I've never been much of a pragmatic soul, not like you. I put much of my cerebral energy into the romance of life, attempting to charge each moment with electric passion. If a moment isn't a memory, then I did something wrong.
You are tempered from different primordial goo than I am. You have deep within your soul the security and ability to let a quiet moment be as special and meaningful as the lightening storm I have always sought. And damn you if you're not starting to rub off of on me a bit. Remember last night?
***
We're lying in bed. Not too closely. Missouri summer nights are humid and muggy and unpleasantly sticky. The rotating fan hums and bequeaths a measure of reprieve. The television offers flickering illumination: a murder mystery that hasn't quite engaged my mind. I've been waiting patiently for you to fall asleep so I can flip over to the Red Sox game. You're not cooperating, watching the show intently while lying on your side, your back to me.
I'm not sleepy. I am bored. I am restless. And that makes me horny. It's not the kind of horny that urges me to flip you over and have my way with you. It's far more lethargic. The demon of sloth is perched upon my shoulder suggesting that I just roll over and try to sleep. Wait. Demon of sloth? There I go; romancing things up again like a pock-marked high school hack writing his first haiku. Pragmatically, I just wasn't sure I wanted to go through the effort to arouse you.
It's been awhile since I've gone down on you, and in my mind's eye, I start to create a night of passion beginning with a gentle kissing of your body and neck. I'd slowly move south and lick you to an amazing orgasm. Then I suppose I'd quickly kiss up your body and take you gently until you cum again. Flipping you over and getting primal as I take you from behind for the next stop. You'd orgasm again, and if I was still going, I'd turn you over one more time to finish off.
Damn, that felt like a lot of work.
The slender lines of your shoulder blades draw my gaze down your back. Peaking at me from your lower back (the side that's pressed into the mattress) is your scorpion tattoo. It's your off-center tramp stamp, though I'd never tell you that. You like to think of yourself as a lady. Whether a lady or slut, I love you regardless. I love you best when you manage to be both.
It's no wonder when my shoulders add depression to sloth as they slump a bit more into the mattress. You're wearing those damned granny panties. You used to wear sexy panties. Thongs were never your thing, but the panties you wore were always cute and sexy and a joy to slip off of your body. These damn flowery things are just in the way. It was enough to seal the deal and send me slipping off to Slumber Land.
Yet, from somewhere unknown deep inside my soul (presumably from the horny part of me), I thought I'd at least try and get lucky. Lightly grabbing your shoulder, I roll you on your back, hovering over you with intent. You look at me with confused and unsure eyes. I see the instant debate in your head. "Sex sounds nice, honey, but I'm tired and I'm watching the movie."
Wisely, you don't say the words I imagine you to be thinking. It's clear, however, that I have work to do if I want to get my dick wet tonight. And I also know that I'm not feeling particularly creative. I know that stirring you with kisses is hit and miss and you're definitely not ready for some love biting; unless I want to be shot down immediately.
What the hell. It has been a long time since I've showed you what a cunning linguist I can be. I can manage a bit of oral play on your pussy. If anything, it gets those ugly panties thrown on the floor sooner than later. Straddling your knees, my normal move when I start with the cunnilingus gambit, your eyes still read as not quite interested. Nevertheless, you lift your hips as I pull your panties all the way down, flinging them to some dark corner of the room where I wouldn't mind if they were eternally lost.
And there's your bush. It's an effort to not grimace. I've never known myself to prefer shaved pussy over hair pie. What you have there is just wild and unkempt. I remember when you used to joke about your celebratory shave when your period was over. I guess the end of menstruation isn't worthy of the celebration it once was.
To be fair, your overgrown pubic hair doesn't exactly turn me off. It just makes what I'm about to do a little bit more like a chore. Sure, between my saliva and your arousal, thick bushy pubic hair quickly comes out of play. Well, in for a penny.
