Friday morning pussyblogging....
He's behind me, he's inside me, he's touching me. I'm a warm oil in a human skin, slipping through the spaces with nothing to hold, nothing to ride, nothing but this heavy sweetness pulsing around our points of contact. It doesn't have to be this way; he's being gentle with me because I'm just shy of sacred to him and he doesn't want to scare me. So I say it.
"Tesoro, could you be a little mean?"
"A little mean?" he asks, never pausing. "What do you mean?"
"This sweetness is beautiful, but it's about to swallow me. I need something sharper to hang on to. So could you be a little mean?"
"Ah," he says, and I can almost hear the sadistic rat bastard creeping into his smile. Already, I'm closer to the edge.
Firm hands glide up to my breasts, gently cup them, gently take my nipples between thumb and forefinger...Thumb and forefinger gently press...and press...and press...to the point of pain and just beyond. In my mental map of my body, two bright points of light appear. Without a shadow, how do you even see the flame? The sweetness just got frame-of-reference. "Like this?" he says. Still rhetorical. Always rhetorical. But he needs to hear it, and I want to say it.
"Yes. Please."
The points of light grow, brighten beneath his hands, and then they're gone. The pleasure flares as he glides into me again, again, deep and slow and gentle and intense. Then the sharp crack of his thick, strong palm across the meat of my ass, and the accompanying shower of mental fireworks. I gasp, surprised at how good it feels. Like the savor of almonds in chocolate. I love this, and I would've missed it all my life if not for him. My back arches and I writhe in his arms. Again, the crack of flesh to flesh; again the spray of sparks. He's holding back. He has more force in him than this. I want it, but not right now. Right now it's just enough. Right now, I can feel his amazement and his reverence and his restraint. Right now, I'm his and he'll take care of me, and all is well in the world.
One hand on my hip, he says "Don't move," and so I don't. Whimper a little when he slides out of me, but it's alright; he's not leaving. I on my side and him on his knees, he returns to me and now there's a whole new lightshow on the backs of my eyelids. Unexplored territory, this, and I'm on an adventurer's high. And again, his hand across my ass; he knows just how hard to strike. My eyes lose focus and the world melts like oils beneath turpentine, nothing clear except the print of his hand and the press of him inside, steady and slow and smooth.
When I can focus again, I'm on my back and he's above me, my knees on his shoulders. Still steady and slow and smooth. "As hard as you like," I breathe, and he laughs and shakes his head.
"No. Slow and easy and drawn out to torture you with." And my wrists are caught in the vicegrips of his hands. I'd forgotten, but he'll remind me. Right now, I'm his. And it's a beautiful thing. I ride his rhythms and occasionally test his grip. Solid and strong, and I'd never anticipated this kind of strength. The pressure's building; I let go and let it take me.
It takes him, too; soon, steady and slow and smooth are swept away by nature's insistent pulse. He gasps and I grin, clenching inner muscles to hear him gasp again. This. This is what I was after. Pleasure for me, yes, but also the pleasure of hearing him, seeing him, feeling him. "Yes," I breathe, and "Please." And he stops fighting it and rides the rhythm with me, in me, through me, through us both.
Then his rumbling moans become a roar and he explodes; the force of him pushes me over the edge and I'm gone with him, the same sound from my throat, the same grip-and-release rocking us. He gives me more of his weight, his beautiful, beautiful weight, and I arc my hips beneath it, squeeze and rock and press to drain every drop of bliss. I am yours, yes. But right now, in this moment, you are mine. My teeth in your shoulder and the nail tracks down your back proclaim it.
As the final shudders fade, he kisses me, cradles me close, and then slips out and away. The room is dark, but I can still feel exactly where he is in it. He glows.
And I am amazed and satisfied and grateful. My treasure, he is. More valuable than all the merchantmen that ever put canvas to wind or wood to water.
Ti amo, Tesoro mio.
"Tesoro, could you be a little mean?"
"A little mean?" he asks, never pausing. "What do you mean?"
"This sweetness is beautiful, but it's about to swallow me. I need something sharper to hang on to. So could you be a little mean?"
"Ah," he says, and I can almost hear the sadistic rat bastard creeping into his smile. Already, I'm closer to the edge.
Firm hands glide up to my breasts, gently cup them, gently take my nipples between thumb and forefinger...Thumb and forefinger gently press...and press...and press...to the point of pain and just beyond. In my mental map of my body, two bright points of light appear. Without a shadow, how do you even see the flame? The sweetness just got frame-of-reference. "Like this?" he says. Still rhetorical. Always rhetorical. But he needs to hear it, and I want to say it.
"Yes. Please."
The points of light grow, brighten beneath his hands, and then they're gone. The pleasure flares as he glides into me again, again, deep and slow and gentle and intense. Then the sharp crack of his thick, strong palm across the meat of my ass, and the accompanying shower of mental fireworks. I gasp, surprised at how good it feels. Like the savor of almonds in chocolate. I love this, and I would've missed it all my life if not for him. My back arches and I writhe in his arms. Again, the crack of flesh to flesh; again the spray of sparks. He's holding back. He has more force in him than this. I want it, but not right now. Right now it's just enough. Right now, I can feel his amazement and his reverence and his restraint. Right now, I'm his and he'll take care of me, and all is well in the world.
One hand on my hip, he says "Don't move," and so I don't. Whimper a little when he slides out of me, but it's alright; he's not leaving. I on my side and him on his knees, he returns to me and now there's a whole new lightshow on the backs of my eyelids. Unexplored territory, this, and I'm on an adventurer's high. And again, his hand across my ass; he knows just how hard to strike. My eyes lose focus and the world melts like oils beneath turpentine, nothing clear except the print of his hand and the press of him inside, steady and slow and smooth.
When I can focus again, I'm on my back and he's above me, my knees on his shoulders. Still steady and slow and smooth. "As hard as you like," I breathe, and he laughs and shakes his head.
"No. Slow and easy and drawn out to torture you with." And my wrists are caught in the vicegrips of his hands. I'd forgotten, but he'll remind me. Right now, I'm his. And it's a beautiful thing. I ride his rhythms and occasionally test his grip. Solid and strong, and I'd never anticipated this kind of strength. The pressure's building; I let go and let it take me.
It takes him, too; soon, steady and slow and smooth are swept away by nature's insistent pulse. He gasps and I grin, clenching inner muscles to hear him gasp again. This. This is what I was after. Pleasure for me, yes, but also the pleasure of hearing him, seeing him, feeling him. "Yes," I breathe, and "Please." And he stops fighting it and rides the rhythm with me, in me, through me, through us both.
Then his rumbling moans become a roar and he explodes; the force of him pushes me over the edge and I'm gone with him, the same sound from my throat, the same grip-and-release rocking us. He gives me more of his weight, his beautiful, beautiful weight, and I arc my hips beneath it, squeeze and rock and press to drain every drop of bliss. I am yours, yes. But right now, in this moment, you are mine. My teeth in your shoulder and the nail tracks down your back proclaim it.
As the final shudders fade, he kisses me, cradles me close, and then slips out and away. The room is dark, but I can still feel exactly where he is in it. He glows.
And I am amazed and satisfied and grateful. My treasure, he is. More valuable than all the merchantmen that ever put canvas to wind or wood to water.
Ti amo, Tesoro mio.
posted by ~*Luca at 7:19 AM
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