Where to begin, then? We haven’t settled that yet, have we? Since I don’t have a clear path I can lay down for you, why don’t we just ditch all the “Once upon a time” stuff and jump in? I think so too. Let’s do this…
I wanna take you back in time: six months—I think to the day. Well, close enough. My memories are a bit fogged (you’ll understand why in a minute). And let me show you the most delicious image I have: the one my mind calls up when I think the word delicious.
My back is against the wall. I’m naked. The whorled Venetian plaster dimples my shoulder blades. Before me, a galaxy of city lights gleams through the floor-to-ceiling panorama windows. Beyond them, the narrow blue-black arc of the outer harbor merges with the equally blue-black dome of the sky, the boundary discernible only where the moon’s slim crescent casts a delicate scatter of pearl-colored light across the calm surface of the distant water.
As spectacular as the view is (from a penthouse suite on a hill overlooking the city—yes, you needed that little detail), it’s only a backdrop to the image I have in mind. That image is him, kneeling in front of me, also naked. I have the toes of my left foot, the nails painted a shimmering navy blue like the sky near the horizon, pressing on his right shoulder, and he’s flicking my clit ever so gently with his tongue.
To be precise, he’s flicking my clit and my clit ring with his tongue. Yeah, I have one—a 12-gauge titanium ring with a one-carat star sapphire. That’s important because he’s tucking back my clit hood so every time the tip of his tongue grazes it, he lifts the ring and then bats it down so the sapphire hits my exposed clit precisely.
How he’s managing this with only his tongue I have no idea. All I know is that this must be why I got a clit ring and I’m about to go insane from the repeated flick-tap—as maddeningly precise as a metronome—that has me so turned on I’m drenched. I don’t have trouble getting wet but now it’s trickling down my thighs and my pussy wants to be filled so bad it’s gone beyond ravenous to starving.
I’d beg him to fuck me if I could talk but I don’t want him off his knees, and I really don’t want him to stop what he’s doing to my clit. Ever. It’s torture—pure capillary-busting torture—and I don’t want it to ever stop. I’ll die standing here first.
Actually, I have no idea how I’m standing at all. I have the strangest feeling that I’m not—that I’m being held up his hand and that wicked tongue. My whole pelvis is vibrating with tension and then he does precisely what I’m thinking he won’t: push two fingers deep in my slippery smooth pussy. He can hardly do anything but go deep because at that moment, my locked knee starts to give and I drop my hand to his other shoulder to keep from coming down on his hand with all my weight. He shifts his other arm to hold me against the wall and then he starts twirling those fingers inside me.
Not many guys know the twirling maneuver (or how use it effectively, if they do), but he certainly does and what’s more he knows what it leads to. He’s found my small tender tumescent spot and he’s working it scientifically. His tongue has given up on the flick-tap thing and is lapping in time with the beat of the blood in my crotch. My entire universe is centered there—on the hot, humid pulse and pound and throb—and the instant he sucks my clit, I’m gonna cum.
He sucks. I cum. Start cumming. Keep cumming. He’s hitting my G-spot exactly right and—just as I think I’ve peaked—he tweaks my nipple piercing.
That’s when I explode, like I never have before. Miraculously, he holds me with one arm as I topple, keeping that hand inside me, keeping up that perfect, insistent pressure that sends shockwave after shockwave rebounding through me, filling my vision with a scatter-shot haze of blinding white sparks.
I end up on the floor, half across him, legs spread wide and thrashing, hands over my face, laughing, sobbing… still cumming.
Now I want to tell you how we met.