Even if we weren’t going out though, I was damn well going to take a long, hot bath. I made a couple of moves to get up to do so, but was lured back by the soft, warm bed, the solid dip between shoulder and chest that fits my head and cheek so perfectly, the wandering hands, trailing fingers, groping… I’m a total glutton for groping. Is it any wonder I let myself be waylaid? This was a day of unapologetic leisure, after all. The groping became distinctly more deliberate, but he wouldn’t let me take off my panties or give in to my wordless, arching invitations to go under them. He pulled them back and looked appreciatively a couple of times, admiring the visible effects of his handiwork (also I’m sporting a pretty nice new little trim job – it’s a thin triangle with the point up instead of down, that I think suits me well), but he didn’t give in. I think he likes to make me come through my panties for the sake of the slow soak of moisture into fabric. I think the look and feel of that pleases him. Also, it’s a bit of a tease, and that pleases him as well. So I came in my panties for him, loudly, spread wide across the bed, in the broad light of late afternoon, with my arms flung indecorously over my head, and the bedroom door thrown wide to the empty house.
Afterward, I half-rolled away from him to reach my glass and got the full body grope, from behind. He still had his jeans on, but there’s a quality about wet panties that I can’t imagine was wholly undetectable to that rigid a cock crammed up against them. He knows I love it when he does this, so he always claims that I do it on purpose, like I’m beckoning him over, intentionally tempting, suggesting, every time I take a sip of a drink. I deny it every time. Oh, but I can’t get enough of his cock long and hard against me from my pussy up the crease of my ass. He may have initiated the grind (enticement or no), but I was quickly overcome by that slow writhe that starts with my ass and gradually incorporates my whole body working against him like waves over a beach. I’ll admit I got swept up into it. I was enjoying the unmitigated freedom of having nothing to do but enjoy each other, and I let it carry me so far off that I almost came again just from the sheer indulgence – full-on frottage. We have a little history with frottage. A fond memory of balancing along the edge of paired orgasm on the PATH train from NYC where we’d been listening to jazz on Bleecker Street, to Hoboken where we’d parked the car. It was a hot summer night, and too late for the train to be crowded enough to warrant being pressed so tightly against each other. I had on my favorite dress which was made of nothing at all, and the sweat ran from my neck down inside it. My husband (though he wasn’t then), had me pinned against a corner at the door, and the train was loud and rolling us against each other. He is much taller than I, and I could see nothing of the other passengers or where they were looking. I could only feel the heat coming off of him, and my own ragged breath trapped against his chest, and his body rocking against mine. We didn’t speak at all, but it might have been the most truly intimate – physically, mentally, emotionally, intellectually, sexually intimate moment of my life, up until then. (”Ever do it on a real train, Joel?”) I suppose it’s doubtful he was thinking about the PATH train, but he was as close to coming as I was, so we had to stop or risk the sex being over before he’d even gotten his pants off.
I got into the tub with a full glass of wine, an electric cigarette and a book of fantasy porn about a masochist and a djinn with a poire d’angoisse. It’s one of those books that pretty much opens itself to certain passages, due to the number of times I’ve read them. It’s possible I got a little over-friendly with the soap. My husband had music on in the bedroom and tribbing porn on the TV, which I could just see from my bath, if I looked up from my book. This is what life should be like all the time. Eventually, legs shaved to the thigh, I got out and set about the extras – hair, eyeliner, all that. I did it naked because I wanted to honey dust myself, but my skin and the air were still too steamy for it to really smooth and slide. I did the little knotted pigtails and black eyeliner, and then I threw caution to the wind and reached for the charcoal eye shadow, despite what had happened the week before. I don’t usually wear eye shadow at all, but the week before I’d been feeling badass as a result of listening to too much Joan Jett (as if there could be such a thing), so I’d dug out my gray-to-blacks and gone a little Do You Wanna Touch Me. I’d put on a tight, black tank top, and a pair of crotchless black panties made entirely out of straps. I’d had plans for my boots too, but my husband had responded before I’d gotten the chance. He’d never actually said Oh, you think you’re badass do you? We’ll see about that… What he’d done was slap my ass until his hand hurt, and sent me to get the ropes. Now, I don’t care if I think I am Joan Jett at the time, if you send me for the ropes my pulse is going to scamper like a kid for an empty swing. I’d brought them to him trying to maintain some trace of exterior calm, and sat on my feet with my hands clasped behind me like a good little sub, to watch him open the bag. Then, THEN, after fingering first the dark red, then the blue set, with the most artful, unspoken guile, he’d brought out the very PINKEST most pinkity pink ropes of pinkiosity that ever pinked into pinkness. Then he’d bound my feet sole to sole, cinched my ankles to my thighs, tortured my pussy as long as he’d felt like it, and then amused himself by fucking me stupid through my supposedly hardcore little straps-for-panties. It was a thing of beauty. He’d trumped my badassery without so much as batting an eye. (I highly recommend fucking people who are really good poker players. They can take all your chips and you never see it coming, but you’ll be happy to have fed the pot.)
