Sofia's womb gets washed

The coastal road led back the other way, with the sun shining on the water. Sofia pressed her cheek against the glass and kept her eyes on the side mirror. Whenever I looked up, she was already there, watching me. The two white stains on her blouse were dry and stiff, like a badge of rank. Nobody said much. Magnus drove with his arm resting on the steering wheel, the window down and his hand out in the wind, looking as happy as a dog in a truck bed. The new pump rode the blanket without a sound.

The house emerged from the pines; its shutters shut. The terrace was still bathed in the afternoon sun, the chairs were where we had left them and her mojito glass was leaving a ring of condensation on the wooden table.

Magnus switched off the engine and sat for a moment, looking at his hands on the steering wheel. The grease had seeped into his skin. There was a grey half-moon under each nail, a smear up the inside of his forearm and a streak on his knee. He smelled faintly of iron and diesel all over.

"Right," he said. „I’m going to be disgusting in the bathroom for a while.“

"Darling," said Sofia. Her voice was like honey and butter; the voice of a woman who had never been in a hurry. "Why don’t you take a nice, long, hot bath?"

He turned in his seat. There was something almost grateful, almost boyish, about his expression.

"Shall I prepare one for you?" She asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, please." That’d be—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "That’d be good.“

She got out, smoothed her dress down over her hips and went inside ahead of us. I heard the water start and the big old pipes knock against the walls as if the house were clearing its throat. The good soap came out. The bath ran for a long time.

Magnus dropped onto the sofa with a groan and put his feet up on the pouffe that we sometimes used as a table. For ten minutes, it was just the two of us and the boat, and the familiar routine of the auxiliary pump and the impeller that had been deteriorating since spring, and whether the whole manifold was worth rebuilding or if he should just accept the loss and install a new one. He had his head back against the cushion, eyes shut, talking with his hands.

"—it’s not the pump, it’s the housing; the housing’s been weeping since March—"

"Then it’s the housing."

"I guess it’s nine hundred euros and two weeks out of the water." He blew air out through his teeth. "The whole season is almost gone. You know what she’ll say."

She. The boat. He called the boat she, the girlfriend by her name, never the other way round.

"You could do the housing yourself," I said. "Pull it, clean it, and machine the face flat. It’s a mating surface, not a watch."

He sat with that, chewing it. He nodded slowly, once, the way he did when he’d decided to be reasonable about something he’d rather have thrown money at.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, alright."

Behind us the water shut off. A door opened and shut. Sofia came back down the corridor, her hands still damp, a towel over her arm. She stopped in the arch of the living room, looked at Magnus, then at me.

"Off you go, darling," she said. "The bathtub is waiting for you. Take your time."

She said it to him. She said it, looking at me.

Magnus got up with a grunt, a hand on his knee, kissed her on the temple in passing, grease and all, said something about dinner, which she ignored on purpose, and disappeared down the corridor. The bathroom door clicked. The pipes knocked again as the tap was turned, the bath topped up, and then the small sounds of a man getting in, the long hiss of relief, and the slop of water.

Sofia waited maybe fifteen seconds. She put the towel down, came round the pouf, and knelt on the rug between my knees.

She didn’t say anything first. She got both hands into the waistband of my shorts, unbuttoned and unzipped, pulled the cloth wide, reached in, and drew me out, soft, warm, and heavy from the car, from the heat. She held me in one hand and looked at me like something on a plate.

"You are going to fuck me right here," she said.

Her head went down.

She started with her tongue flat, her mouth open, dragging the whole length of me from underneath, root to head, wet, slow, thorough, not sucking yet, just painting me with it. She took me into her mouth softly, let her cheeks cave in, and hummed.

A soft cock in a warm mouth is a strange, wonderful thing. She knew the trick of it. She worked the head with her tongue in little circular scoops, unhurried. Every few seconds she’d come off, blow on me, cool, the whole thing tightening, swelling, then she’d take me back in, hold it there, warm, patient, let it happen. Her hand at the base, squeezing in a slow rhythm, milking the blood up. My hips slid down the cushion. My eyes went shut.

The bathroom door was three rooms away. There was water moving in there, a man’s voice saying something to himself, and the smell of the good soap coming down the corridor.

