To a tongue, someplace

Your mouth is a smooth as butter on my anus as I arch my back to receive you. We're growing together, my dear.

Musing

As we stroked each other for our first time, you told me you fantasised about having a penis. Why don't you strap one on and show me how well you know how to use it? As much as your body, I do so want to feel your mind inside me.

Towards a language of orgasm

How do you describe this most un-selfconscious of moments, when the desperate climb to the summit is rewarded by that welling rush,wiping away the world as it flourishes itself over you? How can we remove words from the conscious and place them directly inside the soul of the moment? That's quite a challenge, I'll have to do some research...

Nursing

She was always slow to orgasm, except when I nursed her breasts. I had the impression that as soon as my tongue glided around her areolae, every bulb in her head lit up at the same time. She could be lying drowsily in the first breaths of the morning but all that would be left behind the instant she felt me near them.

She wasn't into s&m, but she did love to have some light tooth pressure on her nipples; it was a task to get the pressure right: for her to feel my teeth but not so much as to cause her excessive discomfort. At first, she'd lie almost still and it would be a simple matter to position my face and then my mouth and then my teeth on her teats. Gently holding the nipple between my canines by way of welcome then slowly dragging my face from side to side, letting the sharp edges of my teeth lovingly threaten her flesh. She adored it.

The thing was that, as she became increasingly aroused, and she exchanged the persona by which the world knew her for that of a driving, mewling-greedy fucker, it became ever harder to keep her between my teeth. She'd start to writhe and flex, jerking sharply, then dislodging me as she hammered on my back with her fists, I'd find I was biting too much. She'd drag by face off her and hold it hard front of hers to admonish me for my enthusiasm and imprecision.

Thus, just keeping her teats in my mouth became quite a challenge all by itself. So much so, that the first time I truly desired to tie her up was inspired as much by the plain technical business of keeping her still as by the odd pleasure in controlling her use of her body. The prospect of drawing her along to a [cascade] of orgasms was an incentive but I adored too the idea of someone physically immobile about to take a long journey that would move her body not at all but take her clean out of her mind.

Her body moving increasingly in spasms as her capacity for coherent speech diminished, I had to attend to her more fully with my mouth, by sucking her breasts deep inside. Lips to seal off the air, tongue free to wipe the nipple itself, my mouth defining the ring, my tongue the circus-master. She loved the way I'd trap a teat between the back of my teeth and my tongue, and then suck it up, folding it tightly behind my teeth. Alternatively, I'd pull my lips down over my teeth and clench tightly, thence to slowly pull away. Unfailingly, she'd cry out in pleasure as the nipple spring free from my mouth. How I enjoyed the change in texture between the breast, the side of the nipple and finally the crown itself; an astonishing galaxy of delights scarcely one inch wide.

She loved randomness. I've read that one approach is to trace out all the letters of the alphabet with the tongue: continuous movement whose lack of repetition ensures continuous stimulation but I confess, I always got bored by the time I'd reached b. Isn't one of the joys of lovemaking the way we refind ourselves as animals? With her breast in my mouth and legs around my back, the last thing I wanted was a primary school exercise. How much more satisfying to flick my tongue over her nipple: working it randomly from side to side, catching it on the side and folding it over as I dragged my tongue over, varying the strokes for weight and direction.

I still had to pay attention but with my body, not my mind. The central delight for me, other than that of witnessing her arousal, was to gradually let go of the intellect and let my body speak for itself. I noticed that I would lick her more and more deeply the longer I had her in mouth: I was letting my mouth itself do the thinking, giving it its head to race away alone, undistracted by reason and calculation. My lips would close and open, my tongue pull back to flicker over her lightly then push itself down to suckle. It appeared to happen outside of my control, all my existence appearing to serve only the ultimate ambition of keeping my mouth on her. On keeping her on her path to her next climax.

Summer, with melting

Of course, it's great fun to buy sex toys. You browse, checking out colours, shapes and, well of course, sizes, wondering what will do nicely, and it's great to see that your idea of the perfect present turns out to be just that and to witness your partner's pleasure as they enjoy the gift. Lovely.

But that's just for the sex toys that are advertised as such. How much more satisfying to take something and give it a meaning that no-one else in the whole world could ever guess and take it to a private place of shared delights, a language of trust whose syntax is known only to two. And just think of the fun of standing in the checkout queue with a box of ice lollies, smiling like a Cheshire cat at the cashier. How big is the market for fetish freezer bags, anyway?

