She Put a Spell on Me

"Want to hear my favorite song?"

The woman sitting across from me is practically a stranger, but I'm settled into a couch in her living room all the same, cradling a glass of red and appreciating the gentle light given off by her faux Tiffany lamps and flickering candles.

We'd met earlier in the evening at a songwriting class -- it was her voice that pulled me in. A soulful, raspy instrument that lends added depth to the folk songs she composes and plays on her worn acoustic. Well, to be truthful -- it was her talent that first caught my attention, but I must also admit how beautiful I find her to be. Thick, wavy red hair, deep brown eyes, a wide, easy smile... a moderately tall, curvaceous frame and smooth, tanned skin covered in freckles. Honestly, she's gorgeous.

And judging from the way she looks at me, eyes focused and shining, and how she talks about my work, my voice -- she doesn't find me lacking, either.

I tell her I'd love to hear whatever she feels like playing. There's something ... more ... to the smile she gives in return, but then she picks up her guitar and strums gently before I can put my finger on the emotion. And I'm pulled once more into her craft. The tune is gentle, simple -- by the second pass, I know it by heart. By the fourth, it feels as though that melody is all I can think about...

My host places her guitar on its stand when she finishes, then looks at me expectantly. I try to tell her how much I enjoyed it -- but find myself unable to say anything at all. "Cat got your tongue?" she laughs. I try again to reply, yet can't seem to compel my words to come out of my mouth. That's when I'm able to name the hidden emotion I saw in her smile earlier: mischief.

She moves to sit down next to me, takes my hands in hers once she's settled, then says: "Tell me what you thought." Instantly, I find myself able to compliment her at last. But after I do, I go back to being involuntarily silent and still. I look at her in confusion -- and she shocks me with her next command: "Kiss me."

I comply immediately -- because it's what I've wanted to do all evening, but also because I can't seem to help myself. Her lips are even softer against mine than I'd imagined, and they fit so perfectly against my own. She then winds her fingers into my own flowing mane of hair. I'm desperate to reciprocate, but once again find myself unable to do anything more than revel in her closeness and the feel of her massaging mouth against my own. She pulls away: "Touch me."

At this, I spring into action -- first taking in how impossibly smooth her locks are, then delighting in how perfectly soft her skin is as I cradle her face in my hands. She stops once more -- I want to pull her back to me, but I remain out of control of my own actions. My growing confusion is evident; mercifully, she slakes it for me at last. "There's a reason that last song is my favorite. Once someone hears it, they're mine for the night. A little secret, special power of mine. And I wanted you all... to... myself... the moment I saw you."

Even if I did have the power to reply, I'm stunned into silence. But then, she makes another impossible-to-resist demand: "Tell me what you want." I can't help but answer: "To taste you." My boldness, my neediness, shocks us both. Then, she offers an especially dazzling smile, and assures me my wish will come true. But first: "Come to my bedroom and help me get this dress off. Touch and kiss me as much as you like along the way."

I don't even let her get off the couch at first -- having some flexibility to act on my desires at last, I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, before pressing her lips to mine once more. This time, though, I drag my tongue along her bottom lip, begging her without words to open up for me. I whimper a little when she glides her tongue against my own in response, reveling in how they dance.

All the while, I explore her with my hands, feeling myself growing wetter with each curve and dip of her body I discover. The roundness of her considerable breasts; the valley of her waist, and the comparative fullness of her hips; her perfectly soft little tummy; her creamy, thick thighs... I take special pleasure in gripping those as my own arousal mounts.

I bring my hands back up, then wrap my arms around to pull her closer, still, as I break away to trail my lips along her jaw, to her neck, where I resume kissing her, introducing gentle tongue flicks that draw the most intoxicating moans out of her. This move of mine adds some urgency to her orders: "Go to the bedroom with me -- right now -- and get us both completely naked."

Not that I needed her hypnotic powers to get me moving in that direction, but once she says the words, I immediately stand, take her hand, and walk with her into a cozy, dimly lit bedroom. Inside, my heart pounds -- a combination of extreme excitement and extreme nervousness over this next step. But my hesitation over showing my body to her in full is overridden fully by a deep pull to do as she asked. I rid myself of my sandals, my shorts, my blouse... my bra... my panties... then I move to strip her. "Stop." I freeze instantly. "I want to look you over."

I feel myself growing wetter, still, and my nipples stiffening, and my breathing growing ragged, as she stares intently -- not touching, just looking, as if trying to memorize me. I'm not sure I've ever felt so vulnerable. I'm not sure which of us enjoys the sensation more.

