He starts between my shoulders.
Not with kisses. Pecks would put me on edge as I wondered when and where he would plant the next. Instead, he uses his thumbs. He pushes their tips into to hollows at the edges of my shoulder blades where, if I had any, angel wings would hinge.
He pushes almost deep enough to hurt. I close my eyes and will myself beneath the pain. I take a deep breath. As my chest expands my ribs rotate about his thumbs, grazing my nipples across the mattress. My next breath is even deeper. It presses against my stomach.
He slides his thumbs along the ridges of my scapula. The pressure spreads my shoulders, making my chest big for my animal heart within. The grain of my muscle rolls between his thumbs and the edges of my bone.
His touch reaches the intersection.
He might go east and west to the colonies of my shoulders and elbows. Along those trails he would work loose the tension that’s always there. Later he might pinch my biceps, sending sparks into my own fingertips. If he goes to those places my body will soften and sink into the mattress. Eventually I’ll be no longer able to reopen my drooping eyelids.
My scalp tingles. He may take the road north, across the bridge of my neck and into the forest of my hair. There he would plow the thin soil of my scalp, exciting the blood and refreshing my brain. Perhaps, just when I think I’m sated, he would return to my nape and re-cross the terrain pinching tiny clumps of my hair. He would then roll me onto my back and, with my temples between his hands and my shoulders under his elbows, bring me back to earth with kisses across my eyelids and cheeks and nose and chin and, lastly, lips.
Instead he takes the path south.
His thumbs avoid the crown of my spine in favor of the hollows along its edges. He traverses the plane from my neck to my waist with slow deliberateness, pausing at the root of each rib. At the gully of my waist his thumbs slip along the top of my pelvis.
His fingers wrap over my hips. He presses their tips into the hollows of my thighs. The skin tightens across my mons. He kneels between my legs and runs his hands along my flanks.
His thumbs caress the creases beneath my buttocks. His weight presses against my legs as he leans forward. He smacks his first kiss upon the saddle of my back. He follows it with a second and then a third — dry, pursed lipped worshipful affairs — as he hefts my haunches.
His hands rest on the dimples of my flanks. His fingers stretch flat, his palms against my skin. He slides his hands across my arse in slow circles. My labia stick, pull then part. I feel the cool air at my opening for a moment before its lips close again. His hands change direction and my legs my buttocks part. For the first time I feel exposed. His eyes, I know, are on my darkest skin.
His motion tugs at my pucker. It opens me a little. It is the moment when I loose the romance. I must force myself not to roll onto my back and offer just the commonplace.
He pulls me onto his lap. His knees are between mine, pressing them apart. My anus is against his belly, the hair there tickles my sensitive skin. His erection rubs amongst the down covering my mons. He is growing harder and hotter.
He folds his stomach around the arc of my arse. His hands are, again, on my shoulders. I relax as he massages. My knees and thighs gradually settle into our pose. My anus begins to stretch with my posture and slips further open. He feels it to and shifts one of his hands from my shoulder. The other rests against the back of my neck.
His thumb finds its way along the crack of my arse to my opening. It rests there before slowly, increasingly, pressing against the guarding ring. I tighten at first but my resistance oozes away. I slip a fraction around him. His pressure shifts to my hole‘s edge. He rolls around me in a slow circle, teasing me wider, smoothing my puckers.
He levers me forward and up. My face and chest are still upon the bed. His thumb enters me. His hand is now against my haunch. His other hand presses against my other buttock and its thumb, too, finds its way into me. He pulls me apart.
I know he is studying my derriere although, in my present position, it feels less than elegant. Suddenly I realize he can see my pussy and am, sillily, embarrassed. I push my hand between my legs and cover myself. As I do my hand brushes his cock. It is heavy with blood.
He bends forward and kisses my arse, the curve of each buttock and then the hole itself. His ministrations tickle. He runs his tongue along the rim of my opening. His spittle is slick as he readies me and then he enters me with his tongue.
At first I feel invaded and must make myself relax. Then he is too small and I press back against his face. His tongue abandons my want and then the head of his erection is between my buttocks. He guides it to my opening.
I push against him tentatively. I need to rotate my hips, bettering the angle. I wonder if his cock can possibly pass my stinging flesh when suddenly it is through. My sphincter tightens behind his glands and I feel a surge of satisfaction — as if I have captured him. I reach past my legs and take hold of his balls. I am in control.
He dribbles spit into my crack and along his shaft. I pull him slowly into me until his legs are against me. He wants to move quicker but I don’t let him. As he — we — pull out he leaves an emptiness. When he returns he fills my arse and belly and head.
Too soon he collapses against my back. I struggle to support his weight and keep my position. In my hand his balls contract and then I feel the surge of his jet along his length and into me. I am certain that I can feel it colliding against the limits of my space as we roll, still joined, onto our sides.