So now I had the hair and the eyes and I was deliciously honey dusted from smooth neck to silky boobs, ticklish underarms to delicate inner elbows to sensitive wrists, long spine to smooth scoop, smooth belly to ripe snatch to lovely under-ass, pale thighs to oh-gods-how-I-love-when-you-touch-the backs of the knees to silver polished toenails. Fucking honey dust. It makes me feel like that every time – like I could go naked to the king’s ball. Speaking of which, what did I feel like putting on? Panties? Sweet or sexy? Little skirt and no panties? I could go school-girl… Or negligee? No stockings; I didn’t want to cover that much skin… While I was standing there considering options, my husband signaled me over. He had his pants open but not off, and he told me to sit on his cock which was lying hard against his belly. Have I mentioned that I love to be completely naked while he’s fully dressed? I kneeled over him and nestled his long cock lengthwise into the slit of my labia. My pussy was cool from air drying after the bath, and the heat of his cock against it melted me, made me gasp. He slid his hands (Jesus, he has these big, strong hands) up my bare torso, took one breast in each, and squeezed. Right away my nipples let go and I watched the milkiness run over his fingers and splash onto his chest, soaking into his shirt. The sight of it made me wet too, suddenly, like I was doused from the inside, and it was at that moment that I decided to stay naked.
So began a slow Slip n’ Slide with kissing and the taste of licked milk and honey dust passed between lips and tongues. Spontaneous, intermittent moments of penetration advanced into fucking, wet cock submerging in wet pussy, my brain saturated just as thoroughly, and then receded again into that luscious, self-indulgent slide. I leaned against him, my face and breath at his neck, and reestablished the full-body writhe Id been so enjoying from the other side, earlier. I wanted as much of my body moving against his as I could get, my nipples stiff against his damp shirt and his chest, my thighs bent double and working against his hips, and always his cock at my cunny, inside and out, but never so much as a bubble of air between them. His hands moved down my back to my hips and my ass and pressed me into him, over him, onto him, against him... The tactile element of my nature was positively delirious. As his cock slid out of me again, I sat up and leaned back, spread my pussy with my fingers. I pulled back and exposed my clit, displayed it for him, and then I positioned it just at the base of his wet frenulum and nudged forward, like a kiss, a lick, a slow, wet lick of clit to cock and again we both almost tipped over the edge.
Intrigued by my pussy’s early reaction to my nipples, I retreated to the bathroom and dug out my nipple rouge. To hell with clothing; I would wear raspberry nipple rouge and lipstick. Nipple rouge is fabulous stuff. It’s a pain in the ass to put on, but once in place it turns you instantaneously into an old-school burlesque show girl. If you are feeling self-conscious, it will make you a show-off. If you are feeling free and confident, it will make you downright bawdy. I traipsed back to the bed and kneeled somewhat apart from my husband, presenting him with my handiwork and a mischievous grin. The effect was apparently well-appreciated, but he is however (and of course), more mischievous than I, and I didn’t have time to so much as settle back against anything before he stole across the bed and buried his face between my thighs. This was particularly interesting because usually when he goes down on me he wants me as open and spread out flat and relaxed as he can possibly make me. I think he knows I like the luxury of it, and he likes to get comfortable and settle in for the long game. This was far from that. I was not uncomfortable, but I had to support myself with my hands on the edge of the bed behind me, so I was not free to writhe and flail. The result was that I found myself arched and offering myself to his mouth, the way I’d been presenting my nipples to his view a few moments before. Recognizing this, gathering the sense that I was feeding myself to him, tipped my head into orgasm before my body even had a chance to catch up. Then when it did, the position I was in, bracing myself, caused one of those involuntary shakes that an orgasm can throw into your thighs, only it shook the entire lower half of my body, and the shake spiked and extended the orgasm right the fuck off the chart. While I was panting in the aftermath and still getting my head around Holy shit, that was fucking intense, he slid his fingers into me and found my g-spot, and brought me off with a #3 before I’d recovered from the #1. Fucking hell, I was wearing nipple rouge, lipstick and cum today, and I might never put clothes on again!
There was more kissing than usual, I think as a result of those intimate hours we’d spent earlier, entwined in each other’s bodies. If I could bottle the taste of our lips and tongues by the time it was evening: Rum, honey dust, breast milk, pussy, cock, raspberry nipple rouge, sweet wine and cum, I’m fairly certain I’d have a love potion that could end war. Kissing with that elixir shared between us easily enhanced and amplified the groping and again I was flooding his palm with cum. He played at that exquisite torture where he brings me just to the edge and then stops and starts over, and then he spanked my wet quim until my legs shook. Of course I went down on him. I was working a combination of my Vegas trick and the suicide squeeze (where you take the cock back just to that point that triggers a gag you have to fight, and then squeeeeze the head between the back of your tongue and the back of your throat), when he almost came again. He tossed me over and railed my g-spot again (No thank you, I don’t want a towel, I want to lie here in a pool of my own come – it’s part of what I’m wearing tonight). His face was at my hip when he began to bite me. Slow, small bites that just stepped a toe across the line into too much pain and then stopped. Hip to waist, he bit me, creeping up my body. The under lobes of my breasts to my nipples, biting carefully to just the point of too hard. The delicate flesh even of my underarm between those sharp teeth in his calculating manipulation, when at the same time he reached between my legs and made me gush again. Satisfied and surveying, he trailed his dripping fingers up my body and over my breasts and my nipples in a wet line that shone in the near dark – the sun was long gone. I took my cue and took his cock back in my mouth. The same combinations I’d been playing with before were as effective now, then I moved into the deep throat. I only used a basic swirl really, on the upstroke, but with his mounting responses it became something of a basic swirl gone somewhat hysterical. And then I felt his hand at the back of my head and let him drive me down. Deep throating is a third level cock sucking in and of itself, but forced deep throating is where he red-lines, and the sustained kick of it ripped into me harder than I’ve felt him come in ages. An offering as surely as those I’d made of my body for him, an acceptance of my invitation, and welcome.
(Sometimes you just have to submerge...)