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finefoxyladiesFor Porn Battle XI:
It had been two weeks since Nate's funeral. Going out after work was starting to be less of an act of mourning and more of a general habit to watch over Sammy, who seemed to have trouble remembering to eat and breathe. Every night usually involved a certain amount of drinking, but on this night, Sammy seemed more determined to slowly and steadily work his way through a bottle of Maker's Mark.
Lydia has straggled along some nights, keeping her fellow detectives company. And tonight, it was her turn to see to it that Sammy ended up somewhere safe.
"Most of the time, he comes home with me, but it looks like he's settled in for a while," Sal says as he grabs his coat, then pats her on the back.
But as soon as Lydia returned to the table, Sammy was also putting on his suit jacket, with the overexaggerated care of someone very drunk trying not to appear very drunk.
"Where are you going?" Lydia tried to temper the exasperation in her voice, but it was still there. It made her feel like an ass.
Sammy's response, quiet and heavy with emotion, made her feel even more terrible: "Let's get out of here. I'm tired."
She grabbed her keys and her jacket and drove Sammy to the only place she could think to go at this hour.
Lydia nearly tells Sammy to be quiet when they enter her house, but since he hasn't said a word since they've left the bar, it seems unnecessary. Still, as Sammy sinks into the couch in the living room, Lydia tiptoes up a step or two and waits until she hears her mother's snoring. Then she heads to the linen closet, gathers some sheets and a pillow, and makes her way back to the couch.
Before she can even begin giving Sammy his makeshift bed and directions to the bathroom, he says in the same heavy voice from the bar, "Do you mind staying with me a few minutes? Sitting here with me? I'm not...I don't sleep a whole lot lately."
Lydia sets the sheets and pillow down on one end of the couch and sits next to him, a comfortable distance, and leans back. She thinks about saying something about the little she knows about partners and violence on the job and loss, but with Russ still alive, it seems shallow and unhelpful.
She can smell Sammy sweating off the bourbon. She puts a hand on his arm. "Do you want to take off your jacket?"
Sammy moves his head in a sort of half-shrug, half-nod and begins to struggle out one arm at a time without leaving the couch. Lydia moves to help him and finds herself clutching a jacket in one hand while Sammy slips one arm around her waist and presses his face into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
She freezes with uncertainty. It doesn't feel like a pass, but something rides along the current of her central air, settling in around them. She tightens the embrace in what feels like a friendly way but is conscious of how warm his breath is on her bare skin, how heavy he feels (when she's always considered him slight and short). She pats his back, and when the fingers on her waist spread open, then move to the small of her back, she realizes her initial assessment is wrong: this is most definitely Sammy making a pass at her.
A moment later, he's kissing her neck. As his lips move up along her jaw, she feels his chest heave, hears him swallow hard, and knows he's losing a battle against tears. She's afraid to look at him, so when his mouth finds hers, she closes her eyes.
It is harmless enough for a while, and Lydia doesn't feel like she has to put a stop to it. In fact, she's not minding Sammy's mouth, his hands, his solid body. She finds herself thinking about herself and Russ, Sammy and his crazy, needy estranged wife Tammi.
Then he begins to slip his hand under the shell of her suit, moving his palm along her stomach, very deliberately heading towards the waist of her trousers, and harmless heads into the rear-view mirror.
"Sammy..." Saying his name is meant to be a yellow light, a means of slowing progress and giving him a point to sober a moment and see reason. But he either ignores the cue or misses it completely, instead slowly ticking her zipper down, tugging her pants off.
Lydia suddenly feels vulnerable and uneasy, sitting here in front of a professional peer she had sometimes thought of as too young, even though they aren't separated by more than five or six years, too volatile, even when she agreed with his passionate outbursts. The one thing she'd never thought about was what Sammy Bryant's mouth would feel like against her inner thigh, then the silkiness of her underwear. As it happens, she covers her mouth with her hand, fighting against her nagging internal monologue, a voice of common sense urging her to tell him to stop.
Lydia finds her knees falling further and further apart, and Sammy hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and wiggles them off, tossing them next to her dress pants. She's embarrassed at how urgently she wants sex now, how anything Sammy plans to do next is a-okay in her book. She's aching, heart pounding, skin tight and somehow greedy. If she puts on white noise in her mind, she can almost entirely ignore that Sammy probably has no idea why he is doing this with her, will feel no better, no relief, his partner still two weeks gone in the ground.
