Posted by Skyhook
on Thu 25 Feb 10, 10:53 PM to Skyhook's blog.
I'm looking at the cast of her body now, the plaster residue is stuck to my nails still, the taste of the Vaseline kissed off her body after is a memory on my lips. But before I tell that earlier. It's the eyes, always the eyes. When you are young the Holy Grail is The Blow Job; you imagine the feel of it, you imagine the impossibility of a girl willing to put it in her mouth, you hardly dare imagine the swallow. Do girls really do that? Other than the ones who look old before their time, skin crumpled on the glossy page by their transport from Dad's stash to the son's schoolyard.
Then you or rather I read a band review in Kerrang!
The journalist, and I still remember his name, saddo that I am, the journalist Chris Watts, building his reputation as an edgy jaded cynic described a band as being as disappointing as your first blow job, when you realise they are just teeth.
My first blow job wasn't just teeth, neither was it disappointing. I've never had a blow job I didn't enjoy. Oh, each one, each girl is different; shallow, deep, swallow or won't, some play with the balls, lick with the tongue, tease with clever fingers, some don't, but the constant is the eyes. That's the secret eye contact. There's the connection, that's what makes it personal.
Mrs Skyhook's eyes are locked on mine, watching me watch her work, looking at the pleasure on my face, seeing me revel in the sensations she's sending through me. Her hand slowly moves over my tummy, caressing.
Then she giggles, her mouth still full of me, as her fingers dart to my bellybutton, probe then remove some fluff (blue, naturally) and hold it up with a flourish. And now I'm giggling too - this must be love, true love.
Later.
It's a shame that 'kneel' (no 'bitch') has been tarnished by association with so many dim doms. It still works for me; I like positioning her, having her arranged as I like. I love her calmness in these quiet close moments, I love drinking her in, admiring her, every curve of her body. Cruelty is a delightful wonder (well, for me anyway, being the cruel one) but I also need this, the still, together times.
Mrs S is kneeling on a large sheet of plastic, naked from the waist up. We are smiling at each other again, her slightly nervously as I lower myself down in front of her. I take a scoop of Vaseline from the pot and rub it between my fingers and palms, taking the edge off its chill. Shoulders first, I rub it into her skin, slowly, taking my time, alternating strokes. That closeness again, studying her skin, the colour and feel, the firmness and how it yields and returns as I massage the lubricant into her. More, lower now, down her sides, over and around her breasts, nipples, never hurrying. This is part of the ritual, this preparation. Her skin glistens.
Enough. She raises her arms up, places her hands on top of her head. Her breasts raise, perfect shape over her ribs, the curve of her waist. There is a bowl of warm water next to me, strips of material we'd cut to different lengths scattered over the plastic sheeting. I ask if she's ready then pick up one of the longer strips, an end in each hand. One end goes into the water first, then the rest of the strip is fed through the liquid. I hold it up and squeeze the excess water back into the bowl. Carefully I place this first strip from her shoulder, down over her breast. I smooth it down, gently, caressing again, concentrating on the feel of her body under her skin.
Repeat. More strips arranged carefully over her body, slowly, diligently covering every square inch of her exposed skin. The wet plaster drips and runs, over my hands, onto her legs, my legs, the plastic sheet as I smooth it down, blend the strips into one.
I don't know how long it took, covering her. It didn't matter it was perfect, exploring her like that, her body familiar yet still new, still exciting to me. I could feel the change as I worked; see the plaster forming a second skin, feel it becoming hard under the strokes of my hands. The strangest feeling, encasing her like this, making her immobile; the room felt charged as I formed the shell over my wife, objectifying her.
Done. We were both smiling again, both splattered in spilt plaster, both slippy from the Vaseline and spilt water, both and I guess this will be too much information fucking horny, sat there facing each other on the messy slippy plastic.
When the plaster was stiff enough, I began prising the edges away from her skin, and then I felt it give, the whole cast coming off in one piece, a perfect model of her body.
We put it to one side to harden fully. Mrs S needed a bath, but not yet. I needed her more, I needed her right there and then.
| 25 Feb 10, 11:23 PM jules9 UK(CH), 2 yrs     |
*melt* It's lovely to have you back blogging again - lucky Mr & Mrs S from the sounds of this one!!! XxX |
| 25 Feb 10, 11:33 PM Amber_Light 3 yrs |
You have my memo hun but wouldn't want you to miss out on the numbers now  |
| 25 Feb 10, 11:35 PM Amber_Light 3 yrs |
PS - ladies - have you notice how all us wonderful 'boobied ones' are the first to comment? Wonder what that means LOL! |
| 26 Feb 10, 1:49 AM fluffy_welsh_angel UK(DN), 5 yrs |
And how am I supposed to see you both in the same light after reading this!?!  xMew |
| 26 Feb 10, 4:01 AM Dovetail UK, 3 yrs |
Wow!
Sounds like you both had a very good time. Thank you for sharing. x |
| 28 Feb 10, 10:49 AM Adverse_Camber UK, 3 yrs |
Mmmm...creating art together is a wonderfully erotic experience...and you describe the experience beautifully, thank you! Love to all the Skyhooks, big and small x "I see the shooting stars falling through your trembling hands..." |
