thesunandthesea | morning after.

He'd been ready for her to stop him, or to at least resign herself to the thing, frozen and not participating. Sweeney certainly hadn't prepared for her eagerness. Her kisses are welcome and answered in kind, though he has to be mindful to not twist too far over her, so he doesn't lose his balance. He has every intention to keep his hand where it is for a while longer.

Long strokes continue, reined tightly in control, lest he run off too roughly. That said, eventually, he parts from her just enough to get her in focus. His hand stills long enough for him to dip the tip of his finger into her. Not much, just so he can trace the ring of flesh while he studies her face for signs of discomfort. Or pleasure. Sweeney's guessing the former is more likely.

"Hurt? Still?"

Sweeney would like to fuck her, but if his finger is unpleasant, there's no way he's fitting his cock in without more tears.

It's not that it feels bad, necessarily. It's not the pain of the night before, sharp and tearing. But there was a pang, like a bruise.

Only now, she better understands just what he is testing. That he's being slow and cautious to her, to not make it do so again. So her hands brace to let herself adjust. Her eyes falling shut and slowly her breathe to try and will the tension out of her body, relax and let his fingers slip easier into her.

That compared to last night, it does hurt less. Sliding into her body with far more ease, not quite the ache and shove.

So she can open her eyes again and give an encouraging nod. "No hurt." The ache she could deal with, and she did not want to discourage his affection and interest so soon into their marriage as the second day. Especially when he was being so caring and taking his time.

At her assurance, he slips in to the second knuckle, but he's wary of her tension and breath. Again, there's no stroking, just a slow flexing, seeing if it's any better or worse. His hand stills and brow lifts.

"You not want?" He does, but he figures waiting now might be better for the long game. He can wait.

"Not have to."

Sweeney does his best to make her believe it. He even pulls back out, so she's not obligated to choose with him inside her. He leaves his hand rested over, cupping her with warmth so she doesn't have to equivocate a no with abandonment.

There is a little hitch as he slides deeper. To her surprise, it is not unwelcome, her body tightening pleasantly as he slowly tests her. Lets her get her bearing, and then, oh so politely, pulls out, and her eyes open up to look up at him again.

"Want," she supplies, but not all at once. This is nice, this slow touching, building and testing, it's not so overwhelming. "We go... slow?"

And with it, she tests herself, the feeling, with the memory of the night before. Her hips roll, a slow, careful press into his palm to feel the way the grind makes those pleasant spasms work up her body.

Slow.

Right. Of course. He can do this, he assures himself. That said, it doesn't help when she starts grinding. Ugh. Okay. Sweeney lets her go for a few moments before he shifts again. He gently slides his middle finger back in to the second knuckle, keeping unblinking eyes honed on her face for any hint as to her feeling.

Instead of leaving his palm for her to squirm on, Sweeney opens his hand to position his thumb over her clit. He doesn't rub or push, he just leaves his hand still enough for her to writhe on as she wishes, same as his finger. The angle is straighter, so she can sink down on it if she wants to, but he's not shoving in himself. Fuck, this slow thing is hard.

And so is he.

"Say if bad," he whispers.

"We stop." Sweeney tilts his head, his gaze fixed on hers, as if to will her understanding of his sincerity.

"Slow." His lips part and shut. "I not know. What makes that."

She nodded, and then let her eyes fall half closed with a soft sigh of enjoyment has his fingers find her again. Though compared to the rest of him, this finger was hardly as much, and for that easier to brush against. Turned to face him that little as she hooked an arm over his shoulder.

"This - this is good." She does her best to reassure him, with a fond squeeze of his shoulder.

Then she began to move again, it was just that. Slow. Her hips taking their time to learn to move. To figure out what felt best, how she could move fluidly. A little fix of concentration on her brow as she began to find it easier, better, a wonderful mix of both kinds of stimulation as she got it timed better and the first little soft sounds crawled out of her again, less concentration and a slow unfurling pleasure across her features as she relaxed into it.

It's what he wanted. Well, maybe not wanted, but what he'd hoped for. Sweeney swallows, trying to keep his focus. He wishes he could see the act; savor every shift of her hips and admire the glisten of her arousal left between. But the blanket keeps such things a secret, so he tries to keep his attention elsewhere.

