My Education
- 4 years ago
- 18
- 0
Lane free porn video
A Tom Hanks movie was running on the television but Hazel wasn’t watching it. Sure, she was sitting in the right place on the sofa, had the lights turned down and an obligatory bowl of microwave popcorn on her lap but it was one of those nights where she just didn’t feel it. Some other day, she might have been on the edge of her seat. But that night, the acting felt obvious and almost insulting.
Her eyes moved around the living room of her small apartment. The fairy lights were still up, as was the small, plastic tree and the string of Christmas cards that went from the window to the bookcase. Christmas was gone and leaving the decorations up felt like pointlessly holding onto something that’d abandoned her. Although, the opposite was true. Christmas hadn’t abandoned her. She’d abandoned it. After all, it was easier to take shifts at the hospital rather than face the inevitably problematic family Christmas.
And that was what she’d done. The 24th, the 25th and the 26th, twelve hours from eight until eight, doing routine, monotonous work on the wards. Some of the patients had guests on Christmas Day. Most didn’t. It was depressing as hell to see them in their beds, pale and thin and no-one but each other for company. They had Christmas dinner. They watched movies. They slept. Death seemed to crawl closer.
The few doctors on duty were miserable. Hazel didn’t know why. They were making three times what she was. But then, money didn’t mean very much, did it? She knew it, but it still felt nice to see the monthly payslip, to know that there was more to save for a rainy day. A rainy day. Could that be a British thing? Surely not. It was always raining.
She stood up, left the movie playing while retrieving her phone from where it was precariously balanced to charge on the bookcase edge. She opened her email and then her work schedule. She was working New Year’s Eve and New Years Day too.
Weekends were always good money but so were nights. Though nights sucked. The neighbours always seemed extra noisy when she was trying to sleep through the day. As if on cue, an atrocious cover of Last Christmas began echoing through the walls. It took Hazel a few seconds to realise the students upstairs were having a karaoke night. She turned the volume on the television up. Tom Hanks was in full emotional mode. Actors, she thought and rolled her eyes.
Hazel dropped down on the sofa. Too early to sleep. Too late to go out, if there was any damn place to go. Outside the window, the city was bright and alive but it was raining, the neon lights blurred and bleeding. She had a sudden urge to get out, to go someplace, get the hell away from all of it. But then she remembered her last vacation. LA, almost six months ago now. Jenna, one of her old school friends and her had flown out and spent two full weeks soaking up the sun and chilled-out vibes out on the west coast. And there was Lane.
She glanced quickly at the stack of canvases on the top of the bookcase as if afraid they might have disappeared. He was goddamn obsessed with the paintings. Maybe she should have been flattered. After all, he owned an art gallery somewhere near Hollywood. Maybe that was the problem. Hollywood sounded cheap. Glittery. Obnoxiously so. Who sold real art next to movie studios? And it wasn’t even real art. It was a pastime. It was amateur. God, even she hated her work.
Lane had spent hours trying to convince her to let him sell her paintings. Half of her genuinely believed it was a ruse to get her into bed. Which he’d achieved. Many times. She let out a long breath, trying not to reminisce, though it was hard. He smelled like warm sand. He was maybe the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Her heart skipped a beat the first time she saw him. For a good ten seconds, she hadn’t been able to speak coherently. Stupid, right? But then, he was tall and tanned and had broad shoulders and the warmest, most beautiful smile the word knew. God!
He hadn’t even looked at her. His shadow had fallen over her canvas out on the beach and he’d just stared at the half-finished painting. Hazel didn’t get it, and she wasn’t being modest. At school, her best grade in Art had been a resounding C. But then again, that was years ago. Nobody had seen her newer stuff. Nobody knew about it and she liked it that way.
She liked painting whatever the hell she wanted. After all, it was a side-line. It was for her. No-one else. So it could be clichéd and obvious and goddamn crap but it didn’t matter one bit. The paint wasn’t too expensive, neither were the brushes, or the canvases. But then Lane arrived. And he looked at her half-assed painting of what she would later pretentiously describe as ‘the real version of Los Angeles’ and wouldn’t stop looking at it until he’d looked at her and then seemed torn between her and the painting.
