Continued from here.
I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.
------
I stop, both the stroking and the slaps. You relax in what feels like a disappointed relief. I push you back down, stretch myself on the bed, gather your naked body in my arms, your breath warm and damp on my neck, my legs, still in boots and stockings hooked around yours, the soles' edges rubbing up and down your calves.
I bunch my skirt up and guide your right hand underneath.
''Feel me.''
You groan when your fingers meet the damp silk, I arch my back up a little, inviting the touch, you start stroking slowly along the wet fabric clinging to my slit, upwards, finding the hard, sensitive bud of my erect clit, making me catch my breath and moan, dig my fingers in your hair, push you where you belong.
''On your knees on the floor."
You slide down, head still on the edge of the bed between my spread knees.
"Take my boots off.''
You give me a smile, broad and dizzy, on your knees by the bed, now leaning down, your hands stroking the leather, stopping at the buckles, hesitating at the zip pull.
''Go on then. You know you want to," I'm laughing again when your head drops lower, your lips touching the leather, your tongue taking what seems to be an experimental lick.
''Upwards. To the edge.''
We are playing the scenarios we have shared as fantasies so many times, pressing the buttons and pulling the levers we imagined working, for real now.
And they work. Astonishingly. I still - still - still - still - find it amazing that they do. How, I am not sure.
Either flesh just happened to serendipitously match with what we spent so much time imagining, or the fantasy triumphed over the reality even when confronted with it. Whatever it is, it's patently working.
Your tongue slides off the leather onto the nylon of the stocking, wetly tracing the top edge of the boot.
"Enough."
I adjust my position, shuffle my butt to the edge and hitch up the skirt again, pulling your head in.
''Lick, slut.''
Your face is buried between my wide-spread legs, my knees up, my hips raised by a pillow.
''Inner thighs.''
Your tongue and lips touch my skin above the stocking, wet, slithery, exquisite and electric, a trail of kisses and licks along the edge of the fabric, occasionally sliding under, just a little. I don't know who's teasing whom now, not that it matters. I want more and pull your head in position.
''Lick my knickers.''
I'm floating in a sea of pleasure and lust, your mouth making the already wet fabric soaked, your breath a warm steam, your tongue and lips perfect.
Pliant, probing and caressing, somehow more thrilling because separated from my skin by the thin layer of drenched silk. My hands are -- loosely -- on your head, neither pushing nor pulling, just there, ready to adjust if needs be, one of them slides lower to your ear, fingers squeezing the fleshy lobe, nails digging, just a little bit, pulling. You groan, whether in pain or lust, I don't know. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.
The joy, a basic kind, all-of-the-body, washes over me in slow waves. I won't come like this of course, but I don't really want to. The earlier urgency is gone. This is a slow and perhaps the most selfish of all pleasures, when you, as a person, disappear, when we, as ''we'' and the thing that connects us, the thing that burned so hot only few minutes ago, disappear.
Even the want is gone. All that remains is my pure sensation.
My hand moves your head away, my foot shifts from your back. My other hand moves down, pulling the silk to the side.
''Fingers.''
''Two. Curved up.''
My voice, low, a little syrupy, a little gritty, slotted in-between the panting breaths but slow and sure. A tool, but a tool that's been honed deep under my consciousness, purposeful more in the way of cat's claws' purposefulness than a Sabatier knife's.
"Find the right spot.''
Your fingers moving, probing, searching. Subtle changes in sensation, varying degrees of pleasure that, despite your fingers being inserted few inches deep in my cunt, remains skin-shallow until you do find the right spot indeed and the pleasure goes deeper.
A slow rush, spreading velvet from the dense point of gold at the centre of my pelvis, outwards, to my hips, the small of my back, upper thighs, breasts, down to my toes and along my arms to my fingertips.
A deep breath, a moan. Rising. Maybe uncontrollably, certainly hard to control.
Fuck.
My eyes closing, my head thrown back.
''That's it. Rub there.''
I let the sensation spread wider, pulse out, sink into me as I sink into it and become one with the pleasure.
-- tbc, probably.
But it could end here. Not a bad place, huh?
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