Dorothea visits her hometown for Christmas.
By megalodon - Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.
Dorothea fiddles with her scarf, nerves tangling her insides as she gazes out the window. Her hometown seems so small thousands of feet below her private jet, a village of dollhouses, and she smiles to herself, the view bringing back memories of her childhood.
She’ll be seeing them again, all her childhood friends. After all these years, how much have they changed? Lord knows she’s not the gangly teenager she once was, wishing her friends goodbye as she boarded the plane to California, giddy with optimism and naivete. She bites back a wistful smile as she remembers all her friends waving her off. Well, nearly all of them. All but her high school sweetheart, Elliot.
Elliot, so unlike the men she dallied with these days, all chiseled jaws and plastic veneers, inhumanly gorgeous and emotionally constipated. Elliot was nothing like that, with his curly hair and quiet beauty. He adored her; worshipped the ground she walked on, and she, young and conceited, reveled in that, wrapping herself in his devotion. A pang of nostalgia shoots through her as she reminisces. She and Elliot were attached at the lips, sneaking away to screw in backseats and under bleachers. He gave her the confidence to make the big move, to get where she is today: A-list actress, Hollywood star, face plastered on massive billboards and tiny screens. But he wanted to keep her all to himself; couldn’t stand to watch her board the plane, leaving him and his small-town life for bright and shiny Hollywood.
Will she see him again? Surely they’ll bump into each other; a town this small, it’s bound to happen eventually. But would he remember her as fondly as she did him?
The boys are treating him with a careful wariness that’s edging on his nerves. Stephen and Cory are giving each other sneaky sidelong glances and not-so-subtle elbow jabs as they prattle on about nothing in particular. None of the typical ribbing and roasting that accompanies them when they intrude at the bar where Elliot works. They think he doesn’t notice, but he’s no idiot.
Finally, with a sigh, Elliot says, ‘Come on lads. Spit it out.’
Stephen and Cory exchange glances and feign innocence.
‘What do you mean?’ says Cory, tapping tattooed fingers on the bar.
'Spit what out, Elliot?’ says Stephen, chewing on the complimentary peanuts.
Elliot is wiping down the bar with a cloth. 'There’s something you’re not telling me. What’s up? Out with it, already.’
Stephen grimaces, then stuffs his mouth with another handful of peanuts. He looks at Cory, who seems to find the countertop absolutely fascinating.
'Oh my god,’ says Elliot, 'I’m not some delicate flower. Just tell me.’
Cory, finally, is the brave one. 'Dorothea’s back in town,’ he says, with such insincere nonchalance it’s almost laughable, were it not for the bomb he just dropped. Dorothea. Back. Here? 'Just for the weekend,’ Cory continues, 'she’s seeing her folks for Christmas.’
But Elliot can barely hear the words. Blood rushes in his ears.
'Dorothea?’ he mutters. His high school girlfriend, back home? Does she remember him? He never stopped thinking about her; not that she’d given him that chance. He sees her every day, in blockbuster movies and makeup ads, on magazine covers and the poster at the bus stop. (And the secret polaroid in his pocket. When Cory found out he gave him shit for it, but never told Stephen, for which Elliot is grateful)
Dorothea. He never thought he’d see her again, not in real life, resigned as he was to always be just one of her many admirers, only ever dreaming about being able to touch her again, to fuck her like he used to in the back of his old truck.
Stephen scoffs. 'See, I told you he’d get like this. Get that fuckin’ dopey look off your face, dude.’
Cory laughs, and mocks, 'Oh, Dorothea, the one that got away. Do you think she still remembers me?’ He puts his hands over his heart and bats his lashes, pouting.
This snaps Elliot out of it, and he throws his wet cloth at his friend. 'Shut the fuck up, dude. That was years ago, we’ve both moved on.’
Stephen, evidently, thinks this is the funniest thing Elliot has ever said, and he chokes on his beer.
Cory throws the cloth back at him, and says, 'She’ll be at carols tonight.’
'She will?’ asks Elliot.
'She will?’ Stephen copies, mocking in falsetto. Elliot punches his shoulder.
Cory ignores Stephen. 'So I’ve heard,’ he says. 'You’re gonna go, right?’
