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By *ikeEx OP Man 15 weeks ago
Near Alfreton, Derbyshire |
The car journey to Skegness had been predictable. Mike, hands firm at ten and two, eyes scanning the road. Candy, passenger seat reclined just so, one hand occasionally drifting to press against her lower back. Every forty-five minutes, like clockwork, they'd stop. Stretch. Walk. Fuel. Water for her, coffee for him. He'd planned the route, booked the place—a last-minute deal he'd found, reassuringly clean-sounding and close enough to the sea that the air would taste of salt. The house was exactly as advertised: a neat, brick-fronted thing with a pristine garden and a bubbling hot tub tucked into a corner, steaming invitingly under a pale grey sky.
"Look at that," Candy said, a genuine smile breaking through the travel-fatigue on her face. "Proper decadent."
Mike dropped their bags in the hall and followed her gaze. "Tommy's a dirty bastard, though."
He pointed up. Tucked just under the eaves, aimed directly at the hot tub, was a small, dark dome of a CCTV camera. Candy's laugh was a bright, surprised bark. "Oh, for fuck's sake. He's watching everyone's tub-time?"
"Seems that way." Mike wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "Reckon he's got a highlights reel? 'Best of Skegness 2024: D*unken Nans vs. The Bubbles'?"
Candy leaned her head back on his shoulder, her body shaking with laughter. "God. Poor Tommy. Imagine the data he has to store."
"Or he just enjoys the view," Mike murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "In which case, he can enjoy the view of an empty tub. Not a chance."
"Definitely not." She turned in his arms, her expression softening. "I'm feeling grimy. Want to share?"
The shower was a glass cubicle, large enough for two, with a powerful rainforest head that pummelled the tension from their muscles. The steam rose quickly, fogging the glass and wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth. Water plastered Candy's hair to her skull, tracing paths down her collarbones. Mike watched her, his hands moving automatically to her shoulders, his thumbs working into the tight muscles there.
She groaned, a low, appreciative sound. "That's the spot."
"You're tighter than a drum," he noted, his voice low against the hiss of the water. "Travel always gets you."
"I know. I'll need to stretch out later. And maybe lie down for a century." She tilted her head back, letting the spray hit her throat. "I also need to shave. I'm a bit... wild."
Mike's hands stilled for a second before continuing their rhythmic kneading. He didn't need to ask what she meant. He knew her body, her routines, the way she preferred to keep herself. "I packed my trimmer."
A slow smile spread across Candy's face, her eyes meeting his through the steam. "Did you now?"
"Figured it might come in handy." He leaned in, kissing the water from her shoulder. "For beards. Or whatever."
Her laughter was softer this time, a private sound meant just for him. "Efficient and prescient. What did I do to deserve you?"
"You put up with my lists," he said simply.
"And you put up with my... wildness." She ran a hand down her own stomach, her fingers grazing the top of her mound where the hair was thickest, a dark, untamed triangle that had been neglected for longer than usual. It was softer than it looked, but thick, growing unchecked over the last few hectic weeks. "It's a jungle down there."
"I like the jungle," Mike said, his voice dropping into that lower register she knew so well. "But I'm also happy to explore it with a machete."
Dinner was fish and chips from a shop on the seafront, eaten out of paper on a bench while they watched the waves roll in, grey and endless. The wind was brisk, but it felt clean, scouring away the last vestiges of the city and the journey. By the time they got back to the house, the sky was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps and the warm glow from the windows.
Back in the shower, the routine was different now. There was an anticipation, a current running between them that was heavier and more purposeful. Mike washed her back, his soap-slicked hands tracing her spine, the muscles there tight as always. Candy's breath hitched slightly as he lingered over the dimples above her ass, his thumb pressing gently.
"Still sore?" he asked.
"Just the usual," she murmured. "It's fine."
After they'd dried off, Candy moved into the bedroom, her naked body catching the warm light from the bedside lamp. She was comfortable in her skin, a confidence he always admired. Without a word, she sat on the large, velvet-upholstered ottoman at the foot of the bed, her thighs parted slightly, her back straight. Her pose was expectant, patient.
Mike returned from the bathroom, his beard trimmer in one hand, a small towel and a can of shaving gel in the other. He knelt on the floor in front of her, his expression focused, intense. He looked up at her, his eyes dark.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice quiet.
