When their mouths parted, she smiled at him. She still had his hands in her own: she guided them down, placed them on herself, his large hands covering her breasts.
She was ready for those hands, this time.
He smiled, kissed her nose, and rolled off of her. For a time, he simply looked at her—this beautiful woman, his lover, his love—and planned his attack. She simply lay on her back, feeling the cold night air and his proximity bring goosebumps to her body, and waited, a faint smile on her lips.
She was not disappointed. His hands returned—gentle, warm, fingertips sliding down her skin like localized fire. She whispered soundlessly, enjoying the sensations, enjoying the tangibleness of his love for her. His hands focused on her nipples-pressing, rubbing, pulling gently. There were times when she liked him to pull on them, hard, but at those times he flatly refused. That was too much like abuse for his mind to stand, he said; and at that invocation, she fell silent.
Suddenly his hand was gone, replaced by the warm suction of his mouth. She laughed silently, thrilled, and stroked his hair as his lips and tongue attached themselves to her breast. She had small nipples in thumbtack areolas; he loved their texture, the smoothness of her skin, her scent, the feeling of her chest arching up to meet him; harder, harder...
He stayed at her breasts for a while, occasionally switching to the other breast, occasionally venturing out over the rest of the breast. Too long without a lover, his exploits on the Internet had brought him evidence that the entirety of her breasts, not just the nipples, were sensitive; and he did not forget. She made no indication whether this was true or not, but she made no protest, either, and it added some variety.
Her breasts were perfect. Pale and soft, they were not large enough to get in the way; she disdained bra. Nor were they so small that they faded into obscurity when she lay on her back. She liked hard, deep stimulation sometimes; but more often she preferred the teasing, gentle caresses that were more his style. As to practically yanking her nipples off... Well, he'd have to get used to that someday.
Lying beside her, leaning over her, he let his hand whisper across her body—downwards, towards her legs, over the smoothness of her abdomen and the slight dip around her navel. Her muscles rippled as her legs parted in anticipation. And further, to soft tangly hair, trimmed, already wet. And further, between her legs—
His hand cupped her mound, and she shuddered—a whisper, a whimper, the first noise she'd made. "Oh, more, more..."
More indeed. His fingers traced their love across her mound, through the tangled forest of hair, caressing her fleshy lips already wet. He had read the pornos where women gushed lakes from their pussies; Katrina did not do that. Ned was glad of that because he did not want to have to ford a river, or bury his cock in one either.
She struggled for breath, managed to put out a coherent sentence: "I should shave that one day."
The tension broke. He raised his head and looked up at her. "Why?"
Her face was flushed and panting, her eyes dark and beautiful, so beautiful... "Because we'll probably like it better."
He smiled and kissed her cheek, missed her mouth; intentional. "I say, Do what you want to do."
What
she
wanted to do?...
She sighed. So much for peace. "I'll figure it out." Knowing his single-mindedness whenever her pussy was involved; so easy to manipulate in that way... "Keep going."
His eyes were clear and focused for a moment, focused on her—surprise? Startlement? Confusion? Comprehension of the truth? Oh, God forbid that. But he went back to her body, and she felt a lessening of guilt—she did want him to keep going, to pleasure her. So perhaps she was excused, a little.
She felt his breath on her pussy lips. Excused, indeed, she thought, satisfied.
His attack was practiced; he had evolved it as best as he could, over the few years of their marriage, through her infrequent feedback and more often than not the responses of her body. His tongue met her vulva, and he tasted her again—slightly sour, somewhat salty. The Internet pornos talked about sweet nectar and flowing honey and whatnot—she didn't seem to have much of a taste to her. He had no problem with that.
Carefully, he taunted her body, his tongue-point sliding over her vulva, at times making a curled mess of her hair, at times dancing between and across. Her legs, wider around him. Sometimes he liked her to place her legs on his back, over his shoulders—between her thighs, with her divine secrets before him. But that required a lot more space then they had.
His hands spread her cleft gently open; he felt the vague resistance of her moisture giving way. He dipped his tongue inside her.
Her world dissolved into heady, misty bliss at the first touch of his tongue. Gently, probing, tasting, he moved around her, within her. His tongue traced her feminine delights, her petals and folds; found the delicate nodule, her center of pleasure, and attacked—quick, darting jabs that sent tingles down her spine.
