A Flame in the Night Ch. 12bydawei©
THE NEXT DAY (Act 1 of 3): MORE IN THE BAG
Our night of slumber had been filled with many fantastic moments. You (female) and I (male) have each been vexed with primal dreams encompassing many suggestive and imaginative pleasures. They sprinkled into our minds and they disrupted our rest. And with each enjoyable notion, musing, or idea about fucking, our bodies twitched restlessly, putting us on edge until the next morning.
So here we lie next to each other in bed, in our motel room. You are awake but now fueled by an internal dampness in your loins caused by the excessive nastiness that you've created from dreaming. And likewise, I soon will be awaking as well, except for me, rather than dampness, I'll be greeted with the annoyance of having to deal with a pesky morning-glory. That is, I have an early-riser, an autopilot hard-on that I just can't control.
Thus, it's a new day and a new morning. And as you get up, you're not looking to start it without checking on me first. Thereby, you turn over and touch me, as I lie on my back, to see if I'm also awake. Your hand traverses over my chest, and by the lack of my response, you figure I'm still snoozing.
Except as you continue to feel your way around, you notice the capriciously large extension that has involuntarily lifted itself away from my body. My unruly cock stands there proudly, distancing itself from the rest of me, almost proclaiming to have independence as if it's autonomously powered and a self-governing limb.
So indeed, even as the rest of my body is in a deep sleep, my nocturnal cock is busy hailing you. Literally, or near abouts, it's giving you the high-five and even more it's touting you to reply. Then, if already having a moist puss wasn't enough to derail your morning, the feel of my stiff prick providing so much resistance complicates matters. By design, you're prone to want to push against it and stew about it--making it difficult to shy away from that arrogant object.
And while you're giving additional consideration for that stern lever, you start to imagine what I might be dreaming about in order to work up such a powerful and majestic woody. But no matter, the why isn't as important. Instead, it's the by-product of the dream, the engorged condition of my male anatomy--that, and what to do about it--that's what concerns you.
For a moment, you think about saddling up and taking that mighty bone for a ride. The cowgirl within you wouldn't mind bouncing on top of that pony for a spell. But you don't. For now, you pay respect to my incidental invite by gripping that flagpole and encircling it with your curling fingers. You begin to coddle it and gently squeeze the bulbous width near the endpoint. And after awhile you let your hands gravitate down the beam, centimeter by centimeter, only to reach the base, where you slowly ascent back up the tubing and return again to casually meddle with my halo. Nevertheless, however, upon feeling insatiable with making those tranquil, lazy rhythms, you then proceed to start stroking my cock faster. You alter your grasp and use a more determined handshake and by expelling a little extra passion on it, you fondle my hard-on just like it likes to be handled, granting me a most befitting morning salutation.
Promptly, I begin to awake.
"Good Morning!" you announce rather cheerfully.
"Uh," I stammer. Then as I open my eyes, I see you deliriously grinning at me like a Cheshire cat. Quickly, I try to gather my thoughts to discern what is happening to me. "Good morning... What time is it?" And when I do gain my wits about me, I discover what's been kick starting my consciousness. Surprisingly, but pleasantly, I realize the glowing itch I feel is from your hand, tugging on the tip of my member.
Meanwhile, as you continue to twist and caress my knob, you look about the room and see the morning rays of sunlight beaming through the fringes of the curtains. You absorb the exuberance of the light as it warms the atmosphere in the room and warms your spirit as well. You become preoccupied by the birthing of the new day and begin making plans to fill it with activities. Then, suddenly, you remember your last thoughts right before falling asleep.
"Hey!" you blurt out, brewing with excitement. "What else do you have in that bag?"
Your curiosity has piqued as you trace your thoughts back with last night's memories. And you recall that yesterday evening I had placed a large utility bag, filled with sexually enticing items, on a table, adjacent to our bed. Furthermore, just before blanking out and going to sleep, you had promised yourself, come morning, you'd examine the bag to see if it had any more adult goodies to toy around with.
"What's in the bag?" I start tapping my finger on my lips. "Well, all I'm gonna tell you is that it's something very tasty."
"Yeah? Is it something for me? Or is it something for you?" You sit up abruptly, hastily about to head over to have a look.
"Hold on! Not so fast!" I catch hold of your elbow, preventing you from bolting out the bed. "Let's think on this for a minute."
