Laissez Faire

The back of her neck is pale, blue-white; the dark, dark hair sweeping up in a fan as she presses it against the back of her head with one tense hand. Some heavy locks escape and fall. They are very moist from her own perspiration.

A long gray blouse of raw silk is falling off her shoulder. Its hem reaches halfway down her ass in the back and barely covers her intimate parts in the front. It is printed with damp shapes also made by her perspiring skin. The skin is, if anything, more pale where it is revealed at the edge of the silk. At her throat is a tracery of blue veins. She rocks unsteadily on her delicate feet, clad in high-heeled Roman sandals; the pale twin moons of her full breasts are exposed by the scooped neck of the blouse as she stoops and turns.

She is an indoor creature. She eats vegetables and not meat. She does not venture out-of-doors very often, and then only when cloaked in a wide-brimmed black hat, dark Burberry raincoat, and sunglasses. Few would know that, other than the Roman sandals and a pair of sheer black hose that clasp her thighs tightly, this is all she wears.

She is wearing the grey silk peasant blouse because the one she loves has made her a gift of it, insisting that she wear it tonight. Her lover is a bit tired of the vulnerability of her purely naked body, the white limbs darkening only slightly to lavender yellow toward the private skin. Baby fine hair under the arms and curling in a tidy oval around the lavender lips of her vulva.

The Lover, sitting in a simple wooden chair with a lyre back watches the woman with jaded eyes, indicating with a bored finger that she should spin. On her ass are circular bruises made by pulling the ivory flesh deep into the mouth and kneading it with a firm tongue; kneading it until she cries out, just a small aching whine. By now her nipples are also sore, and she jerks slightly as The Lover's fingers gently brush one and then clasp the other tightly between finger and thumb, rolling it like a cigarette paper full of marijuana. The other hand slips under the hem of the blouse. One finger ascends until it meets warm wet flesh. Finger and thumb pinch one loose lip, the one that hangs below the other. There are miniscule liquid sounds. She moans like a tiny animal.

On the left breast, at the fold of the right armpit, also beside the navel, and on the swollen soft flesh of the right inner thigh are more purple circles where the skin has been pulled into the mouth. Sometimes there are teethmarks.

Some would not tolerate the sweet pain that occurs when this happens. But this one invites the feeling when she loses herself to the sting of it. At that moment, with no other touch required, a small, electric turmoil begins deep in her womb. Something roils and twists as though fine wires were crisscrossing and sparking.

The sensation then moves down her long pale legs, so free of muscle tone. Inevitably, they twist, as though to get away, and at the same time, press closer together. For a long moment, one calf is clenched and the knee quivers before it is released.

Her small, fine buttocks tense until shallow blue hollows appear in each one. Moisture beads the small triangle at the base of her spine. A droplet rolls through the soft down into the deep cleavage between her barely quivering buttocks.

Even now she cries out "ow" softly, her face masked by the wave of hair, her lover's face also hidden by the hair and the pale curve of her breasts. The impudent bead at the top of her secret lips has emerged, fat and rosy, unlike the blue tones on the rest of the body. She feels the itch, the sweet irritation on this spot, which now asks for more attention as it flirts with the night air. The Lover leans close and spits on it, then oh so slowly rubs this cluster of foaming moisture in circles around the nub. Just below, the outer lips have swollen and arched away from each other as though to take a breath, allowing The Lover, who slides off the chair onto the floor, freedom to gaze up into the glistening inner coral. As the air touches this dampness, it tingles; so she strains to force this wonderful discomfort against something, rub it away, erase it. The muscles on the insides of her thighs tense, but The Lover's hands are there, holding the knees apart and still.

The target is not touched. Instead, The Lover's mouth grows lighter, lighter; the tongue gentler, gentler. The hands are not demanding now. They do not tantalize. They rest, soft and neutral. More of the cool air touches the wet nipples, the damp neck, a fine line of sweat, runs down beside the spine, another gleaming between the breasts and pooling in the navel.

She breathes out with strong rhythm, her mouth dry, her ears cool from The Lover's moist mouth, her bosom warm from the rising flush, each nipple a hard, sore knot. In the shadow, those other lips are quietly seeping.

The Lover leans back and holds her eyes for long moments in the darkness under her hair; smiles, showing a small red bud of tongue, and then, pulls her until the pale thighs form a cathedral over the waiting mouth. Unbuckles the tall sandal on her left foot, but does not remove it. She stands even less steadily now, fingers of her left hand pressed into the top of the table. She dares not clutch at The Lover's shoulder. That would be reason for rebuke, a dressing down even in this public place with the other patrons watching, or not watching as is their wont.

