to my shoulder, where his fingers pinch and rub the material of my shirt in the most weirdly lewd way.
And then the lewdness flickers over to something else, as quickly as it had arrived. Something else worse , because I think he might actually be about to kiss me. He’s very tall, so it’s not hard to miss. He has to lean down, and come so close to me, and I think of all those cheesy movies with the hero going in finally, finally for a kiss. The heroine swooning, hardly able to believe it.
This wasn’t what I had in mind, when I started this. And yet I find myself tilting my face up to his, as his parted lips get closer and closer, and all I can think of is the utter hilarity of an odd backwards movie kiss.
That doesn’t make me want to laugh. By God, I think I might actually be swooning – at the very least, I don’t think I’ve ever closed my eyes before, on feeling someone’s mouth pressed to mine. And he’s so tender and so gentle that it makes me ache, in a hundred odd and completely unused places. Unfortunate, really, that I don’t have all day.
I want to touch his body and I want him to touch mine, and I want to be naked and writhing with him, immediately. So I worm one sly hand beneath the prison of his olive green tank top. And maybe I also curl my tongue, around his earlobe.
He goes stiff against me, and stiffer yet when I poke said tongue right into his ear. Though really I think it’s the combined effect of me gripping his jaw hard and holding his face down where I can reach, on top of my exploratory probings.
He makes a sound like this: unf . And when I lean in to kiss him, his mouth is soft and yielding. He sags against me, lips no longer quite so mean, fingers finding the slick mess I’ve made of his right ear.
Clearly, he’s still sensitive from that earlier orgasm – he can’t seem to take it when he touches the wetness, and his reaction gets even more pronounced when I stroke over one still hard nipple. There is whining, and wriggling, and when I move to pinching that firm little bud, he lurches forward as though doing so will get more contact on his cock.
It doesn’t, however. I shy my lower body away from him in perfect tandem, and then tug and twist at the nipple I’m still playing with until he gives even more over to me. Even more cries of pleasure, even more squirming and whining – it opens him up to such an extent that when I push for it, he lets me slide my tongue into his mouth.
And of course I know that, ordinarily, such a thing wouldn’t be world-shaking. I can’t remember the last time I had a kiss, without some tongue. But with Gabe, everything seems to have a new level of lewd – my hand up his tank top is like a hand on someone’s cock. Pinching his nipples through his clothes seems akin to something far dirtier, like, say, forcing someone to masturbate with a vibrator.
And sticking my tongue in his mouth is like fucking it.
He makes a little startled sound, before moaning blissfully – exactly the way I imagine he’d respond, if I did just fuck him. His mouth moves against mine tentatively, at first, but then with a little more boldness as my hand slips beneath the confines of his shirt.
It takes some tugging and wrestling, but I manage it. And then my hand is on his bare stomach, his bare chest, while he presses his lips to mine, wetly.
It’s a shock, to discover that he’s as hairy everywhere as that glimpse had suggested. Somehow I’d imagined him largely smooth and soft, but there’s nothing to apply those two adjectives to. His torso is uniformly hard and lean, thick with hair and utterly masculine.
He goes to say something, when I twist a few strands around my fingers. Something embarrassed or awkward, that I muffle with my mouth forced against his. This time when I kiss him, his tongue flickers against mine. Just a little. Almost as though it isn’t doing such a thing at all.
And when I move back, he moves forward, eating at my mouth
And then the lewdness flickers over to something else, as quickly as it had arrived. Something else worse , because I think he might actually be about to kiss me. He’s very tall, so it’s not hard to miss. He has to lean down, and come so close to me, and I think of all those cheesy movies with the hero going in finally, finally for a kiss. The heroine swooning, hardly able to believe it.
This wasn’t what I had in mind, when I started this. And yet I find myself tilting my face up to his, as his parted lips get closer and closer, and all I can think of is the utter hilarity of an odd backwards movie kiss.
That doesn’t make me want to laugh. By God, I think I might actually be swooning – at the very least, I don’t think I’ve ever closed my eyes before, on feeling someone’s mouth pressed to mine. And he’s so tender and so gentle that it makes me ache, in a hundred odd and completely unused places. Unfortunate, really, that I don’t have all day.
I want to touch his body and I want him to touch mine, and I want to be naked and writhing with him, immediately. So I worm one sly hand beneath the prison of his olive green tank top. And maybe I also curl my tongue, around his earlobe.
He goes stiff against me, and stiffer yet when I poke said tongue right into his ear. Though really I think it’s the combined effect of me gripping his jaw hard and holding his face down where I can reach, on top of my exploratory probings.
He makes a sound like this: unf . And when I lean in to kiss him, his mouth is soft and yielding. He sags against me, lips no longer quite so mean, fingers finding the slick mess I’ve made of his right ear.
Clearly, he’s still sensitive from that earlier orgasm – he can’t seem to take it when he touches the wetness, and his reaction gets even more pronounced when I stroke over one still hard nipple. There is whining, and wriggling, and when I move to pinching that firm little bud, he lurches forward as though doing so will get more contact on his cock.
It doesn’t, however. I shy my lower body away from him in perfect tandem, and then tug and twist at the nipple I’m still playing with until he gives even more over to me. Even more cries of pleasure, even more squirming and whining – it opens him up to such an extent that when I push for it, he lets me slide my tongue into his mouth.
And of course I know that, ordinarily, such a thing wouldn’t be world-shaking. I can’t remember the last time I had a kiss, without some tongue. But with Gabe, everything seems to have a new level of lewd – my hand up his tank top is like a hand on someone’s cock. Pinching his nipples through his clothes seems akin to something far dirtier, like, say, forcing someone to masturbate with a vibrator.
And sticking my tongue in his mouth is like fucking it.
He makes a little startled sound, before moaning blissfully – exactly the way I imagine he’d respond, if I did just fuck him. His mouth moves against mine tentatively, at first, but then with a little more boldness as my hand slips beneath the confines of his shirt.
It takes some tugging and wrestling, but I manage it. And then my hand is on his bare stomach, his bare chest, while he presses his lips to mine, wetly.
It’s a shock, to discover that he’s as hairy everywhere as that glimpse had suggested. Somehow I’d imagined him largely smooth and soft, but there’s nothing to apply those two adjectives to. His torso is uniformly hard and lean, thick with hair and utterly masculine.
He goes to say something, when I twist a few strands around my fingers. Something embarrassed or awkward, that I muffle with my mouth forced against his. This time when I kiss him, his tongue flickers against mine. Just a little. Almost as though it isn’t doing such a thing at all.
And when I move back, he moves forward, eating at my mouth
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