Though I suspect it’s the latter. When I finally let him feel my mouth on his body – just around some place innocuous, like his right shoulder – it’s akin to detonating a bomb between my legs. The taste of his skin is so much sharper after all that waiting. And oh, the
feel
of him. The give of his flesh, beneath the press of my lips …
It’s really no surprise that I do more than kiss. I think I’ve actually waited too long, and the thousand years of no touching have sent me somewhat doolally – because I swear, I only intend to leave a soft, wet trail over his skin. But once I’m there, I accidentally sink my teeth in.
I bite.
And even worse:
He
likes
it.
Though in all honesty the word ‘like’ is understating it somewhat. ‘Like’ implies something you mildly approve of, possibly. It could be applied to a can of mushy peas, or a Saturday-night light entertainment programme on BBC1. It cannot be applied to his reaction, which is roughly the same as mine on realising that I’ve done this to him.
I’ve turned him into a writhing, groaning mess. His back actually arches up off the bed, as though I’d licked the tip of his erection. And once he’s done with the arching, he twists until he’s almost completely turned away from me – until his face is buried in the pillow, and his body is this contorted sort of S-shape.
His upper half hides, while his lower half remains where it is. Though I suppose that makes some sort of sense. I don’t think he could bury that cock of his in the mattress if we’d dug it a metre-deep hole, because, by
God
,
he’s so hard. He’s so impossibly, improbably hard.
And that’s pretty much the point where I go nuts too. I can feel my own wetness on the insides of my thighs. My clit is so swollen I’m sort of afraid to move, in case some random part of my body brushes against it and accidentally triggers my orgasm. Hell – I think my elbow could probably do the deed, with very little effort at all. It might be a good foot away from lady-parts and in a physically impossible position, but my clit’s such a danger zone I’m fairly certain anything could do the job.
Including him, and his orgasm-inducing moans.
And even worse – he’s actually using words now, too.
‘Again,’ he says, which is bad enough on its own. But then he seems to remember that talking really turns me on, and gives it to me both barrels. ‘Do it again, just like that, yeah, just like that – make me come.’
I pause mid-kiss while that one sinks in. Though even after I’ve given it a good few minutes, it’s still kind of lodged in the back of my mind. It keeps jabbing me between my legs with a red-hot poker, every time I ask myself the question: can he really come, just because I sink my teeth into him?
Until the question is three feet tall and surrounded by incredulous exclamation points. He can’t, I think. No one can come because of a bit of biting.
But I can already tell I’m going to test that theory. The urge is in me, before my brain has even finished laughing about it. My brain’s still busy being amused, while my entire body flushes hot, and then hotter, and then hotter again. If I get any more aroused I’m going to melt myself, and possibly the bed beneath us.
So I have to act fast. I can’t go for half measures now. I need to feel him buck beneath my bite, and he does, oh, he does. I sink my teeth in just above his hip, right over that glorious dragon tattoo, and the moment I do he almost lifts himself clean off the bed. He pounds the mattress with his fist, and makes this almost giddy sound.
Then dissolves into actual elation when I bite a little harder than I’d intended.
I don’t mean to, of course. I want to stop at just a hint of him … just the smallest sense of his flesh giving under the pressure. But his reactions are so beguiling it’s hard to hold back, once I’ve seen them and heard them and felt them. He spurs me on with his squirming and his little half-laughs and his words, oh, his words: ‘Go on, go on, make it hurt,’ he tells me, which shouldn’t sound sexy at all.
And neither should ‘make me bleed’, if we’re really getting into it.
Yet both things make me shiver. They make me climb all over him, teeth bared, until he’s a mess of raw red marks. Until he’s shaking the way I’m shaking, and practically kissing the pillow in this desperate, lewd, open-mouthed sort of way, and then just as he’s on some kind of impossible edge of control … just as he’s begging me to be brutal …
I go in the opposite direction. I lick over some little dent I’ve made in his flesh, all soft and wet and soothing – then watch as he goes even crazier for that than he did for the biting. He actually goes all still for a second and snaps one hand to his cock.
