Maude needs it again

I don't even remember standing up. One moment I was pulling my trunks back up; the next I was holding her hand, walking off that ship with my jeans still half unbuttoned and the taste of her mouth on my brain.

"Do you live nearby?" she had asked, so soft, like it was the most casual thing in the world to swallow a man whole and then ask for directions.

"Fifteen minutes," I said. "Maybe less."

The night was thick and warm. August in Amsterdam doesn't really cool down — it just gets darker and stickier, with the air smelling of canal water and warm brick and the fry stands that never close. Our footsteps rattled over the cobbles. A tram hummed somewhere behind us. She kept laughing at nothing, that giddy laugh people have after they've just done something reckless, and every few steps she'd squeeze my hand and look up at me like she was checking I was still real.

We made it maybe four minutes.

We passed a narrow gap between two buildings — one of those Amsterdam alleys that isn't really a street, just a slice of dark between a bike shop and someone's front door — and Maude stopped dead. She turned, looked down it, looked back at me, and something in her face changed.

"Come with me," she whispered, and before I could answer, she pulled me in.

It was dark. Proper dark, the kind where your eyes have to work for it. A single streetlamp at the far end threw a long amber slice across the ground, and the rest was shadow and the smell of old stone and rain that never quite dries. Bicycles leant against the wall like sleeping animals. Somewhere above us a window was open, and a TV muttered in Dutch.

She pushed me against the wall and kissed me hard — not the slow, teasing kisses from the ship, but hungry, both hands on my chest, her whole body pressed flat against mine.

"Fuck me here, honey," she breathed against my mouth.

"Here?"

"Here."

She didn't wait for agreement. She reached down with both hands, grabbed the hem of her dress, and yanked it all the way up to her waist — one quick, impatient motion, like she was angry at the fabric for existing. Then she hooked her thumbs into the neckline and dragged the top half down, and her breasts fell out into the lamplight.

God, they were everything I'd guessed and more. Full and round and heavy, high on her chest, the nipples already stiff, the skin pale and smooth and gleaming faintly in the amber light. She arched her back a little so they stood out, and she looked down at herself, then up at me, and grinned like she was showing off something she'd built herself.

"Better than you imagined?" she asked.

"Much."

Then her hand went down between her legs. She hooked a finger into the side of her little thong — pale, soaked through, barely there — and pulled it to one side, baring herself completely.

She was glistening. Actually, visibly, dripping wet and glistening, the lips slick and swollen and parted, catching the light, and I swear I could smell her over everything else — that sweet, warm, musky smell that makes a man lose his vocabulary.

"No time to be shy," she said. "Get those jeans off."

I kicked my shoes loose and shoved my jeans down, and they pooled around my ankles exactly where I'd left them last time. My cock was already up and aching, twitching in the warm air. She reached for it, gave it two quick, firm strokes with her slick hand, smeared her own wetness all down the shaft until it shone, then guided the head to her entrance and held it there, teasing herself with it.

"Slow," she said. "Just at first."

I pushed in.

Slow, like she asked. The first inch made her gasp and bite her lip. The second made her eyes flutter. By the third she'd grabbed my shoulders, and her nails were already in me, and by the time I was buried to the hilt inside her, she was shaking her head like she couldn't believe the fit. She was tight, hot, and gripping, and my whole body just wanted to slam.

Instead, I lifted her. She understood immediately — one leg swung up over my forearm, the other planted on the cobbles, spread as wide as she could possibly get, and she leant her shoulders back against the brick and let me take her weight. The dress bunched between us. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. Her thong stayed pulled to the side like a little flag.

And then I fucked her.

Bare, standing, in a dark alley in the middle of Amsterdam, with my jeans around my ankles like some teenager. Her heel dug into the small of my back and pulled me in. Her mouth found my ear and stayed there, breathing hot and ragged, and every time I bottomed out, she made this little broken sound — ah — like the air was being pushed out of her.

"So good," she moaned. "Oh God, so good, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

I worked her. Long, deep strokes first, pulling almost all the way out so she could feel every inch go back in, then shorter and harder when she started grinding back at me. The wet sound of it bounced off the bricks and up between the buildings, loud and unmistakable, and some part of me loved that anyone walking past would know exactly what was happening in that alley.

