Lick

A woman has her fingers in her mouth.

He holds up two fingers in front of my face, still glistening with my wetness, and smiles. ‘Clean them,’ he says, and I do.

He knows the effect it has on me, knows all too well the immediate reaction that burns within me whenever I’m allowed to taste myself for him. He knows just how excited I become at the thought of taking his fingers into my mouth after he’s fucked me with them – and not just his fingers, either; I grow weak at the taste of myself on his cock, travelling straight from my cunt to my mouth.

‘Clean them,’ he says, and I do. Every time.

It keeps me down, just for a moment longer. As the first flood of orgasmic bliss begins to subside, as my heartrate begins to slow and my breathing returns to normal, as I feel him climb off my quivering form and settle back into bed next to me, the taste puts me right back into that instant of perfect, gleeful submission. Feeling part of him probe my mouth, his fingers slick with my juices – watching me debase myself all for his approval – starts the ticking clock that pushes me towards Round Two. (Or Round Three, or Four, or…)

Clean them.

Taste yourself.

You beautiful, filthy little slut.

Because isn’t that what he means with those two little words? Isn’t that the subtext riding under the taste of my cunt?

Yes, of course. Because a good girl wouldn’t do that. A good girl wouldn’t find herself salivating at the thought of his fingers probing her, growing wetter and wetter in both mouth and pussy, unconsciously preparing herself to be fucked yet again wherever he might choose. No, a good girl would be demure and pleasing, eager – but not too eager. That would never do.

A good girl would know how to resist. It’s a lesson I’ve never learned… and so what would that make me? What could that make me?

I wonder…

He has told me often enough. He has growled it in my ear a thousand times as he fucks me, slides his length into me, shapes my cunt to his needs. He has made me admit it before he’ll give me an orgasm, before he allows me the release that he knows belongs to him. He has kept that word on my tongue for what feels like an eternity as I wait for his permission, as I wait for him to tell me it’s OK to give in.

To admit that I’m not a good girl, and that I never was.

That I am a slut, his slut, and nothing more or less than that.

‘Clean them,’ he says, but he knows he doesn’t need to ask.

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Mornings With Him

Gay Couple in Kitchen

I like the quiet stillness of my mornings with him.

I like the weekends, when we’ll awaken still sweaty from the night before, shower together, relax into two days of idle bliss. I like the way I feel his arms encircle me from behind as I cook breakfast for the both of us in our kitchen (our kitchen; still such a novelty even after six months of marriage). I like the knowledge that our time is ours, and that there is nothing we can’t do with it. A visit to a new gallery exhibit? Sure. A glass of wine on the patio? Of course. An afternoon in bed, of sensuous lovemaking and rough fucking (delete according to preference)? Whyever not?

All of the above? Well, if you’re twisting my arm…

And yet there’s so much more to it than that.

Even in the dim light of a Wednesday, our Saturday ritual so far away, I love my mornings with him. I love rolling over in bed and seeing him still asleep, undisturbed by the harsh beep of my alarm clock an hour before he is due to rise. I love the look of peacefulness on his face, so different from the passionate contortions of the night before.

Fuck me, fuck, me, fuck me…

Hard even to remember whose lips the words came from. Perhaps they came from everywhere at once, circling around us as we pressed our naked bodies against each other again and again and…

The thought makes me smile even as I pull myself towards the bathroom.

I shower, rubbing the sweat and grime of the night before off my body, ready to be presentable to the outside world. It almost feels sacrilegious to washing the scent of him off me – as though our night spent with our bodies pressed against each other is something to be so easily discarded on passing into the world of Corporate Responsibility™ – but needs must. Until the evening comes, I have to pretend to care about anything, anything at all other than him and the feeling of his arms around me. I slip into my suit, fastening my tie tight around my neck, and frown as I watch him sleep. It would be so easy to call in sick, to feign some kind of emergency, to spend the day wrapped up in his arms – and why not the day after? Why not the day after that, to lead us into Saturday and the weekend? Why not forever?

Because that’s not how it works, I chide myself. Because everything you’ve built with him, this little life of yours, requires sacrifice.

And there’s no sacrifice greater than knowing that I could choose to strip down and to curl back up next to him, safe in the warmth of our duvet and his company.

Do it quickly, I think. Do it quickly, or you won’t do it at all.

I don’t even lean down to kiss him before I go, but it doesn’t matter; as I make my move to the bedroom door, he stirs himself out of whatever dream he was having. ‘Hey,’ he says, propping himself unsteadily up on an elbow. ‘What time is it?’

