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A little smut for humpday -
You rub chocolate over her lips and force feed her strawberries sodden with champagne and drink the sweetness of her folds with your fingertips buried in the softness of her hips. You dip your finger tips in cherry liqueur for her to suck and dip hers inside your gilded cunt for her to twist and rub and curl just so. You lick and taste honey from her lips and cream from her quim. You press soft popping berries against her reddened nipples and paint each other with the juices, your juices. You press smooth frosting to her tongue with yours, an endless banquet of bites and kisses, morsels and touches, drunk on sensation, and you slide your hand around the burgeoning curve of her belly, draw lips and teeth over the ribbon of satin skin between your hand and the swell of her mons. She smells of joy and peaches and sex. You sleep full and sated together, and watch with heavy eyes as she twists naked under water, under your protective roof. You prepare feasts for her while she basks on sun warmed decking, languorous body glowing with pleasure, and you think that no one else will ever see her like this. You think this might be heaven.
*****
You think this might be hell. The endless hours of nervous buzzing and restless constant movement that makes your muscles burn, hardening them like clay in acid fire. You work after she's asleep, and then right through long days full of people who touch you without pleasure. You work and you ache and you drink down your water wishing you could drown. When the moon is high you twist your body through the water, safe inside the jewel box pool, and when you drip naked through the house, she is in your bed and her arms take you home. Her hands trace the changes, thumbs pressing like bruises over ribs and hipbones, teeth sharp against the last softness underneath your navel, where the ring will go when you are finished here. You move above her, rolling and arching until etched pain invades your movement and her tongue is sharp and hard inside you and your orgasms feel like fire and ice. Her lips are soft on yours, empty fluttering kisses and you need her voice rumbling nonsense in your ear, and she rubs ice over your lips and slides pills over your tongue with hers. You think you taste of nothing and everything that's left is for someone else.
You rub chocolate over her lips and force feed her strawberries sodden with champagne and drink the sweetness of her folds with your fingertips buried in the softness of her hips. You dip your finger tips in cherry liqueur for her to suck and dip hers inside your gilded cunt for her to twist and rub and curl just so. You lick and taste honey from her lips and cream from her quim. You press soft popping berries against her reddened nipples and paint each other with the juices, your juices. You press smooth frosting to her tongue with yours, an endless banquet of bites and kisses, morsels and touches, drunk on sensation, and you slide your hand around the burgeoning curve of her belly, draw lips and teeth over the ribbon of satin skin between your hand and the swell of her mons. She smells of joy and peaches and sex. You sleep full and sated together, and watch with heavy eyes as she twists naked under water, under your protective roof. You prepare feasts for her while she basks on sun warmed decking, languorous body glowing with pleasure, and you think that no one else will ever see her like this. You think this might be heaven.
*****
You think this might be hell. The endless hours of nervous buzzing and restless constant movement that makes your muscles burn, hardening them like clay in acid fire. You work after she's asleep, and then right through long days full of people who touch you without pleasure. You work and you ache and you drink down your water wishing you could drown. When the moon is high you twist your body through the water, safe inside the jewel box pool, and when you drip naked through the house, she is in your bed and her arms take you home. Her hands trace the changes, thumbs pressing like bruises over ribs and hipbones, teeth sharp against the last softness underneath your navel, where the ring will go when you are finished here. You move above her, rolling and arching until etched pain invades your movement and her tongue is sharp and hard inside you and your orgasms feel like fire and ice. Her lips are soft on yours, empty fluttering kisses and you need her voice rumbling nonsense in your ear, and she rubs ice over your lips and slides pills over your tongue with hers. You think you taste of nothing and everything that's left is for someone else.
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