If we met in a dim corner of a bar, I’d have bought her a drink, happily listened to her prattle on about her life, learned her likes, dislikes, her friends, her family, her dog—before finally whisking her up to a hotel room where I’d plant my lips in this exact spot. She’d have sung me praises (or not, I could be too old).
Kindest thing you can do for a woman? Give her an orgasm.
Cruelest thing you can do to a woman? Give her an orgasm.
I’ve spent the last decade trying to make that make sense.
My thumb smoothes pink flesh as I spread her open, her pussy grasping at air. I insert my tongue and let it clench before licking all the way up her slit, giving a flick to her hood that makes her thigh twitch.
She tastes like she smells—soft vanilla edged with earth, a warm, natural musk that feels more honest than anything bottled. Raw. Unmasked. Perfect.Tooperfect. My chest begins to buzz with excitement I won’t be able to contain, cock getting too hard too fast. For once, I wish I didn’t get off on going down.
Sliding my tongue back into her hole, I hold my breath; think of something vulgar. Vinegar, swallowed by the spoonful every time I cursed at grandma’s house. The smell of moth balls matted to her baby pink sweaters.
My mind stays there, even as my lips work the girl’s labia—tongue flattening each fold, exploring, dwelling, absent. Isee a kitchen with flowered wallpaper, hear a yellowed fridge humming, grimace as I swallow clear, putrid liquid, wrinkled hand plastered over my mouth. For a minute, this works. But as Luna’s thighs squeeze, I’m yanked back to the present.
My breath breaks. Air floods in, and with it—her. Her smell. Her taste. The smooth feel of her thighs against my ears.
It’s nice. Dizzying. Dangerous.
There’s no way she’s going to believe I’m not loving every moment of this.
I close my eyes while flattening my tongue on her hole, fingers digging craters in her thighs as I grip, push, hold. Her little gasp—pleasured, surprised—is all the encouragement I need to drag my bottom lip up to her clit and let the taste of vinegar dissolve.
My lips fit around the swollen little bundle before I suck, then kiss; lick; suck. All the while waiting for her leg muscles to release, body drifting even as her mind stays rooted in place.
It happens after a few minutes. A moan slips between whines, tiny at first. She’s clearly holding back.
But as I curve my finger inside of her, sinking into the tight, slickened, warm embrace of a pussy too untested to know any better, too inexperienced not to sigh at every practiced stroke, her body lifts. Rolls. Arches as the pad of my middle finger finds the most sensitive patch of pleasure hidden in her upper wall.
She moans—high pitched and glorious. Beautiful. Making music, makingartthat shivers my spine. No less grand than Beethoven, Chopin, Argerich.
Blood surges through my cock painfully. My pants are suddenly far too small.
If I slowed down, maybe I’d have a moment to collect myself, but the façade is cracked and masochism has always had its appeal. My dick saysmore, faster, harder. But my brain forbids me from getting too carried away. For now.
My mouth eases off her clit before I insert a second finger and move in slow strokes, like a lover. Coaxing sighs from her lungs, sighs I hope she appreciates tomorrow when the gentleness ends.
I give it to her like that for a minute before her smell makes me dizzy. Then I lower my mouth to her pussy and lick her off my finger.
When my thumb rubs her clit so I can focus my mouth on her pussy, she mewls, her ankles digging into the bed.
My own moan vibrates her core, my mouth buried in her opening, and for a moment, I still. My eyes open. I shouldn’t be moaning. That’s too far.
“Stop,” she hisses like she feels obligated to protest once again. Her hips rise into me like her body is as deceitful as mine. She’s close. She hates that she’s close, but she’s close.
My thumb on her clit circles at a faster pace, winding like a wheel that’s just found momentum—my hips subtly grinding into the bed. My cock is so hard, it’s throbbing, pulsing, straining. I feel like I might come just from fucking the bed, and that is... I’ll have to kill myself.
“Please stop. Stop!” She shouts, but her shout is chased by a moan. I glance up to see her eyes clenched shut, her head tilted back. I can feel Thorne’s presence in the doorway and wonder if he’s as turned on by this as I am.
The girl’s knees lift as she wiggles her ass, either searching for pleasure or running from it. Either way, it grabs her.
I latch my lips onto her clit while forcing a third finger into her pussy. My tongue rolls before I start sucking, and it’s less than a minute before those sexy moans turn into a choir of high-pitched notes, dancing off her tongue like she’s singing for me.
I shove in harder, fighting the pillowy muscle that squeezes my fingers, my cock surging against the bed. I eagerly work mybelt. Its jingle mixes with the girl’s heavy breaths as she recovers from her orgasm.
“That’s enough!” Thorne yells, making me pause.
My hand fisting my belt, I turn to look at him with what I hope isn’t a glare.