She nodded, her hand coming down to rest in his hair, her fingers combing through the short, damp strands. "I'm sure."
He started with the trimmer. The low, buzzing hum filled the quiet room. The first pass of the guard over her mound was a str4nge sensation—not painful, just a vibration that seemed to travel directly to her core. Candy watched his face, the concentration in his brow, the careful precision of his movements. The dark hair fell away, landing on the towel he'd spread beneath her. He worked methodically, clearing the longer growth, revealing the shape of her, the soft skin beneath. The buzzing was constant, a thrumming against her most sensitive flesh. She could feel herself growing wet, a slow, slick warmth that had nothing to do with the shower.
Mike noticed. He didn't need to look up; he could feel the subtle shift in her body, the way her breathing changed. He worked the trimmer lower, carefully shaping the hair, tidying the edges, his knuckles brushing against the slick, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. The vibrations were maddeningly indirect, a tease that promised more.
"Okay," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. He switched off the trimmer, setting it aside. "Close enough. My turn for the blade."
He took her razor from her—her own trusted one—his eyes asking the question again. She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. He squirted a dollop of shaving gel into his palm, warming it between his hands before applying it to her. The cool gel was a shock, and she gasped softly, her hips tilting forward instinctively. His touch was deliberate, thorough, coating every inch of her, the scent of it clean and sharp.
Then he started to shave.
The first stroke of the blade was a revelation. Sharp, precise, utterly smooth. He held the skin taut with one hand, the razor moving in confident, sure strokes. The sound of it, the slight rasp as it cleared the gel and the stubble, was incredibly intimate. Candy's hand tightened in his hair, her knuckles white. She held her breath, her entire being focused on the sensation. This was vulnerability, this was trust, laid bare under a soft lamp in a rented House in Skegness.
Mike was lost in it, in the ritual of it. He cleared her mound first, then the delicate folds of her labia, stretching her skin carefully to get a perfectly smooth surface. He rinsed the blade in the basin of warm water he'd brought in, the water clouding with the dark hair and white foam. He was meticulous, leaving nothing untouched. The last few strokes around her asshole were the most intense, the skin there impossibly sensitive. Candy let out a shaky breath, a small, involuntary whimper escaping her lips.
When he was done, she was perfectly smooth, utterly bare. She looked down at herself, at the glistening, pink skin he had revealed. She felt raw, exposed, incredibly sensitive.
Mike stood up, taking the warm, wet cloth he'd ready. He knelt again and gently, carefully, wiped away every last trace of the shaving gel. The cloth was warm against her newly shaven skin, a soothing balm. He cleaned her thoroughly, his fingers tracing the lines he had just created, feeling the incredible smoothness. The gesture wasn't sexual; it was care. But it was the most erotic thing she had ever felt.
"All done," he whispered, looking up at her.
Candy couldn't speak. She just nodded, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
He didn't move away. He kept his hand there, his thumb resting lightly on her mound, right over her clit. The thrum of the trimmer had been a prelude; this was the main event. The direct, warm pressure of his touch was electric. He watched her face as he began to move, slow, lazy circles. His other hand came up to rest on her inner thigh, holding her open.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this," he murmured, his eyes fixed on hers.
Her hips began to move in time with his hand, a slow, searching grind. The need built quickly, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. His fingers slid lower, parting her slick folds, exploring the wetness he'd created. He sank one finger inside her, then another, his thumb still working her clit in a maddening rhythm.
"That's it," he coaxed. "Feel it."
She was close, so close. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open in a silent cry. But then he stopped.
He stood up, pulling her to her feet. His mouth found hers, a deep, possessive kiss that tasted of her and the sea air. He backed her towards the bed, his hands roaming her body, rediscovering the new smoothness.
"Kneel on the bed," he commanded, his voice low and rough.
She did as he asked, her knees sinking into the duvet, her ass high in the air, her hands braced on the mattress in front of her. It presented her completely to him, both of her holes, smooth and ready and waiting.
He knelt behind her, his hands spreading her ass cheeks, his gaze intense. He leaned in, and his tongue was on her, licking a broad, wet stripe from her clit all the way back, lingering over her puckered asshole. The sensation was obscene, perfect. She cried out, pushing back against him.
He ate her pussy like a man starving. His tongue delved inside her, fucking her, then moved to her clit, sucking it into his mouth, his teeth grazing it just enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain through her. His fingers were not idle; one hand was on her hip, holding her steady, the other was back inside her, curling, pressing against that spot that made her see stars. She came with a str4ngled cry, her whole body shaking, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost pain.