With a single finger, he probed the entrance to her tunnel, tasting, testing. Judging her ready, he slipped his finger gently inside her-and then the second, after a few moments. Thrusting, slowly, gently-feeling the firm muscles of her body, the smooth wetness of her walls. She was gasping, whispering, murmuring in a breathless voice; her hips undulated, meeting his fingers. That was what he loved, seeing her loving what he did to her. He let his fingers continue to move inside her-not very deep; never very deep. Human hands were not designed to work anything like human penises. But as he moved, he could rub her slender, pearl-white clit with his thumb; and he could feel her muscles, clenching about him, and anticipate what they would feel like around his cock; and hear her breath, warm and heady and gasping, lost in the pleasure of what he was doing to her.
The guilt was mostly gone from her heart now.
"Stop," she said. She was nowhere near orgasm; but she didn't want orgasm. She wanted him. "Let me do you."
He shrugged and surrendered his hold on her body, crawled up beside her. He met her face, kissed her. It felt so business-like.
He lay curled on his side, and she fit well into the hollow of his knees. At once he felt her hot mouth around his cock—breathy warmth as she exhaled; thin, curving lips forming a ring around him; her marvelous tongue feeling its way around the soft, fleshy head of his penis; the strange, breathy tingles her mouth always brought him.
Most of the time she focused on the head of his cock; she was not very good at throating him, and whatever pleasure he derived was evidently outweighed by the sound of her half-gagging, because he didn't seem to like it either. She could never get more than about half of him into her mouth at once unless she tried to fold him over backwards, which didn't work. Nor did she especially like sucking him off; his cock was a fascinating thing, and it was fun to have in her mouth occasionally, but very quickly it got boring. She had a feeling that he'd be insulted if she told him his cock was boring, though, so she said nothing. She was of two minds about swallowing; she wasn't fond of it, but there wasn't a whole lot else she could do with his cum once she had it.
Very simply, she reflected, there wasn't much future for her in the blowjob industry. Nevertheless, it was fun. On occasion. And nicely distracting when he gained too much on her and she needed to distract him.
She sucked on his penis, moving it in and out of her mouth, wrapping the head with her tongue. It tasted like nothing special, but its texture was wonderful. The interesting thing was that the head-half of his cock was thicker than the base half; it flopped around, but it also meant she had a little extra flexibility when working with it.
His breath came faster at her ministrations, flowing from him like whispered reassurances. He reached down to stroke her hair. "Thank you," he murmured.
She felt a moment's lightning panic—if he should know her secrets, how much she resented the whole idea of sex sometimes... But, no; he couldn't. He mustn't.
One of her tricks, when she had him in his mouth, was to squeeze him with her tongue. It was haphazard; but it worked, and he said he liked it. She pushed up her tongue until she had his penis caught between it and the roof of her mouth. If she bit down... But she wouldn't. Though sometimes she thought she should.
She alternated for a few minutes, making love to him with her mouth, and then was given a thankful reprieve when he said, "You don't have to if you don't want to, Kati." Was she really that transparent?
She came back to his arms, spooning against his rigid, damp cock. He curled his arms around her, kissing her ear, and then somehow took her shoulders and turned her around so that she faced him: "You're wonderful."
No, I'm not.
"Thanks," she said. And looking into his deep, loving eyes she had the distinct feeling that he knew her thoughts as intimately as she did; perhaps more.
Not fair. He wasn't allowed to invade her mind. Her body, yes, as others had before, as he had before; her body, yes—but not her mind.
He could see her eyes—troubled; so troubled. She kept so many things to herself, away from his helping hands, that sometimes he wanted to scream in frustration. What was the point of keeping her problems in the dark, where they would continue to bite at her heels, when he could help her hunt them down, stomp on them, squish them down into oblivion? What was the point?
"Do you want to keep going?" he asked.
She shuddered. "Yes. Oh, yes..."
She did not sound very eager. She sounded... She sounded like she wanted to hide, to banish the demons with their sexual bliss.
He would be lying to himself if he did not admit that he would be happy to oblige her. But at the same time, he wanted those demons gone as much as she did. They could not be happy while they existed, and continually came between them.
