© Copyright 2003
This is a story about a sexual FANTASY written for consenting adults. If you're not both of those, don't read it. Characters in a FANTASY don't get sick or die unless I want them to. In real life, people who don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do get sick and die. You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe. The fictional characters in my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY - don't try to do what they do - someone could get hurt.
If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters here, congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the characters in this story and any real person is purely coincidental, since all of these characters are figments of my dirty little imagination.
This is my story, not yours. Don't sell it or put it on a pay site. You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information intact, but if you make money off of it, you're breaking the law and pissing me off.
Your body has become accustomed to my touch. It relaxes under my hands as I position you. Feathery fingertips now bring sighs instead of giggles.
Your skin glows in the flickering candlelight as I kneel astride your hips where you lie prone upon the sheets. Lightly, I brush the silken strands of your golden hair from your face and you smile contentedly.
Such trust, from one who seems so small and fragile beneath my brutish bulk, is impossible to fathom, but my heart swells within my chest at the knowledge of its existence.
Leaning forward, I trail the tip of my tongue lightly around the delicate curve of your upturned ear. A gentle nip at the fragile shell sends shivers down your spine.
I am attuned to you now. I can read every nuance of your body's reaction to my touch.
Warm, soft, dry kisses down the side of your neck - your head falls forward exposing more of the graceful curve to my ministrations. Your sighs are soft and expectant.
I draw a tender fold of flesh into my mouth and suckle on it, biting softly before I move onward. You shiver and moan.
Starting at the base of your neck, using only the tip of my moist, stiffened tongue, I seek out the tiny knots that the day's stress has left beneath the velvet skin of your back.
For half an hour or more, following with my hands to dry your skin, lest evaporation chill you, I search out and massage away each tense little bump, every taut strand. My tongue aches with fatigue by the time I have reached the little dimples at the top of your buttocks, and I switch to my hands.
Every muscle in your body seems to have melted, and the firm, rounded globes that I love following up the stairs, now feel almost gelatinous in my hands.
I shift to the side and gently spread your docile, boneless legs. A heavenly aroma wafts upward from their juncture, and moisture seeps into the sheets.
Taking the oil from its resting place above the candle, I work my way down your thigh, taking my time. I avoid the moist crevice that beckons me, only coming close enough to hint at what's to come. When your thighs have yielded up the last vestiges of tension, I move gently on to your calves, taking care not to apply too much pressure, as I know how sensitive those muscles are for you.
Your feet are the key to your soul. I work them with oiled hands for at least a quarter hour, each, and your sighs and moans speak to me of the opening of forbidden places within you.
At last, I cross your ankles and turn you to your back. Your arms flop bonelessly to the side.
Once more I put my mouth to work. This time, however, my purpose is more feral. I ravage the length of your neck with savage kisses and little bites. I nibble around the line of your jaw.
I know the places that ignite your passion and exploit them mercilessly.
My tongue delves deeply into the hollow of your throat, and your hips rise rhythmically from the mattress. Your sounds are wilder, more guttural now.
Working with lips and teeth I trace the outer edges of your precious, exquisitely small breasts. Your cries become more strident and you seek to guide my head, my mouth, with your tiny, fragile hands. I am on a mission, though, and will not be deterred. Frustration colors your cries, and your pelvis thrusts itself upon an unseen lover.
Your rock-hard nipples must wait. I know how sensitive they are, how they cry out for my tongue and my teeth, but first there is the soft, sweet mound around and beneath.