But my mind goes back to another Sunday morning. A different place.
We’d had a conversation, I can’t remember if it was the night before, the details were a bit hazy. About how so many men don’t know quite how to treat my nipples. Too hard, too soft, not quite sure how to manage the piercings. I’d recalled there’d only really been one man who knew exactly how I liked it.
Laying in bed, his long body pressed alongside me, hands just quietly resting on one another, maybe some slow stroking. Awake but not quite awake. He moves over me, before I realise what he’s doing his mouth is murmuring into my breast, how do you like it again.…is it like this….his mouth latches onto one nipple, his hand squeezing the other. There is no gentle lead-up, the licking, the just right sucking pressure brings an immediate response from me. He moves back and forth, ignoring my insistent hips arching into him, wanting wanting him to touch me there. The pull, the ache, the need is building.
I’m sure he is liking this…the torture of me. How I can’t help myself when he touches me just so. He moves down my body and his hand easily slides into me, I sigh and relax into him but it’s short lived. He quickly and intently fucks me with his hand, his mouth also giving me an intensity of attention I rarely receive. The combination of his fingers inside me and his mouth upon me is delicious, wave after wave of sensation, I beg him not to stop even while I want him to stop. I don’t know how long he goes for but when he comes up for air, face soaked with me and grinning, I barely know who or where I am. This man. Has got the measure of me.
