All of You

2026-09-24 · by AnyoneButSam

She kissed him first.

It wasn't careful. It wasn't a question. It felt more like an attack than a surrender, her mouth finding his before her brain had a chance to vote. His lips were warm and full, and when they parted he tasted clean and faintly sweet, and she pushed into him harder than she meant to. Her hands went to his face. Her fingers slid into his damp dark curls and pulled him closer, and it wasn't gentle, and she didn't want it to be.

Idris kissed her back the way he did everything, all the way, with nothing held back. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then the hem of her tunic. He pulled it up slowly, like undressing her was worth taking his time over, his fingertips following the line where cloth turned into skin. The tunic went over her head. Then the thin undershirt beneath it, his knuckles brushing her stomach, then the undersides of her breasts, so lightly it left heat behind like a match drawn along paper. Then that was gone too.

Sabine stood bare from the waist up. Her breasts were heavy and round, and they dropped a little with the soft weight of being let loose. Her nipples were already hard in the cool air, the wide dusky-pink areolae pebbled and tight. Her body was showing everything her face was trying to hide.

She reached for him and pulled his shirt over his head. Her knuckles dragged down his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, down to the sharp V at his hips she'd been staring at without permission since the pool. She'd seen him shirtless before. It was different now. Closer. Looking at him felt almost like touching him.

She pulled the knot on his trousers and they dropped.

Her breath caught, and she didn't try to hide it. His cock was thick and heavy, veins running along it, the head smooth and flushed dark, the ridge clean and sharp. He was hard, but he was so big the weight of it still pulled it down at an angle. It was the kind of cock you wanted to hold rather than just look at. Her pussy clenched at the sight of it, half wanting, half asking a very practical question about how exactly that was going to fit.

She untied her own trousers and stepped out of them. Then the small linen shorts. She stood naked in front of him. No wet cloth, no dim water, no excuse. Just her, him, the lanterns, and two people breathing faster than they had been a minute ago.

Idris looked at her. The same full, unfiltered attention he gave everything he'd ever looked at, all of it on her now. Being seen like that, by someone who had no idea what he was supposed to want and only knew what he did want, was the most naked she'd ever felt. And the most sure.

He stepped in and kissed her neck, just below her ear, open-mouthed and warm, right over her pulse. A shiver ran down the left side of her body and ended between her legs. He kissed his way down. Her throat. The hollow at the base of it. Her collarbone. Each kiss slow and exactly where it should be.

His hands came up and cupped her breasts, both at once, his palms covering them, his fingers closing firm but not rough, like he'd found something beautiful and had no intention of giving it back. His thumbs circled her nipples, slow and rough, dragging across the hard tips until it was unbearable in the way you never want to stop. She heard herself moan. She hadn't meant to.

His right hand slid down between her breasts, over her stomach, past her navel, down the soft slope of her belly until his fingers found her pussy. She was already soaking. She had been since the kissing. Maybe before. His fingers slid through her wetness and she gasped. He explored her slowly, tracing her swollen lips, circling her opening, learning her the way he learned everything, from the outside in.

He drew small circles around her clit, then wider, slower ones, spreading her wetness everywhere until she was open and slick and every inch of her was aware of his fingers. Then he spread her lips apart with two fingers, holding her open, pressed his thumb flat on her clit and stroked it, up and down, slow and steady and devastating.

"Breathe for me," he said.

The plain calm of it nearly finished her on the spot.

He slid two fingers inside her, and she shook. A fine tremor that started in her thighs and ran up through her hips and her stomach and her chest. Her pussy tightened around his fingers, pulling them deeper. He moved them slowly, curling, feeling for what made her jump, and the pleasure didn't spike. It built. Deep and heavy, like water piling up behind a dam.

Her legs were going. Her breath was going. The sounds coming out of her were getting louder and messier, little gasps and half-words she wasn't choosing.

He pulled his fingers out slowly. They were shiny with her in the lamplight. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, unhurried, eyes on hers, like he was tasting something he'd just discovered and meant to remember. With his other hand he brushed the hair off her face so tenderly that the contrast made her knees buckle.

He led her to the bed.

He lay down on his back, stretched out across the pale silk, curls spread on the pillow, looking up at her. When he settled, his cock fell against his stomach with a thick, heavy slap that made her breath hitch. It reached past his navel, the head resting on his abs, twitching faintly. He reached down, gave it one quick squeeze and moved it to the side, making room between his hips like a man clearing space at the table for a guest he'd been waiting for.

"Get on top," he said.

She hesitated. "I'm not that good on top."

Idris looked at her.

"You're only up there so I can see all of you," he said.

That was what took the last of her armour off. It wasn't a line. He just wanted to look at her, and he said so, plainly, like it had never occurred to him to hide it.

She climbed onto the bed and straddled him. Her knees settled either side of his hips, her inner thighs pressed against his waist, and the head of his cock pushed right up against her wet opening. They both drew breath at the same time.

