewasfuckingme; I wasn’t giving her a gift, because she was taking it. She rode my tongue, she held me close when she wanted me to suck, pulled my hair when she wanted more of it, or harder.
“Lick,” she’d tell me, and I would. “Suck,” she’d order next, and I’d do it, happily, happily. And even though I wanted to press my hands against her firm thighs and feel the fabric of her combat uniform against my palms—even though I wanted to run my fingertips over her curls, wanted to slide my touch into the wet clutch of her—I somehow knew that wasn’t permitted. That if she wanted it, she’d ask for it, but otherwise I was to remain a willing and pretty mouth for her pleasure.
I could have stayed that way for hours. For days and weeks and the rest of my life.
But finally—with her hand on the back of my head still holding me tight to her—she shuddered once, twice, and came. She continued to fuck me as she did, as if to wring every last ounce of her climax from my willing mouth, and then she let out a long and shaky sigh.
Her hand loosened in my hair. And then she let go.
I looked up at her, my mouth wet, my chin wet too, and I knew my lipstick was everywhere, I knew that my hair was no longer in its ponytail and tangled in knots where it hung down my back. I knew that she could see down the bodice of my dress, where my nipples had pulled taut enough to hurt, and I knew she could see the way my thighs rubbed together in a mindless search for friction. And the same way I knew I hadn’t been allowed to touch her, I knew I should not touch myself, at least not until she permitted me to. But I wanted to, I wanted to so badly, and it would take nothing, just the graze of my fingers against my own sex, and I’d come right here at her feet.
Her belt and pants still hung open, her cunt was still exposed, and the world itself felt newly washed and ripe with possibility, like I could reach out and pluck my own future from the air itself, and that future would be this, more of this. Being hers, being hers in a way that would mean kneeling whenever she wanted me to, and it didn’t matter that she was leaving for some far-flung base or that I was going to college, she would come back for me. She would write and call, and somehow we’d make more moments like this, moments even rougher and more wonderful.
I smiled, and she sucked in a breath.
And then the world darkened once more.
“I’m sorry,” she said, zipping up her pants and tucking in her shirt. “I’m sorry, Marian.”
