Sunday, November 30, 2008


I awakened to the strong pull of a mouth on my nipple. To whiskers brushing the mound of my breast. To the sound of myself purring. And gasping. Gritty eyes opening to grainy morning light streaming over my lover's shoulders. They gleam, muscles rippling as his mouth dips, teeth nip. Another gasp. Once fuzzy, my mind is sharpened by pain. Here are my hands, here is how they work as my fingers tangle in his hair, forcing his face into my other breast, pebbled and pointed and aching. My nipple is a straw and with it he draws forth juices from my core. My voice, whispery and hoarse, begs for him to fill me, to stop the teasing and give me a new reason to ache. And so he does, filling me again and again until I cannot breathe, until I am writhing out from under him and leaning over the side of the bed, gasping for air. He takes me there, from behind, pressing himself into me, whiskers brushing my shoulders. Fingers gripping the headboard, my leg curled behind his thigh, panting. Panting out the rhythm of his thrusts, panting after our climax spins me to a giddy pinnacle and I fall, twitching, into a pool of slumber.

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