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Author note: As one reader pointed out to me in an email following my first story, I cater to the “fine dining” clientele of Literotica, not the “fast-food” one. This is smart eroticism not raunchy porn, so if you’re looking for a quick and easy fix, you’re better off skipping my stories. Otherwise, enjoy, and don’t forget to leave any positive or negative comments!
Heads-up: The story is written chronologically backwards. I advise you to read it as is, and if you like it, re-read it from the bottom to the top, it might shed a light on some subtleties.
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“I know where your tongue has been,” I wrote on the card, my fingers trembling of their own accord as the memories of the past ten days flickered in my mind and the prospect of what lies ahead slapped me magnificently on both cheeks, clearing my head of any other thought, dream or desire.
I smiled to myself, considering the schism between where I had been, one and a half weeks ago, and what I was doing now, on Valentine’s day of all days. And yet, it didn’t feel sudden or improbable. No. It just felt daring and unbelievably… right. Here I was, at a florist shop, buying a dozen red roses for the most gorgeous, witty, sensual and lovable person I had met. Nothing unusual there, right? Except the details of who she was _ because yes, she was a woman too _ how we met, and why writing her that sentence on the card felt more sincere than “I’ll miss working with you,” or “I love you.”
I drew a small heart, smiled at the teenage impulses she triggered in me, closed the card, tugged it in the bouquet, and made sure the florist had the correct address again.
It was supposed to be a surprise for her. To be completely honest with you, it was also meant as a thrilling yet careless gesture, like seducing a partner under the table of a packed restaurant, or fondling them on a dance-floor with all eyes riveted on you. I smiled again, knowing I had already done those, with her. And for a brief moment, I wondered what was to come, now that the ties that were holding us back were gone. I looked up to see the florist fixing me, a glimpse of sympathy on his wrinkled face.
“I said that’ll be thirty dollars.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I answered, quite embarrassed by my distraction.
I handed him the money and was about to turn and leave when he added, “you’re quite lucky”. I stopped and stared at him, expecting an explanation.
“A lot of people come buy roses here, especially today, but not many have that…” he gestured to my face, “the look of true love.” He sighed then continued, “I tell them when I see it, because you, young people, don’t recognize it anymore until it’s too late.”
I knew I recognized it all too well, but it somehow felt more powerful, almost overwhelming, now that it was validated by that old man in a tweed jacket with a wrinkled face. “I know,” I whispered, and he grinned then turned away to his register, politely dismissing my presence. I walked out of the shop, little sparkles flowing inside me as I recalled the way she had mouthed the word “tomorrow” the day before, like a promise of better things to come.
But it wasn’t until one hundred and seventy three minutes later, when I stared at her face, the moment she opened my card, and saw the genuine surprise, the joy, the overpowering sense of adoration flooding it, that I eventually felt the promise of better things turn into a reality. She stood, surrounded by coworkers with celebratory champagne, hundreds of red roses spread on the ground or arranged in vases around her, and yet she clung tightly to my tiny excuse of a bouquet. She raised her eyes and through the crowded room, I saw the flicker in them that said, “you know where my tongue will be.”
That was all I needed.
For I was aware, that every time that sentence was shared between us, the sparks had flown increasingly passionate, to have reached a supreme state. Right then. Right there.
“I know where your tongue has been,” I shouted to her, defying the accepted norms a woman’s voice should observe. She was now standing next to the door, in that red shirt I had grown to adore, her tousled short hair dancing with the wind and playfully caressing her face with a few dawn rays shimmering on the blonde strands. She shrugged and smiled, “you know too much about me.”
“I do not,” I quickly retorted and stood on the ledge. For a brief second she was terrified, then she seemed to understand that I was only enjoying the view and not planning something stupid.
“What else do you want to know?” She seductively and slowly walked towards me.
She had asked me that same question, when we first met. Nine days now separated us from that, and the situation had completely changed. I couldn’t help but wonder, what else do you want to know when you have already seen the most intimate secrets of a person’s physique? When you’ve kissed them, had your fingers delve deep into them, explored the mysterious lands within them that few were privileged bahis firmaları to enjoy, tasted them and seen their face as their body exploded in rapture? When you reach that level of familiarity with someone, what else could you possibly want to know?
