Setches of the White Tigress #1

Bijou likes to tie scarves around her wrists and her ankles, to decorate herself this way when she is going out. The sensation of something soft, bound round these places, like a warm hand holding her, pleases her. she makes them wide, like cuffs. She has many scarves and sashes, prefers the light colored ones that blend in with her skin, so that they are disguised. She waits for people to recognize the subtle message, know what it means, people who will wrap their hands around these bonds, making her catch her breath.

****

Sometimes it is primarily her mouth that is hungry for sex, and the rest of her body echoes that desire faintly. Those times, she sucks on pens, or on her fingers. Her tongue longs for something thicker, something hot and alive.

*****

She walks round a corner in the hallway of the opium den. At the end of the long stretch of hallway a table is pressed into the corner, with two chairs. She sees an unclear figure in one of the chairs. She paces forward and it becomes clear that there are two figures in the chair. A man sits, his woman on his lap facing away from him. They are fully clothed, except that her skirt, layers of wine-colored gauze, is pushed high up her legs, which straddle his. She rocks slightly, her eyes closed, lips parted. They are in their own world, almost unconscious even of each other, lost in the slow, almost still sensations throbbing where they are joined, deep in the recesses of her rumpled skirt. He leans back in the chair, moving only slightly, one hand on her hip, the other deep under her blouse, cupping her breast.

Bijou sees this as she moves closer. They are half-sleeping, half-ecstatic, nearly motionless except for the occasional throb of the hips. They might have been there for hours, might be there for hours more, just like this. They have moved completely into the parts which are joined, the woman's consciousness deeply into her pussy, energizing every inch of her skin.

Bijou is breathless. she moves quietly, drawn despite herself, despite her need to not be noticed, to not stare, open-mouthed, at this scene, she moves forward, drawn down the hall by her watering mouth, by the soundless sound they make, the hum of their ecstasy, their dream in the haze of the purple flesh. So much hunger, to taste the heat they raise there underneath those layers of deep red gauze. She stands there at the table, despite herself, terrified that they will notice her, that they will stop, that she will lose this vision.

She is starving, and they are a feast. She wills herself to be invisible, and she does seem to be. In their hypnotic pleasure they seem to ignore her, oblivious to all but their own sensations, flying, flying... bijou moves the chair, so gradually and quietly, and kneels down under the table, presses the skirts higher. This is the first time the woman responds, with a low moan, and takes her hands from the table to draw her skirts higher, so that Bijou can finally see the gate underneath, the velvet folds of the flower into which the purple rod is thrust, is moving slightly, is throbbing with life, the vein full and thick and disappearing into that secretive and juicy flower. It is all open to her.

Her tongue flickers, at first almost imperceptibly, on the little kiss in the chalice. She lifts her hands and gently opens the folds that surround the flesh pillar that even now throbs and shifts with the new sensation. Teasing fingers, tempting the lips to part, drawing back the curtain, and her mouth drawn deep onto that joined energy, drawn to tongue the tiny key until the woman leans back, moans, stretches her thighs further open, and the cock thrust deep into her moves in response, trembling, almost vibrating.

Bijou drinks and drinks, stroking her tongue up, up, over and over, ever so gently, knowing that even the slightest sensation is a shock through both bodies. Her tongue is the delicate spiral of the butterfly's tongue, barely touching, the heat of it alone sending the woman higher and higher into pleasure. The woman begins to coo and writhe, and her voice rises into a lilting moan that becomes hoarse as Bijou pulls her lips gently open, more and more, and the cock becomes even harder and thicker inside her. Bijou can see that the blouse is open, and the man's left hand cups her breast, his thumb and forefinger pressing her nipple, rhythmically. His right hand is clasped firmly on the woman's hip, and he rocks her slightly, a slow deep beat, onto his cock, and each time he moves his voice moves also, deep quiet groans, rising like hers.

Bijou's spine is electrified. Her hands are wise birds that flutter amongst the folds of flesh, her tongue a tiny bolt of lightning on the precious, delicious berry. The woman rises, and rises, and finds the peak and stays, the cock moving faster, more insistent inside her. Bijou recognizes this action, backs off, and the woman howls as the man's cock beats, and beats, and beats inside her. He lifts suddenly, and in one motion he has thrown her forward, and the woman leans over the table, arching her back so that he can shove her skirts roughly up to the small of her back and pound her, over and over, so that her hands clench on the table, nails scrabbling at nothing, her cheek pressed down against the wood. His hands now grip her hips on both sides, yanking her back onto him, harder and harder.

He is reaching his peak too. Bijou is still under the table, now just watching the thrusts of the hips above her, watching the dripping garden as it yields itself to that forceful serpent. Higher and higher. Bijou dares to reach out one fingertip to find the woman's little rosebud again, hard button inside the flower, and press it gently, keeping time with the movements of the hips that part, and meet, and part, and meet again. The woman's cries become more plaintive, more desperate, and Bijou flickers her finger, like an aspen leaf, like a little flame. The look on Bijou's face is one of curiosity, of amazement, of fascination. She is hypnotized by the motions, the way a cat looks through a window at a sparrow.

The cock slips out, and this Bijou also receives. It is on the edge and there is no time to find the gate again; he is already thrashing into his peak. Bijou leans forward, presses the cock up against the juicy pussy above it, uses her hand below to make a channel for him to press into and through, and he comes, the seed shooting forward. It drips onto her fingers, her waiting lips, her hungry face, her eager hand, and she bathes in it as if it were rain after a drought. Thick, white, hot life itself, she takes it into her pores, she drinks its heat right through her skin and the palms of her hands.

She leaves them, throbbing, and moves quietly away as they sink back into their dream.