She glances about, careful not to move her head too much. Two women in identical Cleopatra makeup and black pageboys tongue kiss in a corner booth. Across the room a woman with frizzy blonde hair (or a young man in a wig and leather skirt; it is impossible to tell) has gone down on the patron in the white suit and Panama hat with a cane. Panama's cane taps a rhythm and the blonde curls bob in time to it. At the bar the bartender looks down the blouse of a very buxom woman. Two very thin Africans are on the dance floor, moving to a rhythm that is not the same as the blues that is playing, but appropriate, nonetheless. From time to time they pass a pipe from one to the other and a pink cloud drifts up from it. The smell of it is wonderfully obscene.

She feels The Lover take one of her feet firmly in hand and lift it out of its shoe and place it, sole down on the table. Fortunately, the table is exotically low enough and the platform of the other shoe high enough so that she can stand this way. The Lover pushes both of her knees outward so that her sex is fully exposed to the room. In fact, it opens wider with a moist click, revealing the slim throat of her vagina. A clear droplet grows fat at the point where the lips touch at the bottom.

The Lover, lips facing lips only inches away. Warm breath, then cool breath through pursed lips.

Her nipples clench almost painfully. The tip of the tongue reaches the perineum and paints a small circle there. And then again. And then again. She tries to dip down; to engulf that tongue, but firm hands hold her hips. Tongue tip draws a line along the lower rim of her vagina; licks up, so quickly, that one clear salty droplet. Coaxes another and another. Dips just over the rim into the blushing hollow within but oh so careful not to penetrate that opening. Not now, not yet. Instead, with excruciating slowness runs up the slick surface toward the pulsing bead above; stops and begins a tiny dance on the little pucker where the woman pisses.

She begins to feel the need to release. She also feels the presence of other figures behind her, gathering close, smelling her scent. She knows they will not touch unless The Lover allows it; no, encourages, even orchestrates it.

The Lover's firm fingers now wrap around her thighs. A nod. Someone with warm breath and delicate lips is brushing them up and then down her spine just at the base of her neck. Another has lightly bitten her left earlobe. Her hand is gently pulled behind her, passing her tapered fingers through a cloth opening where very moist flesh waits. A large, firm hand has taken her ass.

She will not be allowed to come quietly or privately. She will not feel that hard, sweet relief and fall into gentle, caressed sleep. She will climax hard and loud time and again, her face contorted like a gargoyle, red and twisted, arteries pulsing from the flushed neck, eyes rolling up in her head, mouth stretched wide in a snapshot of sweet agony; nostrils wide and liquid; hair glued to her face and neck.

That pale skin will mottle from maroon to raspberry, the blue veins of her transparent breasts exposed like rivulets through snow. The exquisite strength of her belly will clutch and clench, rolling her mons high, hungry, open, unfulfilled, popping again and again as the muscle of her womb spasms.

They all will want her; drawn from every corner of the room like mad bees to an orchid of rare scent. They will hover close, listening for every gasp, every groan, every whisper of liquid. They all will be aching to enter her; but The Lover keeps them no closer than fingertip and lip. Still, this is enough to provoke her orgasmic dance. As long as that cloud of hot breath surrounds her she is helpless to stop. The slightest tickle begins a new cascade.

She begs to stop, but the words never reach her lips. They would be a lie. Instead, she waits on a high plateau of ecstasy, for the moment she needs so much, but regrets will end this dance. Below her The Lover has taken a soft mouthful of swollen inner labium and is squeezing it hard with lips, tongue, and teeth. The exquisite pain reaches up, dancing deep in her belly.

But now The Lover's mouth has opened, wet and red, like a great hungry fish rising from the depths; and she knows she is the bait; watching as time slows to nothing. And then, and then, the full lips close over the scarlet bud that has pushed far out of its protecting hood; eager to be taken, devoured. But that mouth rises so slowly that she fears it will stop completely and she will be left unconsumed.

She wants to drop between those lips, but she is held firm, even as she becomes aware of a dozen hands owning every inch of her skin.

But now her eyes lock with The Lover and they both agree; and those cruel hungry lips, so near and so distant, close ever so slowly around the swollen bait and suck, hard.

She feels the fire spread out from that aching spot, flaming up into her womb, scorching her breasts, filling her face with the heat of desire, turning her limbs to steam; she feels herself topple backward into the arms of the warm mob, as that insatiable mouth devours her and she disappears under the enveloping wave of pure lust.