The ridiculousness of the situation surprised me, and I smiled as I lowered myself and sat down. Everything else. I wanted to know every other tiny or major detail.
“I want to know the smell of your hair when you get out of the shower, the taste of your mouth when you wake up in the morning. I want to know if you snore at night, if you cook as well as you eat,” I winked at her, “if you can sing, whistle or ride a bicycle, and most importantly, I want to know if you look as good in a dress as you do without it.”
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, too low for me to hear her, but enough for me to guess the word as it formed on her lovely lips.
“Is there anything you want to know about me?”
She blushed and looked down. “The nine others, before,” she eventually admitted, the jealousy making her more adorable.
“They didn’t mean anything, just a part of the job. They didn’t exist. Trust me, no one exists before you.”
She sat next to me, on the edge of the roof, balanced her feet in the air for a few seconds as I stared, tantalized by the dark pink of her lips, tempted to taste them more than I’d be tempted by a bowl of strawberry ice cream. She moved her left hand, slid it between my right one and torso, hooked her fingers with mine, then turned her face towards the rising sun.
I recalled the first time we had held hands, right after she had showed me cloud number nine, and how intimate and fulfilling it was. Somehow, it felt as if we were there again, and yet we had gone through a multitude of changes in the one week that separated that moment from this one. Well, maybe it was there all along, all these emotions and all this infatuation, but we had to take the long journey to discover and accept them.
“You do know though,” she emphasized the verb, “really, how much I lo…”
She fell silent then turned her head towards me. Our eyes met and I instinctively tilted forward less than an inch before reality hit me and I remembered we had decided not to kiss. Not for real. Not yet at least.
“Love my guacamole,” I joked to appease our erupting sensations, then I touched my forehead to hers, keeping our mouths at a respectable distance.
Her lips parted to release the breath she was holding, and I heard a tiny whimper escape with it. As cruel as it was, to not be able to savor her again, I treasured that whimper as it revealed more about her feelings toward me than any kiss, hug or unending session of love making could.
“We’ve lasted a day, we can make it another.” Her resolve seemed so fragile it was pathetically sweet.
The temptation of pushing her, and me, over this virtual edge was unnerving but luckily I pulled the shreds of my self-control and one by one, I glued them together. I had to be strong for both of us.
I raised my left hand to caress her face and sighed with resignation. “Yes we can.”
“You know where my tongue has been,” she groaned in my ear, pushing me against the wall. The audacity of her, using that sentence against me!
She was breathless, from chasing me. I was breathless, from running away. I was a fast runner, but she was better it seems, as she had caught my arm and flipped me to face her.
Her mouth was instantly on me. That same mouth I had possessed, relinquished, ogled and desired. That same mouth I had been staring at for fifteen minutes, as it opened and closed, releasing jokes, casual chatter and banter. That same mouth I had thought was destined for grand things, but that had just uttered the most hurtful of comments.
“Two more days and it’ll be back to men, Honey,” Karl had said, and what had she answered? “Amen!” in a tone which joy and relief were unbearably obvious and… alarmingly spontaneous.
I pushed her mouth away and asked mockingly: “Amen?!”
Hadn’t these eight days meant anything to her? Was it all a lie? Just yesterday she… I stopped myself as I felt my heart melt again at the memory of what had happened under the restaurant’s table. Did none of our chemistry and attraction touch her? How could she not have felt it? Felt … us?
“Shut up!” she almost screamed, with what seemed like hurt and indignation in her voice. “It’s two more days, please. Let’s pretend, and forget about this,” she basically begged while gesturing to both our faces in the empty space between us, “for two more days.”
How dare she be outraged, how dare she beg? I looked at her, at the sweet surrender spreading over her face, at the tiny tear struggling against the corner of her eye, at the hopeful wrinkle in her cheek as it held back a shy smile, I began to speak, but that’s when I grasped it.
She wanted me?! Finally, that was the answer to my hanging “and?…” from the day before. She wanted kaçak iddaa this. Just not now. Not until we were finished, in two days.
