Desire and Devotion

I.

He dreams of holding her in his arms, of burying his face in her hair and no longer breathing. He can feel how he would shake, how he might finally sob, all of the need and longing and desire wracking his entire body until his knees began to buckle and she was the one providing support. His hands would slide up and down her back helplessly, fingertips tracing each muscle.

Bending further, he would nuzzle her cheek until she lifted her face to his and they could kiss. He would be the tentative one at first, barely brushing his lips across hers, but her arms would close tighter, she would pull him in. Their tongues would meet and he would moan, low in his throat, his hands moving down to her hips, pressing her lower body against his, his cock stiffening against her belly. Her skin, he somehow knows, would be warm and soft as fur, and it would take every force of will not to rock his hips and thrust against her, right at that moment.

His kisses would move down her throat then, finding her pulse against his lips, her blood running so close, sucking at her neck as if to draw it from her without breaking the skin. He would kiss her shoulders, the hollow between her throat and ribcage, her collarbone. Her skin would taste faintly of dark honey, of midnight blooms, of teardrops. All time would stand still. Her hands would tangle in his hair, pulling his face flat against her skin.

As his kisses descended the slope of her breasts, his hands would move up her belly, and he would slowly begin sinking to his knees before her. Boldly, his lips would surround first one nipple, then the other, taking its hardness into his mouth, fluttering his tongue lightly against it, learning the taste, the texture. His teeth would close gently, tugging at her, and she might be the one to moan this time, she might arch her back, offering more of herself to him. His palms would knead the giving flesh, lifting them, caressing them with all the care he would give any precious and perfect thing. He might spend a long time there, his face buried against her breasts, her arms dangling down about his shoulders, feeling the parting of her thighs against his belly, and planning where his lips would descend further, where his tongue would tease its way inward, his throat dry, his mouth opening wider with anticipation ...

She would shift her weight, her thighs spreading wider, and the perfume of her arousal would thicken in the air. Softly, almost begging, she would speak his name into the darkness, and he would feel himself achingly hard for her. One hand would drop, fingers trailing lightly across the shaft, then, trembling, lift again until it lay across her thigh. His kisses would move lower, down the expanse of her deliciously curved belly, lips brushing across the almost-invisible hairs.

His fingertips would move up her inner thigh with such care ...

II.

In his dream, there is a single light fixture in the room, a bare bulb on a chain, and as he delicately traced pathways up her night-softened inner thighs, she would reach up blindly, her hands seeking some sort of support as her knees went weak. The bulb would spin as she bumped into it, the shadows dancing across the floor, stripes of light flashing across her dusky skin like the patterns of train windows; her most secret, shaded spot gleaming, flooded with light, then invisible again.

No matter; he'd know the way. As she stumbled backward, eyes squeezed shut with longing, no contact would be lost. His lips would keep moving inexorably downward, the tip of his tongue tangling in the hairs that thickened as he came closer, feeling the humidity increase as if before a summer storm. By that point, his fingers would be gliding back and forth, taunting her, down her thighs and back up, each time coming a bit closer, each time retreating as she pressed against the wall and tilted her pelvis forward at him.

She would growl, cursing him in frustration, and bury her hands in his hair, neither pulling nor pushing yet. Though she couldn't see with his face pressed flat against her, he would be smiling. He might even pause for a moment then, lips motionless, and drop his hands down to his own body, between his own legs, letting her feel the hidden shaking up her legs as he stroked himself strongly. But they would both know it was only a feint, another tease before he flung himself against her body again.

In fact, it would be the final game that he would play in this descent to the center of her. When he did lean in again between her thighs, spread stiff at an angle to the floor below, he would shock her by immediately extending his tongue, the tip curled ever so slightly, and lapping at her sex like an ice-cream cone, in wide, steady strokes from bottom to top. Immediately, she would begin to moan, tugging her hands involuntarily into his hair. His left arm would wrap behind her thighs, granting them both additional support, and for a time they would hold that position, the only movement and the only sound being his tongue over her again and again.

Eventually, he would pause for breath, their combined wetness dripping from his chin, and look up -- just at the moment to find her looking down at him, her eyes dark and clear, like the night sky itself. No words would pass between them. Slowly, he would lower his head again, his mouth open wide, and continue.

