You 121

You see him looking. You wonder if he's been thinking about you. He has.

From across the room, you invite him to stand closer to you. He does. You sway, almost imperceptibly, tilting from one foot to the other. You feel his chest against your shoulder. The top of your buttock brushes his thigh. Denim through sheer nylon.

At last, he places his fingers on your hip. You lean into his hand. He needs no other signal; he's thought of nothing else. His thumb reaches for the soft crease above your hip; his fingertips trace the bone. His hand seems to flex and relax as you rock, limbering.

With his thumb, he follows the contour of your breast, offering himself. You raise your hand up and reach for back of his head, grasping his nape, then gripping. His wrist rolls over, the back of his hand gliding smoothly over your breast, each knuckle a soft, slow kiss against your nipple.

He knows not to rush. As you grace him with your body, he lingers on every second, stretching time to study your beauty and form as he never dared to imagine. He is transfixed.

You walk to the bedroom. He follows. You go to the bed and lie back, bathed in the red light that fills the room. He lowers himself, one knee and then the other, at your feet. He waits, his eyes held at your thighs. You watch him kneel. His every move is natural but precise, as though in a trance. You have him captivated; primed for the sole purpose of your satisfaction. Beneath his stoic exterior, his every fibre begs it.

You grab a crop of his hair, pulling his head backwards, demanding his eyes meet your gaze as you part your legs. His eyes don't waver, but beneath the deep, steady sighs heaving his chest you notice the palpitations that belie his calm façade. He needs you. He aches for you. He yearns, as though life itself were misery and you alone hold the key to happiness.

He waits before your open legs until you point to where you want him. He is the disciple; your cunt the altar. You point; he bows. His first kiss feels like electricity. His second, a salve. The third is a candle, drawn warm and firm across your skin, leaving behind it a trail of pure sensation as his lip lingers over your skin. He is yours now. He knows nothing else.

His arms envelop your thighs, his hands parting them as he rubs his cheek along your skin. Each kiss comes as though it is his last, each filled with desperation and adoration in equal measure. His caress follows the length of your thigh before turning back. He begins to let himself go, following your lead as you arch and squirm, his kisses more impassioned, until he reaches the crease at the top of your thigh. He waits.

Inhaling deeply, he runs the tip of his nose up and down, slowly tracing lines in your sweat as you throb and soak. You watch him. He is deep in thought, pensive, head bowed between your legs. You pulse with anticipation. He seems to savour the seconds, studying every fold and pore, humbled by your presence. A ritual in fixation.

You are ready. You pull his head closer with your leg, but he needs no encouragement. Without hesitation, his mouth is upon you. His tongue searches your dripping lips, his head snaking from one side to the other, desperate not to leave any part of you untouched. His fingers tense and release against your thighs as you writhe, his unalloyed devotion becoming your pleasure with each rake of his soft tongue.

Your body is fire. Yet with each pass of his tongue, flat and broad across your cunt, you soak his chin faster than he can possibly absorb. But he must absorb you. He must. His fingers tighten, and suddenly you feel the mattress slide beneath you as he pulls you into him, arms hooked around your aching thighs. He takes a single breath and buries his face between your legs, sacrificing himself completely. You shudder, your mind bending with your body as your heart beats through your lips, which swell and heave as he bathes every inch of his face in your cunt.

You are dripping from his chin, his nose, his forehead, his lips. His lips linger on your clit before kissing deeply, his tongue grooving along each side, responding to the flickers of sensation which even you cannot control. Your pleasure is his blessing, and it begins to surge like an ocean. You are a force of nature; unstoppable, untameable, insatiable. As your body shakes, he can scarcely keep up, try as he might. You are cumming now, and he and his devotion fade into irrelevance as you are gripped by waves upon waves of ecstasy, a tidal storm of pleasure that blurs the horizon with the sky, reality with dreams.

You gush so hard he is forced to take it; his face, hair and body are merely cloth for you to soak. You run a finger through his damp hair as he rests his face on your cunt, exhausted and breathless. He kisses you, his lips never fully leaving your skin. He is desperate to draw out his final moments of adoration. You push his head away and he falls back onto the floor, grateful. He cannot speak, except to tell you he is glad he lived to see this moment.

You tell him: I know.