She felt me thicken, made a greedy little noise, got lower, took me past the ridge to where it was tight, held, and swallowed around the head—once, twice—the pull of it going all the way up into my stomach. When I looked down, she had her eyes open, tilted up at me, lips stretched, and chin already wet.

I was so hard it ached.

She let me go with a wet sound, sat back on her heels, and wiped her mouth with the flat of her fingers.

"You are ready for my Brazil pussy," she said.

She stood. She hooked her thumbs in the hem of her dress, pulled it up her thighs and over her hips, bunched it at her waist, and held it there with one hand. Her other hand went down between her legs and pulled the lips apart with two fingers.

Bare. Shaved to nothing, shining, and wet down the inside of both thighs, the light from the window sitting on her in one long stripe.

She looked at me the whole time. "I want to see your eyes," she said.

She put one knee up on the sofa beside my hip, then the other, lowered herself, reached back between us, took me, put the head of me against her, and sank.

It didn’t go. She was tight, small. She made a small hurt sound and stopped, forehead dipping. Then she pushed again and got the crown of me in, her whole body going rigid.

"So big," she said. "Ah. Oh. Beautiful. So—ah—"

She took it an inch at a time, up and down, rocking, never lifting off more than a little, letting herself open around me in stages. Her mouth was open, her eyes shut, and she was breathing through it. Each time she came down a fraction further, the sound she made climbed. Each time she lifted off a little, she lost it and had to find it again. She was shaking.

"You big stud," she said. "Ah—are you making me a bad girlfriend again?"

"A very bad girlfriend," I said.

She laughed, breathless, half of it turning into a groan. "Oh. So big. Oh, so big—" She came down the last of the way, sat flush on me, all of her, stopped dead, just breathed, mouth open, getting used to being stretched.

Her eyes came open and found mine. The dress was a rope at her waist. Her tits were still in the top of it, pressed together by the bunching.

"You have cum left for me, honey?" she said. "Mm? Are you a big man?"

I got a hand on her hip. She felt it and smiled.

"Are you going to fuck Sofia’s pussy hard, deep?"

She started to move. Long, slow lifts, almost off me, then a hard sink back down. The third time a wet slap came out of it, she bit her lip and did it again.

"Tonight, you are mine," she said. "Tonight, you will wreck Sofia."

Her hand came flat onto my chest to brace herself; she went faster. Now it was a proper fuck, her hips rolling, the slap of it steady, her hair coming loose from the band, swinging. Between the deep ones she’d grind down on me, circling, her clit dragging on the base of my cock, each grind pulling a longer sound out of her.

The sweat came up on her forehead. It came through the front of her dress in a dark patch between her tits.

I got both hands on the shoulder straps of the dress and pulled. She rolled her shoulders forward for me. I dragged the whole thing down to her waist, her breasts coming free, swinging. She got her hand back on my chest, pushed herself upright, and let me have them.

Young, heavy, high, with the nipples drawn up tight. I got one in each hand and kneaded it. She dropped her chin, watched me do it, her mouth falling open.

She changed the angle. Tilted her hips back, found something. Her eyes went wide, and her voice came up out of her an octave.

"Ah—oh—yes—oh—"

She was grinding right on her clit now, short quick circles, thighs clamping at my ribs, faster, faster, the sound just breath, vowel. She went stiff all over, every muscle, stopped, her mouth open, nothing coming out. The whole thing rolled through her from her stomach to her knees. She shook with it, her nails digging into my chest.

She came out of it gasping, slumped forward, sweaty forehead nearly to mine.

"Come fuck me," she said.

I got her by the waist, pushed her upright, and shoved her up into her from underneath. She cried out.

"Be a slut," I said. "Punish your clit."

She grinned, wide and wrecked, her whole face wet, shining from the work, and started to ride me properly, hard, with no more circling, just up, down, her hand on my chest, her tits bouncing, her mouth going.

"Are you going to make me a whore?" she said. "Fill my womb with your seed? Make me a true slut?"

"Mm."

"Oh, my pussy is so thirsty for your seed, honey. It needs to drink." She was going faster than she could keep up with, sloppy, half of it falling out of her. "Are you going to give it a drink? Make me happy? Make me a slut?"

