Part Nine of Your Story

It was a black day, the kind of day that starts most tragic stories, but this isn’t a sob story. This is a love story.

Australia is quite possibly more beautiful than anyone could have ever told me. We got off the plane and it was the perfect fucking temperature–a breeze keeping my back from sweating too much, the sun behind a small wall of clouds, some clouds light and fluffy while others foretold storms ahead. Mike and I were going hiking, apparently, and going to a few museums, but mostly I figured we’d have a lot of “Down Under” sex (which is why I chose the nicest hotel possible).

I grabbed Mike’s hand on the taxi ride to the hotel and squeezed, smiling at him from behind our sunglasses. Surely not many people would recognize us, especially if I kept my Jewfro in a beanie. Mike liked it like that. He’s usually the one who has to fit it in there anyway.

The hotel suite we got was huge, almost the size of our house. Decorated nicely, clean towels, mini bar, and a huge bed which I asked to be firm for the weekend. Maybe it was a bummer that we had to be back in LA on Tuesday, but that was three days more than what we figured we’d get as a honeymoon.

I dropped our bags around the bed and sat down on it, watching Mike gush at all the little shampoo bottles–as if he’d never been in a hotel room before. We spent most of our adult lives in random, sometimes creepy, hotel rooms, bunking up with a sweaty bandmate and trying to get some sleep after we were still jacked up from the shows. But still, he commented on every single bottle of vodka and rum and wine and champagne and whatever the fuck else was in the mini bar until he finally, finally, sat down beside me on the bed.

“Hi,” he said with a grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back and kiss him softly. He hummed in the back of his throat and leaned back on the bed; I followed after him and smiled, pulling his lips between mine wetly.

“I have a challenge for you,” I mumbled against his neck, starting to unbutton his plaid shirt.

“Yeah?” He gasped a little as I bit his jaw, arching into my touch. “What kind of challenge?”

I nodded, finally discarding his shirt before removing my own. “I want to see if you can cum so, so hard,” I whispered into his ear as I started work on his pants, “without my touching your hard cock.” And with that I grabbed and squeezed it through his boxers.

“Not even- oh fuck.” He thrusted against my hand and I withdrew, saddling his knees. “Nothing touching it at all?”

I nodded and he grinned; he loved bets and I loved watching him cum.

I removed his pants and boxers, rotating his hips up, bending my knees so I was between them. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and went to my bag for the lube. When I turned back around, though, I saw him jerking himself off slowly, maintaining eye contact with me as if he was daring me to punish him.

“That’s it. Turn over and get on all fours,” I muttered harshly, a smile barely breaking through my voice. He complied and I slapped his ass. “We’re going to do this my way or no way at all. You hear me?”

He moaned and thrusted his hips back at me like a whore. “Yes, sir.” I slapped his ass again and he whimpered.

Impatient, I slathered on lube and thrusted in two fingers at once, moaning at his walls hugging me.

“Fuck! Fuuuuuuuuuck,” he drew out, rocking against my fingers. “Oh, oh…” I saw his hand sneak down his stomach and grabbed it before he could touch himself, holding both his hands at the small of his back.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep them there,” I said into his ass cheek, kissing it softly, and let go of his hands. I didn’t have to tell him twice.

Soon he was full on riding my three fingers, making delicious noises and begging me to touch more of him. After he threatened getting louder (which risked the neighbors hearing and possibly calling management–like fuck I was going to get interrupted) I complied and ran my hand around to his chest, toying with his nipple.

This elicited a long groan and a string of slurred words and curses and within two minutes he was cumming rather hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he kept saying and I pulled my fingers out to fist his dick just as the last few drops squirted and he screamed a little.

“Fuck,” he moaned and turned over. He looked quite delectable; bottom lip red and bleeding from biting it, a pleasure-wrinkle on his forehead, his eyes squeezed tight, his breath coming out in short pants, his cheeks a red color, and his hair sticking up in all sorts of places. I pitied him and leaned over, kissing him and thrusting into his thigh, unable to help myself.

“Yeah,” he said randomly, too high from the orgasm to make sense I figure, and squeezed my ass as I bucked against him shamelessly, sucking loudly on his neck. “Cum on me baby, let me feel it,” he mumbled and I did, so hard I was shaking, and collapsed onto him, my face crooked into his neck.

“I love you,” he said a while later, his fingers tracing pointless patterns on my back. I said it back and fell asleep on top of him.

For the three days we were there, we somehow got out of our hotel room for about ten hours altogether. Went random places, made out at a few bathrooms, maybe some blowjobs and handjobs in the corner of dark restaurants, but most of the time we were together, and alone, and didn’t worry as much as we usually do about the press. It was freeing, the anonymity, and we took advantage of it as much as possible.

We also took advantage of our spacious suite; I feel sorry for the maids who have to clean up all our cum from the walls and furniture and floor and shower and sink and counter, and even a bit on the ceiling. I tipped them on the way out, hoping that would make a difference.

Mike fucked me a total of eleven times that weekend, and I fucked him twenty-three, although we lost count so those numbers are just estimates. Either way, we spent a lot of our honeymoon moaning and cumming, sweaty and writhing into each other, and I’m not complaining in the slightest bit.

The last time, though, was nice. It was a few hours before we had to leave for the airport, and one of those rare times that he was fucking me while I had my fingers in him. He thrusted slowly into me, slower than normal, and kissed me like he meant it, like he wanted to make this last forever. Eventually, though, as he hit my spot and I hit his, our hips began to jerk harder and out of our control and we were tumbling, way too fast, down this hill and I arched hard into him, cumming against his stomach, and he came deep inside me, and instead of stopping we somehow managed to continue moving inside each other, his dick, my fingers.

I began to run out of breath so I had to pull away, in shock that my hips were still rocking slowly. “Fuck,” I mumbled and kissed him again and we finally stilled, still in each other, and made out for another half hour at least. We were only interrupted by our alarm clock going off, and he reached over and turned it off but upon doing so slipped out of me. I whimpered and he sat up on me again, pressing his fingers in instead. It wasn’t the same but it was something, and we stayed cuddled like that until we fell asleep.

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