'Eh,’ says Elliot, with a shrug, 'not really my thing. Probably not.’
That was a lie. Of course he goes to carols.
Inside the church, he’s skittish all evening, eyes peeled for perfect auburn curls and blue eyes. He sings along to the carols half-heartedly, craning his neck to examine each face in the crowd. Cory has to elbow him when he misses the cue to sit down.
'Pull yourself together, man,’ Cory hisses to him. But Elliot doesn’t, letting the sounds of carols and Christmas hymns wash over him, inattentive. He has better things to focus on; namely one celebrity ex-girlfriend hidden in the throng.
After the service ends, he’s unintentionally rude to regular churchgoing old ladies, brushing them off as he scans the congregation. Just as he’s resigned to miss her, ready to head out among the dispersing crowd, there she is.
Rugged up in designer coat and scarf, laughing in slow motion, perfection personified. She’s so shiny and smooth compared to the rest of the town, in their thrift store layers and five-dollar haircuts. Everything about her is so magnetic, the rest of the world fades to greys beside her vibrancy; she’s a cut-out from a glossy magazine taped to a scribbled children’s drawing.
Elliot is caught in her orbit, and he finds his legs moving toward her before his brain can catch up, and suddenly he’s standing right in front of her. Heart hiccupping in his chest, he wipes his palms on his jeans as he clears his throat, catching her attention.
'Hey, uh,’ he begins eloquently. His voice breaks, squeaking like he’s a teenager again. 'Dorothea. I don’t know if you remember me, but uh?’
Dorothea’s face breaks into a wide grin. 'Elliot!’ she all but squeals, 'Of course I remember you, silly!’ She wraps him up in an affectionate hug, and his nerves melt away, slush down a drain. She’s standing on tiptoes to reach her arms around his shoulders, and his arms snake around her waist as if they were made for this, and it feels exactly the same as it did eight years ago.
Dorothea loosens her grip and Elliot pulls away reluctantly. Behind Dorothea, Stephen makes a lewd gesture, which Elliot ignores. Instead, he says, 'Wanna go on a walk with me?’
Dorothea’s smile could melt polar ice caps. She takes his hand.
Wandering through town streets, mittened hand in mittened hand, Elliot and Dorothea reminisce over old memories. The main drag is empty and quiet as they walk down it, streetlights aglow.
'Oh, I remember the Christmas pageant parading down here every year,’ Dorothea says, wistful smile on her face. 'Is that still going! Oh, tell me it is!’
Elliot has never been one for Christmas spirit, but Dorothea’s enthusiasm is just so adorable, he can’t help but get caught up in it. 'Yeah, they’ll be parading tomorrow.’
'Oh, we have to go!’ she says, tugging his arm. 'I used to love the parade!’
'Loved being the centre of attention, huh? You in your little elf outfit, with the stripy tights, I remember.’ Elliot pokes her side and she squeals, skipping away.
'It was very vogue, Elliot,’ she jokes, putting her hands on her hips. 'Not that I’d expect you to understand.’ She gestures to his khaki puffer coat, and he gasps in mock offense.
'Not all of us have closets the size of Texas, Dolly,’ he retorts, giving her a playful shove.
She laughs. 'Don’t get started with that old nickname again, Elliot!’
'If it fits, it fits!’ Elliot says, 'You had a new Sunday best each week! Your mother dressed you up like a little plaything. You were her little Dolly!’
She rolls her eyes and scoffs. 'I’m everyone’s Dolly.’
Elliot says quietly, 'You were never a toy to me, though.’
Maybe that was too sincere. She looks away, avoiding his gaze, and an awkward silence makes the chilly air colder.
Then suddenly, Dorothea points and says, 'Hey look, the playground!’ and she tugs his hand, skipping towards it. Elliot struggles to keep up, following Dorothea and her ruby red scarf flapping like a flag in the wind.
They play on the playground like they’re kids again, and they don’t talk about their lives since Dorothea left. They don’t talk about who they’ve been seeing, even though Elliot knows she’s been seen with some strong-jawed Adonis of a co-star, and the thought of it leaves him with an iciness he’d do better to ignore. Dorothea was never his to keep. Always her own person, never tied down; he’d do well to remember that. But when she tilts her head back and says in that sing-song voice 'It’s snowing!’ and sticks her tongue out to catch the flakes, he can’t tamp down the pang of heartache.