First, her eyes and face, the flutters and twitches are something he craves, but the longer it goes, the more he wants to thrust into her, eager for at least some proxy for his prick. He's forced to close his eyes for a breath to rein himself back in.

When they open again, they seek hers, and his lips part to dare an unsure whisper.

"...another?"

The neighboring finger traces softly along her sensitive skin, not making any effort to push in; just hopeful to get the opportunity. If he's going to get his cock inside her, he needs to know where her tolerance level is. This would be one step closer, even though it's still not enough to stretch her the same way.

It's not so much longer it seems to become more fluid, more like it had been towards the end, last night. Her little puffs of air go faster, her lips parted in an unfixed enjoyment of his touch, the movement, until his voice calls her out of it.

Her eyes look up, heavy lidded with desire, cheeks pink still, and the little moments where she sinks teeth into her bottom lip to swallow her moan. More? Yes, yes, yes. This was good, but some craved more, the tension he had provided the night before she did not realise she had enjoyed. "Please, yes, yes -"

Until she gets it, and her little pleading cries break to a strong buck of her hips. Straining into the cup of his palm and have him press in further as her eyes close again, a deeper, longer coo of satisfaction crawling out of her lungs.

He startles a touch when she embraces the notion so full-heartedly, and Sweeney isn't going to pause to second-guess. He withdraws enough to adjust his position and slick up a second finger before carefully nudging to press back into her. It's easier than he'd expected, which is nice. The whole goal is to minimize the pain and make things pleasant. That purposeful logic is quickly diverted when she grows eager.

What in the sweet fucking hell? The surprise is obvious in the widening of his eyes when she takes to writhing, but it's the best kind of unexpected. Sweeney just tries to keep up; putting his hand at the best angle for friction and depth. The way she moves, he can't resist thrusting, at least a little.

Gods, he wants to be inside her, buried until she's full and he has nothing left to give. Sweeney leans in to touch his forehead to hers; his body trying to translate what's happening into what he wishes it was, and she can feel his shortening breaths panting against her skin. Those sounds she makes burrow into him, and Sweeney can't stop the way he begins to rock against her, his cock desperate for any pressure it can come by, even if it's just the side of her thigh.

He's so lovely, so close, warm and strong, the heavy weight of his body as he presses against her side, and then over - it shuts out the word in this new sort of dance she takes his lead on. It isn't the rushing high of the night before, more of a long pull, like drifting out to sea as she cups the back of his neck in her free hand, her breath falling into the pattern of his.

Even the way he bucks is pleasant, a unison that echoes her own desire, new as it is. The languid, rushing, washing sort of back and forth with wonderful little highs as he begins to move his hand. That makes her intended affectionate brush more clutching, chasing it, blissful and wonderful, new, and good.

It breaks with surprised squeal, then gasp, her thighs closing shut around his hand as she arches to keep him in. Rocks, twitches and thrashes in the inevitable end, squirming haplessly against him like she didn't know where to put herself. Her fingers scraping over the muscle of his shoulder, eyes screwed shut with little spilt whines as she falls over the other side. Gone, gone, gone, all out to sea in a cresting wave.

It's not difficult to tell that she's increasingly pleasured by the act, but the sudden snap of her thighs still catches him off-guard. Sweeney instinctively flexes his fingers, not trying to escape but straining against the clench of her muscles. It only takes a moment for him to sort things and continue to do it purposefully. Obviously, there's less room to move, but that doesn't stop him from making the most of what he has, rocking and wriggling to urge her to ride out her climax as long and as intensely as possible.

Sweeney can feel his prick throbbing as it shouts in protest; it should be the one enjoying the fruits of the labor. The ache makes him grit his teeth as he winces in Want. Just a little longer. Just a little. And he'll find his relief, whatever shape it takes.

At last she goes still, rolling flat onto her back after all her thrashing about. Her legs opening again to free his hand, her breathing fast and shallow as if she'd run a mile. There she lay, her body tingling pleasantly all over as she opened her eyes again, a dazed, dreamy look on her features as she gives him a lopsided smile.

Her tongue seems not to be working, so she brings her hand up to card his red strands back from his brow, behind his ear. She was in such luck, it seemed, such pleasurable things from just his hand, from kissing her all over, and it leaves her all adrift and pliable as she lays there, just admiring him.