"I've thought about it all night!" you say. "Why do you want me to wait longer?"
Your grappling hand is making me feverish. I have a swollen cock that's rosy and flush and begging to crash a party to start a three-way, together with you and I. However, I know my situation. I know at the moment I'm sensitive and way too responsive. I may burst too quickly if I don't get a breather. And more importantly, I don't want to be impotent, yet. Not now! Not when I know what's in that bag and what we'll want to do after you look inside it.
"Let's sleep a little longer," I say, almost regretting I proposed it.
You turn around and face me, grimacing with obvious disapproval. And to be more convincing, you start rubbing my erection even faster and harder. You pummel your fist up and down on my stock, seemingly timing your piston-like cranking to match the syllables you're speaking.
"C-o-m-e on, I w-a-n-t to know! What's-in-there!"
I don't sidestep the issue any longer. "Dear, I need to shower ... you know, to cool off." I point to my rocket launcher, threatening to fling a shipload of sex missiles. "I'm hotter than a Jiffy Pop seed in a three-minute microwave. Ya know what I'm sayin'?"
I think you get my drift. You smile again and kindly release your grip on my crowbar. And honestly, a fresh shower before moving on to other events isn't a bad idea. So, after giving in to my request, we set off to take a nice morning shower.
* * * THE NEXT DAY: SHOWER * * *
Wet, soapy shower play! It's just what a sex doctor should prescribe to invigorate the mood in prelude of doing some erotic romping.
With that same idea, we enter the motel's compact shower stall and heat the water to a warm, satisfying temperature. We stand close to each other and watch the water streaming down our exteriors. Bathing with you is always exhilarating; it's as equally rejuvenating and equally effective as having a good ol' fashion cup of java.
Then, naturally, being so close inside this cozy cubical, we start to get touchy. We pass a bar of soap back and forth, and we lather our hands with it. Mutually, we rub the suds into our skins and then onto each other as well.
No ifs, ands, or buts about it--I can't get enough of doing this kind of cleaning. I touch your soft, smooth skin and cover my fingers with the organics of your shape. And while under this shower water your contours are so much fresher. I skim over your surface; I feel your feminine curves magnified beneath the palms of my hands, reminding me of why I like women and confirming to me that I love your very essence.
So, I continue having fun doing this simple, healthy exercise. And as I cleanse you with my happy hands, they enjoy going the scenic route and happen to pass over your personal possessions. They wander about, in a round-about way, taking a long safari across your vast and beautiful, milk and honey hillsides. And as they do, I feel the hardening process your brassiere-less front makes when becoming aroused, which of course, gets me all goosed up as well.
Consequently, when you notice that I've teased your tits far longer than appropriate, you step into my outline and lean up against me, flattening those warm, soapy girl-cushions against my ribcage. Like you're slow dancing, you cha-cha left and cha-cha right, and you crowd your womanly form against mine as you polish your boobs into my wincing flesh.
My acorns crack while I try holding myself together, but your taut, erasure-like nipple-tips are cutting bloodless wounds into my torso. I consider strong-arming you and putting you on the floor where I can bump and mingle your insides with my long and veiny pussy-tickler. And having taken stock of your silky badlands, I now stupidly want to frolic about on your frame and get off on your lush, nectarous presence.
Ultimately, however, despite being enamored with your shape and form, eventually--and prudently--we regain our spacing, giving you the means to lower your eyes to survey the hanging apparatus of my male parts. And with it being somewhat neglected in our bathing routine, you considerately take action to place the soap bar under my ballast where you start to foam up my dirty fucking-tools. Almost motherly-like, you scour and launder my pride by scrubbing my weasel and shining my stones, leaving me spec and span and clean as a kosher pickle.
Of course, in due time, I take a crack at returning the favor; I turn you around and bend myself over, selectively planting a half-dozen or so kisses to the cheeks of your bum. And because I'm browsing about in the neighborhood, I let my hands get lost under your moons as I gently soap and spruce up your hidden places. Moreover, in fact, I circulate around on your little button top and zigzag across your bumpy crease. Repeatedly, I buoy over you, smoothing out your crotch and crevice until the soapy film dissipates, making certain your cute cunny is squeaky fresh and tidy. Job well done!