He gave her no time to recover. He rose up behind her, his cock hard and heavy, nudging against her entrance. He pushed inside, one smooth, deep stroke that filled her completely. She was so wet, so ready, that he slid in to the hilt, his balls slapping against her newly smooth skin. The feeling was incredible, the fullness, the stretch.
He started to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, his thrusts deep and powerful. The sound of their bodies meeting was loud in the quiet room, a wet, rhythmic slap. She met him thrust for thrust, pushing back, taking him as deep as she could.
"God, Mike," she gasped. "Yes."
He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth next to her ear. "You feel so good. So fucking smooth and tight."
He fucked her for a few minutes more, his pace steady, his breathing harsh in her ear. Then, without warning, he pulled out.
Looking across the bedroom, Mike saw Candy's phone next to her on the bed.
"Pass me your phone, I want something to remember our weekend with."
Fumbling with the iPhone, trying to work out how to use the video function, the samsung user finally got the video camera app launched.
A wave of emptiness hit her, and she made a small sound of protest. But then she felt the head of his cock, slick with her own juices, pressing against her other hole. Her asshole.
He paused, giving her a moment. "Candy?"
"Yes," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes."
He started slow, pushing just the head inside. The burn was sharp, intense. She breathed through it, her body tensing. He waited, letting her adjust, his hand stroking her back, a soothing, steady rhythm.
"Relax for me," he murmured. "Let me in."
She took a deep breath and consciously forced her muscles to unclench. As she did, he pushed deeper, sinking into her inch by inch. The feeling was overwhelming, a str4nge mix of pain and a profound, deep pleasure. It was a stretch like no other, a feeling of being completely and utterly possessed.
When he was fully inside her, buried to the hilt in her ass, he stopped again. He was still, just letting her feel him, feel the fullness. His hand came around to find her clit, his fingers beginning to circle it.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Okay," she managed to say. "More than okay."
He started to move then, slowly at first, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in. Each thrust was a shock, a wave of sensation that washed over her. He built up a rhythm, his fingers still working her clit, his other hand holding her hip. The dual sensations were too much. The pressure in her ass, the stimulation on her clit—it was a perfect, unbearable storm.
She could feel her orgasm building again, higher this time, more intense. Her muscles started to clench, her body shaking uncontrollably. And as she crested, as the pleasure broke over her in a cataclysmic wave, she lost all control.
A warm gush of liquid escaped her, coating his cock and balls, a sudden, shameful accident. She felt it happen, the involuntary release, and a wave of mortification washed over her, even as the aftershocks of her orgasm were still rippling through her.
Mike didn't stop. If anything, he fucked her harder, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. He let out a guttural groan, and she felt him pulse inside her, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself deep in her ass.
For a moment, they stayed like that, both breathing heavily, the only sound in the room their ragged gasps for air. Then he pulled out, leaving her feeling empty, used.
He didn't say a word. He just stood up and walked into the bathroom, leaving her kneeling on the bed, a mess of sweat, cum, and her own accidental release. She felt like a whore, a used-up, discarded thing, and the thought sent a fresh wave of shame through her.
She stayed there, unable to move, her body still trembling with aftershocks. She could hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, the splashing of water. She felt exposed, vulnerable, the aftermath of their intense coupling leaving her feeling raw and open.
After a few minutes, Mike came back into the room. He was naked, his body clean, his cock soft now. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes on her.
She still hadn't moved. She was on her hands and knees on the bed, her head hanging down, her hair obscuring her face. She was a mess, a beautiful, used, and utterly spent mess.
He watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then a slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a cruel smile, but one of deep, primal satisfaction. He was proud of her, proud of the way she had given herself to him, proud of the mess they had made.
He was proud of his whore.
Candy finally stirred, her limbs feeling like lead. She pushed herself up slowly, her muscles protesting. She could feel the stickiness between her legs, the lingering slickness. Without looking at him, she slid off the bed and walked into the bathroom, her movements stiff.
She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide and dark. She looked debauched, thoroughly and completely fucked. And she felt a str4nge sense of pride, a satisfaction that mirrored his.
He had claimed her, used her, and left her like a whore. And she had loved every second of it.
The video.... was only on Candy's phone.
Something she decided she wanted to share! |
