Made her wet before the pet so softly digit parts her slippery silken sweetness, slipping in so swiftly as to almost be deceiving. But she surely feels it.
She sighs, her nipples erect, breathing in deeply,
Determined to feel every inch of the finger curling up into her g-spot as his tongue and lips twirl around her pertness, and moving north, find purchase on her right earlobe.
Gyrating in countermeasure to his circuitous oscillations,
Succinct pleasure running through her frame and station,
Caught in the world of elation as his mouth stops drawing her in physically and turns instead to poetry.
Writ in the way she arcs her back,
The joy on her face,
The sparkle in her eyes as they meet his and they speak more loudly than words ever could,
Saying sweet things, stating obviousnesses as sensual discoveries:
“Do you feel how wet you’ve made me?”
“You make me so hard for you.”
“I want you inside me.”
“I want to feel you pulsing around my thickness as I throb, cumming for my baby, you feel so good, so wet, so sweet….”
Kissing her collarbone and down her sternum, taking a detour back to her breast,
Kissing ribs and hips and the little line that divides her legs from her womanhood,
He arrives at her grail and laps thirstly,
Tasting immortality emanating from her labia,
Licking langorously her clit as his spit and her juices mingle,
As his fingers slide forward and back,
Longing to make her euphoria less an abstract and more a reality.
And she pleads to keep the pace,
Praying and demanding that he not stop,
His tongue and his fingers in synchronous solidarity with his tumescence pulsing, patient but desirous.
Shortly, her fingers dig into the bedsheets and she squeezes every ounce of stress,
Like ribbons of energy out her crest and her chest,
Collapsing, content, but welcoming his warmness as he wipes off his mouth and finds himself slipping inside her.