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| Cinnamon_Tart |
on Fri 3 Dec 10, 10:03 AM to Cinnamon_Tart's blog.
I enter the kitchen, see you through the patio doors, in the garden, fag in hand. The initial wave of pleasure at seeing you in my space quickly overtaken with the desire to wind you up, tease you, flirt outrageously while physically oh-so-slightly-removed from you. I approach the doors, wait till you spot me, lift my shirt….no bra…nipples already erect. And I press myself to the cold cold glass of the door. I can't hear you, but the change to the tilt of your head, from across the garden, and your mouth opening, I know you vocalised. A small groan perhaps…. A final drag, and you return to the warmth of the kitchen.
I've lowered my top to cover myself, my arms now going automatically round your neck, kissing you gently, smiling, telling you how good you feel, how my world is righted, now you are here, and I am here, and we are touching.
I kiss you, move to kiss your cheek, your ear, your neck. My right hand moving to caress your face, your neck, the back of your head. And now, slipping under the t-shirt, your left nipple, tweaking the ring there, scratching a long nail repeatedly over you. Pulling…on the ring…just enough…I know this is pleasurable to a point for you, and then irritating. I like to push you. I know you like this calm time, before the storm. The gentleness, the give and take. Before you twist things, before I wind you up too much, before my autonomy wavers, and I begin to become something other than I am to you, something boxed, contained, compartmentalised, reduced.
My hand slides down your stomach, warmth, muscle, texture. The fun before the serious, the taunt which becomes, eventually, a red rag.
And now I pull away slightly, smiling at you, my head tilting in that way it does. Prompting you to smile yourself, grin almost, and say, “Uh huh, you're heading for your knees, aren't you?”
“I might be,” I reply. Sinking indeed to my knees, undoing a button, a zip, looking up at you, adoringly but mischievously, allowing the trousers to fall from your hips, puddle at your feet. You are already hard. And the scent of you is heavenly. I kiss you. You moan softly. I lick you, long slow tongue coating the length of you with saliva, a purpose in mind. Flicking my tongue over the head of you. My right hand retracting foreskin, to get to sensitive smoother flesh. I know you love this, the receiving, the sensations given, my evident joy and savouring of you, in my mouth, encased, coated, tongued, flicked, nibbled.
And when you are coated, slick in spit, I can take you further into me. Can force you down my throat. Can feel myself almost pushing you backwards. Can fuck myself with your cock. My way, my terms.
That little pop you love. Throat entered properly.
Me, forcing myself to deepthroat you.
Then retching, gagging, choking on you. All self-induced.
And moaning my appreciation, as I pull back to draw breath.
Saliva spilling from my mouth, dripping and trailing to the floor.
“Good morning, darling,” although, spoken round a mouth full of engorged cock, the dribbly mumbling makes you grin widely, laugh, clear your throat, and then return the greeting.
Edited Fri 3 Dec 10, 11:00 AM by Cinnamon_Tart
| 3 Dec 10, 5:55 PM Dark_Cherry UK(B), 2 yrs     |
Nicely done pretty lady  People die of common sense. One lost moment at a time. |
| 3 Dec 10, 10:43 PM Dollface UK, 6 yrs |
I loved this; thank you for posting it. It's nice to read about a good old-fashioned deepthroating session when it's the party on their knees forcing the issue! x "When you're going through hell, keep going." |
| 4 Dec 10, 7:01 AM Cinnamon_Tart UK(S), 8 yrs |
Thank you both. Glad you liked it. Hole Parity! |
