Read Online Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, couple, public, rimming) by Paul Hellion - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Hellion
Tags: Erótica, Sex, Erotic Romance, blowjob, Exhibitionism, rimming, Public, couple, exhibitionist, farewell, assplay, airport
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The sky is a dark, dark blue;
quiet, still, peaceful. But you aren’t. You’re a different sort of blue right
now.
The car scurries off and you steer,
following the curves and bends and subtleties of the road. You sneak one glance
at me, sitting in the passenger seat. Five minutes ago I had gotten into some
long, undefined, enthusiastic tangent about something-or-another. Now my head’s
slumped, asleep, resting on my shoulder, and you smile a little to yourself.
There's half an hour to the drive
to go. It's chilly outside, with light lasting fog from the heavy rain that had
kept us up all last night, and even inside the car it's not as warm as you'd
like. It's an artificial warmth: nothing sincere or genuine about it, another
reminder of today.
There’s a certain warmth you want
right now — closeness, you decide, and yet here you are driving in the
opposition direction.
I doze in and out of consciousness,
jerking my head straight, looking at you, the rear view mirror, the side
mirrors, the dashboard, my own hands. You whistle some half-remembered tune to
yourself.
"Fuck," I murmur,
groaning, really, "I'm just so tired." I shift in my seat. I rub my
hands together.
You nod, keeping your eyes on the
road. It's a straightforward journey, which is not to say that the road's
always straight. "Oh, it's good," you respond.
I mumble something inaudible to
counter that. My hand reaches out to rest on your lap, rubbing lightly, feeling
against your jeans. "Of all the days in the week the airline could choose
to make only one flight out for my route, it has to be today."
"And it has to be a 6am
flight," you muse aloud.
"Yeah."
"Don't yawn."
"Hmmm?" I yawn. I can't
help it.
You yawn, too.
"I told you not to yawn. And
go back to sleep. It's fine."
"Will you be able to drive
while I nap? Might get lonely."
"It's fine."
These words sound distant,
indifferent. Both of us pick up on that. You see my mouth open just a slight
bit, about to mention it. You find yourself at the brink of apologizing for it.
But for reasons known only to ourselves, we keep quiet.
The rest of the drive is silent.
You don't put the radio on because you want to be able to think. Yet, you can't
think; it's too silent.
Instead your mind flashes down to
earlier last night, at 9pm, laying down and facing one another in bed. My hand
was on your thigh, then, too, a touch perfectly duplicated here as you drive
and I try to catch more sleep. Your mind flashes to a kiss, brief, wordless.
Your mind flashes to clothes coming off. Your mind flashes to buttons, zippers,
folds.
Your mind flashes to another kiss.
It's a slow, soft kiss, and there are words spoken in the background of the
kiss, unheard in the swelling undercurrent of passion as the kiss escalates.
Your mind flashes to the words. You concentrate. "I don't want to
go," you hear the words speak to you.
"It's fine," you reply.
Your mind jolts you back to reality, back to driving. You've been driving
slowly. You clearly haven't been paying that much attention to the driving. The
car is neatly cruising along on the line separating both lanes.
Your mind flashes to blankets and
covers and pillowcases.
Your mind flashes to fingertips.
Fingertips. You remember the feeling of of fingertips tracing a path along your
skin. They press against your neck. They press against your side. They press
against your breasts. They press against your thighs.
Your mind flashes to slow, paced
breaths. Yours. It's raining outside, heavily, and the rushing sound distracts
the both of you. You look at me, then out at the window. "Hope it doesn't
get much worse," you hear me say, before burrowing my face against your
stomach, kissing.
I start kissing and you inhale
sharply. You're tingling inside. You're not feeling warm; you're feeling hot.
You know this might be the last time we'll be this intimate, physically, for a
long, long time. You want to avoid doing this for that reason alone. You
stiffen. I don't seem to
quiet, still, peaceful. But you aren’t. You’re a different sort of blue right
now.
The car scurries off and you steer,
following the curves and bends and subtleties of the road. You sneak one glance
at me, sitting in the passenger seat. Five minutes ago I had gotten into some
long, undefined, enthusiastic tangent about something-or-another. Now my head’s
slumped, asleep, resting on my shoulder, and you smile a little to yourself.
There's half an hour to the drive
to go. It's chilly outside, with light lasting fog from the heavy rain that had
kept us up all last night, and even inside the car it's not as warm as you'd
like. It's an artificial warmth: nothing sincere or genuine about it, another
reminder of today.
There’s a certain warmth you want
right now — closeness, you decide, and yet here you are driving in the
opposition direction.
I doze in and out of consciousness,
jerking my head straight, looking at you, the rear view mirror, the side
mirrors, the dashboard, my own hands. You whistle some half-remembered tune to
yourself.
"Fuck," I murmur,
groaning, really, "I'm just so tired." I shift in my seat. I rub my
hands together.
You nod, keeping your eyes on the
road. It's a straightforward journey, which is not to say that the road's
always straight. "Oh, it's good," you respond.
I mumble something inaudible to
counter that. My hand reaches out to rest on your lap, rubbing lightly, feeling
against your jeans. "Of all the days in the week the airline could choose
to make only one flight out for my route, it has to be today."
"And it has to be a 6am
flight," you muse aloud.
"Yeah."
"Don't yawn."
"Hmmm?" I yawn. I can't
help it.
You yawn, too.
"I told you not to yawn. And
go back to sleep. It's fine."
"Will you be able to drive
while I nap? Might get lonely."
"It's fine."
These words sound distant,
indifferent. Both of us pick up on that. You see my mouth open just a slight
bit, about to mention it. You find yourself at the brink of apologizing for it.
But for reasons known only to ourselves, we keep quiet.
The rest of the drive is silent.
You don't put the radio on because you want to be able to think. Yet, you can't
think; it's too silent.
Instead your mind flashes down to
earlier last night, at 9pm, laying down and facing one another in bed. My hand
was on your thigh, then, too, a touch perfectly duplicated here as you drive
and I try to catch more sleep. Your mind flashes to a kiss, brief, wordless.
Your mind flashes to clothes coming off. Your mind flashes to buttons, zippers,
folds.
Your mind flashes to another kiss.
It's a slow, soft kiss, and there are words spoken in the background of the
kiss, unheard in the swelling undercurrent of passion as the kiss escalates.
Your mind flashes to the words. You concentrate. "I don't want to
go," you hear the words speak to you.
"It's fine," you reply.
Your mind jolts you back to reality, back to driving. You've been driving
slowly. You clearly haven't been paying that much attention to the driving. The
car is neatly cruising along on the line separating both lanes.
Your mind flashes to blankets and
covers and pillowcases.
Your mind flashes to fingertips.
Fingertips. You remember the feeling of of fingertips tracing a path along your
skin. They press against your neck. They press against your side. They press
against your breasts. They press against your thighs.
Your mind flashes to slow, paced
breaths. Yours. It's raining outside, heavily, and the rushing sound distracts
the both of you. You look at me, then out at the window. "Hope it doesn't
get much worse," you hear me say, before burrowing my face against your
stomach, kissing.
I start kissing and you inhale
sharply. You're tingling inside. You're not feeling warm; you're feeling hot.
You know this might be the last time we'll be this intimate, physically, for a
long, long time. You want to avoid doing this for that reason alone. You
stiffen. I don't seem to
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