His eyes were brown, but almost yellow in the sun. He wore a brilliant white button down shirt, though maybe two of the buttons were actually done up. Bare feet. Beach shorts. Sunglasses in his pocket. A hundred percent Californian. He could’ve been a screenwriter, a surfer, a musician, a bartender, a goddamn lifeguard.
She didn’t remember much of what they’d said. It was all meaningless when the sex began happening. Sex. Proper sex. So much different to the lessons at school, to the awkward teenage peer pressure, to the almost depressing nights with her one ex-boyfriend.
Maybe the sun had gone to her head. Hazel knew people, she knew bodies, knew the intricacies and was smart enough to know when a fling was just that; a no-strings-attached amount of fun. No strings. It had ended the day the holiday did. And then it was back to London and back to real-life. Six months. No contact. How could there be contact? They’d only ever been together in the flesh; hadn’t exchanged numbers, addresses, anything of importance.
Sometimes she wondered if he was married. She wondered if he wondered the same about her. Or did he even think about her? Maybe he’d moved on. Maybe? Definitely. How could a man like that not move on? And here she was, cheating on Christmas, practically a workaholic.
She eyed the canvases again. There were more in her bedroom, hidden under the bed. And some in her wardrobe. And in her storage spot in the basement downstairs. How many? Fifty maybe? Interpretations, she liked to call them. Of London mostly, because that was where she usually was. And then LA, of course, though she’d been so preoccupied with Lane, that only three paintings had come out of the trip, two of them having been done back home.
There was Paris, from last year. A lot from there. And then Tokyo from two years before. It was harder, the further you ventured. Being new to a place dazzled her, gave little time for a clear view of what was really going on. London was easy, overdone yes, but still inspiring. There was so much to see, delve into, criticise.
She was thinking about going to Kensington again, maybe taking some photos this time, when the doorbell rang. It startled her, only because she hadn’t heard the buzzer for the entrance door downstairs. Someone must have got the wrong apartment. It happened all the time. She stood up, walked out into the narrow, cold hallway and opened the door.
It was Lane. Lane. Outside her apartment. She was dreaming, surely. He wasn’t really there. It was only because she’d been thinking of him. It was a lookalike maybe.
“Hey,” he said. The same voice. She remembered it in her ear, low and deep and so American and warm. Everything he ever said to her sounded sexual.
She stared. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She swallowed hard.
“What are you doing here?” It was the most sensible question of the many that were racing around her mind.
“I wanted to see you. Can I come in?”
Hazel stepped aside automatically. He was wearing a jacket. She’d never seen him in a jacket. He moved into the apartment. The hallway seemed very small, all of a sudden. He shut the door.
“It’s raining,” he said.
She blinked. “It’s always raining.”
He smiled. She didn’t. He waited for her to lead the way into the living room. She didn’t move.
“I would’ve called,” he said, finally. “Only I didn’t have your number.”
“But you had my address?”
He smiled again.
“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
There was something dark beneath the sunny surface of his voice. Something that reminded her of those long, urgent, sleepless nights. Something that made her legs feel a little weak and her hands a little shaky.
“I’m – shocked,” she said weakly.
The movie was still playing on the television. She felt out of her depth, even though they were in her own home. Her territory. Hundreds and hundreds of miles from the beachside hotel in Los Angeles.
Lane hadn’t moved. He wasn’t speaking. He was just waiting, half a smile on his face, still as goddamn beautiful as ever. Her whole apartment seemed inadequate; too small, too homely, not light or pretty enough. It was like seeing a Rolls-Royce parked outside a McDonalds. He didn’t fit.
“I really don’t know what you’re doing here,” Hazel finally said.
His smile got a little wider.
“You don’t?”
Two words. Two goddamn words. If sex was a language, he was speaking it. She wondered how many women he’d used that voice on.
“No. I don’t,” she said, as firmly as possible.
He stepped a little closer to her and she backed away instinctively.
“You know, since the day you left, I’ve thought about this. About what you’d say if I showed up. What you’d do.” He was still moving, forcing her to step back into the living room. His eyes flicked around the furnishings before settling briefly on the top of the bookcase.
“You’re still painting?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
He stopped walking and looked at her.
“Can I see?”
“No.”