Sweat came fast. The August air, the effort, her body heat against mine — within a few minutes my shirt was soaked through and stuck to my back. Drops ran off my jaw and landed on her chest, rolling down between her breasts. She looked down at them, then up at me, and licked her lips.

"You're sweating for me," she said. "Good."

I shifted my grip, cupped her ass with both hands, and started really driving. Her head tipped back against the brick. Her tits bounced hard with every stroke. Her fingers knotted in my hair, and she stopped talking altogether and just let the moans come — high, thin, rhythmic, ah-ah-ah in time with me.

Then she went rigid.

A long, shuddering, silent orgasm that turned into a moan right at the end. Her whole body clenched around me, her cunt squeezing in waves, and her free leg buckled.

Her knees gave up.

Just let go. If I hadn't had her leg over my arm and her back against the wall, she'd have slid down to the cobbles. She sagged into me, boneless, laughing and panting at the same time.

"You okay?" I asked, still moving.

"Don't you dare stop," she said.

So, I didn't.

I hooked both her legs up and pinned her to the wall, and she took it. Head tipped back, throat exposed, mouth wide open, nothing held back. That wet slap echoing up the alley. Above us, the TV got louder. Neither of us cared. Sweat ran into my eyes, and I blinked it away. My thighs were burning, my lower back was on fire, and my arms were starting to feel the weight of her — really feel it, the slow tremble starting in my forearms, then my biceps, then my shoulders.

She came a second time. Harder.

Her nails raked down my back. She cried out — a real cry, not a polite one, a sound that belonged in a bedroom, not an alley. Her whole body shuddered and clenched and milked, and somehow, somehow, I held it in. Don't ask me how. Every muscle in my legs was screaming. My balls felt like two stones. I just kept fucking her through it, slow and deep, riding her down from the peak and then straight back up again.

My arms were properly shaking now. Real tremors, elbows quivering, fingers digging into the backs of her thighs just to keep her up. She felt it. She wrapped her arms around my neck to take some of her own weight, and her mouth pressed against my jaw, wet and open.

By the third climb she was crying. Actually crying—little wet tears running down her cheeks, streaking her makeup, her eyes wild and unfocused.

"Please," she gasped. "Ah — ah — ah — oh please, come now. Come inside me. Come now, honey, please—"

That was it.

My balls tightened like a fist, and something snapped loose at the base of my spine. I gave her one last hard shove, buried as deep as she could take me, and emptied myself into her. Not spurts — a flood, hot and thick, pumping deep and staying there.

"Oh — ohhh — oh yesss," she cried, and her voice broke in the middle of it. "Oh, so beautiful—"

Her cunt gripped and released, gripped and released, milking me dry, working every last drop out of me like it had been trained for the job. Nothing escaped. She held me inside until my cock finally softened and slipped out of her on its own, and even then she stayed pressed against that wall, legs shaking, breathing like she'd run a marathon.

I lowered her leg slowly. My arms were still trembling when I let go of her — properly trembling, that hollow, used-up shake you get after lifting something too heavy for too long. Her feet found the ground. She wobbled, grabbed my arm, and laughed — that same giddy laugh from the ship, only now it sounded wrecked.

She pulled her thong back into place and held it there with one hand, cupping herself, keeping everything in. Then she smoothed her dress down, fixed her top, pushed her hair back with both hands, and looked up at me with smeared mascara and bright eyes.

And then she glanced down.

Down at my cock, hanging there between us, slick and shiny with the two of us mixed together — and she caught it twitching. Stirring. Lifting, just slightly, all on its own, like it had heard something and wanted back in.

Maude's eyebrows went up. A slow, filthy smile spread across her face.

"Well, well," she said, and reached down to wrap two fingers around it, giving it a lazy stroke. "You're a bit excited, aren't we?"

I laughed. My arms were still shaking.

"We're four minutes from my place," I said.

"Good to know." She took my hand, and this time she didn't let go. "Come on. Before it runs down my leg."

To be continued.