He begins an accelerated and ungraceful strip tease: unbuckles his pants, strips off his boxers, kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks by stepping on the toe and tugging them loose.
She could stop him any time.
Then Sammy is on top of her, moving himself into her, and she wraps her thighs around him, places her hands on his bare ass and squeezes, urging him to move.
However, it's hard to accomplish much motion on the couch, and Lydia begins to feel hypersensitive of her sleeping mother upstairs. They spend several moments adjusting and rocking in what feels, to Lydia, like micromovements.
And then Sammy is looking at her, appearing more sober than she expects him to be at this moment. Looking at her like he's seeing her for the first time, like maybe he heard her thoughts about Russ and Tammi and loneliness and what a fucking mess they are all in. He kisses her on the mouth, and she responds, maybe a little too eagerly.
The sex continues, quiet and nearly still, and Lydia feels the clock inside her winding down.
Sammy is intuitive and forward-thinking: he puts his fingers to work, determined and coaxing, while he continues to thrust. The couch is now scooting in time with his more aggressive thrusts, but Lydia finds her preoccupation with the noise and her mother is now foggy and vague.
When she reaches climax, Sammy holds her tight, almost too tight. They rest together, his hand wedged awkwardly between their midsections.
Aftershocks are still occupying her when Sammy moves away and begins to finish himself with his hand. She leans forward, touches his shoulder, and whispers, "Not on the afghan. My mom knit that."
He smiles, and it's the lopsided, boyish smile of the Sammy from three or four weeks ago. "I got it covered." One of his socks dangles from his free hand.
Lydia touches his face and then moves her hand underneath his dick, brushing at his balls gently. He comes hard, nearly doubling over. He sighs, his shoulder slack only a moment or two before tension begins creeping in again.
"You want to come upstairs? Sleep with me in my room?" She's prepared for, and will understand, either answer.
But she hasn't prepared her heart for how lonely and defeated he sounds when he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like to stay with you."
It had been two weeks since Nate's funeral. Going out after work was starting to be less of an act of mourning and more of a general habit to watch over Sammy, who seemed to have trouble remembering to eat and breathe. Every night usually involved a certain amount of drinking, but on this night, Sammy seemed more determined to slowly and steadily work his way through a bottle of Maker's Mark.
Lydia has straggled along some nights, keeping her fellow detectives company. And tonight, it was her turn to see to it that Sammy ended up somewhere safe.
"Most of the time, he comes home with me, but it looks like he's settled in for a while," Sal says as he grabs his coat, then pats her on the back.
But as soon as Lydia returned to the table, Sammy was also putting on his suit jacket, with the overexaggerated care of someone very drunk trying not to appear very drunk.
"Where are you going?" Lydia tried to temper the exasperation in her voice, but it was still there. It made her feel like an ass.
Sammy's response, quiet and heavy with emotion, made her feel even more terrible: "Let's get out of here. I'm tired."
She grabbed her keys and her jacket and drove Sammy to the only place she could think to go at this hour.
Lydia nearly tells Sammy to be quiet when they enter her house, but since he hasn't said a word since they've left the bar, it seems unnecessary. Still, as Sammy sinks into the couch in the living room, Lydia tiptoes up a step or two and waits until she hears her mother's snoring. Then she heads to the linen closet, gathers some sheets and a pillow, and makes her way back to the couch.
Before she can even begin giving Sammy his makeshift bed and directions to the bathroom, he says in the same heavy voice from the bar, "Do you mind staying with me a few minutes? Sitting here with me? I'm not...I don't sleep a whole lot lately."
Lydia sets the sheets and pillow down on one end of the couch and sits next to him, a comfortable distance, and leans back. She thinks about saying something about the little she knows about partners and violence on the job and loss, but with Russ still alive, it seems shallow and unhelpful.
She can smell Sammy sweating off the bourbon. She puts a hand on his arm. "Do you want to take off your jacket?"
