cannot recall smelling before. The adrenaline pours through me. Surely he would be first? Would he change his cologne to trick me? Quite possibly. It smells as classy as he always does. Maybe I just cannot remember this particular one on him. I need to smell more: his skin, his aroma, not one from a bottle. A sudden thought hits me: in the fractions when I hadn’t recognised the scent, I had an extra surge of excitement at the thought that it wasn’t him. It’s not that I don’t want him here, because I do, because he will comfort and ease me. But, on reflection, I have to admit that all evening I have been imagining people coming to me, these unknown friends in their soldier’s uniforms, these well-endowed servants, these beautiful, titled ladies, yet not once in that time did I picture him.
Suddenly it strikes me that the fragrance might not be a masculine one at all. It seems too sweet, too floral. I try to concentrate but my senses are too jumbled and unsure for definitive answers. Whoever it is I need them, of that I am sure. I realise that since there is no going back I cannot wait for it to begin. I am open now and anticipate hands upon me. My skin is desperate for the touch. I expect urgent hands to grip me, a greedy mouth to suck me in. In reality, the first touch is almost imperceptible: a light, searching tongue-tip flicking across one swollen bud. It nonetheless has me gasping audibly, has every muscle in my body tensing.
Before I can recover, the same bud is engulfed by warm, soft lips. They suck hard, just once, the tongue-tip flicks over me again just fleetingly, then I am released, left with the little chill of wetness upon my skin. It was too quick to guess the gender of my visitor. It felt soft, but then who has hard lips? I have it in my head now that the fragrance might well be a feminine one, so my mind might be playing tricks on me. It might only be wishful thinking that I’m about to have another female make love to me for the first time. The next contact will give it away. I have another aching teat that will surely get its due. To my desperate disappointment, the touch doesn’t come. Instead, the pressure on the mattress recedes as my visitor retreats back down the bed. I nearly cry out for them to stay. I don’t understand why they won’t finish what they’ve started.
They have dismounted, but I still feel their presence at the side of the bed. Then they are back, although this time I’m sure their weight is greater. The dip in the mattress seems more pronounced. They come the same way, from the bottom up. I can hear the sound of them bumping and sliding against the footboard of the frame. The bed is so huge there is ample gap between my toes and the posts to take them. They snake in by the end panel and find my feet with fingertips, then guide themselves upward. I can feel the shift of their weight as more of their body comes onto the bed. They definitely seem heavier this time, which is confusing.
Up they come, fingers stroking the insides of my legs as before. The touch is firmer this time, and the hands seem big enough to be masculine. The same gusts of breath are there, letting me know how close their face is to me. My legs are being parted. This time, my visitor is not going up with knees astride me but sliding on their chest so that I must open to accommodate them. I can hear my heart. I can feel the rush of blood because the twin gusts are at my inner thighs, so close they are warm now, not cold. The tongue is tracing lines over my delicate skin there. The tease is supreme. I could happily feel this for the rest of my days, and yet I cannot wait for it to stop so that more pressing matters can be addressed. Then the tongue is travelling up, up to where I am wettest.
The hands are now holding me and I can feel their size, feel them spreading me. The twin gusts have turned to one long, cool breeze, direct at my entrance. He is gently blowing upon me. I know it is a he now, after
Suddenly it strikes me that the fragrance might not be a masculine one at all. It seems too sweet, too floral. I try to concentrate but my senses are too jumbled and unsure for definitive answers. Whoever it is I need them, of that I am sure. I realise that since there is no going back I cannot wait for it to begin. I am open now and anticipate hands upon me. My skin is desperate for the touch. I expect urgent hands to grip me, a greedy mouth to suck me in. In reality, the first touch is almost imperceptible: a light, searching tongue-tip flicking across one swollen bud. It nonetheless has me gasping audibly, has every muscle in my body tensing.
Before I can recover, the same bud is engulfed by warm, soft lips. They suck hard, just once, the tongue-tip flicks over me again just fleetingly, then I am released, left with the little chill of wetness upon my skin. It was too quick to guess the gender of my visitor. It felt soft, but then who has hard lips? I have it in my head now that the fragrance might well be a feminine one, so my mind might be playing tricks on me. It might only be wishful thinking that I’m about to have another female make love to me for the first time. The next contact will give it away. I have another aching teat that will surely get its due. To my desperate disappointment, the touch doesn’t come. Instead, the pressure on the mattress recedes as my visitor retreats back down the bed. I nearly cry out for them to stay. I don’t understand why they won’t finish what they’ve started.
They have dismounted, but I still feel their presence at the side of the bed. Then they are back, although this time I’m sure their weight is greater. The dip in the mattress seems more pronounced. They come the same way, from the bottom up. I can hear the sound of them bumping and sliding against the footboard of the frame. The bed is so huge there is ample gap between my toes and the posts to take them. They snake in by the end panel and find my feet with fingertips, then guide themselves upward. I can feel the shift of their weight as more of their body comes onto the bed. They definitely seem heavier this time, which is confusing.
Up they come, fingers stroking the insides of my legs as before. The touch is firmer this time, and the hands seem big enough to be masculine. The same gusts of breath are there, letting me know how close their face is to me. My legs are being parted. This time, my visitor is not going up with knees astride me but sliding on their chest so that I must open to accommodate them. I can hear my heart. I can feel the rush of blood because the twin gusts are at my inner thighs, so close they are warm now, not cold. The tongue is tracing lines over my delicate skin there. The tease is supreme. I could happily feel this for the rest of my days, and yet I cannot wait for it to stop so that more pressing matters can be addressed. Then the tongue is travelling up, up to where I am wettest.
The hands are now holding me and I can feel their size, feel them spreading me. The twin gusts have turned to one long, cool breeze, direct at my entrance. He is gently blowing upon me. I know it is a he now, after
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