‘Go back to sleep. You’ve still got half an hour.’

He smiles. ‘Love you.’

And that’s all it takes for my resolve to crumble. The pressures of work that were just starting to creep in around the edges of my morning routine are banished in an instant. If I miss the train, I’ll catch the next; if I wrinkle my suit, I’m sure no one will even notice, let alone care – but for now, I need him. I need him, and nothing else can possibly matter.

‘What are you doing?’

I grin up at him as I fall to my knees at the side of the bed. ‘Just trust me, OK?’

He nods, and I throw back the sheets just far enough to reveal his prick; a second or two later, his morning half-hardness is heavy against my tongue. I can taste the sweat and the sweetness, feel his fingers in my hair as he gently strokes behind my ear. There is a time for roughness, a time to be controlling – And oh, what a time it is… – but it’s not now. Either out of instinct or tiredness he knows to let me take control of the situation, to be the one tending to him; he might be groggy, but his trust in my ability to give him what he needs is absolute.

His cock is full now, long and thick enough that it would make me gag if I swallowed it the way I wanted, but as much as I want to take it deep into my throat I think it might blow his sleep-addled mind. Instead I suck gently at it, running my tongue across the tip to savour the precome that is already forming as a result of my ministrations. He lets out a soft, exhausted moan and tightens his grip on the bedsheets. There is no fuck me, fuck me, fuck me now, not here; the same voice that gasped it out in my ear a few brief hours ago is now distant and floaty with pleasure. It’s the voice of a man given over to the comfort and care of someone else, someone trusted and adored.

I feel his body tense up, his hips rising as though to greet me, and I know he’s close; I can sense the orgasm building in every ragged gasp, in the tightening of his fingers in my hair, in the way he begins to shiver.

And then, there it is. What I needed from him.

I make sure to swallow every last drop; as the spell is broken and my desire to please him is replaced by the more mundane realisation that I’ll be late for work, I know that it will raise more questions than I’m comfortable with if I managed to spill on my suit without noticing. I suck until I feel him growing soft in my mouth, and I know I’ve taken everything he has to give.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, already halfway back to his dream – a dream, I hope, that stars me.

This time, I make a special point of kissing him before I leave for work. This time, I make sure he tastes himself on my lips – a little something to remember me by when I’m gone, especially if the blowjob he received begins to feel a little like just some early-morning imagining.

And then I’m gone.

I have a smile on my face as I head down the stairs and out of the door. I know I shouldn’t have done it, really. I know all I’ve done is set myself up for a day of dreadful teasing, and it’s all my fault; the hardness I can feel growing beneath my suit isn’t going to go away any time soon, and there’s nothing I’ll be able to do about it at the office. The thought of him will sit there, roiling away inside my mind until I’ve worked myself up into a frenzy of expectation.

But that’s OK.

Tonight, he’ll be waiting for me, in our home, in our bedroom, between our sheets.

He will be waiting, and he will be mine.

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First Taste

Two glasses of champagne.

The bubbles tickled at her nose as she tipped the thin flute upwards, the crystal so delicate that she thought for a moment that even the simple act of raising it the glass to her lips would be enough to shatter it into a million tiny, piercing shards. She snorted a little at the sensation – so embarrassing – then somehow managed to compose herself.

He was sitting across the table, smiling at her, watching for her reaction. His glass remained untouched. ‘First time?’ he asked.

For a lot of things, she thought. Instead she just nodded.

‘What did you think?’

‘It’s nice. I like it.’ In truth, she found it a little too dry, a little too sharp to be entirely pleasurable. She would have been happier with the taste of her usual bottle of wine, whatever was sweet and light and on sale at the local corner shop on a Friday night – but of course, the company was much better here. She wondered if, perhaps, champagne was a drink that people only pretended to like when they were trying to impress someone important to them, when they were trying to appear worldly, sophisticated, and utterly grown up.

Three dates in, and she hadn’t quite shaken that feeling. Twenty-five years old, and he made her feel like a teenager again. He was older, yes, but not that much older; twelve years, if you rounded down. So how was it that she made her feel like a dumb kid crushing on her teacher? Was it the slight peppering grey in his hair? The cut of his suit: stylish, confident? The way people seemed to listen when he talked, as if by instinct?

‘Well, that’s more than I could say the first time I tried it,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stand it.’

‘How old were you, your first time?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And when you tried champagne?’

He laughed at that, and she felt a thrill of pride; it felt good to know she could surprise him still. ‘Also eighteen,’ he said. ‘The same night, in fact. Apparently the two things go together a little better than I thought.’