Now granted, surely we could go on with this foreplay in the shower for a longer period, continuing onward, getting more deviate and personal; but, at this moment, neither one of us is looking to monkey around--becoming foolishly absent minded and carried away. After all, we do have a schedule to follow. We have a date in the other room, which requires us to conserve some of our energies until later.
Hence, after we finish showering, we towel dry ourselves; except, I do assist you with drying your hair, and you in turn aide me with making sure my butt gets blotted dry. And without further ado, you take my hand and lead us back into the room where the bag of goodies waits for us.
There, finally, at the table, you open up the mysterious sack to see what's actually inside of it.
"Oh, wow!" you exclaim, stirred by the countless possibilities. "I like this! Let me go first!"
* * * THE NEXT DAY: SWEET TREATS * * *
Inside the bag there are several tasty treats to be sampled, and if it were supper time you might even consider this to be a dessert platter. Assuredly, there's a mega assortment of interesting substances to be tried, including jars, tubs, and containers filled with sweet ingredients, such as whip cream, fudge ice cream topping, powdered sugar, honey, cinnamon spice, and more.
So in lickety-split time, we cover the bed with a waterproof mat, and you prompt me to lie down on it. Then, as you peer down at me with eyes as wide as Asian pears, you pucker your lips and run your tongue about the entire perimeter of your mouth. There's a definite hunger in your face showing that you're sweet-tooth enabled and primed to fill your mouth with splendiferously tasty dessert.
"I dunno. What should I try?" You scratch your head, being overwhelmed with so many choices.
"Ahem ... if you're gonna let me have a say, how about trying the marshmallow? I'd love to see your mouth decorated with sticky white yuck."
"Oh, yeah! I bet you'd get a rise out that. Ha, ha!" You snicker and raise your index finger upwardly to make a sexually suggestive gesture. "Okay sir, this is your lucky day 'cause I think I can accommodate that request."
Afterwards, you remove a container from the bag labeled whipped marshmallow topping. You open the jar and out springs a fresh scent of sugary, candy-like marshmallow fragrance.
"Whoa, this is gonna be fun!" you exclaim. And shortly after, you dip your three-middle fingers into the container and swirl them around inside it.
For the moment, my cock is relaxed and hanging limply. However, as I watch you place your marshmallow battered fingers between your lips, my flopping dick gets the willy-nillies and quivers in anticipation. Perhaps it senses the future, knowing soon it might get pampered, much like you're now licking your tips and gobbling down on your fingers.
"Mmm! Yummy in my tummy." You continue to suck the mush off your digits. "You want some?"
My back chills and I don't know how to answer you. I want some. I want some and even more!
You extend your hand to give me a sampling of the confection on your fingers. Then, again, you re-dip your claws into the jar and like a clay artist you begin sculpturing a new art piece: You paint my maleness with your sticky fingers, applying it thick and heavy, leaving my dong looking ever so ghostly white and pale.
When you have finished adorning me, you cast your eyes down on my glazed penis. And then gloating with disrespect, you begin cooing as if speaking to a newborn baby. "Oh dear, you look--soo--cute! You're like a little Pillsbury dough boy." But, after sizing up my doughy white dumpling, you open good and wide and put harmless looking Mr. Dough Boy completely into your mouth.
Shazam! That's how I like it! I experience the power of your vacuum as you pull me into your oral cavity. Once inside, your siphoning facial movements go to town sucking pudding off my stub and roughing up my nerve endings. I feel the gummy paste in the lining of your jaws-of-pleasure sticking on me as you yank on my privates and inflame my jewels. And with you sucking and munching on my sugarplum--then, like saying abracadabra and snap to it--presto, my cock matures into a fully developed hard-on, adding more calories to your dish.
"Yum, yum, yum," again, I hear you teasing me with barely distinguishable phrases. "Mmm, mmm, mmm ... Taste good!" I hear more muffling as my dick is entrenched in your throat. The sappy tar of the marshmallow snack seems to crackle while you gag and slobber on my man-size grub.
But after a while, when the dessert begins to wear thin, you pause and clear your mouth of the sweet caulking. And when you can speak clearly, you look at me and ask, "So how is it?"
Your lips are exceedingly white and overflowing with marshmallow residue. I stare at your chops in wonderment, enraptured and transfixed in an altered reality. From my perspective, you're wearing cum for makeup. Nasty, nasty, I see a sea of pearls and a steamy foundation that's making my generous darling look as though she's a Hollywood glamour girl.
