“Oh God that’s—oh that’s really—”
Nice, her mind threw up, but it didn’t quite get to her mouth. Instead, a shuddering moan took its place. Her hand went to his hair. Words came suddenly easier, one after the other.
“Yeah, just there,” she found herself panting, and then even more shocking, “Lick my clit.”
He was right about the nice. The nice was fake, it was silly, whereas these words—these were the ones she wanted to say. They were freeing, fantastic, and oh they were made so much more so by his own contribution to the proceedings.
“Jesus that’s hot. You like this, huh? You like me doing this?”
She didn’t even hesitate this time.
“I love it. I love it.”
It was the truth, after all. She couldn’t think of anything else in her life she’d loved half as hard as this, and the fact barely even shamed her. All she could do was revel in it, watching and watching as he bent to lick her again.
Then moaning for him too loudly when he struck some impossibly sweet spot. He seemed to have some sort of uncanny knack for it, searching out places that felt sensitive, but not too sensitive. Pulling back when her orgasm hovered close, and licking more frantically, more greedily, when it seemed just out of reach.
And then finally, just as she thought she might go mad with it, his fingers slid down, down through her slippery slit to find the entrance to her pussy.
Of course, he didn’t push in. But that wasn’t the point. The suggestion of sliding into her was enough, the hint that he might do it at any moment. It made her buck on the bed when she didn’t want to, and say things that he had to know she didn’t mean, like, God yes, just fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me.
Though in truth, she wasn’t sure if she did mean them or not. It didn’t seem like such a bad thing, to imagine those fingers suddenly easing into the empty ache there—the one that clenched around nothing every time he rubbed over that little hollow.
How would it feel, to be so filled? Even his fingers felt absolutely immense, so God only knew what his cock would do to her. Split her in two, most likely, though the thought didn’t seem half as bad as it should. Instead, the image just joined with all of the insane sensations fizzing through her body, shoving her higher and higher until her hand simply had to tighten in his hair.
Words actually wanted to come out this time, but she didn’t have the breath to lend them. Everything had seized up inside her, so tightly that for a second she panicked. This wasn’t like the orgasms she’d had prior. The orgasms prior hadn’t hurt the way this one was doing, and they hadn’t made her stop breathing, and oh God what if a person could die of coming?
She was sure she’d heard that on the news, one time. Sure. But no matter how tense and out of control her body got—by this point, she’d practically started rutting against his mouth—he didn’t let up.
He wasn’t letting up now. His tongue stayed tight and rough on her clit, and those fingers stroked and stroked and ohhhhh that was it. Oh Lord, this was really it.
“I think I’m coming,” she burst out, and knew it sounded odd. How could you think you were doing something like this? You had to know, because so many things pointed to it—the pulse of her clit, the sudden slick of wetness, the way pleasure got hold of her gut and squeezed and squeezed.
And yet the whole thing just felt so different from anything she’d previously experienced. It went on and on, for one thing. She wasn’t even sure it had an end in sight, somewhere in the middle of it. She had to cling to the covers and his hair and anything else she could find, just to keep herself sane.
Then just as she felt sure she couldn’t take another second of it, wrenching pleasure turned to slow, sensuous ebbs. That clenching, tense sensation relaxed into a kind of syrupy warmth—one that almost felt like falling asleep. She even closed her eyes, briefly, just to let it wash over her.
Then had to open them again, the moment he shifted on the bed.
“You okay?” he asked, but it really looked as though she should have been asking that question. He had the strangest expression on his face—caught somewhere between a faintly smiling satisfaction, and a kind of agony.
It made her think of the pleasure she’d just experienced, though he hadn’t had anything like that, of course. He’d had precisely nothing—not even teasing of some sort—and it showed.
“Yeah,” she said, but oh Jesus her voice came out weird. It sounded like her body felt—like maybe she’d just been wrung out and left hanging wet. “How about you?”
She had to ask. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Mostly he’d settled on kneeling over her, fingers still just about touching her spread legs. But there were so many things wrong with how he looked she could hardly count them all.