“Duty”

by H. Jekyll

No story codes. This story contains some fairly explicit oral sex and 
perhaps mild domination.

It previously appeared at "Ruthie's Club" (http://www.ruthiesclub.com/). 
An illustrated and formatted version can be found there.

Copyright 2002 by H. Jekyll. Permission is granted to post 
on any site that does not charge for entrance, as long as full 
attribution is given to the author. The story should not be read 
by anyone under the legal age to read sexually explicit stories, 
or by anyone in a location where it is illegal to read such 
stories. 

I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms, and I 
absolutely promise to respond to them. Please send them to: 
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

*  *  *  *  *

“Duty”

The moon’s pouring in, a flood of it. Dribbles from the bright patch on
 the floor follow the drape of the covers up to the bed. It makes the bed 
rail a rich mahogany. Pillows and sheets gleam. Individual dust motes drift 
around. It’s bright enough to read by. It’s bright enough to wake him.

Rustling noises. They’re louder in the night.

Shit. It’s a whisper. 

Wake up. This is louder. Wake up. Do me. More rustling. Her right arm rises, 
her right wrist touching its back to her eyes.

He doesn’t sleep in underwear. Only a tee. He caresses himself. It’s half up 
already, sticking up in the moonlight, rising from the dark patch. He pulls her arm.

Please, honey, no. 

He’s still pulling her arm. It’s almost plump. 

Do it. 

A spaghetti strap curves down her upper arm. They’re almost the same color, the 
strap and the arm, so only the shadow stands out. Like a smiley face. What color 
is the strap when it’s light out? Maybe palest green and mauve. 

I said do me. 

Red numbers glow on the night stand. They say 2:18. They change to 2:19. 

Please, honey, I’m sleepy.

There’s the hum and rush of a car out on the street, then it’s gone, getting quieter, 
quiet enough to hear the fan circling above the bed in shadow, nice and slow, looking 
strobe-like. 

Do it now. He’s louder. Dust motes scatter. A sigh. She’s up, turning down her sheets, 
leaning to him. 

No, do it naked.

A sigh.

And don’t give me that crap. 

I’m not, honey. A sigh. 

Know what’s good for you. 

Please, honey, I’m doing it.

She kneels up, rucking up the gown, her belly pooching out, then her breasts are 
hanging, swinging while she works the bundle over her head, getting it caught, 
working it. The button’s not open. 

Hurry up. 

The red numbers say 2:19. At the window there’s a stir of air and the drapes move, 
just barely. Something goes ‘tick’ against the wall. It’s a pull-cord. 

She’s still working the nightgown. 

Hurry up! Another tick against the sheetrock. It’s audible above the rustling and the 
sound of a bed spring as she works the button. He caresses himself again and watches. 
Then: ‘tick.’ That’s all the sound there is. 

I’m sorry, honey.

The button pops and goes ‘plink’ against the dresser. The nightgown is up and off, 
suddenly it seems, pulling her hair with it so it spills out and falls to her shoulders. 
Down below, her nipples are dark and big and her panties are half-rolled down. She 
rolls them off, leans to him, takes it in her hand, pulls it up to her face. 

No. Go down there. No hands. Show me you love it.

She pauses, then curls down into the moonlight until she’s almost fetal, legs tucked, 
head on his belly like a pillow. Hold it deep. Suck more. Be sweet about it. Two 
hands on her head hold her down. Sucking. Sucking. The dick finishes growing inside 
her mouth, a hot, corded thing with a rubber head that seeps onto her tongue. Hairs 
tickle her nose. A stray moonbeam lights up some of them like hot wires. Below the 
thighs his legs are in shadow. Only his middle is in the light. The dick head pops from 
her mouth, shiny with spit and moonlight. She raises her head a little to suck it back in. 
One of her hands is on his thigh. 

Now he pushes his hips, pushing it up into her mouth. She makes a sound. It’s muffled. She 
makes it again. He’s prodding her. His belly moves like a water bed. 

Keep sucking. 

He hisses to her, louder than the fan, louder than a hissing car. Yes. Yes. That’s it. Yes. 
One hiss per thrust. Slowly. It’s too good to waste. Push, then hold it in her, then do it again. 
He takes his time. That’s right. Still a hiss. Like that. You’re good, you cunt. You’re so good. 

Moonlight illuminates his scrotum just a few inches from her eyes. It’s almost flat against his 
groin.

Finally he moves himself faster into her. In and out. Deeper. She makes another noise and 
pulls back a fraction, and he holds her head tighter, gripping her hair hard, and she curls both 
hands into balls. Don’t stop, bitch. Into her. Out. Into her. He’s panting. Faster. Faster. 

It happens.

Oh shit! Oh God! Jesus! Jesus! He keeps moving, short little strokes, followed by tiny 
ones, panting and moving, little strokes, little jerks. She doesn’t make any more sounds. 

When he’s done he lets go of her hair but keeps hold of her head. That’s my sweet bitch. 
You were good. Now hold it in. Keep sucking. Don’t let it go. Hold it in.

He caresses her hair but otherwise lies quietly. Eventually his hands merely rest on her head, 
then they slip to the mattress. His breathing becomes regular. 

She stays in place for awhile. Once he begins snoring she pulls off him slowly and rolls to her 
side of the bed. His penis is smaller now, but still shiny in what is left of the moonlight. She 
doesn’t get her panties or nightgown. She curls on her side facing him, pulls the covers up to 
her neck, and adjusts her pillow. She touches her lips with the tip of her tongue and opens and 
closes her mouth several times. Tasting. Tasting. She makes a face. Finally she reaches a hand 
out to touch his arm, and closes her eyes.

End.
