His hands slide up my hips, beneath the silky fabric of my panties and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband before dragging them down, past my thighs, my knees, my calves, letting them tangle briefly in my toes before finally ripping them from me. I move fast to cover my nakedness, to tug my dress down to hide my body. I cross my ankles and he tuts at me. My panties are against his face, and he inhales deep, smelling me; my anticipation, my desire, my apprehension.
He throws the cloth down on to the bed and wraps his hands around my ankles. His index fingers stroke the bones there before he rips my legs open. I whine. I struggle. He slaps the insides of my thighs until they are stingy and red and hot. Until I stop struggling.
“Lift your dress back up.”
I blush. I giggle. I close my eyes.
“Lift your dress up, girl.”
The word strikes a chord in me. My fingers wrap into the fabric of my dress, circle and knot until my hands are covered in the fabric, and all at once, I yank the dress up, over my breasts, letting the fabric loose to rest on the crest of them. I peek at him, watch his eyes as he looks me over. I’m wearing the lace bandeau bra he enjoys, black and so see through. I know he can see my nipples perfectly, pebbling beneath the soft cloth.
He presses his hand over top of my mound, heel of his palm putting a pressure against my clit, long, sinuous fingers tip-tapping against my pelvic bone. He presses and motions for me to scoot back, to wiggle until I am nearly at the headboard. He climbs in between my legs, on his knees, lets his hand slide to wrap around my thigh, the second one follows. His thumbs stroke that soft, sensitive place where my legs and pelvis meet and I shiver for the first time.
His fingers dig into me, and he pulls me up by my legs. I yipe in surprise as he lifts my hips up and leans down simultaneously. I squirm in his firm grasp. The way he holds me leaves me helpless and vulnerable. I am wide open to him.
He breathes against the core of me and inhales deeply.
“Daddy,” I whisper, in a trembling voice.
My entire body is covered in a blush. He can taste the lie in the scent and sight of me. I say nothing.
“Don’t you want me to eat you, baby? Don’t you want me to lick you? To suck you? To drink down your sweet, sweet girly juices? Don’t you want to come on my tongue, Pooh?”
I moan at the last, unable to help myself. My fingers rip into the sheets and hold there, anchoring me.
He dips his tongue between my folds, tasting the sticky sweetness he finds there. I bend to his will beautifully, twisting and writhing beneath him as he laps at me, as his tongue circles the powerful ring of muscle, the entrance to my body. His tongue slips inside of me and I can feel my cunt spasm around it. He groans into me, and it reverberates through me. His powerful arms pull my legs to his shoulders as they snake around my hips, palms resting flat on my abdomen. He creeps closer to the bed, burying his face against me, nuzzling in my slick juices, my warmth. My thighs squeeze, trying to pull him tighter to me, force him deeper.
I lose control like I never had any to begin with… and truthfully, I did not. I come undone beneath him. I can barely recognize myself in the sounds that leave my lips. I am desperate. I am needy. I need him like this. I can feel my body reacting, throbbing, pulsing, gushing. I am a trembling, crying mess. The sweet torture makes me sob softly and his fingers tighten around me.
His tongue cups and strokes my clit, and it aches beneath the tender ministrations. I want more from him, but he’ll have what he wants of me first.
“Please,”I begin to whimper. “Please… no… no…”
He growls from between my legs and I can feel him grow hungrier. His touch becomes savage as he digs into my hips with one hand, the other slips in beneath his lips and presses against me. Three fingers push inside of me and he strokes my inner walls before building a rhythm. My cries grow loud, uneven. I fight him now. I struggle. My legs shake. My toes stiffen and flex. My nails dig into the mattress.
I don’t know the words coming out of my mouth. I am talking in streams of consciousness. I am begging for him to stop or for him to never stop. I’m not sure which. My eyes are closed tight. I cannot take the arresting, erotic look of him between my thighs.
A flip in me switches and I can feel the heat coursing out from the center of me, warming my blood, making my skin flush. Something in my movement, or maybe something in my voice, my taste… something sets him off. He knows. He picks up the pace and I writhe beneath him as I fall over the edge. My tears flow freely as my body gushes around his lips. He replaces his fingers with his tongue, and, as promised, drinks me as I come. His groan sends me shivering again. I can see the universe behind my eyes–bright and dark, all at once. I am panting, and trying to ward off the little hiccups and tiny tears. My lips are trembling.
He slides my legs from around his shoulders and I feel his body crawl up against mine. I roll into his arms and regroup there. Trying to find myself behind the roiling of pleasure and of emotions. He kisses me on the mouth, and I taste myself there. I marvel at the intimacy I feel in this moment with him, as we breathe for each other, lips locked, the thick taste of my orgasm shared between us.
When our kiss breaks, he nuzzles his cheek to mine.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
I can only have this with him.