He smiled. He always had a smile ready, always seemed to know he’d be able to wear her down. She imagined how wonderful it would be to have such self-assurance. He could have anything he wanted. She didn’t try to tell herself she’d ever be able to give him a real ‘no’. Maybe that was why she hadn’t wanted him to be more than a one-off.
He changed everything, rubbed out lines and redrew them where he pleased. Lines. Limits. She wasn’t even sure if she could see them anymore. It wasn’t that he disagreed with her, but more that he knew her better than she knew herself. Sure, she protested in all the conventional ways but it was thrilling to have someone take control, to make those decisions that she’d always secretly been afraid of.
Lane looked at the television. He watched it so blankly, that Hazel craved to know what was running around his mind.
“I think about you a lot,” he said finally. His eyes didn’t move from the TV screen. She could see the lights reflected in his irises.
“I’m flattered.”
His mouth curled at the corner, but he still didn’t look at her.
“I don’t know,” he mused, “Maybe it’s because it was so quick. I didn’t have time to figure out exactly what I wanted. I mean, usually, I make decisions. End things. It’s easy. Calculated. But then you weren’t planned or ended in the right way and it feels like – unfinished business.”
“So you’re here to end it officially?” Hazel felt as though she should be insulted.
“No.” He still didn’t look at her. “I had this mastermind plan. I’d come and you’d be over the moon and then I’d steal your paintings and you’d have to chase me back to LA. And by that time I’d have sold them and maybe you’d be happy enough to not be upset if I broke things off. But then I thought, what if I don’t want to break things off?”
“Things?” Hazel shook her head. “There is no ‘thing’, Lane. We live very far apart. We had a fun time, and it ended naturally. There doesn’t have to be an official end. Think of it as a one night stand. You even showing up here is crazy.”
“But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And your paintings.” He was indifferently watching Tom Hanks cry. “I just can’t stop, Hazel. I’m sorry. I can’t. I knew it was ridiculous to come out here, to be so forward but what the hell. You only live once, right?”
Hazel watched him, her eyes narrowed. She felt as though he was putting on a front. He’d never acted so attached before. It didn’t suit him. He was playing her. He wanted something. But what? Sex? The paintings? What the damn hell did he want? Why would he come to goddamn London in the rain and show up at her apartment door? He wasn’t in love with her. He couldn’t be. He didn’t know anything about her.
“What do you want, Lane?” Her voice was even.
He drew in a breath.
“I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t you have thought about it before showing up here?”
He looked at her, finally, the ghost of a smile on his face.
“Maybe.”
God, he was so attractive. So distracting. Hazel looked away, at the abandoned popcorn on the coffee table, the open book lying face down on the sofa. An empty water glass was balanced on top of it.
“Do you want a drink or something?” she asked.
He laughed. “No, I don’t want a goddamn drink.”
“So what do you want?” Her voice came out more aggressive than she would have liked but who would blame her? He’d shown up out of the blue, acting out of sorts and she didn’t have a clue what his game was.
“You’re mad at me?” His voice was amused. “You know that turns me on.”
She rolled her eyes, turning away, but he caught her wrist, pulling her towards him so quickly that she almost stumbled. He was such a show off. Yes, I know you’re stronger than me, Hazel wanted to say, congratulations. But by that time, his mouth was on hers and she could hardly think, let alone speak.
He kissed her the way he’d always kissed her; hard and hungry, his hands already on her ass, pulling her into him. She’d missed it more than she realised. His lips moved down her neck and she found herself stretching up to give him better access. His grip on her ass tightened, pulling her higher until she wasn’t even sure she could feel the floor under her feet. Her hands were pressing against his shoulders, almost pushing him away but it didn’t deter him. She could feel his teeth in her skin, then the warm sweep of his tongue. It made her feel lightheaded.
“Lane, this is - ”
“What?” he growled against her skin. “It’s what, Hazel?”
Her eyes closed as his hands held her more forcefully, pulling her tight against his body. Even through all the layers of clothing she could feel his heat, the beat of his heart and the hard pressure against her stomach. She swallowed hard, jerking her neck away from his mouth.
“We can’t. We have to – talk.”
He let go of her suddenly leaving her feeling disoriented.
“About what?” He was breathing hard. He pulled off his jacket, dropping it onto the floor. “What, Hazel? Has something changed? You’ve met someone?”