'Dance with me,’ he says.
He pulls her into him and they twirl around as snow floats around them like slow motion confetti.
'You remember prom night?’ he asks.
There’s a gleam in her eyes. Of course she does.
How could she not remember the best night of her life?
Dorothea examined the corsage on her wrist as the chevy rumbled down the main street, warm spring air ruffling her curls through the rolled-down window. She was speaking to Elliot in the driver’s seat. 'I mean, it’s not that I think prom is overrated, I just;’
'You just think prom is overrated?’ Elliot shot her a lopsided grin and Dorothea’s stomach flipped. Always a sucker for that smile. 'I mean, it kinda is,’ he said, 'Never saw the big deal, myself.’ He turned his attention back to the road, and Dorothea couldn’t help but admire the way his hands gripped the wheel, strong and sturdy. Her gaze travelled to his crooked tie and unbuttoned collar, to the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he talked. She licked her lips.
'Me neither,’ she said, 'It’s just. My mother is so insistent, especially after;’ she gestured to her dress, a magenta monstrosity of silk and taffeta. 'It’s like, after all the effort she put in, I’m kinda obligated to;’
He cut her off. 'You don’t actually think we’re going to the prom, do you?’
She frowned, confused, as he turned right into the parking lot of the local playground. He jumped out of the truck with enthusiasm, and before Dorothea could react, he was opening her door and holding out his hand.
'My lady,’ he said, bowing, and she took his hand and giggled as he led her to the playground.
Dorothea ripped her dress sliding down the slide, scraped her palms when Elliot pushed her off the swing, and scuffed her pumps chasing him around and wrestling him, her perfectly styled ringlets slowly coming undone, becoming more dishevelled as the night went on. She laughed so hard her belly ached.
And then the sky broke above them, and they were caught in a downpour of rain, drenching them both. Elliot hauled Dorothea to her feet.
'May I have this dance?’
Dorothea had never felt so alive as when she waltzed with Elliot in the pouring rain. It was a perfect spring storm, thunder booming in the distance, scent of jasmine rich in the air, as the two of them twirled together under fluorescent streetlights, laughing into each other’s mouths.
'This dress is going to be a nightmare to get out of,’ she said. It clung to her, heavy with water.
'I can help you with that,’ said Elliot.
And then they were in the back seat of the chevy, swapping virginities in an awkward clash of limbs and mouths.
There was no hesitance about it; they had been waiting long enough. Waiting for the perfect moment to screw each other’s brains out, and finally, here it was. A perfect moment as any: in Elliot’s old chevy, rain tapping the roof, back seat lit only by the yellow-gold light of the streetlamps.
Dorothea straddled Elliot’s thighs and kissed him, sloppy and graceless and full of passion. She ground down on him, swivelling her hips, and felt the hard length of him beneath his pants. He gasped out a grunt that sent shivers of anticipation through her and he shoved her off him. He couldn’t undo his belt fast enough, trembling as he wriggled out of his pants, cock springing free.
Dorothea leaned down, gave it a curious lick in one long stripe, before eagerly putting the whole thing into her mouth, swallowing down. Elliot jerked his hips up into her and hissed out a whispered 'Fuck,’ in a voice heavy with lust. Dorothea became aware of just how turned on she was; there was an urgent, gooey feeling underneath the lace of her panties.
She moaned around him, saliva dripping down his cock. He had to pull her off him, tugging at her hair to free himself.
'Fuck, Dolly,’ he groaned. 'Slow down.’
She gazed up at him. He was flushed and panting, jaw slack and lips bitten red. Fuck, he was so hot, and Dorothea’s mouth watered as she tried to get his cock in her mouth once more, but he pushed her back, denying her.
'Seriously,’ he said, a little desperate, 'I don’t wanna; you know, too soon.’
That stopped her. 'Oh,’ she said. Her ego flourished at the thought that she could get him there so quickly, and a smug, feline grin spread across her face. 'In that case,’ she said, 'You should make me come first.’
She twisted off him and leaned back, hiked the skirts of her dress up and spread her legs, exposing her purple lace and silk panties. She waggled her eyebrows at him. 'Eat up.’