I don't waste time kissing your tummy or the insides of your thigh. You really like it, but I'm just not quite in the mood to dally. I really just want to get to it. Well, there's more than that. I also want to make sure that you get your rocks off, too. I really do want you seeing stars. For all the internal bitching going on inside my head, I am madly in love with you. Oh, and I'm still a romantic at heart. Not only will I give you an orgasm, but I'm going to make sure that you have thee orgasm.
My left arm slips under your leg. From there, my arm quickly gets sore if I reach for your breast, so I let it lie inert on the mattress. My left arm comes into play later. My right arm is over your leg, where I can comfortably palm your other breast. I know how much you love it when I pinch and twist your nipples and you probably wouldn't complain if I started with that kind of play. But I'm a tease at heart and I know to not play all my cards at once. For now, only the light squeezing of my hand over the whole of your breast is all you get.
My tongue goes about the business of lightly licking at your pubic hair. For you, it probably feels like a tease before the game. For me, I'm matting down the thick growth of fur so I can get to the game. I hope you don't notice when I snort. You can't play baseball until the field is mowed. You'd kill me if I said that aloud. Game over.
A minute later, I'm grazing my lower lip across your bush, stopping to give a proper kiss in the vicinity of your clit. Your hip twitches towards my face. Have no fear; clit-play is eighty percent of my game. Repeating the same action, I think I can feel the petals of your sex starting to puff past your fur. So, no time like the present to get my tongue into the game.
My tongue starts to drag from your opening to your clit. The pressure is very light and tentative. There's no saliva and you're hardly wet. But that doesn't stop you from gasping and undulating beneath me. Alas, I know that in a few strokes, you'll stop moving and you'll relax. You're almost passive beneath the ministrations of my tongue bath. A long time ago, I learned to occasionally move my left hand over your tummy to gauge how taut it is. I listen to your breathing as best as I can from down here. I pay attention to where your hands are. If they're on the bed, I need to step up my game. If they're on your thighs, than I'm on the right track.
Apparently I'm on the right track.
My stroke stays consistent for awhile. In fact, the only thing that really varies for a time is just how much pressure I'm putting on your nipple. Of course you like it tweaked and pinched, but I know better than to be a human vice clamp. A hard twist here. A soft brush there. All in time to the metronome of my tongue and your pussy. Things are pretty straight forward and simple for me. I would never confess this to you, but that act of going down on you is basically rote in the middle part.
No wonder my mind wanders. Damn it all if I'm not suddenly paying attention to the television. Apparently it's a far better movie if I'm simply listening to it. I'm betting the butler did it, but I'm horrible at solving murder mysteries.
After listening to the television through two commercial breaks you let out a gasp. My left hand gently covers your tummy. You're not trembling, but there is a slight quake. I know that you're not going to have thee orgasm that I'm after, but I'm definitely zeroed in on you. Except that my neck is starting to hurt. Well, suck it up.
The next phase of my oral attack involves the play of my feet. The wall is close to the edge of bed and I press them both against it. This gives me just a bit of leverage to really grind my tongue into your clit and pussy. Not too much pressure so that I'm pushing you around, but just enough for you to notice.
Still, my neck is really tweaking me out. I decide to change my angle and focus on the opening to your pussy. I stab and press against the rim of your succulent and inviting opening. This is the only part of my game that I really feel kind of deficient in. My tongue lolls from my mouth like a, well, a tongue (I'm so prolific). There's no massive tentacle snaking from between my lips ala pornographic anime style. I'm pushing into you as hard and as much as it feels like I can, which is to say that I'm barely wading in the shallow end of the pool. I can't even tell that my tongue purchases any penetration. I'm just poking at your opening.
You grind into the mattress, so I know you like it. But now my bottom teeth are cutting into the underside of my tongue. Kinked neck and a sore tongue? I don't think so. I return to the familiar strokes of my tongue against your clit. I may as well call it the ole stand by. Whatever works, right?