I nodded, not exactly sure what I was agreeing to, but the happiness I saw in her reaction was a sign that I’d made the right decision.
She pushed me further against the wall, got closer, her whole body eager to remove any shred of empty space between us, a look of pure lust in her eyes. I shivered. There was something so erotically primal about being pinned against a wall, a mixture of being desired so ferociously, feeling dominated with a total invasion of my being, trusting enough to cede control, growing intoxicated between her smell and the little breathing room left for my lungs, all while anticipating the upcoming thrill.
After making sure she had me completely at her mercy, she leaned into my neck and began whispering, in a soothing yet wonderfully mischievous voice.
“You know where my tongue has been. But I, I know a lot more.” She kissed my neck, right behind my ear, to validate that statement. Tiny consecutive kisses, growing deeper, sparking a fire in every nerve inside me, starting from my secret soft spot.
“I know the smell of every inch of your body,” she continued while snuggling her nose right between my hair and my skin and drawing in a large breath of air, making sure my nearby ear heard it.
“The location of every freckle on your skin,” she went on while letting the air out, slowly, agonizingly close to my skin without touching it, tracing a virtual line between the freckles on the back of my neck and the front.
“The taste of the tiny droplets of sweat that adorn your chest when you’re heaving beneath me,” she murmured, closing in on the said area. I looked down, waiting, wanting, expecting, despairing over the move she was about to make. Then I saw it. A glimpse of it. Of that enthralling red muscle. Bit by bit, leave its refuge and come out. For me. My tiny droplets of sweat. I saw it plunge for one, pick it up. I saw my liquid dissolve with her saliva, melt into one fascinating transparent mix. And I remembered what it felt like, to see my other liquids mingle with hers. I saw her tongue leave me, retreat back, savor its prize. I saw the lips open again and I ached for another touch. I involuntarily arched my back, my head thumping against the wall, my torso pushing against her face. Starving.
“The exact strength to tug at your hair without pulling it out.” Her hand reached up for my head, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled it, pushing my face down again to see her nuzzled against my navel, my other soft spot. Our eyes met and I saw in hers the need, nay, the order, to keep watching as she decimated my defenses and asserted herself as the sole governor of my will, body and mind.
“I know the whimper you make when you’re about to get what you want,” she went on, just as I heard myself mewl, seeing her tongue approach my navel, steadily, knowingly. It twirled, played, explored, danced within every nanometer of that small hole, making me suspect that its size was closer to a soccer field than a coin. Every nerve tingled, every cell twitched, as I felt my pleasure rise to a new extreme without rupturing. Hold on, didn’t she just say she wanted us to wait?
“And the sigh you release when you get it,” she let out, in sync with my own sigh of relief? annoyance? desperation? Ah, I’d given up on trying to understand my reactions to her. My own body was a foreign land to me, an enigma she seemed to decipher much better than I did.
“Tell me more,” I begged, with an agitation that I could only blame on the terrible debate between wanting her to continue and fearing the imminent loss of control she could provoke in me. How was it possible for someone to wreck this much havoc in my armor? But damn, how I was willing to shatter it with my own hands for her!
“I know the slight tremble in your voice when you feel more impish than usual,” she replied, while stopping and starting to raise herself. I watched her, in agony, revert from the track she had drawn for my nerves, as my pleasure coursed downwards and she went upwards, and I implored my heart to stop beating so my blood wouldn’t pulse so hungrily fast against every capillary inside my intimacy.
Her hands roamed across my arms, her eyes locked with mine, and she continued in a terribly sweet voice, “I know the waves of your muscles when you’re too drunk to notice how erotically charged your dancing has become, and the sweetness of your embarrassment when you realize you’ve gone too far. I know the rhythm your heels click on the floor when you’re happy, the slight flicker in your eyes when you’re daring, the temperature of your cheeks when you lie, and the twitch in your nose when the whispers in your head start confusing you.” She playfully tapped my eyelids, cheeks and nose consecutively to each of those last three statements.
The wave of excitement was slowly fading, to a more serene surrender of the senses. We stood in silence, kaçak bahis smiling, aware of the sanctity of what we had just shared. Aware of the love we both felt but didn’t express aloud. And aware of the untimely ties that kept us apart.
