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Ghost Stories – Part 45

My fingertips neared his lips when he suddenly released my head, reaching up to my hand, grabbing it away from his face and holding it down above my pillow. I could barely feel its lumpy feathered texture, perhaps only able to be pinched by my thumb and finger, the rest of my hand immobilized by him.  He leaned in close to me as he held my arm fixed against the floor of the tent, and I could feel his breath against me even more than I could see his face in the darkness, despite its proximity.  Had he leaned in a few inches more, I could have lifted my head and found his lips with my own, but instead, he increased his swiftness and his pressure against me.  I gasped at the change of force, and it only propelled him to intensify his efforts further.  His physical exertion enveloped precisely the type of ravaging I wanted.  His shape blocked nearly all of the stars above me, and suddenly the entire galaxy vanished and his silhouette occupied my entire scope of vision.

As unexpectedly as it developed, I still found this random sexual encounter to be exactly what I would have requested from the Lumberjack. Truthfully, this performance, while always desired or even requested from most men, rarely received such spectacular execution.  Purely physical trists like this allowed for complete exertion and prowess, and the Lumberjack seemed to provide an unlimited supply of the highest quality.  I absolutely wanted this – wanted him.

Even if his powerful pummeling might have been his physically reprimanding me for revving him up and then curbing his cravings, I gladly accepted his admonition. It didn’t feel painful – strictly pleasurable.  I didn’t have much time to contemplate the possibilities as his pace and power increased and any ability to retain the details of the experience, or any specific actions that I wanted to recall, or any control I may have tried to retain over my body’s reaction, couldn’t help but be relinquished, and my mind soon followed.

By the time he piqued, my own breathing became labored, and my legs could barely remain around his as they lost muscle tension and strength. He somehow managed to take all of my energy and transfer it into his own efforts.  My only ability to even move was as he pushed so deeply inside me that my back arched into him and my hips widened.  Whatever he demanded of my body, it responded in kind and instinctively, willingly giving him what he wanted, and what I wanted, too.

As soon as he finished, his breathing nearly ceased and he lifted himself up and threw himself back upon his sleeping bag like a sliver of meat dangling on a fork. It took me several minutes to take in enough air to stop the tent from spinning; if he not finished when he did, I might have lost consciousness.  He absorbed nearly all of my oxygen, all of my energy, and all of my pent-up desire and made outstanding use of them.  If he were to ask, and if I would have breath enough to answer, I would have agreed to turning all of my biological assets over to him again on demand.

When I regained blood flow to my limbs, I reached out my open palm towards him and felt the muscles of his damp back, sweaty and sensual, but his body cold and wet to the touch, combining his sweat and the night air. Yet, as I gently glided along his shoulders, I could feel heat beneath the skin. I felt a trickle of his warmth leave me and I finally felt the chill of the night air as the flow of heat throughout me subsided.  I put my pajamas pants back on, and then sat silently on my sleeping bag, my arms wrapped around myself, listening to him breathe.  Finally.  Peacefully.  Unsuccessfully I tried to listen to him sleep during the past two nights and this was my first chance to enjoy it.

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About Pam Portland

For a decade and a half I worked behind a series of desks, peeking out from around my computer monitor. Seeing the United States in bits and pieces wasn't enough to satisfy me, so I am grabbing my virtual pen and taking flight. Welcome along!

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