'Bossy,’ Elliot replied, but he maneuvered himself between her legs and tugged at her underwear. 'Oh my god, Dolly,’ he breathed, stroking the damp lace. His breath was hot against the fabric. 'How are you already so wet?’
She squirmed beneath him. 'I hear a lot of words coming from that mouth, when it should be doing something else,’ she said. She tugged his curly hair, urging him closer.
'Yes ma'am,’ he said. He pulled her panties to the side and dove in.
Dorothea’s body sang. His tongue, so hot, so wet, lapped at her pussy fervently. Unpracticed, sure, but his enthusiasm more than made up for it, and when his middle finger slipped inside and pumped wetly, she lost control, squeezing her thighs around Elliot and trembling as orgasm descended.
He pulled off her, obviously pleased. His chin was wet and sticky, and she licked herself off him before kissing him deeply, sucking off the tangy juices coating his tongue.
'I bought; I have a box of condoms in the glovebox,’ Elliot murmured into her mouth.
'Someone came prepared,’ Dorothea said, giggling.
'Shut up,’ he said playfully, 'and let me fuck you.’
That shut her up. She leaned back, expectant, while Elliot retrieved the condoms from the front. He rolled one on, and then he was holding himself over her, nudging his cock at her entrance.
When he sank into her, it stung. The stretch of his cock inside her was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, but not altogether unpleasant. His self-control was admirable, holding himself still while Dorothea settled in, still getting used to this new feeling of fullness.
'You okay?’ he said, voice throaty and low.
She bit her lip and nodded. 'You can fuck me, Elliot,’ she said. 'I won’t break.’
He looked like he might. 'I’ll go slow,’ he promised. And he did. Slowly he slid out, almost to the tip, then inch by inch he slipped inside again, and the friction was delicious. In and out, in and out, she clenched around him, and his eyebrows creased in concentration. Beads of sweat dotted his temples.
The thrusts increased in speed, and she moved her hips in time with his. 'Harder,’ she commanded, 'faster.’
He slammed into her, and the truck rocked with them. Dorothea moaned and squeezed her knees around his chest. He grunted, gasped, then froze when he came, muscles coiled as his cock pumped inside her.
They lay back in the chevy, damp and panting as the storm raged on outside. Elliot pulled out a polaroid camera from the glovebox.
Flash.
There was Dorothea, frozen in time. Her grin was radiant sunshine in a spring storm, glassy eyed and rosy cheeked, a satisfied woman.
Back in the present, they dance together like they did all those years ago, snow crunching underfoot. Elliot is just as lost in her as he was back then, drowning in aquamarine eyes and plush, playful lips.
If he kisses her now, will she taste his heart in his mouth?
He surges forward and catches her mouth in his, and she kisses back just as desperately, just as hungrily. He can taste the ache in her, and it matches his. Dorothea presses herself to him, and he’s embarrassingly hard.
'I want to fuck you so bad,’ he says into her mouth. Their frosted breath mingles together. 'I’d bend you over right here in the park if it wasn’t so freezing cold.’
'I’m staying with my parents,’ she says. Her voice is shaky, saturated with want. 'You live alone?’
'You know it,’ Elliot replies into her neck. Then he bites her gently, and Dorothea’s moan in response nearly shatters him right there on the pavement. 'Come on.’ He takes her hand and together they run to his apartment, four blocks away.
At home, he barely has time to turn the lights on and shut the door behind him before Dorothea pounces, and they crash together on his sofa. Her tongue is in his mouth, her hands are clawing at his winter coat.
Removing Dorothea’s clothes is more slapstick than striptease, a clown car of clothing. Elliot laughs into her mouth. 'How many fucking layers have you got on, woman?’
'Shut up,’ she says, smiling and pushing him back on the sofa, straddling him as she peels off her thermal underlayers. His hands are all over her skin, releasing her breasts from her bra.
'Your tits are fucking amazing,’ says Elliot. He massages them, giving a gentle squeeze, and Dorothea arches into his touch. No longer the thin, coltish figure from her youth, Dorothea’s body has well and truly filled out into a classic Hollywood shape, full breasts and hips, and truly incredible ass. Elliot takes a moment to admire with his hands.
