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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.

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08 March 2007

 

That One Thing

That afternoon--our last afternoon--was hot.

We sat in our lounge chairs reading, our fingers brushing occasionally on their paths between our lips and the beer cans between us.

Jefferson's kids and their cousins had gone shopping with their grandparents. My children were taking a break from the water and watching television.

As I sat and read I felt his eyes on me. I looked up, smirking.

"So, what do you want to do now?" I asked, half-chiding.

Then, without pause, as if he'd been waiting for an invitation, "Nap and a blowjob. Not necessarily in that order."

I stood and held out my hand, "Come on, then."

I checked on the children when we got to the top of the steps. They were out cold in the main house, SpongeBob in the background. I used the restroom and went out to the porch. It was late afternoon and the sun was brutal. I carried bottles of water and opened the door to the guest house.

He was lying on top of the quilt.

"I thought you might be thirsty," I locked the door behind me and set the bottles on the nightstand.

"Aren't you thoughtful?"

I smiled down at him, glancing down at the hem of my suit, which he was absentmindedly tracing with a finger. The light was dim, making his skin look almost tan. I looked at my thighs as I straddled his hips and adjusted myself above him. This was going to last a nice, long while.

The room was silent.

I'd taken my top off, letting my nipples graze his as I gently kissed his eyelids, forehead, cheeks, mouth. He was relaxed and had closed his eyes, his slight smile amusing me, goading me on, inexplicably making me want to take a bite of his face and swallow it.

I moved my body down, tracing his nipples with soft fingertips and my tongue, smiling when an involuntary gasp jumped out from behind his teeth, causing his cock to jump up from behind his trunks. I slid my finger inside the waistband and pulled them down, my forearms dragging along his thighs.

My skin was much darker than his and still radiating heat from the day's boating and swimming. The freckles on my arms made me think of chocolate, when a stray fleck lands on your skin unnoticed until it melts and you lick it off. The contrast of my tan with his rosy tint was pretty. His creamsicle freckles. My chocolate ones.

I nuzzled my face between his legs and for once, he just let me. Gave me control. Let me do what I wanted and didn't rush me. I did notice that he kept his trunks within arm's reach, just in case we were interrupted.

His hands were in my hair, sliding down to my jaw and around to my neck. I wanted to stay there, rooting in his hair like a newborn, inhaling the salty musk, my mouth watering. By then his cock was stiff and insistent and getting in the way.

When I finally took it in my mouth we both moaned.

I looked at his face. He was watching me, head cocked to the side, a finger on my temple.

There was that moment of telepathy that happens between lovers, when you want to speak but you don't because you'll never be able to phrase things properly and anyway, you both know what it means.

It was one of the times in my life that I'd like to have been watching us--seeing how we fit together, the way his body writhed under mine, his legs thrown over my shoulders and my hands pressing into his pelvis and chest as my head moved slowly up and down his cock--I'd like to know what that looks like.

I know he's had faster blowjobs, louder blowjobs and pornier blowjobs (I've seen them and given them), but this one was different.

What do I look like swallowing the dick of a person who adores me and whom I adore? When I am focused on his pleasure and receive so much of my own; is an adoring blowjob different from any other blowjob? Of course it is. It feels different. It must look different.

It may even end differently, but the cocksucking is the thing.

We put our clothes back on and unlocked the door, napping together on top of the covers until Lillie rushed in to show us her booty from "the Wal-Mark."

1 Comments:

Blogger Curvaceous Dee said...

There was that moment of telepathy that happens between lovers, when you want to speak but you don't because you'll never be able to phrase things properly and anyway, you both know what it means.

One of the most beautiful pieces of writing I've had the pleasure of reading in a long time. Lovely post - and sounds like a delicious vignette in a larger story.

xx Dee

3/08/2007  

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