So here we are, the slut's to get her treat, a rippling cascade of melting coloured diameters.

Starting with some dilation, a vaguely obscene opening gesture: holding the ice to his mouth, inflating the wrapper with his mouth so it slips off easily, a contraceptive in reverse. Their attention held by the wrapper as it slowly pulls off the sticky ice: how it will stick to her?

Now leaning over her, carefully wiping the tip of the ice over her nose, dragging it round her mouth, noticing her reaction to flick it with her tongue, a gesture from deep behind her sex. Now laying it flat on her, letting her heat bleed out onto the yielding coldness, the ice's arousal appearing as a slow froth of sticky colour, a patient cumshot of liquid sugar rolling over the edge of her jaw. Glossy now with its desire for her, melting colour pushing her mouth apart as she joins its juices with her own saliva, pushing the white-pink bubbles out of the mouth to bathe her chin in an outpouring of desire and fluid.

He's picking up the rhythm, dancing-dabbling the ice on her belly, pushing it hard down into her navel, splling the melt over her, drawing it off her on the bed, her loving Him as he sticks her ever more in place. Then swirling the ice between her breasts, drawing the contours of her bondage bra on her: around and around, but not yet, over her teats.

So, where to next with the treat? Their thoughts both turn to what's left of her to tease...

Belly, ribs, spiral, colourclimbing coloursweatslick, closer and closer to metal and teat. A calmly stern smile for him as her prepares her for the next stage. Tears in her eyes, of deep happiness. Her pleasure? To be so constrained by her Master yet to release herself only for him. His pleasure? To own a slave who will let him come close to her, and let her whisper in his heart the secrets of her desire. What a delightful site she is, a rainbow goddess whose slowly flexing muscles draw him on. Spiral higher, spiral closer and closer.

A pause, so she can anticipate; eyes watching the ice draw near to the pinched red nipple. Contact.

"Master"
"Yes?"
"I love you"
"And I love you. Your submissive power to command me is my greatest happiness."

Pushing herself upwards to spread herself against the treat, Master flicking it away, then drawing it down, only permitting his slave the briefest of delights. A dance of flex, touch and stickiness. Does the kama sutra deal with the joys of adhesion? It really ought to. She's revealing herself so completely, her skin longer a covering of her body but the deepest expression of her sexuality. The world beyound them scarcely exists any more, she's all peeled back for Him, the one she can trust, here with her for her joy.

Metal rustles as he picks up the slack in the chain, slowly pulling it taut. She smiles sweetly at him, there's nothing they need to say to each other now. He begins by draping the chain with the cool drooling treat, small gobs of ice now breaking off, and slowly lets the chain slacken against her breast, cool metal relaxing against her, pulled round to surround her teat.

With care, placing the ice above her nipple, as he reaches to remove the clamp.

Red. Rubbed. Excited.

No reply from him, save the sound of zipper and the rustle of his clothing. Gracefully drawing your full righteous hardness out of a pair of trousers isn't the the easiest thing to do, but he manages it. Ah, the pleasure of watching something done properly; the pleasure of watching a man who knows how to handle himself. Very good.

His cock presented to her, so insolent and unabashed, he coolly scoops his balls out, their flesh dragging tightly over his fly, pulling them out and down, hairs snagging on the zipper. Such a delicious moment: there for her, close, touchable and hard with the sight of her; her interest showing as two points of shadow on her shirt. Uncut, glossy head and veins pumped out in relief: she notices that the trouser fly is working like a cock ring, his erection pointing straight at her, the teeth of zip pressing against his flesh. Dark veins skeetering over his smooth balls parked so shamelessly outside. To think: they’ll soon empty themselves over my footwear. I must be mad to be doing this.

Such a handsome erection, close enough to touch. With her hands? Well that's just too obvious. Better: raise her leg and take the challenge to him. Didn't he say he wanted to fuck my shoes? Of course he did. Fixing his gaze as she pulls up the trouser, his eyes flickering down to her ankle. Just as he thought, she's not wearing nylons.

Now he's watching passively as she lifts her leg to him, the trouser pulling slowly over her thigh, her shape slowly appearing as she lifts her ankle, thigh muscles holding out her provocation to enjoy the play of his hardness and his balls as she draws him around her ankle, his bloated maleness flipping and dragging over her. It's lovely to watch him grimace as she pushes herself hard over him, pulling his balls lazily over her skin as she hefts his erection back.

She's musing: that's enough flesh-on-flesh, it's time now for him to feel some leather.