Dorothea hums and grinds her hips into him, eliciting a hiss from him. 'Come on, Elliot,’ she says, tugging at his flannel shirt, 'your turn.’
When, finally, they are both stripped bare, Elliot wastes no time, hauling Dorothea to her back and tonguing down her body, kissing her smooth, tan skin until he reaches her pretty pink pussy, waxed bare but for a triangle of dark curls. He licks the crease between her vulva and her thigh, and she shivers beneath him, hand tangled in his hair.
'I’ve been thinking about this since I heard you were here,’ he says. 'Daydreaming about it all through carols.’
'Naughty,’ Dorothea replies. She’s about to say something else, but Elliot licks a line up her slit and the words are lost in a moan.
He hums in satisfaction as he sucks at her clit and pumps a finger in and out of her, the sound of her slick and sloshing making him even harder. He recognizes the tell-tale signs of imminent orgasm and pulls away.
Dorothea whines and tries to pull his mouth back, but Elliot says, 'You’re gonna come on my cock this time.’
'Fucking do it then,’ she says.
He smirks and tuts at her. 'So demanding.’
But then he sinks into her, all the arrogance slides out of him, replaced with pure pleasure. It’s fucking unreal, the sounds she’s making and the way her tits bounce as he pounds into her. She claws his shoulders and her hips gyrate, and she tightens around him, moaning his name as she comes beneath him.
That sets him off, and he pulls out and paints her skin with him, streaking come on her stomach and breasts.
He’s never going to forget this image: Dorothea, perfectly dishevelled, sweaty and flushed and striped snow-white with come.
The weekend goes like this:
During the Christmas pageant, they steal away from the crowd to bite each other’s lips and grind against each other, whispering all the filthy things they’ll do to each other later.
During dinner at Dorothea’s parents’ place, they slip into the hallway, where Elliot has one hand over Dorothea’s mouth to stifle her moans, the other up her skirt, two fingers inside her, coaxing out orgasm after orgasm.
During the Christmas day service, Dorothea leads him into a confessional so she can service him on her knees, her mouth stretched around his cock and his hands tangled in her hair, and when he urges her deeper her eyes glint in a way that is so seductive, he can’t hold it in anymore, pumping her mouth so full of come it dribbles down her delicate chin.
Later, that night, Dorothea wears red and white striped thigh-highs and a ridiculous Santa hat, and she bounces on top of him, mouth open with pleasure as she leans back and plays with her clit, bringing herself over the edge. Elliot’s hands grip her hips, fingers sinking into her curves. She makes him come just like that; drains him until he’s nothing but a blissed-out husk of a man.
It’s so, so easy to pretend the past eight years never happened. They are horny eighteen-year-olds again, completely wrapped up in each other, kiss bruised lips and fingers entwined.
With each stolen hour he falls a little more in love with her. The way she pats her bloated middle when she’s had too much gingerbread, but greedily reaches for more every time. The way she dresses up the family cat, Snowball, in a little elf outfit, the way she giggles so infectiously when Snowball glares at her under his tiny hat. The way she sings along to every Christmas song, making up silly little dances and somehow convincing Elliot to join in. It’s what she’s always done, who she’s always been; pure, concentrated enthusiasm for everything, like a comet burning bright, and Elliot can’t help but get swept up in the fiery energy of her.
It’s the last night she spends with him, and Dorothea is at his door, snow swirling behind her.
'I’m going back to LA tomorrow,’ Dorothea says, a little sheepish. Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her perfectly tailored coat. 'Flight’s at eight. Can I stay here tonight?’
Elliot doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods and lets her in wordlessly, desperately trying to pretend his world isn’t shattering around him. After a dinner of ham and turkey leftovers, they sit on the rug in front of Elliot’s electric fireplace, Dorothea’s legs in his lap.
'Can’t believe the weekend has gone so quickly,’ he says. Dorothea won’t look at him. 'I don’t want you to leave.’
Her eyes are cold, icy blue. 'Don’t start, Elliot.’
Of course. Don’t start that argument again. Back when Dorothea had gotten the call-back, and the agent insisted she fly out to LA, she and Elliot had argued themselves hoarse. He was stubborn and refused to let her go, but the more he clung, the more he begged and pleaded and cried, the more she resented him for holding her back.
