Foreplay - An Intimate Introduction

The waistband of her jeans is rough against the back of my knuckles as I slide my fingers down the smooth skin of her hips. The band of her underwear is softer, but I let my fingers glide atop it, taking tiny gentle steps, my knuckles still barking against the jeans above. My fingertips find skin again, the shallow bowl of the hip; I bend my wrist and my third and fourth fingers find purchase against the rounded edge of the bone in front. For a moment, they hesitate, poised to step further, to bring my hand around the corner until my fingers feel the velvet of her upper thigh. I think I can feel the heat coming off her.

Our eyes meet, wide in the semidarkness. Mine flicker down to her mouth, where the tiniest glimmer of a tooth shows in a subtle bite of her lower lip. I slowly draw my hand up from her jeans, catching a nail on the bottom seam of her underwear and drawing it up, for the briefest moment. My hand doesn't leave her body, and the other joins it in parallel on her other side, scooping around the soft roundness of the waist. My fingertips grow light as they reach the valley of her spine. One hand darts down to cup round her bum, gripping it firmly through the thick jeans, as the other lifts up along the smoothness of her back until my forearm—my bicep—is warm against her side and my fingers are playing with the strap of her bra. In that same hungry movement I've pulled her close to me and she lets out a small gasp. I can't help it—a sound escapes from my lips as well. Both my hands are up her shirt now, the one clutching her shoulder from the back—rucking the blouse up past the bottom of her ribs (I can feel the warmth of her stomach against me, even through the fabric of my shirt)—and the other pinches and releases the clasp of her bra.

She nibbles the edge of my jaw and looks up at me with a cheeky smirk. "Not bad," she says.

With a passionate jerk, my forearm is under her ass and lifting her against me. My other hand, still through her shirt, has clutched the back of her neck. My lips catch hers unprepared, half-open in surprise, but before she has time to melt into it (she begins to), I pull my face back, put her down, and step back.

The bottom of her shirt, rumbled up, has caught in the loose strap of her bra and her mouth is still in the shape mine left it in. As she looks at me, her expression changes. An eyebrow raises, the lips close and a corner of them lifts. She holds out her arms, further displaying the disarray of her outfit. "You gonna leave me like this?"

I send her a wink in return. I shrug as I look up and down her length. "I thought about it. Give me a twirl?" I ask as a cheeky afterthought.

She laughs, but lifts her arms like a dancer and rises on her tiptoes. As soon as her back is turned, I've closed the distance and my arms around her. My knuckles trace up the last inch of her stomach, then my hands turn, sneak underneath the hanging bra, and cup her breasts. She relaxes back against me, the back of her head on my shoulder. Her scent fills me as her breasts fill my hands and I can't resist a nibble at her ear, my nose brushing against her cheek. Without noticing, I've closed my eyes: her taste, her scent, the delicious smoothness of her breasts . . . Her nipples harden under my palms, and her head has shifted. Her ear is out of reach. The faintest touch of warm breath, then a consummate warmth of soft lips presses against my chin. I let out a moan and I can feel her mouth smile against my skin. I seize the bottom of her bra, a handful of her blouse, and pull it up. We part, and it's like a cold wind between us—only fabric in my hands, her body gone. I cast the clothing aside and drink in the sight of her, though the distance aches like a—god, like something butting hard against a close restraint, too big for its holding.

She's beautiful. Perfectly shaped, coloured, scented, flavoured—coy. The round breasts, their delicate nipples, taken from my sight as she draws her forearms over them. Even the bones in her wrists are perfect, the subtle curves of her arms, the fingers that curl over her triceps. I step forward, almost unconsciously; it's a need, not a casual impetus. I trace the back of a finger over her stomach, around her belly button. The other hand touches the crook of her waist, just below the ribs. As if it's never had the sensation before it lands one finger at a time, gentle like the steps of an astronaut without gravity, and once collected travels delicately around to her back. My other hand joins it and she moves in closer to me. Her pelvis joins mine first, as if her bare torso hesitates for a moment. Her arms are still between us. I look down at the faint scoop of her clavicle, and the shape of her shoulders, and the curve of her breasts pressed close against us. I move my mouth close to hers, and our lips match: slightly open.

