The smell of lavender wafted in from the window garden, the night had been warm and they lay there naked, a golden ray of morning sun shining down on them like a spotlight, like the bed was the stage. She was a musician, a singer and a dancer, this was her stage, and he watched her own it. He was a writer, a watcher, an understander. They had met a few weeks before at a London party. His first novel had just been published, her third album was making huge waves. He'd blown onto the scene, she'd been working at it for ten years, though he was five years older than her. He'd never let her know but he'd watched her YouTube videos for years, wanted her for years. He'd searched her out, hunted her through the masses of puddle-shallow influencers. She'd loved his book, she said, he loved her music. He had gone to her gigs while writing his book. The softness and reality of her lyrics gave him insight he said. They talked about the practical differences between writing a novel, a short story, and song. They were both relieved not to have to talk to the influencers.
Now in the morning she lay with her back to him, she was slender, her long dark brown hair was all over the pillow and spilling down her back. Her ass was exquisite, round and perfectly ripe. She never hid it on her Instagram posts, but now only he could see it, it was his. He lay on his side and watched the morning sun creep across her as the sun moved across the sky. He wanted to kiss her beautiful ass, bite it, eat it, taste it. He wanted to spend time with it and get to know it and write a poem about it. He liked the way she slept and he'd slept very well next to her.
She began to stir, her quick, short, sleeping breaths turned into a more conscious breathing. She did not turn over, she could feel the heat of the morning sun on her ass, she could feel there were no covers to obscure it, she knew she was being watched. She liked that she was being watched. She smelled of last night's perfume, and lightly of sweet mint owing to a mojito that had been tipped over her dress towards the end of the night. She smelled of warmth and sleep. He was hard, morning hard, so hard it felt like it had a life of it's own.
She was wet, she could feel his breath on her shoulders as they lay together in bed, she could feel it was slow and deep and warm. She knew this was how he breathed when he was turned on, she knew her show was working. She wished he'd grabbed her, wished she'd be able to pretend she woke up in his arms, woke up to his hands exploring her cunt.
He wanted her to come to him, he told himself this was because he didn't want to be presumptuous, but really he wanted her to want it. He wanted to look in her eyes and see how much she wanted it. She did not disappoint. She sprang into action from complete stillness, turning over from her one side, facing away from him, to the other. She stared into his eyes, instantly intimate. It was like she'd known him for years, it was like last night's conversation hadn't stopped, was continuing here and now.
"Good morning Lovely," she said, "How are you?"
"Good," he replied, nervous now, "Really good, actually. You?"
"Sublime, only a very slight hangover, maybe not even quite a hangover, may just be a little headache."
"We could get breakfast or..." he trailed off.
"Or," she rejoined, "We could try this."
Her thigh slid over his, her tanned, smooth olive skin made electric contact with his. Her hand gently moved down, down from his chest, to his hard stomach, over his erection. All fluid, simultaneous movements, he felt intoxicated. Her fingers grabbing the base of his straining shaft, she angled his cock how she wanted it, and with one more long look into his eyes, slipped it into her mouth.
She loved this, she could almost smell his desire, his body heat radiated against her back. To have the mind that had created those words she admired so much, reeling, under a spell, in her power. She wouldn't do anything evil or unkind with her powers, she wasn't that kind of girl. She just wanted to hold him there, like this. Exploring his body, his mind, existing at that crossroads where the two meet, vulnerable, raw.
Her tongue slowly circled the sensitive tip of his cock, then her entire mouth worked up and down the shaft urgently. An intrusive thought, he wondered if she would deep-throat, he guessed not, too much of a risk for a singer. He could feel it building, he could not feel her even thinking about stopping, he did not want to come yet. This was not how the story would end.
His hand on her chin, he gently raised her off him, she caught his eyes with hers and smiled. She felt his large, slightly rough hands on her shoulders and she shuddered with desire. She had been grinding her clit on his leg she realised, she'd been doing it without thinking. She wondered if he'd felt it, if he'd known what was going on. He guided her on to her back, she spread her legs. She wanted him in any way he was going to give himself. She was excited when she saw he meant to use his tongue on her. Her back arched against him, grinding her clit hungrily into his face, she could feel his beard, his lips part, his tongue on her. She tasted sweet, he loved the way she tasted, he knew he would.
He worked his tongue around her pussy, slowly, teasingly, his eyes never left hers. She was still a consummate show-woman, moaning and writing, grabbing his hair. He wanted to break through, he wanted to break through that mask and see her, pull her out of herself and see her. He wanted to break her, burn the veil. He slowly began to move his tongue faster, and faster, and faster. He saw a quick flash of confusion in her face, the smile faded, she was losing control. Faster and faster, he honed in on her clit. Her breathing broke shallow, her legs closed around his head. She came, a quiet squeak, a shuddering sigh. He kept licking, he wanted her to stop him. She grabbed his head and shifted her pussy away from him, he knew she'd be too sensitive to continue, he wanted to see how she'd react. They looked at each-other for a moment, and laughed. He remained between her legs, he didn't want to give up the position.
"What you said last night," she rasped through shallow breaths. "About creativity, about play being the main driver of it, does that work for you?"
"No, not really, not with writing. I have to think about it too much, it doesn't come naturally enough for me to play with it." He replied.
"I thought so, my songs are an odd mix, the musical arrangement I think feels like play, like you said. But the words are hard, I think it's easier though, than writing. A lot of the time it has to rhyme." She laughed.
He laughed too, "Maybe I should try some poetry when I'm stuck on what to write."
"Are you writing now?"