“Two more days?” I asked, pointing out the obvious and not expecting an answer.
She smiled again, tore herself away from me and left the room. I stood frozen, as my body slowly calmed and stopped quivering from the memory of her closeness and all the lovely words she had spoken. Breath by breath, I regained my composure and my heartbeats returned to their normal rhythm, but I still couldn’t leave the wall where she had pinned me.
“I know where your tongue has been,” I typed in a message to her. After what had happened two days ago, I knew I was pushing the limits and dangerously flirting with her breaking point. But I had to try and I had to know. It was hard to believe that I had only known her for seven days, let alone that I felt so completely at loss now that she had ignored me for the past one.
What’s the worse that could happen? I reasoned with myself. She refuses and it would only be three more days of obligatory work with her, then she would disappear from my life forever.
I raised my eyes, saw her chewing her fries happily and for a brief moment I had the urge to wipe that grin off her face. She shouldn’t be allowed to feel joy while I was tearing down and rotting inside. I clicked “Send” and almost instantly regretted it. What if she snaps again, like she did, two days ago?
The few seconds it took for the message to arrive, her phone to vibrate, her hand to pick it up and her eyes to read it, played in front of me like a slow-motion movie. Until she smiled and started typing.
That’s how it began. The worst and best ten minutes of any dinner in my life. The most torturing, spontaneous, crazy minutes, with the woman that captured my breath, and her two best friends.
My phone vibrated and I picked it up, expecting a slew of swear words. What did I get instead?
“Then you know I can still taste you, even in my steak.”
I almost choked on my … wait, I wasn’t chewing anything then to choke on it, and yet it still felt like I couldn’t breathe or swallow. I raised my eyes and sure enough, she was opening her lips to gobble down a sizable chunk of meat. I watched her lick the fork, as I imagined the subtle taste of me in there. I heaved, the wetness she had left on my skin still tickling me as a reminder of every inch of my body that now belonged to her. My toes clamped, my eyes bore into hers, pleading for her mercy, and failing.
I reached for my glass of water and drank half of it while desperately trying to follow her friends’ conversation to keep my mind off our own private exchange. What was it again? Ah yes, some J Lo gossip.
I could feel her eyes linger possessively on me. She craved attention, and her little ongoing show couldn’t move on without its main spectator. But I needed a few seconds away, to breathe normally. She started typing again and I wondered what debauchery her twisted mind was preparing.
She knew I had put myself in a weak position, two days ago when I confronted her with the true nature of my emotions, and she was taking advantage of the situation, getting her revenge over every second I had teased her in public. The payback however was far greater than the original offense. I smiled. It occurred to me that I would have done the same thing, if I was her. Ah, the sweet torture.
“But it’s starting to fade now,” she sent and I immediately replied, mostly to avoid over thinking it, “what are you going to do about it?”
I should have over thought it. Because the next thing she did was drop her phone on the floor, excuse herself, and then go under the table to pick it up. That harmless move didn’t alarm me, until I felt her lips on my knee and hardly managed to stop myself from jolting at the electricity of her contact. For the few brief seconds that she was hidden from view, she took the opportunity to kiss my knee, drag her tongue across my skin almost to my thigh, then bite me.
I had experienced the delectable sensation of her on my skin many times, but never in a public, real world, context. And despite the fact that she didn’t get anywhere near my sensitive sanctum, I was craving her so much, it felt as though my nerves were betraying me, carrying the pleasure of her touch from its physical point all the way to my yearning core.
I was the worst poker player in the world so I lowered my head to avoid showing my gaping mouth and wide eyes to her friends. And through the sheer madness of what was happening secretly, I kept wondering in what world was it acceptable to kiss, taste and bite someone under the table while your best friend was discussing Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony’s divorce.
“Ah, I can’t reach it. Can you get it for me, please?”
I was still feeling the sting of her bite on my thigh and struggling not to let it show when she came back up. I took her request as an opportunity to control my emotions away from her and her friends’ eyes and went down. What I saw, though, was anything but calming.
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