He knew, of course. He hadn’t pushed her, hadn’t pressured her at all. He had wanted it to be special – hence the dinner in his apartment, the champagne chilled to perfection, the music playing lightly in the background – and it was. She couldn’t have pictured a more perfect moment.

He had joked once about her not wearing panties on a date with him, and she was shocked at how she had considered it. She had always wondered if she would be the kind of girl who’d lean into that if the opportunity ever arose; if, given a man with whom she felt safe enough, she’d sit through dinner or a movie, knowing that there was nothing but air between her pussy and her lover…

When the taxi arrived to pick her up, she had shimmied them down her legs and thrown them into the laundry basket, smoothing down her skirt. She felt daring, free. It would be a surprise for him later, she had thought. Well, later was here now.

Tonight’s the night. Twenty-five years of waiting, and here it was. Worth every second.

He could read her excitement at a distance; it was a different kind of nervousness than he was used to with her. She had started to grow used to him over the past few weeks, to settle into herself in his company, to sound out the first glorious syllables of what the future might hold. She had become… comfortable, and he felt pride in that. He liked that he could put her at ease.

He knelt in front of her, and she felt the touch of his fingers at her ankle – a tap, a gesture, an indication to uncross her legs. She did so.

He was looking up at her, imploringly. Say the word, he seemed to be saying. Say the word and this all stops. We can go back to chatting, to the champagne, to dessert. We can be as we were, for as long as it takes you to be comfortable. A day, a week, a lifetime if necessary. There’s no rush.

There was never a rush; not with him. Everything seemed to happen at just the right pace.

She said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

She parted her knees and, like a groom reveal his bride’s face from beneath a bridal gown, he lifted the hem of her dress.

It’s time.

His gaze was fixed on the smooth skin of her thighs as he pulled the fabric up, up, up, giving her every chance to stop him; he wanted it to be perfect. He paused only when he realised that there was nothing stopping him, no panties in the way to slow his inexorable progress, and she felt him take a deep breath of appreciation.

It was nice, to be looked at that way. To be admired. To be wanted.

He kissed her thigh, parting her legs gently with his hand, and she could feel a cool breeze at her cunt, her wetness impossible to ignore. She wanted nothing more than to be touched there, to be teased

to be fucked

– but he steadfastly took his time; she was his, brand new, and he was going to savour these first moments.

His kisses drew near, his breath warm against her skin – and then, unexpected, the electric first-touch of his tongue. She gripped at the table, worried for an instant that in her ecstasy her nails might carve deep grooves into the varnish, and then steadied herself. She gave a long, slow exhalation, willing her body back under control. Not now, she thought. Fuck, so close… but not now. Not yet. Not so soon. That comes later.

The champagne glass sat just inches from her hand. She watched a thin stream of bubbles rising from the edge, hurtling to the surface and disappearing forever. It felt apt: a momentary lifting, and then nothing.

She hoped there would be more than nothing waiting for her.

He kissed her, down there, and every kiss promised a thousand more; he alternated his kisses with soft, gentle licks that pushed her towards a sensation she had never shared with anyone. He was familiar with her, as experienced as she was innocent. What she suspected, he knew; his reverence was new and strange, but no less comforting for it. She was safe in the hands of an expert.

Fuck…

Her body tightened, and he looked up, concerned.

‘No… please,’ she said, surprised at how weak her voice sounded. ‘Don’t stop.’ Don’t ever stop.

And there was that smile again. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Have a drink. Enjoy it. It’s OK.’

Enjoy it. As if she were capable of anything but. And why shouldn’t she?

She let him guide her, his tongue carving out fresh, new pathways of pleasure that she had never considered before, had never been able to reach herself. She felt it rise up out of her, spreading out from his kisses up through her body, separate quanta of joy and lust and longing made just for her, teased out of her one by one…

When it came, it came in waves: no crashing tsunami but a steady, glorious lapping of pleasure that she felt could go on forever. She let out a moan – no embarrassment, not now – and felt her body shiver and shake; her hand reached down, not to pull him close or grasp at his hair but just to touch him, to feel his presence, to remind herself that this man – this beautiful, wonderful man – was the one making her feel this way.

He looked up at her, his brow dappled with exertive sweat, his perfect hair mussed. She leaned down to kiss him and detected the faintest trace of herself on his lips; another unfamiliar taste, but not unpleasant for it. ‘The bedroom?’ he asked.

‘The bedroom,’ she replied.

The drinks could wait.

If you enjoyed this story, please check out my Patreon page or my available books. Patreons get access to these stories before anyone else, and any support helps me to continue doing what I do.