Oil on the Good Sheets

The bottle was massage oil and a pretext. Dana had stripped the bed to the old sheets on purpose. Thirty-four. Her boyfriend Cal was forty-one and already hard from the text: oil, mess, no towel until I say. She poured a line down his chest. It ran to his cock. She followed it with her tongue, then her fist, slick and obscene.

"On me," she said. "All of it. I want to shine."

He oiled her tits, her stomach, her cunt, and pushed in. The slide was ridiculous. She laughed and told him harder. He fucked her until the sheets were dark with oil and her thighs were gleaming. She came with a hand on her clit, slipping. He pulled out and came across her stomach in thick stripes that caught the light. She rubbed it in with the oil and made him look.

"Don't you dare fetch a towel."

"I wasn't going to."

She turned over. He pushed back in, both of them slick, and she came again with her face in the ruined cotton. They lay in it. The good sheets were in the cupboard, safe. These ones were the point.

Cal oiled her back and fucked her from behind, both of them shining, the sheet stuck to her knees. Dana reached under and rubbed her clit and came hard, then told him to come on her arse and not wipe it. He did. She made him look. They lay in the slick and did it again, slower, her on top, oil on his mouth, her cunt taking him easy. She came twice more. He came inside her the last time and stayed there. In the morning the sheets were a crime. She bagged them, grinning, and texted him a photo of the hamper. He replied with a bottle and a time. She said bring two.

Dana kept the bottle by the bed like a weapon. The second night she oiled Cal's cock and her cunt and rode him until the sheet was a lost cause and she was shining from collarbone to knee. He came across her stomach. She rubbed it into the oil and made him fuck her again with the mess between them. She came with her face in his neck. In the morning she bagged the sheets and bought cheap ones on purpose. He fucked her on those too, oil in her hair, come on her tits, no towel until she said. She said later. He listened. The good linen stayed in the cupboard, innocent, which was not what they were.

Cal brought two bottles, as told. Dana met him already naked on the cheap sheets and poured oil from her throat to her cunt. He followed it with his tongue, then his cock, and fucked her until they were both shining and the cotton was transparent. She came twice. He came on her tits and she rubbed it in and made him stay inside the mess for the next round. In the morning she was still slick. He fucked her before coffee, slow, and came deep. She bagged another set of sheets and laughed. The good linen stayed shut away. The oil did not. She said the mess was the romance. He said he had noticed.

The cheap sheets died a hero's death. Dana poured oil down Cal's back and fucked him with her fingers while she ground on his thigh, then had him fuck her, both of them sliding, the headboard useless. She came and told him to come on the cotton, not in her, so she could see the map of it. He did. She lay in it. Morning was a shower that failed, because he got hard again and she bent over and took him, oil still in her hair. She said the good sheets could wait until they were bored. He said he was not bored. She ordered more oil. The cupboard stayed shut.

Dana met him at the door with the bottle and no clothes. Cal oiled her and himself and they fucked on the cheap sheets until the cotton clung and she was loud. She came. He came on her arse and rubbed it down her thigh. She said leave it. He left it. They did it again with the mess between them, her on top, slipping, grinning. Morning was a shower that became a fuck against the tile. She ordered a third set of cheap sheets and told him the good ones were for people they were not. He agreed with his mouth on her neck and his cock already hard again.

The hamper was full and neither of them cared. He came on her thigh and she wore it to the kitchen for water, shining, claimed, already planning the next bottle.