leaving the ache in you

I slowly push all the way in, stay there immobile for a moment and the exit you, leaving the ache.

Moaned instructions

Following your moaned instructions I begin,

I cannot stop thinking about you

I implied that I would wait for your wishes but I cannot stop thinking about you.

The thought of you holding my head to direct my mouth, kissing your lips softly and then deeper, running my teeth along your lower lip and then gently nibbling the line of your jaw up to your ear, then down your neck. Feeling your pulse with my lips as you glide me down to your collarbone and then along the delicious curve of your breast.

First Dream

Dreams:

It started with me combing your hair.  You were seated, looking at both of us in a mirror. Your eyes met mine as the comb went up and down, teeth gliding between your platinum locks and sliding down with a silky whisper. And then again.

You were dressed in evening wear with a choker on, placing a small precious stone right at your throat. The dress was black, off the shoulder, displaying a civilized hint of cleavage. I had on a white shirt and tie and could see my jacket and pants laid out on the bed in the mirror behind me.

The comb went up and down, vanishing partially into your hair and teasing out any lingering imperfections. With each stroke unseen your pulse flutter under the choker, hear your breath catch. Your chest starts to rise up and down as you're breathing harder. You start to twitch slightly in your seat as the strokes get longer and slower, starting at your scalp and running the whole length of your hair, which slips free of the teeth at the end and falls gently back across the bare skin of your shoulder.

You whisper 'more'

I put my ear close to your mouth and hear you whisper "more."

Listen Closely

I lay beside you. My hand rests between your hips, not touching where you want to be touched but just a simple weight. You're throbbing. Aching. I place my mouth to your ear and begin. My breath tickling your ear, my voice inside your mind.

I tell you, in detail, of the day we were abroad, broke at the end of the trip. Visiting the parks was free. People watching was free. Sex was free. I helped you that morning into your loose skirt, each step swinging to outline your derriere. Into the low cut blouse, perfect for summer heat. And we walked the parks to see people. And be seen by them.

You turned every man’s head. They twisted to follow you, and your stride went from comfortable to confident to brazen until your glorious display made one biker nearly fall off the trail. I touched you here, there, stealing kiss.

From Taste to Touch

I roll you onto your stomach. You hear and feel me move but in the darkness. Then then my hands, coated in warm oil, start massaging your right foot, working in deep strokes to release any tension.

Then your calf, the strong pressure undoing the strap marks on your leg. Long, slow, deep strokes, finding every knot of tension. Then up further to your thigh, taught and strong from your exercise regimen, being worked over with my fingers pressing deep into the muscles, each stroke going a little higher until my fingers just touch the glorious curve of your backside, within a hairs breath of the heat that's been growing in you since the first course.

We open with inspiration from Deathless

Under the blindfold you hear the brûlée snap under the spoon. The clink of the metal on the glass, and again the subtle pressure of the spoon on your lips. The custard is rich and thick, with the shard of sugar a perfect textural counterpoint. Your tongue slides the flavor around over and over before you swallow.

The wineglass touches your lips and you sip, a viscus Canadian ice wine, sweet and flavorful, deep red, full of after notes.

The evening has gone this way. You saw the repast as you sat in the chair, catalogued what you could while I wound the straps round and round your calves, binding each to a leg of the chair. Then your forearms, again the straps almost tight enough to block circulation, certainly tight enough to hold you immobile. Then the straps around your chest, pulling you to perfect posture against the old oak, feeling the carvings on the hardwood chair back pressed into your spine. Then the blindfold.

Then the food. One slow mouthful at a time of caviar. The buttery brine of the eggs, salty and delicate popping against your tongue. Then a sip of the wine, Blanc de Noir, to match the taste. Three spoonfuls, then four. Then no more.

A light sorbet to cleanse the palate. Just a spoonful.

Then the kale, creamed and just a touch bitter, rich beyond belief, with shards of bacon in it. A light white wine between each sip.

With each sorbet you feel your mind racing, your heart pounding about what might come next. What had you seen?

The roasted marrow on toast, with a deep blood red, extremely dry.

The cool lemon clears your tongue but not your mind. You can feel the pulse, but it seems bound as you are the blood has only one place to go.

The unagi, grilled and perfectly smooth, with a saki.

The lemon. You moan with pleasure at it now. Even that delicate touch feels like it's everywhere you would wish to be touched.

The duck confit, rich beyond rich, with the effervescence of champagne to brighten it up.

It's indescribable. The want for what is next.

Every decadence in the world, four spoonfuls of each, just enough to taste, until you are replete, sated and spent, with the fourth spoonful of brûlée in you.

You feel your hands tingle back to life as the straps are unwound, then your feet, which you don't trust to hold you.

I lift you, still blindfolded, and place you in your bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets caressing you. When the blindfold come off the room is pitch dark.

I whisper in your ear "would you like to move from taste to touch?"