She turned away while she still could.
“No. No.”
“Then what?” he demanded.
Hazel didn’t trust herself to speak. She stepped forward. She couldn’t think straight. Her heart thumped erratically. She had to get rid of him. Why had she even opened the goddamn door? She reached for the glass on the sofa and went into the kitchen. He followed.
“You should go,” she said, finally.
He laughed though it was more cursory than genuine amusement.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She let out a breath. “You’re so arrogant.”
She went to the sink, filled the glass and drank the water fast. It was cold enough to make head hurt. Lane had come closer and she felt his hands on her narrow hips, pulling her back against him.
“You don’t have to act all – hard to get,” he breathed. “I know you, remember?”
Hazel tried to move away but he pressed his weight against her, effectively pinning her against the sink. She put down the glass and brought her shoulder up as he tried to kiss her neck. She knew that once he’d got past a certain point, she wouldn’t be able to resist. But was resistance necessary? She wanted him, sure. But it wasn’t just sex. There was something else going on, something more, something he wasn’t telling her, a game she didn’t even know the rules to.
His hand went down her side, catching the hem of her dress and pulling it up.
“For god’s sake, Lane!” She tried to sound angry but her voice came out feeble. Her hand went out, catching his wrist though it didn’t stop his progress, no matter how hard she tried to push him away.
“Stop – fucking – fighting,” he hissed.
He was trying to kiss her neck again and her shoulder caught his chin as she jerked it up. It didn’t hurt him but his hand moved to grasp her ponytail hard, pulling her head back.
“Enough, Haze. We both know what’s going to happen here. There’s no sense in wasting time.”
Of course she knew. She’d known since she’d opened the door and seen him standing there in front of her. She moaned as his hand found its way between her legs and curled around her snatch. She let out a shaky breath, summoning every fibre of her self-control to prevent herself grinding against his palm. It wasn’t enough. He knew how to touch her, knew the way her body worked and he was using it against her. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand was over his, pushing it harder against her snatch as she tried to increase the friction.
“That’s right,” Lane murmured. “You need it? You like it when I touch you?”
Hazel didn’t reply. She didn’t try to process his words, aware that the knowingness in his voice would make her want to pull away. Her hips moved in a tight circle, her snatch grinding desperately against his strong hand.
“Please,” she breathed. “Oh god, Lane!”
“What? You want to come? You don’t get to, Haze. Not before me, remember?”
His hand was gone as quickly as it had arrived and as she tried to replace it with her own, his fingers closed firmly around her wrist.
“Knees. Now.”
She didn’t think to protest. The kitchen floor was cool beneath her legs and she watched as Lane undid his jeans, and manoeuvred his boxers down to let out his hard cock. He looked down at her and before he could issue an arrogant instruction, she moved forward and slid her tongue along the underside of his erection. His face tightened, his hand pushing into her hair and gripping it tightly. It didn’t deter her. He wasn’t cruel enough to pull too hard on her hair and she closed her mouth purposefully around the head of his cock and swirled her tongue against his silky skin.
He didn’t stop her. Hazel inched closer to him, her hands going to his jeans and tugging them down with his shorts as she sucked more of him into her mouth. Her fingernails dug into the muscled cheeks of his ass and for a second she wondered whether she might be enjoying herself more than he was.
But it was unlikely. Lane’s breath was coming out in ragged gasps, his teeth clenched into little less than a snarl as he watched her mouth take in more and more of his length.
“Don’t fucking play with me, Haze,” His voice was guttural. “Or you’ll regret it.”
She knew he wanted her to go all the way and she had no intention of disappointing him. She sucked in air through her nose and holding tight to his ass, pulled him fully into her mouth. Her throat protested furiously but she forced herself to hold on until a good few seconds had passed before she slowly released him. Her eyes watered a little but unrelentingly, she took him all the way again until his hands gripped her hair almost painfully, forcing her to surrender control.
Lane fucked her mouth with long, aching strokes. Her nails dug harder into his ass which only served to make him go faster. Her eyes flickered open every so often to take in his barely controlled expression. He was concentrating so hard, so dangerously. It reminded her of being back in LA, of sucking hard on him while he tongued her snatch, each of them desperate to make the other come first. He’d always won and then she’d had to endure orgasm after orgasm until his cock would finally jerk in her mouth. Those days, his come would feel like a gift, like the first storm after a drought.