Then, at last, she orders me to continue with what I was doing. I make my way to her as I leave my outfit in a discarded puddle. Her dress and underwear quickly join my clothes on the ground. "Get into bed with me." Again, I'm unsure I actually needed an order. I sit on the edge of her soft, queen-sized mattress, and pull her on top of me -- the feeling of all of her skin against my own makes my hips sway with need for more of her. Thankfully, she grants me the power to seek it out: "Touch and kiss me all over," she orders, and I'm elated to hear it, to feel myself moving, almost beyond my control, to do the one thing I want more than anything else in this moment.

I move her onto her back, with her head resting on a pillow, then pull myself on top of her. I kiss those soft, full lips of hers once more before I set about learning her body in wonderful detail -- not only appreciating the arcs and slopes of her, but the softness, and the specifics. The exact shade of brown of her hard nipples, and the way one of them feels between my lips, and against the tip of my tongue. The slight dimples all along her belly and thighs, and how they feel under my fingertips as I gently glide them up and down her body, making her arch her back in pursuit of more. The way she writhes and sighs as I continue to discover every nook and cranny -- gentle, joyful movements and sounds that communicate a world of pleasure behind her surface.

"More," she says -- it's unclear whether it's an order or not, but my mind and body process it as such. With a bit of sudden force, I spread her legs apart. She gasps, then grins up at me. "More," she says again. I lay down, settling myself between her thighs, and begin to kiss along each one. My eyes, however, are positively glued to her pussy. How it glistens with her wetness in the soft, dim light; each delicate fold of her lips; the perfect tuft of pubic hair. I cannot recall ever wanting to taste anything more in my entire life.

I dive into the main event, quite literally face first. My hands glide up and around her thighs, before I pull her down, closer to me, spreading her open further still for me. I don't think a sight has ever instantly turned me on more. I start lower than she's expecting, gently flicking her taint with my tongue. The surprise, the intimacy, makes her squeal in delight. I smile to myself, then get my mouth back to work, using my tongue to subtly penetrate her, and moaning myself at the sweetness of her essence as the taste of her dances around my mouth and mind.

Then, I move up, reaching her clit at last. I test how sensitive she is with a brief, feather-light graze of my tongue -- she moans for me, deeply, at just this first bit of contact. Desperate to hear more, I begin to lick faster, in small alternating patterns that tease every centimeter of her clit, and keep her guessing at what I'll do next. Somewhere in an uncontrolled part of my brain, I register my own spiking need, and how incredibly slick this entire situation makes me, as I grind my hips into her comforter and grip my fingers further into her skin. Her allure, my lack of power ... it's almost overwhelming -- the conscious part of my mind spins and reels as I tease her more, and as her arousal begins to soak my lips and chin.

"Make me cum," she sighs. Again, it's unclear whether she's giving another command, or simply expressing her need. Either way, at this, I ramp up the intensity of my ministrations considerably. Trapping her little bud between my lips and lavishing it in attention from my tongue -- then moving one hand off of her thigh, so that I can slip two fingers inside of her tight, velvety entrance. I slowly work them in and out of her, as I continue to mercilessly tongue her clit.

As much as I enjoyed her singing, the sounds she's making now -- the pleading, the way she sighs my name, the wordless moans, the swears, all with an urgency that makes me wonder if she's lost control, herself -- intoxicate me in their own wonderful way. All I can think about -- both because she ordered me to, and because I desperately want it -- is not stopping until I feel her go over the edge. And she's about to: "Don't stop," she tells me. Once more, it's an order I don't need.

Instead, I go faster still, with both my mouth and my fingers. Positively needing, in a deep and powerful way, to get her to this release. She grips my head and grinds into me, hard, panting and groaning in pure pleasure -- and then, she stills, before she swears and comes undone, and I begin to feel her sex clamping down and tensing around my fingers. She cums gloriously for me -- her wetness drips forth and covers both my face and hand, as well as part of her bed, in her essence. I tongue her clit harder still, wanting to ride her perfectly through every second of this orgasm.

She begins to relax, and orders me to stop, as she approaches hyper-sensitivity. This time, her power over me is absolutely necessary -- if I weren't compelled to obey her every word, I would have happily stayed buried between her thighs until sunrise. But as it turns out, she has other plans. "Lay down," she says, once she opens her eyes. "It's your turn."

As if she needed the magical power of her song to encourage this, either, I think to myself. I move to recline, and then open myself up to her fully. She kneels between my parted legs, and glides a finger along my trimmed pussy. "What a mess you are," she smirks. "Let's make it worse, shall we?" I drip with anticipation as she leans forward -- it's almost as if that happened at her command, too.