Tonight, you requested, and I fulfilled...oh so willingly. I entered the dim room to find you splayed, encouraging my advances with your thighs spread and your cock pulsing its anticipatory morse code.
I disrobed under your watchful eye and then crawled onto the bed between your legs.
I didn't kiss your mouth. Instead, my tongue licked soft, playful patterns on your chest, my breasts rubbing gently the creases on either side of your manhood.
I avoided the goal, in favor of teasing you into a more serious state of want.
You were my object...
I could have tied you down, but I didn't have to. Your arms stayed at your sides, as you gave yourself up to my probing mouth, so slow to find its mark.
Placing the knuckles of one hand beneath your scrotum, and supporting the base of your erect penis between the fingers of the other, I licked you from based to tip...from the front and then to each side, before gently taking the tip into my mouth. I savored the smoothness of it, the musky smell of your thighs as your body heat rose.
When I finally took all of you in, I relished the soft sounds of pleasure that escaped from your lips.
I was your pursuer...
I could have driven you to the edge, and beyond...but you asked for something more, which I gave on command. I rose above you, clasping your hips with my thighs, reached between my legs, and guided you into me. Slowly, I engulfed you and placed my entire weight upon you. Leaning forward, to claim your body fully, I placed my hands on either side of your head, to support my rhythmic movements, my breasts swaying, nipples grazing your chest.
I was not interested in myself...instead gaining greater pleasure from watching your closed eyes twitch, focusing so intently on your own satisfaction. Your hands rested on my hips, guiding my movements to fit your desires.
Your flesh blossomed crimson, and I knew that you were close...so close...
Warmth flooded my internal folds, dripping lazily between your thighs onto the sheets.
Sometimes...I prefer to hold back my own pleasure in pursuit of yours. To focus on the anticipation of seeing you in that moment of utter loss of control.
The Little Death, indeed.
At my hands, no less.
But, thankfully, we are always resurrected.
Your Lustful Literate
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