But it’s not to give himself the pleasure that I’m denying him. He doesn’t stroke himself into a frenzy, without a bit of regard to all the careful effort I’m putting in. He squeezes himself tight around the base of his stiff shaft instead – so tight it kind of looks like it hurts – and once he’s relaxed it, he lets out this series of panting, shuddering breaths.
And then I know exactly what’s happening here. He’s holding himself off. I licked him, and he almost went over.
So I lick him again. In fact, I take an even greater delight in doing it this time. This time it’s almost like the first barrage in a battle, between his ability to keep himself in check and my greediness for his orgasm. I try more dangerous places, like the sensitive insides of his elbows and that place just under his ear, and when he complains, when he says, ‘No, come on, come on, enough now,’ I take that as my cue to make things worse.
I draw a slow, slippery circle around one of his nipples, until he actually gasps. He gasps for me, and those hips come again – only this time I’m right over his body when it happens. His cock slides over my belly, so hot and shocking that I do the same thing that he does when it happens.
I clench all over, and groan his name.
At which point he clearly believes he’s winning that war. Or, at the very least, he’s certain he’s just triumphed in one of the lesser battles.
‘Yeah, you want that, baby?’ he says, and then he does it again, just for good measure. He bumps his hips up and that hot hard thing rubs right up against me – almost between my legs, in fact. ‘You want that big cock inside you?’
I do, if I’m being honest. I really, really do. My pussy is a perpetual ache, and it keeps clenching around everything that isn’t actually filling it. And I’m now so wet I can hear it, every time I move.
He
can hear it, every time I move. His eyes keep drifting closed, and he makes this urgent, desperate sound at each little hint of it.
But whether he does or not, I don’t care. I’m not ready to give in yet. I’m not ready to stop teasing. I haven’t given him my grand finale, after all.
And my grand finale is
good
. I think he knows it is, too, before I even reveal it. He goes all tense again as I start sliding my way down his body, and I can’t help noticing the hand he puts in his hair. It’s a mean hand – a rough hand – and it only gets meaner as I carry on with whatever this is.
I outline the shape of his erection, as it rests there on his belly. First with my fingers, and then with my tongue – always promising that I’ll go closer, but never quite delivering. And then just as he’s bursting with it, just as he’s actually saying no to anything more in case it proves too much, I let the very tip of my tongue flick over that glossy, swollen head.
Just the very tip of it. Nothing more.
But nothing more is enough.
It’s enough to get him to fist his hand in my hair instead of his own. And once he’s gone that far, he does something even more electric. Something that makes
me
buck this time. He pushes my face real close to his cock, and angles himself towards my mouth.
Then tells me, in no uncertain terms:
‘Suck it.’
Of course, I think two things when he does. The first being: I guess he really does like things the other way around, too. And the second being: Oh, my God, I think I’m going to faint from arousal. I’m actually going to faint. It’s not possible to be this aroused and maintain consciousness.
Though I’m proven wrong on that score. It
is
possible to carry on. It’s just that all actions have to be done in a kind of mindless frenzy. He’s barely finished ordering me to do it when I take him in my mouth. And my blow job technique could best be described as sloppy, with a side of enthusiastic.
I suck him as though I’m the one who’s been teased for the last twenty minutes. I lick him like my life depends on it. And all the while he talks in a way that only spurs me on.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he tells me. ‘Take that cock. You like that, huh? You like sucking me off?’
I do. But in all honesty I think I like it a little more when he turns my body so he can put a hand between my legs. Especially after he’s parted my lips, and found that incredibly wet and wanting place.
‘Jesus Christ, Kit,’ he says, and I know why. He doesn’t even have to work to slide three fingers inside me. He could probably get a fourth in there if he really tried. I’m just so slippery, and so flushed, and so ready to take anything … it’s easy. And clearly he likes easy. ‘Guess you liked teasing me, too, huh? Did it make you all wet, seeing me suffer? God, baby, you’ve no idea what that does to me.’