Sammy moves his head in a sort of half-shrug, half-nod and begins to struggle out one arm at a time without leaving the couch. Lydia moves to help him and finds herself clutching a jacket in one hand while Sammy slips one arm around her waist and presses his face into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
She freezes with uncertainty. It doesn't feel like a pass, but something rides along the current of her central air, settling in around them. She tightens the embrace in what feels like a friendly way but is conscious of how warm his breath is on her bare skin, how heavy he feels (when she's always considered him slight and short). She pats his back, and when the fingers on her waist spread open, then move to the small of her back, she realizes her initial assessment is wrong: this is most definitely Sammy making a pass at her.
A moment later, he's kissing her neck. As his lips move up along her jaw, she feels his chest heave, hears him swallow hard, and knows he's losing a battle against tears. She's afraid to look at him, so when his mouth finds hers, she closes her eyes.
It is harmless enough for a while, and Lydia doesn't feel like she has to put a stop to it. In fact, she's not minding Sammy's mouth, his hands, his solid body. She finds herself thinking about herself and Russ, Sammy and his crazy, needy estranged wife Tammi.
Then he begins to slip his hand under the shell of her suit, moving his palm along her stomach, very deliberately heading towards the waist of her trousers, and harmless heads into the rear-view mirror.
"Sammy..." Saying his name is meant to be a yellow light, a means of slowing progress and giving him a point to sober a moment and see reason. But he either ignores the cue or misses it completely, instead slowly ticking her zipper down, tugging her pants off.
Lydia suddenly feels vulnerable and uneasy, sitting here in front of a professional peer she had sometimes thought of as too young, even though they aren't separated by more than five or six years, too volatile, even when she agreed with his passionate outbursts. The one thing she'd never thought about was what Sammy Bryant's mouth would feel like against her inner thigh, then the silkiness of her underwear. As it happens, she covers her mouth with her hand, fighting against her nagging internal monologue, a voice of common sense urging her to tell him to stop.
Lydia finds her knees falling further and further apart, and Sammy hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and wiggles them off, tossing them next to her dress pants. She's embarrassed at how urgently she wants sex now, how anything Sammy plans to do next is a-okay in her book. She's aching, heart pounding, skin tight and somehow greedy. If she puts on white noise in her mind, she can almost entirely ignore that Sammy probably has no idea why he is doing this with her, will feel no better, no relief, his partner still two weeks gone in the ground.
He begins an accelerated and ungraceful strip tease: unbuckles his pants, strips off his boxers, kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks by stepping on the toe and tugging them loose.
She could stop him any time.
Then Sammy is on top of her, moving himself into her, and she wraps her thighs around him, places her hands on his bare ass and squeezes, urging him to move.
However, it's hard to accomplish much motion on the couch, and Lydia begins to feel hypersensitive of her sleeping mother upstairs. They spend several moments adjusting and rocking in what feels, to Lydia, like micromovements.
And then Sammy is looking at her, appearing more sober than she expects him to be at this moment. Looking at her like he's seeing her for the first time, like maybe he heard her thoughts about Russ and Tammi and loneliness and what a fucking mess they are all in. He kisses her on the mouth, and she responds, maybe a little too eagerly.
The sex continues, quiet and nearly still, and Lydia feels the clock inside her winding down.
Sammy is intuitive and forward-thinking: he puts his fingers to work, determined and coaxing, while he continues to thrust. The couch is now scooting in time with his more aggressive thrusts, but Lydia finds her preoccupation with the noise and her mother is now foggy and vague.
When she reaches climax, Sammy holds her tight, almost too tight. They rest together, his hand wedged awkwardly between their midsections.
Aftershocks are still occupying her when Sammy moves away and begins to finish himself with his hand. She leans forward, touches his shoulder, and whispers, "Not on the afghan. My mom knit that."
He smiles, and it's the lopsided, boyish smile of the Sammy from three or four weeks ago. "I got it covered." One of his socks dangles from his free hand.
Lydia touches his face and then moves her hand underneath his dick, brushing at his balls gently. He comes hard, nearly doubling over. He sighs, his shoulder slack only a moment or two before tension begins creeping in again.
"You want to come upstairs? Sleep with me in my room?" She's prepared for, and will understand, either answer.
But she hasn't prepared her heart for how lonely and defeated he sounds when he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like to stay with you."