all. It must be him. Only he would be patient enough to give me this tantalizing treat. Others would be in me by now. The back of one forefinger strokes down over my new smoothness, the knuckle just bumping the swell that protects me there. Even that light contact is enough to have me pushing my head hard back into the pillow.
The fingers are not finished: sliding down the insides of my thighs, they stay either side of my entrance. They apply just a little pressure and I hear the rude, sticky-slick sound as my lips part. The warm trickle from within is immediate, a dam threatening to burst. The little breeze is getting warmer, and that means he is closing in. Any second will see his lips in contact with mine. If my hands were free I would press his head to me, but for now all I can do is absorb the desperation and wait.
Just before he kisses me there, just as I can feel the open mouth and the warm breath only millimetres away, a new sensation overwhelms me. The big toe of my right foot is suddenly engulfed by a warm, soft mouth.
This is so unexpected I let out a whimper. How had I not put two and two together? Why hadn’t I guessed he was not alone? I have to describe the feeling as shock, because every nerve-ending in my body shoots messages to my brain. I have no time to ponder this further, except to register that it is massively erotic. Then his mouth is upon me. I get a fleeting vision of him biting into soft fruit, although I do not feel his teeth. He draws my flesh into his mouth and I can feel the pulse of my blood as he sucks me. Then his tongue pushes its way into me and I am writhing and panting.
With me so far gone I would have expected the tongue to be too great a tease, but somehow the simultaneous attention at my toes offsets this. Already I can see the brilliance of the ménage à trois . This dual pleasure alone is enough to make my night. Both suck, and briefly I have fingers inside me, curling upward to my inner wall, as is his wont. But this is new: the fingers come out and pinch the skin around my hood, squeezing hard to trap my little bud. I gasp, but the pressure only increases. The fingers roll the skin, so that although my bouton du plaisir is hidden from direct contact, the friction from the very flesh supposed to protect it sends the warm current surging through. Worse, the butterflies are loose again as I doubt once more that it’s him at all.
The grip releases and the tongue slips back inside me. I am way too slick to stop him pushing it deep. His lips crush to mine and his nose presses the same spot he has just been pinching. I’m searching for any clues, even trying to gauge the size of the nose from its press against me. It feels big, but how can I reasonably make such an assumption from this contact? Patrick’s nose is big – bigger than his master’s, anyway. He has seen his master make love too, so he might be copying some techniques to fool me. But why should he care to do this? I can’t think straight. Fingernails lightly rake my calves, and all my toes in turn are being warmly bathed and teased. Again, the dual attention at different erogenous zones puts my head in a spin. This feeling is most definitely not the same as one person trying to stimulate you in two areas: the concentration here is precise, as attention is not required elsewhere. It is two jobs being done perfectly, not two half-jobs being muddled through.
He is on his way up. His tongue has done its work and now I’m to find out if it is master or servant. I’m almost crying with need. I can hear the buttons of the fly coming undone. It will be out. It will be in his hand, ready to plunge into me, either huge and possibly unmanageable, or the lovely one I’ve come to know so well. I open as wide as I can, just in case. This means my toes lose their attention but then I’m not sure I could take the bliss of him inside me without kicking out. He is taking ages. His weight isn’t even down upon my chest. I’m
The fingers are not finished: sliding down the insides of my thighs, they stay either side of my entrance. They apply just a little pressure and I hear the rude, sticky-slick sound as my lips part. The warm trickle from within is immediate, a dam threatening to burst. The little breeze is getting warmer, and that means he is closing in. Any second will see his lips in contact with mine. If my hands were free I would press his head to me, but for now all I can do is absorb the desperation and wait.
Just before he kisses me there, just as I can feel the open mouth and the warm breath only millimetres away, a new sensation overwhelms me. The big toe of my right foot is suddenly engulfed by a warm, soft mouth.
This is so unexpected I let out a whimper. How had I not put two and two together? Why hadn’t I guessed he was not alone? I have to describe the feeling as shock, because every nerve-ending in my body shoots messages to my brain. I have no time to ponder this further, except to register that it is massively erotic. Then his mouth is upon me. I get a fleeting vision of him biting into soft fruit, although I do not feel his teeth. He draws my flesh into his mouth and I can feel the pulse of my blood as he sucks me. Then his tongue pushes its way into me and I am writhing and panting.
With me so far gone I would have expected the tongue to be too great a tease, but somehow the simultaneous attention at my toes offsets this. Already I can see the brilliance of the ménage à trois . This dual pleasure alone is enough to make my night. Both suck, and briefly I have fingers inside me, curling upward to my inner wall, as is his wont. But this is new: the fingers come out and pinch the skin around my hood, squeezing hard to trap my little bud. I gasp, but the pressure only increases. The fingers roll the skin, so that although my bouton du plaisir is hidden from direct contact, the friction from the very flesh supposed to protect it sends the warm current surging through. Worse, the butterflies are loose again as I doubt once more that it’s him at all.
The grip releases and the tongue slips back inside me. I am way too slick to stop him pushing it deep. His lips crush to mine and his nose presses the same spot he has just been pinching. I’m searching for any clues, even trying to gauge the size of the nose from its press against me. It feels big, but how can I reasonably make such an assumption from this contact? Patrick’s nose is big – bigger than his master’s, anyway. He has seen his master make love too, so he might be copying some techniques to fool me. But why should he care to do this? I can’t think straight. Fingernails lightly rake my calves, and all my toes in turn are being warmly bathed and teased. Again, the dual attention at different erogenous zones puts my head in a spin. This feeling is most definitely not the same as one person trying to stimulate you in two areas: the concentration here is precise, as attention is not required elsewhere. It is two jobs being done perfectly, not two half-jobs being muddled through.
He is on his way up. His tongue has done its work and now I’m to find out if it is master or servant. I’m almost crying with need. I can hear the buttons of the fly coming undone. It will be out. It will be in his hand, ready to plunge into me, either huge and possibly unmanageable, or the lovely one I’ve come to know so well. I open as wide as I can, just in case. This means my toes lose their attention but then I’m not sure I could take the bliss of him inside me without kicking out. He is taking ages. His weight isn’t even down upon my chest. I’m
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