Driftwood Deeds by Laila Blake

melody. 
    Something toppled off onto the floor but I hardly noticed. I was grappling at the wooden surface, at my breasts, at the open air—anything that I might hold on to as my body started to billow like a sheet in the wind.
    “Please!” I spluttered, whimpered, pleaded for nothing in particular except for him not to stop. His tongue moved around my clit, around and around until all the wine and all the pleasure made it almost impossible to accurately distinguish the source of the sensations and my entire body felt wrapped up in the moment. 
    “Paul... please... oh please!” I only noticed then, that I was echoing myself. This past self on the tape was begging for more pain and I, greedy present I, was pleading for pleasure but we sounded just the same. Except, when I came, I howled louder than she did.
    I’d never been what anyone could call loud in bed before. And maybe it was the kitchen table or the encouraging companionship with my moaning self, but I was then. He didn’t stop as my cunt contracted around his fingers, and the sensations mounted again and again until every muscle in my body was hard and tense like receiving an electric shock and a keening wail announced my second? Third? I don’t know which. 
    When Paul finally pulled his fingers out of me, I lay across that table, limp and panting hard. He kissed my labia, then the inside of my thigh. Then he pulled me into a sitting position and gathered me up in his arms. For once, I didn’t worry whether I was too heavy.
     

 
     
     
    XI
     
     
    “Did you share in this one?” I asked, voice low and raspy once he’d laid me down on his bed, remembering what he’d said about becoming so entwined that he felt what I felt, pain, pleasure, orgasms. The bed was made of driftwood again, and starchy white cotton sheets that smelled of laundry detergent. I did wonder whether he always slept like this or had made the bed that morning, considering the possibility he might end up here with the visiting journalist.
    He smiled in response, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at me. His fingers brushed over my breast and my nipples stood to immediate attention, as though they too wanted to prove their obedience to him.
    “I did.” There was hesitation in his tone, if just to find the right words. In the end he didn’t say anything—words unfit to quite encompass what it had felt like. I could empathize. I wouldn’t have been able to say what exactly had happened inside of me when he spilled his seed onto my tongue.
    The lighting was low. It was soothing to my eyes, light-sensitive after my orgasm. Night had fallen outside and he had only lit a candle on the nightstand. I don’t know how long we rested there, me lying down, not moving a muscle and he sitting beside me. 
    I found myself wondering how his tongue might taste now. Had my juices washed the wine away or was it still there, a base note to the new and salty flavor? But he did not kiss me again. He got to his feet after a while and opened his pants. Exhaustion couldn’t slow the rush of excitement that burned through me at the sight. He pulled them down and stepped out of them easily. He had to know that I was watching him, but he didn’t show any sign of discomfort. He just gave me a smile, another one of those thoughtfully nice ones that I was now coming to think of as detached. I knew the difference now, still gentle, still caring but there was an absence, unmistakable and dark.
    “I still want to fuck you, puppy.” 
    I closed my eyes against the warm shudder running through my veins. Of course I couldn’t keep them that way, not when he was walking around, his stunning cock standing to attention. He didn’t seem rushed, just pulled the curtains closed, then left the room for a few minutes and returned with a tall glass of water that he put down next to the candle on the nightstand. He looked down at me again but he didn’t sit down.
    “Touch yourself,” he said in that