His Inspiration Read Online Free PDF

this feeling, this
fullness. I needed it. I hadn't known I'd needed it until this moment.
    At last I moaned and twisted, impaled on his body, my hands
reaching up to my hair, tangling in it as I tried to comprehend the fullness of
him.
    "Ah, Sadie," he whispered. "I love to see you
writhe and thrash. Let me make you scream."
    "Yes," I begged back.
    It was a surprise this time, when he flicked my nipple with his
finger, but the pain and pleasure speared through me and I shrieked, my hips
thrusting into him, and then he pulled out and pushed in, and we were fucking
like animals.
    His hips pounded into mine, small grunts escaping the back of
his throat as he fucked me, and I was helpless under his assault. I moaned and
writhed, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the clay, the towels slipping and
sliding under me. I reached back and tried to dig in, feeling the clay give way
under my grip as he plunged his cock deep inside me. Each time he bottomed out
inside me the tip of his cock brushed over that sweet little spot that I hadn't
even known existed and I shrieked. My head tossed as his fingers dug into my
hips, my back arched. Beneath me the clay became more volatile, moving and
slippery, like mud.
    Then, reaching down, Malcolm began to rip away the towels,
exposing the warm clay to the air, and I reached out and dug my fingers into
it, feeling it cake beneath my fingernails as I held on for dear life while his
thrusts became wild and uncontrolled.
    "Fuck, Sadie," he grunted. "You feel too
good."
    I wanted to tell him there was no such thing, but I felt the
same way. He was too good, frighteningly so. Humans weren't meant to feel this
way, I thought, the part of me that hid under all my brashness, my crudities,
my artistic flairs whispering its insecurities in my ear. Something this good
can't last. Something this wonderful is not meant for you.
    I bit my lip as Malcolm abruptly pulled out, and I felt the loss
of him inside me so sharply I almost screamed No, but I didn't. He didn't want
me speaking. I wanted to give him what he wanted. Everything he did to me was
exactly what I needed, even though I hadn't known what it was.
    Tugging on my hips, he pulled me from the block of clay and
removed the last of the towels before assisting me back onto it, on my hands
and knees. His hands were large and warm on my skin, and as he took up his
position behind me I braced myself. The clay moved under me. It resisted, but
it moved.
    Oh, I thought.
    His cock found my pussy and slid inside again, an easy entrance
this time. His hips picked up a quick, sharp pace, and I cried out, my limbs
suddenly trembling with the effort of staying upright on the slick clay.
Streaks of red earth traced paths over my skin when I slipped and fell,
scraping my elbows and arms over the clay, but Malcolm didn't let up. Within
minutes we had worn a groove into the sculpture with the force of our fucking
and my arms and hands were caked with clay.
     
    Sliding out again, he helped me down. My pussy pounded with my
heartbeat and I felt the sweet beginnings of a powerful orgasm building in my
belly. God, he was beautiful, I realized as I stood and watched him climb onto
the clay himself, settling down on his back, his cock, slick with the juices of
my cunt, jutting proudly in the air. He looked like one of those Greek statues,
well balanced, perfectly proportioned, ready to leap into battle, throw a
javelin, triumph over Persians or whatever, I didn't care and I could barely
think as he extended one hand toward me, his beautiful dark eyes smiling,
burning into my skin, his fingers awaiting my own.
    I put my hand in his, and he helped me up onto the clay, bracing
me as I swung a leg over his hips and stared down at him, stunning and
mysterious, flawless and obscured. He was a work of art, too, I realized. Very
much so. We were two very different kinds of art, mating and making a third. A
sacred coupling, a symbolic procreation. My heart hurt for some