Her other hand went down, got my balls, cupped them both, worked them, rolled them up against the root of me, and held them there. She felt them drawing up tight, hard, in her palm. Her face changed when she felt it—triumph, hunger, and the grin of a woman who has got what she wanted out of the afternoon.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Oh, yes, baby. There they are."

She fucked me harder. She had the rhythm of it now, the whole length of me, up until I nearly slid out, then down onto me so hard the wet noise came late, after the slap, her tits swinging on every stroke, her hair stuck to her cheek, and her neck. She was still coming off the last one, still twitching inside. Every time I bottomed out, she made a small broken sound like the tail of a sob.

My hand was at her waist. The other had her hip. I pulled her down onto me and pushed her up. She gasped, got her hand on my chest to hold the depth.

"Ah—fuck, yes—" Her voice was gone to gravel. "Like that. Like that, don’t stop, oh my God, don’t—"

The pressure gathered. It came up out of the base of me, a hard, thick knot pulling tighter with every one of her strokes. She felt my balls go up in her hand and felt them lift. She knew.

"You’re close," she said. "You’re so close; I can feel it—" She was pumping me faster than she could breathe through, her mouth wet, open. "Give it to me. Oh, honey, please, give it—"

She dropped her forehead to mine, looking right into me from four inches away, and started talking without stopping, a low, filthy stream of it riding it out.

"Fill me. Fill me up. Oh, my pussy is so thirsty for your seed—it needs to drink, honey, it needs to drink—are you going to give it a drink? Are you going to make me a whore? Make me a bad puta, come on, come on—"

The knot pulled.

It broke loose, the first one going off hard and deep, and I heard myself make a sound like I“d been hit. My hips came up off the cushion with her weight on them. My hand clamped down on her waist and held her. The second one went right behind the first.

She felt it.

She felt the heat of it go into her, her eyes flying wide, her whole face coming open. She made a high-thin sound and slammed herself down onto me to keep it all.

"Ah—! Oh—oh, I can feel it—" Her voice cracked in half. "I can feel your babies inside me—aahh—"

The third pulse, the fourth, is thick and long. There was nothing gentle in it. It just kept coming out of me, going into her. Her cunt clenched, unclenched around my cock in fast, greedy handfuls, milking at me like it was trying to pull the whole of it out.

Then her own came up and hit her.

It started in her stomach. It went through her in a hard wave, doubled her over, and stopped her breathing entirely—just a long, caught noise, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut—her thighs locking at my ribs. She shook from the shoulders down, one long shudder after another. The hand on my chest went to a fist in my shirt. Her pussy bore down on me in a hard rhythmic grip that pulled another pulse out of me each time. The two of us went over together, wrecked, her crying out my name into the side of my face, "Oh—oh God—ah—so beautiful—"

She kept rocking. Couldn’t help it. Small grinding circles, wringing the last of it out. I stayed hard, and she stayed clamped down on me; neither of us let it end.

When the pulses thinned to a slow leak, she sat back down on me, all the way, seating me deep, staying there, forehead on my shoulder, breath tearing in and out.

The cum had nowhere to go. She was full to the brim. I could feel it pushing back around my cock, warm and thick, seeping out of her in a line, running down over my balls, and into the crease of my thigh. She felt it going too and made a soft, satisfied noise against my collarbone.

"Mmhhh," she said. "Look at that. You gave it a big drink."

She lifted her head. Her mouth was a ruin, her chin wet, the sweat standing on her lip, her forehead running in a line from her hairline past her ear. She looked down between us at the mess of us, at my eyes, her eyes soft, glassy, and pleased.

"There’s so much," she said. "So much in me. It’s so warm. Your babies are so warm." She shifted her hips, a slow little roll, and shivered. "Don’t get out yet. Stay."

Somewhere three rooms away, water slopped over the rim of a bathtub. A man’s voice said, comfortably, "Sofia? Have you seen my razor?"

She lifted her head off my shoulder, looked at the corridor, and then back at me, and didn’t move at all. She rolled her hips again, deliberately, and smiled.

"In a minute!" she called out, sweet as anything. "I’m coming, darling."

To be continued.