Author’s Note:
This isn’t filthy enough. It will be. Seriously though. Voluptuary?
Listening note:
La Lune, Billie Martin.
Story:
I stumbled slightly to the table and picked up my glass again, downing the sharp cold sparkling wine in an effort to slake an incredible thirst. She stood up and approached me, topped off her own glass and, before taking a sip, opened her mouth as if to show me she’d been a thirsty girl herself. I knew she had swallowed my load, but I knew too that there would be a residual note of sex to the taste of her tongue and I leaned in for the deep, searching kiss. Sure enough, she took the signal and we kissed for what we were worth; a hard, intense interlocution which, when it ended, gave us each a gasp. I placed my arms around her and clasped her ass, then kissed her lips again, then her forehead, and then, with rather more force than I was used to, forced her to the bed. In a trice I was on my knees in front of the bed, with her legs spread wide and the object of my desire slick and inviting. She squirmed off the bed away from me.
“I’m really sorry. I need to go to the bathroom. Would you excuse me for a moment?”
Of course I would. She walked across the room to the bathroom door and disappeared. I picked up the phone and ordered more champagne, then picked up my trousers and hung them over a chair. At that moment, the little foil of tablets fell to the carpeted floor along with the little unlabelled nasal spray. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I picked up the bottle. I fingered the tablets for a moment and reflected on how they had worked so well earlier in getting me focused on the work I had blasted through. I had felt the effect wearing off toward the end of dinner, and now, after the totally unplanned excitement, the effect had gone completely. I popped the pack and extracted one from the foil, popping it on my tongue and preparing to wash it down with the last remaining drops of wine when she re-emerged to the bedroom.
“Sildenafil or Cialis?” She asked, and laughed.
“Neither,” I replied, and elaborated. “They’re focus pills. I took one earlier to rush through some work and it did a great job, so I’m just giving it another blast.”
“Focus?” She asked. “You don’t need focus. You need discipline.”
She kissed me and, in so doing, stole away the pill from my tongue.
“So we take one each. Let’s focus on one another?”
I nodded, popped one more pill and pushed her back to the bed again.
“I ordered more wine,” I told her.
“That was thoughtful of you,” she replied, and swallowed the little yellow dot.
With that, I was again on my knees, before the foot of the bed, this time with her legs spread, draped over the end of the mattress. I took her left leg in my hands and kissed from the calf, slowly, carefully, tracing a line all the way around to the back of her knee; my hands stroked along the outside of her leg, tracing the shape of her firm thigh with the backs of my fingers; she squirmed again, but in place this time; she was, perhaps, aware of my intention, and, perhaps, she was content with the progress I was slowly making; I heard her slowly breathe in an enormous gulp of air, and as I did I felt a surge of some sort of desire to concentrate, to focus. I looked up towards my objective.
Her outside lips, slightly glistening, were pronounced and intricate, proportionately long and looked so soft; a pretty shade between pink and brown; the shade of the lower petals of the open lotus flower, my weirdly active mind told me. I had a pang of desperate need to feel those against my own lips, imagining the first voluptuary contact my tongue would make on that tender flesh. Hold up. Voluptuary? The pill couldn’t have kicked in that quickly, could it? “No”, I told myself. You want to concentrate because she wants you to concentrate. You want to concentrate because the feeling and the taste of her flesh on your tongue and your lips is electrifying, and you have no choice to follow through on the thing you both decided to do.
“Jesus”, I thought. “That pill has kicked in quickly.”
“Fuck,” she said. “Are you feeling that pill kicking in already?”
I gave an mm hmm and carried on kissing her soft warm flesh. Every element of her musculature, every minuscule difference in the taste and tone of her skin registered. This was wild; every breath she took, I noted in depth and length. I could sense her, absolutely; and I knew that, if I was feeling this as I merely moved up towards her body, along her leg, she could feel it too.
I wondered what that would feel like, and found myself discovering ripples on her flesh she must have treated earlier with a gym roller; the tiny indentations and supplenesses of her, traced beneath my lips and tongue, were mesmerising, and I could have stayed kissing and touching her all night if she had not identified the true potentiality of the moment and shifted herself down the bed towards me. I guess she wasn’t entirely satisfied with the progress I had been making, or maybe she just had a better grip on the passing of time than I had.
She reached between her legs and ran her middle finger along her lips, making them glisten with the wetness she had felt gather and I hadn’t even had the opportunity to dream of. I didn’t watch it happen, but I know she licked her finger clean before she ran both her hands through my hair and urged me onward; she was impatient and I may have been smiling broadly as, eventually, I extended my tongue and gathered some of that wetness for myself, running between the lips and upwards to the stiff protrusion of her clit. She squirmed and squealed, softly. I’m not used to that, but I quickly found I could get used to it. I enveloped her clit in my mouth and ran my tongue around it, slipping back the hood and gliding over the nub and across it in a routine of repetitive, concerted movements. My normal instinct to – I don’t fucking know – freestyle? – was suppressed. I remember reading in Cosmopolitan magazine, maybe twenty years ago, that girls like repetitive movements, and suddenly, with the aid of her, breathing deeply and contentedly before me, and no doubt the little yellow pill, I just wanted – needed – had to – get her off. It was the job to do. Deep in my engines, I needed to feel her thrash and squeal and breathe and fall off the fucking cliff; I needed her orgasm on my tongue.
I pulled my head back and kissed her thighs again; she wasn’t having that. She ground her sex on my mouth and reached down to put my head where she needed me and she whispered:
“Fingers. As well.”
She contorted her body, reached between her legs from underneath herself and plunged two fingers inside; it wasn’t silent; the delicious, sensuous sound of the squelch, and the rhythm of her elegant digits plunging into herself spurred my efforts on her clit into a form of overdrive; I could taste the enhanced release of scent and the taste of her was a drug; I lapped at her clit in a kind of determined, slow frenzy and I could feel the tension begin to build delightfully in her twisted body. As I continued to gently suck and kiss and flit across her clit, I could hear her begin to moan; a mix of high and low tones, as she alternated in her breathing, matching the speed at which she drove her fingers inside her soaking, needy hole. Nothing like that to drive a guy on, particularly one with whatever the fuck was inside those tablets coursing through his veins.
Et, maintenant, après cela, le déluge.
She withdrew her fingers, and with her soaking wet digits, forced my face away from her clit as she tried to avoid or prolong the coming surge; I admit I was reluctant to comply; I simply evaded her hand and took my mouth to her now unoccupied and delightfully drenched lips, and gratified my need to plunge my own self inside her; my tongue thrust inside, and I felt, with Dionysian thrill, the excitement course through my entire body of being inside her; not something I had ever fetishised before. I wanted and needed this, and, it seems, she did too. Her breathing turned ragged and she appeared to give in.
“I’m cumming,” she said, and I felt her spasm begin to pulse around my tongue. Now wasn’t the time to stop, so I didn’t. She reached down to rub the still engorged nub of her clit, and I enjoyed the sound of a woman concentrating on her own release with keen, urgent pleasure.
“Now,” said my subconscious. “Get inside her and feed her cunt with your spunk.”