Wank Wednesday – Squeak

I am swimming on the edge of some dark, diaphanous dream when the sound wakes me, drawing me unwillingly into full consciousness.  A rhythmic soughing, a woman’s moan, a squeak of bedspring.  I shudder, peering at the bedside clock with one bleary eye before closing the pillow over my head.
Three a.m.
Not now, I think, not tonight, not when I’ve finally managed to walk away.
The sounds continue, transmitted through the wall and into my brain like a telepathic link.  I can almost see them, this anonymous couple in the hotel room next door.  See them, smell them, feel them. I can feel her arms around his back, curled tight to keep him as close to her as possible, the weight of his chest and torso pinning her down even as their hips drive together and fly apart, over and over.  I can see her lips, parted against the side of his face, hear her pants in his ear, see her eyes, closed tight as she strains upward, seeking not only to meet his thrusts but to engulf him, swallowing him inside herself. I can smell the sweet, cloying scent of their sweat and sex, can almost taste it on my own lips as I run my tongue across them, my own breath panting now in time to hers.
I long to touch myself, but I fist my hands in the pillow, refusing to give in, because I know the image that will come to mind when I do. I know who I will see in my mind’s eye, I know who’s mouth will be covering mine as I reach upward into my own orgasm. I can deny him now, turn my thoughts away, refuse him entry as long as I have some measure of control over them. But once that control slips over into the semi-conscious state that is pre-orgasmic bliss, once I am in the thrall of that orgasm, I will not be able to deny him.
And now she is making little high-pitched squeaks that echo the bedspring, and I hear his voice too, deep, guttural, words that I can’t make out, but I can imagine. Words that I hear in my own head: “Come, baby. Come for me now. That’s it…god…come baby…”
My hand has snaked down between my thighs of its own volition, my fingers slick with my juices, flickering over my clit, a counterpoint to her pants and to the rhythmic heaving of the bed.  I can’t stop myself; I can’t help myself.
Her panting squeaks give way to a sharp cry, echoed moments later by a deeper sound, a long, drawn out moan from the man above her.  I feel his final thrusts, long and deep, as though he will push his cock into my uterus, impregnate me, fill me with his semen, and I can no longer hold back, I am coming too, crying out as I do, feeling my womb contract and my body shake.
And above me, in me, all around me, I see him–my him, not the faceless man on the other side of the wall.
I turn my face into the pillow to muffle the sound of my tears.

This week’s prompt: Squeak

Wank Wednesday is the brainchild of Ruby Kiddell of The Erotic Notebook.  A weekly writing prompt and gathering place for a weekly “festival of smut,” you can see all the submissions by following her Twitterfeed, the hashtag #wankwednesday, or visiting her blog.

Be sure to check out the rest of the Wank Wednesday entries!