Desperate not to go down that road again, Elliot backtracks. 'Sorry; right, I know. I didn’t mean it.’
It’s snowing heavily outside, and the wind howls like a sad wolf. As penance, Elliot takes Dorothea’s stockinged feet into his hands and begins rubbing circles into the soles. They remain silent like this for several minutes, as Dorothea stares into the fireplace, sullen. Elliot wants to kiss those pouting lips.
'Well,’ he says, anxious to bring back the ease and warmth between them, 'since it’s your last night here, I better make it one to remember.’ His fingers are working their way up her calves, inching under her wool skirt to tug at her stockings.
This changes Dorothea’s tune. 'Oh?’ she says, one eyebrow raised. 'What do you have in mind?’
Elliot rolls Dorothea’s stockings down and tosses them to the side. 'Hmmm… I have a few ideas.’ His voice is low and seductive, and from the way Dorothea’s face colors, the way she bites her lip, he can tell his plan is working. Past arguments are forgotten as lust envelopes the two of them.
He leans down to kiss the inside of her knee, tonguing at the skin, and when he looks up she lets out the smallest of whimpers. It encourages him forward, and his tongue teases up her thighs. Her skirt is bunched at the waist, revealing her spread legs, and his fingers ghost over the fabric of her panties, so light she must barely even feel it. She bucks into him, and he pulls back slightly.
'Let’s not get too carried away, now,’ he teases, and the smallest of whimpers becomes a desperate little moan.
He’s addicted to seeing her like this; craving and helpless, aching for him. It fills him with a heady rush, and he laughs, a little dazed. He has to distance himself and cool down for a second, or else he’ll end up fucking her like a crazed beast, and he doesn’t want that. He wants to take his time, knowing it’s the last time he’ll have her like this.
So he pulls back. 'Strip,’ he orders with a jerk of his head.
She does, leaving her clothes in a crumpled heap by the sofa.
He catches his breath. Lit only by the fireplace and blinking Christmas lights, she looks like a goddamn playboy centerfold; auburn hair cascading down her shoulders in waves, golden skin and wine-red lips, nude but for the glinting ruby pendant nestled between her breasts. But she doesn’t stay sitting pretty and preening under his gaze for long. She launches herself onto him, and Elliot topples backwards, rug soft beneath his back.
'You are wearing far too many clothes,’ she says, her voice sultry and low, a timbre he’s become intimately familiar with over the past few days.
After his clothes join hers in the pile by the sofa, she mouths kisses along the skin of his neck, down his chest and belly, until finally she takes his cock into his mouth. He planned to make this night solely about her, but when she moves her tongue like that, suctions in just the right way, he thinks he can indulge just a little. He moans his appreciation, and when she grins up at him, looking downright filthy with lipstick smudged and saliva smeared along her chin, it’s too much.
He groans and shoves her off. 'Back, harlot,’ he says, joking, 'I won’t succumb to your wicked wiles so easily.’ He positions her so she’s now the one on her back, and he’s in between her legs, breath ghosting over her pussy.
'Oh no,’ she giggles breathlessly, 'what a dastardly punishment for a dirty whore… This is the opposite of what I want.’ The sarcasm drips from her voice, and Elliot rolls his eyes.
'Cheeky,’ he says, 'I’ll show you.’
He licks her out torturously slowly, soft enough that she’s writhing beneath him, back arching up off the floor, fingers tangled in his hair. With his tongue fluttering gently over her clit, he strokes his fingers through slick, swollen folds, just enough to tease, never quite dipping inside.
She is drenched in desperation, rendered stupid with it, gasping in little staccato bursts, 'Oh, fuck; ElliotI want; fuck; I just.’
'Needy little thing, aren’t you?’ he murmurs, smiling into her skin.
All Dorothea can do is moan even louder, and when her mouth forms that perfect round O, breath hitching and muscles quivering, Elliot stops just before her orgasm hits its peak. He sits back on his heels to watch her flounder.
'What; what?’ She makes an impatient, keening sound from the back of her throat.