He took one of her hands and laid it flat on his chest, over his heart, slow and strong. He took the other and wrapped it around his cock, his hand over hers, closing her fingers until she was gripping him properly and could feel him pulse in her palm.

"Lean over," he said.

She leaned forward. Her breasts hung over his face, swaying, her nipples brushing his chest. She angled him with her wrist and fitted the fat head against her, right where she was wettest, and felt the blunt width of it press into her. Her body resisted. Then gave a little. Then resisted again.

She lowered herself a few centimetres. The breath went out of her in a broken shudder. She was tight around him, so tight, her walls clamping down on the thick shaft, half fighting it, half trying to pull more of it in. She rose. Sank again. Deeper. Another inch. Another. The stretch spread through her in slow waves. Up. Down. Deeper. Until finally all of him was inside her and she could feel him everywhere. In her stomach. Behind her ribs. In the shaking muscles of her thighs, which were quickly losing interest in holding her up.

She got used to him.

The ache faded. The fullness didn't. It was enormous, like every other thing she'd ever felt had been running at half power. She straightened, looked down at him, and smiled.

He smiled back. His hands found her breasts and squeezed, thumbs rolling hard over her nipples, and her hips moved on their own, and they both made a sound. He squeezed harder. Not gently. It went past pain, and on the other side of it was something sharp and electric that ran in a straight line from her nipples to her clit.

"Lean forward," he said.

She put her hands on the bed either side of his head. Her hair fell around both their faces like a curtain. Her breasts pressed against his mouth and jaw. Then his hands moved to her hips, gripped hard, and he started to move.

The first thrust went up into her so deep it rewrote what she thought the word meant. Her mouth fell open, and what came out wasn't a word. It was a sharp, rising cry that hit the stone ceiling and fell back down in pieces. The second came before she'd finished feeling the first. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, and the slap of his hips against her ass cracked through the room.

Every stroke made that sound. Wet and loud and rhythmic, echoing off the stone walls. Sabine couldn't talk anymore. What came out of her were yelps, one for every thrust, and low growls from deep in her throat, and long moans that started at the bottom of her chest and climbed and climbed until they cracked apart against the ceiling.

He went faster. Every thrust harder than the last, the rhythm tightening from steady to relentless to something with no brakes on it at all. She stopped making any sound. She couldn't. Her mouth just hung open while he drove into the deepest part of her over and over, every stroke hitting the spot that lit her whole body up, like she was being taken apart and put back together between thrusts. Every time he pulled back, her pussy clenched after him. Every time he came back, he filled her so completely she couldn't tell where he ended and she began. Her walls gripped every veined inch of him like her body had decided this was what it had been built for.

And then for a while there was nothing else in the world.

Just the wet, heavy slap of him driving into her, over and over, so fast the sounds ran together into one long roll of thunder. His hips smacking up into her ass, the soft flesh of it rippling with every hit. His breathing, deep and driven. Hers, broken into gasps that weren't really breaths at all. The bed frame groaning underneath them. The stone walls catching every sound and throwing it back doubled, until it felt like the room itself was breathing with them.

Her body wasn't hers anymore. It was answering his. Her hips slammed down to meet every thrust, and the impact shook through her, rattling her teeth, making her breasts bounce and swing heavy against his chest, her nipples dragging across his skin.

"Idris," she said. It wasn't talking. It was praying. "Idris. Idris. Idris." Once for every thrust, each one higher and more broken, in a voice she hadn't known she had, while something built at the base of her spine like a storm rolling in off the sea.

His hands let go of her hips and took her head, one palm on each side of her face, fingers in her hair, holding her right above him. His eyes locked on hers. He didn't let her look away.

And he went faster.

Her eyes went wide. Everything blurred together. The wet pounding of him inside her. Her broken voice. The bed frame taking more than it was built to take. Her mouth opened, and it came out of her raw.

"Idris, I'm cumming, I'm cum..."

It cut off in the middle. Her voice just stopped, like someone had cut the wire. Her eyes rolled all the way back. Every muscle in her body locked at once, scalp to toes. Her mouth stayed open, but nothing came out. Her fists clenched in the silk so hard it tore under her fingers.

Silence. Total, ringing silence, louder than anything that had come before it.

It didn't pass. It didn't peak and fade. It held. Every thrust he gave her dragged it out longer and pushed her deeper into it, until it stopped being something she was feeling and became something she was inside. Her mind went blank. The room disappeared. There was only him driving up into her, her breasts bouncing, her ass shaking with every hit, and the pleasure, unbroken, wiping her out, going on and on while some tiny drowning part of her wondered whether a person could survive this and whether she even cared.

Four minutes. Later she'd try to work out how long it had lasted, and four minutes was the number she landed on, even though it felt like a lie. It felt like four seconds and four hours at the same time.

Idris let go of her head.