This time, his tongue would be gentle, exploratory, tentative. He would draw it slowly in and out along each fold, each slick curve of her, finding the best ways to make her shiver, to extend each moan and cause it to cut off sharply, composing a symphony of her body. The tip of his tongue would tease her clitoris gently, twisting beneath the hood and back out, each touch a tiny lightning bolt making her gasp before he moved off and down again.

Bit by bit, as he moved over and down and across her, he would be dipping into her wetness, barely to be noticed at first, then on the next pass a bit deeper, until suddenly he was curling his tongue and sliding it as deep into her body as it would go, then spreading and wriggling it within her, arching it against her inner walls, curling it and seeking that special spot that would make her cry out and flood his taste buds deliciously. Each time, he would almost reach it, and she would moan, pushing his head against her, trying to take his tongue deeper in; then he would chuckle halfway down his throat, pull back, and tease his tongue up over her clit before diving back in again. Once, twice, three times they would dance this pattern, until she was slumped halfway over his shoulders and murmuring, "More ... more ..."

... when suddenly, she would become aware in the most delightful way possible that his fingers were still so very close, and waiting to play their part in taking her the rest of the way to ecstasy.

III.

Until that moment, his hands would have been clutching at the back of her thighs, pulling her closer against his mouth, letting his tongue delve deeper and deeper into her. But as he felt her body collapse over his shoulders, trembling, and heard her voice begging for more, he would free one hand even as he slowly withdrew his tongue, still seeking and stroking until the last moment, drawing out her wetness and drinking it in. When it was removed, just as she sighed at its loss and began to straighten up against the wall, expecting that he would want to move to the bed before continuing ...

... in that same moment he would smoothly, sleekly slide his index finger into her, parting the folds as easily as if they were water themselves, and diving into her sweet, slick grip. When she'd moan more loudly, he couldn't help but grin, his face pressed against her thigh, and begin to tease her with it, curling the finger upward to stroke her, to find the division in the roof of her and caress it, then following the curve of the wall down and around again, rotating deliciously inside her, wriggling and turning, the rest of his fist outside grinding against her as he tried to reach further, deeper.

He'd look up and find her leaning fully back against the wall again at this point, her hands on her breasts, pulling at her nipples. When she opened her eyes and looked back down at him, he'd see a frantic lust in them unlike anything they'd yet known, and she would cry out his name, tilting her head up as if it were a prayer. Somehow, she'd spread her thighs even further, sinking down on his finger as far as could be possible, and he knew there was no more time for teasing.

Slowly, he'd withdraw his finger, gleaming, from her until the tip could almost be seen, then he would ease it back inside, twisting a bit as she opened up more easily to him this time, stroking his way in. Then, only pausing at the bottom of his thrust for a moment, he would work his way out again, beginning to find a rhythm. At the same time, he would kiss his way up her thigh once more, his tongue darting out and seeking her clit yet again, but now more seriously, his lips closing around her there, the tip of the tongue tracing circles around her, flicking over and under that bit of flesh with increasing speed and fervor.

Within a few thrusts and a moment's flickering tip of the tongue, he could feel her beginning to loosen, and he carefully added his middle finger, working both into her, filling her from side to side. From inside, he would feel her whole body starting to shake, her sex clenching at his extended digits violently in spasms. By this point, his tongue would be a blur against her clit, flickering like the light from a movie projector, the bolts of pure pleasure striking her like lightning as she groaned and started to wail, her hands flat against the wall now, barely holding herself up.

By this time, there'd be no other word for it – he'd be fucking her hard and fast with his fingers, the middle extended rigidly, reaching as deep as possible, and the index curling upward with each stroke, hitting that spot that seemed to make her voice jump an octave each time. Rivulets would be trickling down his hand, down to his wrist, splattering on the floor below or on his still-stiff cock, bouncing in midair, forgotten for the moment.

Finally, her whole body would tense, like the drawing of a bowstring – and with a scream, she'd come, her body falling down over his shoulders again, twitching inside as the waves of ecstasy washed over her, again and again. He'd hold her up now, his free arm behind her waist, still filling her again and again until there was no energy left for her to expend, lifting his head now and finding her face close to his, kissing her gently as she rode out the last aftershocks.

Carefully, he'd help her to the floor, and wrap himself around her limp body, gathering her in and kissing her everywhere he could reach. "I love you," he couldn't help but whisper, and not waiting for a response, he would lower her head to his chest and let her lie there, supported completely, regaining her strength before they might move on to the next stage of their exquisite lovemaking.