She’s right on the edge, and Elliot drinks in the sight of her, a squirming, moaning mess just for him, eyes glassy, skin flushed under a thin sheen of sweat. When will be the next time he has her splayed out like this, pliant in his hands, so eager for him? It does something powerful to his ego, and he savours the sight, smirking.
'No,’ she whines quietly, 'come back here, come fuck me.’
Elliot’s smirk becomes a grin. 'Greedy girl,’ he says, 'So bossy, too. I ought to take you down a peg.’
Dorothea shivers. 'What do you mean?’
Taking her by the ankles, he pulls her closer until her legs fall to either side of him. His cock rests on her mons as he leans over her, taking her breasts in his hands and thumbing softly over her nipples. She groans.
'I’d like to hear you beg, Dorothea,’ he says.
'Beg?’ Her voice is a small whimper.
'That’s right,’ Elliot replies, voice cool and smooth, as if he can’t feel the throbbing heat of her pussy beneath his hard cock. 'I want to hear you beg for me.’ He brings one hand down between her legs and dips a finger inside before smearing her juices over her clit and stroking gently in a way he knows won’t get her off, but will be just enough to keep her on the edge and desperate for him.
'Please,’ she whines, breathless, 'please, Elliot, please.’
He likes the sound of that. He sinks one finger into her and hooks it so the pad of his finger rubs right against her g-spot, and then he holds it there, unmoving.
'Please, what, Dorothea?’ he says, 'What do you want?’
She wriggles her hips, but Elliot removes his left hand from her breast to pin her hips down with his forearm. 'Uh-uh-uh,’ he says, shaking his head, 'That’s not how this works, love. You have to earn it.’
'Oh, fuck,’ she breathes, hands fisting at the rug, helpless.
Maybe he’s being a little too mean to her; maybe she’s so far gone she’s not even capable of speech. But then the begging begins, and the filthiest stream of words fall from Dorothea’s mouth.
She begs him to fuck her like the greedy little slut she is, spread her open and stretch her out with his thick cock, fill her up and make her scream. What can Elliot do but obey?
He slips his finger out of her wet cunt and slowly plunges his cock inside, then grabs her ankles to spread her apart wider as he thrusts into her with unforgiving abandon. She’s so wound up that just two pumps in she’s screaming his name, unravelling beneath him as orgasm rushes through her body. It doesn’t take much longer before Elliot bursts, filling her with come until its sloshing inside her, leaking thick and sticky down her thighs.
Still buried inside her, he leans in for a sloppy kiss, and as their tongues slide against each other she hums contentedly into his mouth.
He runs a bath for the two of them, and they clean each other the best they can, rubbing soapy washcloths over each other’s sticky skin. Dorothea is spent, her eyes are half-lidded and her body droops with exhaustion, so Elliot carries her bridal-style into the bedroom, where they fall asleep in each other’s arms.
She’s so warm and fits so perfectly against him. Elliot will never sleep this well again.
Dorothea’s alarm buzzes in the thin light of morning. His mind still clouded from sleep, Elliot holds his arms tight around her middle as she tries her best to wriggle out of bed, swatting him playfully and giggling. He pulls her back into him and murmurs against her skin.
'Stay, Dorothea.’
She stiffens. The giggling stops. The cotton candy in Elliot’s skull melts away as he realises what he’s done. He’d give anything to swallow the word back down again, but it’s too late.
The warmth is gone, and so is Dorothea.
She doesn’t say a word to him as she leaves, in such a rush she forgets her scarf, crumpled beneath couch cushions in the living room. If Elliot spends the next several nights wrapped in it, smelling her scent, nobody needs to know.
On the plane back to California, Dorothea wipes her tears.
It was the right choice, she tells herself. She could never be happy with Elliot.
She wasn’t built for small-town drudgery. She was made for bright lights and crowds, attention and glamour. So she has to sacrifice a warm bed and honest love for a fast-paced Hollywood lifestyle? That’s not so bad.
Elliot will move on, anyway. One day he’ll meet his future wife, and they’ll have children together, and Dorothea will be nothing more than a distant memory and the face of a lipstick commercial in the background.
Pull yourself together.
She fixes her mascara and takes a deep breath. She smiles when the cameras flash.
By megalodon_ for Literotica