I whisper, "May I?" and she gives the slightest nod. My hands are flat against her shoulder blades, cocked by the crossing of her arms. My breath leads my tongue to her mouth. Its tip traces the minute ridges of her lips, which part more as my tongue explores. My tongue touches the corner of her mouth and travels across her full bottom lip, and now I can feel her breath on it as she exhales with a slight tremble. I curl my tongue up beneath her upper lip, feel the smooth teeth against it, the warm loveliness of her wet mouth. I can't help it: my breath rattles out, too, and then the warmth between us is too much and the distance is too little. Her arms escape from the press and wrap around me as our mouths crush together, open and wet. My tongue slides along hers and they wind together. Our faces rotate and our hands scramble, find purchase, grip, fingers pressing into soft skin. We want to be closer, we want to melt together.

Small gasps of air sneak in through the seal of our lips. Her hands are in my hair, and suddenly her mouth is gone from mine, her cheek scrapes past. She's bit my earlobe, kissed the hollow of my jaw where it meets the neck, is licking, kissing down to my shoulder. I raise my arms and she doesn't miss a beat, dropping down to my waist to seize my shirt and drag it upwards. I'm blinded for a moment as it comes over my head, and then she's there: she's all there and all there is. I catch a glimpse of her breasts moving freely between us before they are pressed up against me, hot against my skin that shivers in lust and sudden nakedness. The force of her embrace stumbles us back a step. My arms wrap around her waist, my tongue wraps around her tongue. She tastes of cinnamon gum and my mouth tingles with it.

I'm pretty sure the chair is behind us and I let her passion push me back further until I feel it against my calf. Blindly, I drop back, pulling her with me, but I've misjudged my angle. My ass hits the padded arm and my feet fly up as I twist and slide sideways to the seat of the chair. She falls with me, my knee in her crotch. We're both laughing, and now we're draped somehow sideways across the chair, and I'm stuck with my head bent against the other armrest. She has her feet on the floor and stands, still bent over me, her breasts tantalizing. In a fluid second she's unclasped my jeans and has gripped the waistband. My penis is thrusting against the fabric, thrums at the altering pressure. She thinks better of the waistband and pressed a warm palm against my stomach, fingers pointed down. They creep under the elastic of my boxers and my cock flexes at their touch as her hand enters the warmth of the region.

"I didn't want to just yank the pants," she says, her hand still palm against my pubic hair, knuckles brushing my constrained member. She pouts. "Could get caught and your growing boy, here, and we don't want that."

I groan and grab at her wrist to force her hand into contact, but she's too quick. Thankfully she's quick to grab boxers and jeans, too, and with a swift lift and pull she's freed my penis, which immediately hardens fully in the free air. It's everything I can do to not grab it myself, relieve the tickle of pleasure crawling unbearably along its length.

She crouches behind the chair, only the top of her chest, her arms, and her head above it. She drapes her arms along the length of my thighs, her hands so warm and so desperately near my twitching penis as they rest in the hollow of my pelvis. She tickles the skin and hair there, grinning at me. I grip my own hips, shivering and agonized. She rises, leans forward; her mouth is just above it, so close that at the next twitch my penis brushes her lip, which pulls back. She looks at me with an expression of mock surprise. I have to close my eyes and arch my back: even her eyebrows, in their cruel archness, are perfect.