He didn’t come this time. He fucked her mouth until her eyes watered and saliva coated her chin. By the time he got close, her throat ached and when he pulled out, she felt almost disappointed, like she’d run a marathon only to have had the finish line extended. He put a hand out and leaned against the countertop, surveying her breathlessly. She stared back, especially mindful of the protrusion of his hard, wet cock. He was so perfectly male. He eased out of his shirt and the rest of his clothing.
“Where’s your room?”
Hazel shifted. He grasped her hand, pulled her easily up onto her feet and shadowed her through the apartment and into the bedroom. His hands caught her hips before she could turn to face him and he pushed her forward onto the small bed. He didn’t waste a moment; dragging off her damp underwear before she could even turn over to face him.
“I’ve fucking missed you,” he breathed.
His hands grasped her legs, pulling them up before he reached down to press his cock against her tight opening. He hesitated just a second and Hazel lifted up, desperate to take more. He felt bigger than she remembered as he slowly eased inside her. She couldn’t keep her eyes open as he sank deep, pulling back slowly to find the beginnings of a rhythm.
He moved with increasing speed, gradually becoming less gentle. Hazel’s fingers searched for something to hold onto, eventually curling into the sheets. She tried to push back against him but with each thrust, he forced her back down against the mattress, his cock bottoming out inside her. Her hands went up, moved to his shoulders, then down his arms but he grasped her wrists, pinning them either side of her head as he fucked her urgently.
“This is what I wanted,” he hissed. “And I don’t care how nasty or cheap that sounds. I wanted your goddamn body, okay? I wanted your sex, Haze.”
Hazel gasped as he thrust into her hard, her body balanced on the edge of something precarious. She forced her eyes open to look at his face, contorted in a snarl.
“Don’t look at me like that,” His voice was a growl. “I couldn’t help it. Nothing – no one comes close to this.”
He pulled out of her suddenly, and wrenched her arms up so he could tug off her dress. Then, his hands were on her waist, roughly moving her over and onto her knees, arranging her hurriedly into the position he wanted. He pushed her legs wide, and then, without warning, his tongue moved against her wet snatch, finding her swollen clit and pushing against it mercilessly until she gasped and moaned. His tongue slid backwards, gliding over her snatch and hovering briefly against her tight, exposed asshole. Hazel clenched instinctively and he pulled back, easing inside her tight pussy again.
He fucked her hard, hands digging into her hips as he slammed into her over and over. He was saying things she couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend; words that were familiar and yet new but did little more than heighten the throbbing need to orgasm. Lane was grunting with each raw thrust, his weight and force making the small bed creak. His hands felt like were all over her, moving fast and roughly over her body, finding her tits and groping them until she almost cried out.
She was indistinctly aware of the amount of noise they were making; the thump of the bed against the wall, the relentless slap of their sweating bodies, Lane’s grunts, and her own lust-soaked moans. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t help anything. Every time he slammed deep into her, she felt as though she might expire from pleasure. Her body was overheating and desperate for release.
Lane came first, unable to hold on any longer as she clenched around him repeatedly, as if trying to hold him inside her. She felt the hot spurts of his come inside her, his cock still thrusting until he’d tipped her over the edge. It only made her clench harder as her orgasm hit her fast and persistently. It was white-hot, rushing and draining, the pleasure seeping through her like water into dry sand. She moaned loudly as Lane’s weight pressed against her and for a while she gasped, grinding against him as the orgasm slowly faded.
He was lying half on top of her. She tried to open her eyes but failed.
“Are you staying?”
He shifted. His body was warm and heavy. It made her want to sleep.
“Maybe,” he said, and that was the last thing she heard.
*
He was gone the next morning. Hazel knew it without opening her eyes, without checking the bathroom or the kitchen. By the time she’d showered and recovered from the afterglow of the sex, questions without answers had begun to arise. She went into the living room. The paintings on top of the bookcase were gone. She frowned, though she’d half expected it. On the coffee table was an envelope. She approached it warily. Inside was a plane ticket. London to LA. There was also a scrawled address, and a message.
Catch me if you can.
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