How is it? "Excellent!" I say. "You look fucking phenomenal!"
"Fucking phenomenal?" You smile and laugh with me. Then you boldly proclaim, "I think I can top that!"
Unexpectedly, you abandon my sexual organ and swiftly charge into me to smother me with a big sloppy kiss. Your lips subdue me and hinder me from getting away as you spread the marshmallow flavor over my lips. We share the dessert topping while you stuff your tongue in my mouth, and you even seem giddy about what you have done to me.
Later, you leave my lips and sit up. Then with the jar still uncovered, you dunk your fingers inside, and I anxiously watch you waving your soaked hand in front of your face. Before I could swallow my own spit, I witness the mayhem of you putting those succulent fingers into your mouth. You push them in and pluck them out, and you sip on them as though you're feebly sucking a thick malted shake through a congested straw.
My cock stands in attention, frozen up like an icy Popsicle stick, nervously waiting to see what you're up too.
"Fucking phenomenal?" you shake your head, taunting me with my own words. Then with a precision strike, you take hold of my dick and insert my lanky-beanstalk into the opened jar, blanketing it with that sticky concoction.
Incredibly, in no time at all, you're grabbing my stones, which are also covered in marshmallow paste. And with your grubby hands attached to my scrotum, you drop your head into my lap. Immediately, I feel you barreling down on my marshmallow-lubed erection, and here with your mouth full of white goo and sugar, you feast on my frosty coated penis.
Oh, my, my, you're dabbling in my mess, sucking on my straw and tickling my ticklish wiener. Over and over you blow on my tenor sax; you lick the marshmallow meal and slurp up the melting cream and use it to groom the puffy, heart-shaped headgear that's bulging at the tip of my outlet. Again and again, my shaft gets beaten down by your tacky covered lips, and I feel my cock becoming weary from your velvety sweet treatment.
Shit! Fucking Ms. Cookie Monster is giving me head! I'm going batty, and I'm losing my marbles. Your mouth is humbling my arrogant dick, figuratively putting it on its knees for you to spank it and run it down with your high speed feeding motor. Deeper and deeper, you stuff yourself with my pastry, making my usually happy-headed stub turn moody and emotionally drained, wishing it could get out from under the darkness and feel the morning's bright, shiny light.
"Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!" Instead of warm sunlight on my shaft, I hear you gagging and overworking my deeply distraught terminal.
Prideless and hopelessly raw, I swell up in arousal, knowing full well what happens next, when that prickling irritation in my sack gets unmanageable and disorderly. Like that burger clown McRonald says, "I'm lovin' it," which means I'm about to demonstrate my sexual rage. I need to do as volcanoes do: I need to erupt and set free my stress; I must uncork the white magma, letting it well up my toboggan chute, and send it gushing out my vent.
And sure enough, a storm cloud forms at the crowning apex of my peak. My cock fans out and becomes oversized, blooming as though it were a big beautiful mushroom in early spring. Indeed, I'm in late-season and about to be harvested by the romantic wiggles of your tongue.
"Mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm ..." You bludgeon my mind and twist my head off! Surely you know I'm coming, yet you eagerly cheer me on with obscene grunts and juicy ball-bursting noises.
"Fucking phenomenal!" I yell. "Fucking awesome!" I squirm.
My hips bound upwards as I attempt to feed you more of my enlarged manhood. I clutch the bedding in my hands, and my salty white fluid begins to eject from my agitated nuts. But you continue to lick, gnaw, and grind away on my hurting stem. Again I scream, "I'm coming! ... Shit! Shit! Fucking -- Awesome!"
I empty my cum into your kisser and give you my homemade orgasmic soup. Literally, there's marshmallow topping and "daddy's" own secret sauce nicely mixed together. Yes, a rich, liberal heaping of lily-white ejaculated slop and sweet creamy topping has consensually been inseminated into the depth of your orifice. Plus, the wonderful, sticky paste is now all on your lips, all over your nose, and even leaking down from both side of your chin. Astonishingly delicious! What a beautiful, beautiful face!
Shortly after, you sit up and look into my eyes, making darn sure that I see you. You smile with wittiness and then try speaking, but you labor to do so as your mouth is still mostly loaded with the sticky white stuff.
"Fucking ... phenomenal" you mumble, as some of that liquid escapes from your mouth. "Your marshmallow ... is very ... very ... tasty!"