I do have some idea of what that does to him. For a start, it makes his cock kick in my mouth, and his hand come down to grip the base of it again. And I guess it also gives him the green light, somehow … as though maybe he’d started wondering if I’d had enough with the teasing. He didn’t just lose control. He switched things back up – and, crazily, I let him.
I should have said no when he put his hand in my hair.
I should have gone as far as he goes with me.
Though at least I know that now. I know it enough to stop sucking his cock, and I even manage to move away from his maddening, stroking fingers. I sit up straight and position myself a little further down the bed – almost out of his reach, but not quite.
Still, he doesn’t reach for me. He makes a protesting sound, but he doesn’t go for me in the way he could if he really wanted to. Instead he simply lies there, eyes gleaming with realisation, body as tense as it was a moment before.
‘What?’ he asks, but he knows what. And even if he doesn’t, he gets the picture when I toss him a condom.
‘Put it on,’ I tell him, then, just in case it isn’t absolutely clear: ‘I’m going to have you now.’
Of course, I haven’t the slightest clue where words like those come from. I only know that they really, really excite me, once they’re out. There’s just something so … insistent about them. Something so rough and rude. And that’s before I’ve even reached the idea that these are the words a man would more typically say, to a woman.
In fact, I think
he’s
said that very thing to me before now. So I’ve no real clue what makes it this exciting to hear it the other way around. And I definitely don’t know what makes it exciting to him.
I only know that it does. Oh, God, it really does. His head goes back against the pillow and his mouth falls open, as though he’s coming just at the thought of it. He even makes an orgasmic sort of sound – all low and guttural.
But he doesn’t neglect what I’ve asked him to do. He gets the condom on in a frantic, fumbly sort of rush, and then he just waits. He waits for me to fuck him.
And I think I like that part best of all.
I probably wouldn’t have before. There’s so much onus on me, you see. So much that I have to do on my own initiative – without shame or uncertainty. I have to straddle him and hold his cock in my hand. I have to stroke him through my folds – until his face goes all taut and strained again, and his words turn into the ones I liked, from before. ‘Stop, no, don’t,’ he says. Then finally: ‘I’m gonna go over, if you keep teasing me like that.’
And of course, once he’s said that, I have to do one more thing. One more thing that I would definitely never have dared to do, before the glorious and unending freedom of him.
‘If you come before I do,’ I say, ‘I’ll punish you.’
Then I simply sink down on him, as his expression shifts from dismay to delight and back again. For a good long while he can’t seem to decide what to feel– but in the end he settles on a kind of heavy-lidded, lust-slackened awe, which I have to say I appreciate very much.
I appreciate it so much, in fact, that for a second it’s sort of hard to do anything. I’m too turned on to trust myself with this task, even though it’s supposed to be him holding off. He’s meant to lie there and wrestle himself under control, while I take my time with my own orgasm.
But the thing is, I don’t think it’s going to work out that way. I’m close right now, before I’ve even begun. His erection is so hard, and thick, and swollen, I can feel it shoving against that sweet spot inside me, without even really trying. And when I try a graceful glide up and then down, all I can manage is a sort of clumsy jerk.
Followed by an almost-grunt of shocked pleasure.
Though all of these things do sort of work out better than they probably should. Because once I’ve revealed that I have even less control than he does, I get to carry on down that path of total abandonment. I get to be greedy and rude, and somehow all of it sort of matches up with that first idea.
The one about
having
him.
‘Oh, God, yeah, your cock feels so good,’ I find myself saying, and once I have it’s really easy. In fact, the urge to debase him further just sort of … takes over, until I’m telling him stuff like this: ‘I’m gonna use it to make myself come. I’m gonna do it all over this big, thick thing. Mmmm, that’s it, baby. You just lie there and take it.’
And, to his credit, he does. He takes every bit of what I’m saying and doing, without complaint – even if
without complaint
probably looks a little bit more like
being stabbed by pleasure
. His face is an absolute picture, and when I’m done spilling those ridiculous words all over him he can’t hold in his shock any longer.
‘Are you serious?’ he asks. ‘Are you serious? Come on, man, at least make it fair. You can’t say stuff like that and expect me to keep it together.’