She came back slowly, in pieces, like surfacing from deep water. The lanterns. The torn silk under her hands. His face below hers. He wasn't smug. He looked worried. Genuinely, quietly worried, like he wasn't sure what had just happened to her and wanted to check she was still there.

She was panting. Her whole body was trembling, and she couldn't stop it. Sweat ran down between her breasts and dripped from her chin onto his chest.

He'd stopped moving. He was still inside her, still hard, still filling her completely, and the stillness after all that was almost as intense as the storm.

"Are you close?" she whispered.

He nodded.

She lifted off him slowly. His cock slid out of her inch by inch, and they both shuddered, and when it finally left her, the emptiness felt like a physical thing. Her pussy clenched on nothing.

She moved down his body, took his cock in her hands, wet and shining with her, and laid it between her breasts. She pressed them together around it from both sides, squeezing him in a tight, slick channel of skin, and looked up at him, smiling, half soft and half triumphant.

"Tell me when," she said.

She moved. Slow, steady strokes, pressing her breasts tight around him, the swollen head popping up out of her cleavage and disappearing again with every stroke. It made a wet, sliding sound that was filthy and intimate and completely hers.

His breathing changed. His stomach tightened, the muscles standing out. His hands fisted in the sheets. His hips lifted to meet her. His eyes lost their focus. His jaw locked.

"Sabine," he said.

Just her name. But the way it came out of him, rough and broken, like he had to say it or die, sent one last hot pulse through her that settled in her chest and stayed there.

She let go of her breasts, wrapped her fist around him and stroked. Long, hard pulls, gripping tight, the heel of her hand dragging over the sensitive ridge under the head every time, his shaft rubbing along the soft curve of her breast with each stroke.

He came.

It hit her chest in thick, warm pulses. Across the tops of her breasts. Down between them. Over her collarbone. Every pulse jerked through his whole body, and she felt it in the cock in her hand, in the mattress under her knees, in the air between them. She held him through it, her grip steady, slowing her strokes to match him, her eyes on his face. He didn't look relieved. He looked amazed, like it had caught him off guard as much as it had wrecked him.

She kept stroking until the last shiver was gone. Until his hands let go of the sheets. Until his breathing started the long, slow slide back down.

She looked down at herself, at the cum spread across her breasts, running in slow lines down the curves and pooling in her cleavage, and she giggled. Not laughed. Giggled. A small, silly, happy sound from a version of herself she'd never met before tonight and decided she liked.

She smiled at him. He looked back at her, heavy-eyed and completely undone, like a man who'd just found a whole new room in his own house and couldn't talk about it yet.

She leaned down and kissed the head of his cock, once, slow and soft, and felt it twitch against her lips. She laid it gently down on his stomach, where it rested heavy and warm, still throbbing a little, a wet trail running down to his navel. It twitched again. Twice. She leaned in and kissed it again, small soft kisses down the underside, each one lighter than the last, the way you'd settle something that had given everything it had and needed calming down. His hand found her hair and stroked it, slow and lazy, as he wound down.

His strokes got slower. Longer. Then his fingers stopped altogether and just rested there in her hair, heavy and warm, a hand that had lost its fight with sleep.

She pulled the blanket up over him carefully, like tucking in something precious. Over his chest, his hips, his legs, until only his face was showing. Dark curls on the pillow. Jaw loose. Eyes already heavy.

They closed. He was asleep in one breath, all at once, like everything else he did.

Sabine got up. Her legs complained, a deep trembling ache in muscles that had done far more than they'd signed up for, but they held her. She crossed to the copper mirror by the bathing room, her bare feet silent on the cold stone, and looked at herself.

Flushed. A mess. Her golden hair tangled and dark with sweat. Her skin pink and shining across her chest, her stomach, the insides of her thighs. And across her breasts and collarbone, him. Cooling slowly, catching the lamplight in pale trails, marking her like rain on a window.

She looked at herself for a long time. Not with shame. Not picking herself apart the way the mirror usually made her. She looked at herself the way he looked at things. Openly. Paying attention. Like everything she was seeing was worth noticing.

She cleaned herself slowly with a warm cloth from the basin. The trails across her skin. The sticky mess between her breasts. Then between her legs, where she was swollen and tender and twinged at every touch, reminding her exactly what had been in there a few minutes ago. She wrung out the cloth and ran it over her neck, her stomach, her arms. The woman in the mirror looked the same as she had an hour ago, and in every way that mattered she was someone else.

She put the cloth down, went back to the bed and slid under the blanket beside him. Her chest against his side, her arm across his stomach, her leg hooked over his thigh, her cheek in the warm hollow of his shoulder. He didn't wake. His breathing didn't change. But his arm moved in his sleep, curling around her back, his hand coming to rest in the dip of her waist, like even asleep his body knew something it wanted was close.

Sabine closed her eyes.

She was still smiling. She didn't even try to stop.