The blindfold cinched tightly around my eyes. I was already naked, sitting in a red velvet chair, hands resting on the arms. My pulse beat faster as I fingered the fabric under my palms. It's soft, yielding weave brought a sigh up to my throat.
I could hear a ceiling fan being switched on. The room we were in was a bit warm, all swathed in heavy fabrics, and lit by candles. The breeze teased past my nipples. It felt like the hot breath of a lover and my nipples hardened in response.
I squirmed a little in my chair, keeping my hands on the arms, as you requested. I could sense you as you stood behind me now, moving my long hair from the nape of my neck, tying it snugly into a knot at the back of my head.
"Yes," I hear your soft voice whisper next to my ear. I feel your lips caress the vulnerable skin which was protected by my long mane just moments before. Lips so delicate and gentle, quickly turn to teeth grazing my flesh, making me gasp. Suddenly, the chair tipped back and my head went with it. I feel as if I am hanging over a cliff. My throat stretched open, you slide something cold along my jugular. Cold liquid drips down my collarbone, between my breasts, and over my stomach. Goose bumps appear along the path where the water droplet has been. You run your slender finger down after, stopping to cup my left breast. You place the ice cube in my mouth with a deep, lingering kiss. Water spills from our passion down my chin.
You retreat and I feel lost, only to be captured by your mouth once more as you lick your way around my right nipple. You slide the hand that had been on my other breast over my torso, stopping just shy of where my thighs touch. The ceiling fan blows air over the water on my skin. I moan at the heat growing from your mouth on my breast and the cooling from the air hitting water.
"Spread your legs." Your command is guttural. I oblige. You slide up between them, and I feel you are naked too.
"May I touch you?" I ask, breathlessly as your sinewy body connects with mine, your taught breasts, and smooth skin teasing my every nerve.
"Yes." You whisper the word, nearly unable to control yourself. Your mouth meets mine and I run my fingers over your back to your ass, dig my fingernails into your juiciest part, save for your womanly centre, which is wet for me. I am wet for you, too.
We press our centres together. I imagine the look on your face as we touch, sliding, writhing, our pleasure dictating our movements. I press you into me, I want to feel your full weight against me. I breathe faster. You grab the hair you've fastened at the back of my head, whipping my head back. I cry out as you sink your teeth into the tender flesh of my throat.
"I want to taste you." You growl into my ear. Then you are gone, and I am bereft from your heat and the pressure of your body on mine. My lips tingle, my centre throbs, lonely.
I feel your mouth connect with me, in my most pleasurable spot between my legs. I gasp and grip the chair. The fabric feels rougher this time and sets my flesh on fire. Your breasts press into my abdomen. I reach up and find your wetness, which you've straddled across my face. I lick you gently. You bite me playfully. I lick you in earnest, one hand on your ass, spreading you wider, my other hand caressing inside you, reaching your most intimate parts.
My tongues continues to dance over you, in time with my fingers. I dig my nails into your ass cheek again, and you push yourself down onto me. You moan into my mound, slide your fingers deep into me, rubbing that magic spot, that spot of ecstasy.
We gyrate in rhythm, knowing where to touch, and how to touch each other to get the response we crave. You cry out as I slide my fingers, just so. You press down on my face with your weight. I grab you by the curve of your hips and bring your closer, not caring if there is any air in my lungs. I am obsessed with pleasuring you.
You move your mouth, applying suction and pressure, just where I want it. I climax, throbbing against your fingers and mouth. Your peak pleasure is not long after, your excitement dripping down my tongue. You taste salty and sweet.
Spasms over run our senses. We are spent.
Whitney Sweet is a body positive researcher, mental health awareness activist, poet, novelist, and artist. She used to be a chef, but that's another story. You can find her publications on Amazon, or check out her website. Drop her a note sometime, she likes making new friends.
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