When she finally shows mercy and parts her knees, Sweeney's mindful as he withdraws his hand. He flexes his fingers, stretching them back to a fuller range of motion after the strain against her clenched muscles. It'd been a tight fit, but worth the effort. His eyes searches her face as she tucks back his hair.

"Not hurt?"

He sounds cautiously hopeful. Speaking of hopeful, his slick fingers drop subconsciously to his prick. The stroke is slow and not particularly purposeful, just an idle motion that smears her arousal with his, leaving his skin glistening.

Sweeney's doing his best not to race on, but now that there's not an act to distract himself with, his cock needs at least passing attention, especially if he's not going to get rough again. It would be counterproductive to undo all the work he'd just done.

With eyes up on his, she shakes her head no. Not hurt. Everything but hurt, as she so dreamily stares at him.

The rest of the answer comes with a tug down, looking for another kiss, and for him to be close, to press against her all over again. She suspects what he wants now is more, and if it felt this wonderful then oh, she did not mind.

Good. Good good. She isn't hurting, and she's slick and a bit stretched. That's halfway there, right? Of course, halfway is no finish line.

Kisses are easy to come by, and he gives her them freely. Sweeney tries to let her set the pace, but when she pulls him closer, he has to relinquish his grip to lean over her. It takes a force of will not to crawl all the way on top of her and bury deep. That would almost certainly spoil the progress made. Sweeney needs something else; it's just that he's not thinking all that clearly, and that makes brainstorming a challenge.

He compromises by nestling a knee between her hers so he's left straddling her thigh. The taunting grazes against her soft skin only make the aching worse, and instinctively, he starts to rock rhythmically as they kiss, chasing more pressure that seems ever out of reach. Instead, it just makes a sticky mess of her leg.

Sweeney finally has to part, his breath short as he forces a swallow. A flicker of an idea has taken root, and he shifts his weight hurriedly so he can grab at her wrist.

"Touch," he whispers, trying to tug her hand between them.

"Please."

She welcomingly brings her outer leg around his, anchoring him into her better, the way she remembered felt right, last night.

It is appreciated, that he does not rush for more. This time she gets what she was unsure of but wanted. To learn him. Touch him and know him better with curious fingers.

Gilia nods, eyes up on his to make sure he was enjoying her attempts. Her hand strokes across his hip, feeling out scars and muscles as she wandered lower. Until she felt the base of his cock, set in thick curls, and tentatively wrapped her fingers around him like she had last night. Until, at last, she stroked him, fingers loose, worried to hurt with too strong a grip. Moving down the length, her thumb catching across the tip and feeling the smear of wet that leaks.

He still felt smooth, warm and yet so heavy and thick in her hand. Her face warmed again, Spirits, she had fit him last night. Truly, how had she managed it at all?

Wetting her lip, with feathery brushes of fingers, she kept up slow strokes, "like this?"

Edited 2024-09-06 13:24 (UTC)

Holy hell, how he wants to fuck her. This torment calls for will he's not sure he'll possess for long. But there's something in the way she touches him so delicately that woos him to try. The grazing over his scars still evokes a flicker of panic, but then her hand is on his cock, and he forgets to worry about it. When she grips him properly, he doesn't notice that he's holding his breath, acutely focused.

"Yes." The word is barely air, and Sweeney swallows before trying it a bit firmer. "Yes." Gods, it's torture, purposeful enough to tempt, but without enough pressure to offer any relief.

"Yes," he manages, wetting his lip as his brow crinkles with focus.

"Also--" Okay, so how can he explain the next bit? Sweeney moves carefully and wraps his hand over hers. He squeezes it, just a touch, to encourage her while still letting her explore.

"Can--more." Is that what he means? He pulls her hand gently towards him in another stroke.

"Will not hurt. If--" What's the word? "Firm. More."

Her eyes flick between his features and the tense form of his body with a rapt attention. After so long wondering how couples laid together, hearing gossip, firm, theoritical, lessons, and peeks by the riverbed at bathing men, she is now learning it all herself - and it feels so strangely thrilling to know. Following his prompting, remembering how he has jumped the night before from just one kiss, but here he says he prefers something firmer.