It's in that moment that I feel the warm wetness of her tongue upon my shaft, just beneath the tip. I spasm—I can't help it—and she laughs. But her mouth is still there, and her tongue moves around the end of my shivering cock. Then her lips close around it. Her tongue sneaks past her teeth and her lips and presses warm down the length, and then my tip is ice cold as she withdraws her mouth. Her tongue licks up and down my penis and I'm not even embarrassed at the sensitivity and desperation that causes me to cut her short. I flail unsexily on the chair until I've got purchase with my knees on its cushion and I'm grabbing her and falling with her off the chair onto the carpet, where I'm grappling with her jeans. They pull along her ass, reach its rounded apex and are free down to her thighs, the panties too. My pants aren't completely off either, and I can't get her skinnies past her knees in the first movement, and I don't give a shit. We roll one way and the other on the carpet, our faces pressed against each other. Hair is in our mouths and our hands are all over our bodies.

Hers is on my shaft and we're basically sideways when she brings it to her opening. There's a bit of clumsy pushing and then I'm in and on top of her, our jeans and legs tangled, and oh—ohh god, the heat of her slides up my penis and my precum has made it easy. I slide in deep and moan and I watch her eyes roll back, her spine arching and her breasts perky with gravity. I bend and bury my face, gasping, in her stomach, right against the curve of her ribs, as her arch draws her slit back along my length. Then I press my whole body against her, her breasts against me as I seize her around the back over one shoulder, thrusting into her. My lips paint a wet picture against the underside of her chin, and I'm drawing in and out of her, my nerves racing with pleasure stemming from the slick fire of my cock.

"You want me?" she gasps wetly, her eyes fixed on mine.

I can barely speak for pleasure. "More than anything."

She moans, then, "You have me. Take me."

And I do. I grab her ass with one hand and the back of her head with the other and as she raises one knee against my chest I pound into her. We're both gasping, and our voices leak into our breathing until we're bucking to a rhythm of guttural "ohs", "ahs", and "mms". Then her hand is on my chest and I don't resist and she turns us over. She sinks onto my length as she sits atop me, her stomach long and soft to her breasts above me. I reach up to fondle them as she rides me up and down, my buttcheeks spreading and flexing against the carpet. She leans down over me, one of her arms supporting her next to my face. I grab her ass and lend my arms to her movements, gripping her cheeks. Her breasts dangle over my chest and I watch them and her crotch beyond them, moving up and down on me. I tremble and clench with the first signs of an oncoming orgasm—it's coming early, but the foreplay had utterly shattered my defenses and the soft grip of her pussy is impossible to resist.

"Birth control?" I gasp. "Or condom? Or," and I grunt in an ecstacy of building pressure, "or both?"

"I've got the thing up my uterus," she says, then gives a sharp intake of breath as I pull her ass hard onto me.

"Good. I'm gonna try to reach it."

And she sits back again, her back arched and breasts bouncing, as I drive her up and down with the renewed vigor of the oncoming orgasm.

"You're not—nearly—there," she says between gasps— "are you?"

My eyes are screwed tight and my abs are burning. I get my heels underneath me and raise her up. She falls forward onto me with a surprised breath but I hold her hips in place, my biceps trembling with heat and passionate strain. I open my eyes to hold hers. "This is just your appetizer, babe."

She laughs, but then stops short, her lips turning up and her eyes closing, as she feels my cock erupt inside her. I shudder and let my backside back down. We turn over, my pulsing member still in her warm embrace, and I give her a long kiss.

"The servant eats first so that he may better serve his mistress," I say with a grin. "But before I clean up, I think I'll just give you a taste . . ." and I withdraw and slowly make my way down her body with my lips and tongue. As I tickle one of her nipples with the very tip of my tongue my hand finds her warm wetness and my fingers begin to probe gently around her clit. My brow wrinkles as I look up and make eye contact with her, my mouth still on her nipple.

"That was pretty lame," she says with a smile, "but I'll allow it if the service is good enough."

I kneel upright and shift so that I can draw her pants off the ends of her feet, then place my hands on her delicious thighs. "Instruct me. I've had one, so it's your turn for two."

And she does.