So she does that with attentive eagerness, her fingers curling around him tighter, she tried to do as he said. Her hands are soft and her fingers long and clever from so much time sewing, used to delicate work that she applies strangely now. Letting them brush, curl and swipe them, to learn each response of his body. When his eyes close or flutter, his breath hitching or coming sharper, she repeats it, or slows down when it seems better to drag it out a little. Finding a even paced rhythm with the effort that he seems to enjoy.

It's not long before he releases her hand, letting his own drift to the side so his view is unobstructed. Sweeney can't help but peek down, getting caught for a moment in the sight of it. It may be a simple act, but it's no less hypnotic to watch her work it out.

"Both." Okay, so that may not make enough sense. He swallows and tries to catch his lashes from fluttering too much.

"Many--good." Sweeney's gaze darts up to hers, looking to be encouraging, even as his breath shortens.

"Kinds--touches--" Fuck, what's he trying to say? "Variety--good."

As if it isn't apparent from the way he faintly rocks into her hand.

She nods, and adjusts herself, tilting a little more into his body, feeling where their legs brush further below the blankets, her chest teasing against.

"Husband," she croons quietly between her own soft pants. Not sure if its from effort, or from the spiking warmth she feels shared to watch the flush on his features, his evident desire, or bodily reaction as she applies different touches. Alternating to tighten around his tip, her thumb brushing with it, or making sure to run all her fingertips against the base of his cock.

It feels natural in turn, to lean up and kiss him again. Her tongue brushing his lower lip, tasting and testing with the same eager newness of everything so far.

He's fighting to keep his breaths even, but it is increasingly a challenge. It's all the more so when she moves to kiss him. That's far too easy to fall into, and soon he's curled over her, his hand cradling the top of her head to keep her tucked under him.

Any words he might have attempted are lost on the air he steals between the parting of their lips. Sweeney's hunger grows along with the rest of him, and he's caught up in sucking her lips and tongue as the rocking grows more pronounced. He longs for her tightness, warm and wet and aching. Her hand is a poor substitute, but that doesn't mean his body isn't going to try its hardest with what it has to work with.

She keeps at it, best as she can - intoxicated with his eager kisses and bites. That instinct follows through when she finds him over her, as the most natural thing in the world. Her legs spread again to him settle comfortably between them, even if it leaves her hand trapped more awkwardly, his cock pressed against her slit.

It leaves him grinding against her, a second hand stimulation that makes her breath hitched in the approximation of the thing. The off beat bumps at make her eyes flutter and little soft pants of sound bleed into his mouth as she continues, forgetting what had so worried her earlier about his size. Just savouring instead each nudge and bump that comes along with it.

Oh. Oh no.

Can't she tell what she's doing? To him? How it makes him crazy? Sweeney winces and whimpers at each contact, promise without follow through. Surely, she knows. Surely, she'll take mercy on him. He can't help but bump harder, instinctively looking for purchase. But he only does it a few times before he can hear the echo of her voice. Her request. His assurance.

Sweeney squeezes his eyes tight as he fights to shallow his thrusts into her hand, praying for the ability to show mercy of his own. He strains to be good; to give her what she wants. That said, he barely has words in his own tongue, much less hers. He does his best.

"Want--want--" His jaw flexes with his effort, and his brow crinkles.

"Not--not--want--" Fuck, what's the word? When he finally finds it, he exhales sharply, but doesn't dare look at her.

"--slow--not--slow-- Sweeney forces himself to swallow.

"Need--need--slow--want slow--stop--little--"

He's already fighting to walk things back. The glossiness of the tip of his prick insists all the ways this isn't acceptable, but he's a man of his word, and he intends to keep it, especially to his wife.

Edited (Spelling correction) 2024-10-01 00:19 (UTC)

His words hardly seem to match his actions, his grinding quick and determined. Sharply moving against her slick folds and wrapping fingers. She feels how her thighs want to twitch as the underside of his cock grinds sharper into her clit, how it all feels so right.

"Want," she assures him back. Oh, she does want, he is not taking too much. Her little hitches of sounds coming freer each time. "Want, want-" she pants quicker into his mouth in each surer kiss.

The word on her tongue makes him swoon. There's no way to resist the impulse when she's insisting like that. His restraint yields, and his strokes return to their eagerness, quickly escalating as he wills her to align him so he can have her.

His focus brings his cheek to her temple; looking at her eyes is too distracting. It leaves him shallowly panting against her ear, and he swallows, trying to steady his breath.

Please, please, please.

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