So.
Bath.
The sexy thing about visualizing a lover in a bath is the intersection of exposed and covered. Naked, but submerged. The water covers and reveals. Distorts, teases, invites.
Your breasts are not submerged, and so, if I were there, sitting on the edge of that bath tub, I would see them. And want to touch them, want to find out if I could find evidence of the piercing in the right one? Could I? Could I see it with my eyes, feel it with my fingers? My tongue?
Tongue on, and then lips, and of course, teeth. Nip. And then, look up. Was that ok? Allowed? No censure, no slap. Maybe, the hint of a moan. Nip. Lick. A full-face caress.
And because I always want what I cannot have, I look at that left one. The unbiteable. Unreclaimed. Yours, and so, in no part mine. I trace with a finger around it. Then with my nose, cheek, mouth—all around the breast, never near the nipple.
Then—to the right. Nip. Hard. And now, a moan, a reaction. Yes. Finally.
One of the most erotic experiences of my life: my arms above my head, bound to a hotel headboard with a scarf. My scarf. A breath on my nipples. First on this one, then on the other. Lips brushing, but never touching. A flicker of a tongue. Hands under, beside, over, but never one. I am driven mad, I am insane: I need that tongue, those lips, I need them chewing on my nipples, I. Need. Them.
“Suck,” I whisper. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Suck!”
“Beg,” the voice, hot, ragged, busy breathing, teasing. “Beg.”
I would. I want to. I want nothing more. But I am so mad, so mad, I cannot form the words. Never was a “p” more clumsy. Never did an “l” take so much effort.
Finally: “Pleeeez…”
I cum before the teeth touch me. Anticipation.
The hardness of the nipple, the softness of the breast. It is the most erotic combination; the only part that comes close is… the thigh. Cunt lips? Delicious and fascinating, of course, but there is something about the thigh…
I learn about it in a text. “Today, I am all about the thigh. That is all I see. Every woman—she is thighs, two thighs, a body above and bones and flesh below… thighs. I would grasp each, fervently, and lose myself within them.”
“Between them?” I ask.
“Within them. It’s not… well, of course, ultimately, I suppose it is about what’s between them. But today, right now, I don’t need their pussies. I just want the thighs. They are… everything. Promise incarnate. Soft… yet so fucking sturdy. They need to carry all of each of you. And when they spread for me? Or are forced open? No other feeling compares.”
So. The next time I am with a woman’s thighs… I explore. I pretend the cunt isn’t there. I don’t touch, I don’t look, I don’t smell. Just the thighs. I trace. Knead… lick. Kiss. Look so very closely. Nip very gently. Bite.
Never come close to her cunt, never even graze her clit, tease a lip, approach a hole. Don’t cross the line towards the curve of the ass.
Just about the thigh.
She explodes and gushes me, rivers, rivulets of lust and desire, soaking her thighs, and my exploring hands.
It can be all about the thigh.
Yours are under the water, and water interferes with touch; it is its own element and experience, and it dislikes competition. The water ripples, and all is distorted, except the triangle—or is it a line?—of dark pubic hair. I want to yank it, hard, just so you yell no, and slap me, and yank mine.
Instead, I press, deliberately, on your button of a clit. And then move my hand away, and rest it on a sunken thigh.
I speak with my thighs, I know this, they respond to touch and word. And when they spread, when I open, I am wantonness defined. They don’t just invite. They beg.
“Come. Cum.”
When I am done—sated, exhausted, satisfied—I pull them closed, tight. Roll on my side, tuck knees almost to chin. Done, done… but, when they are forced apart at that moment, oh fuck yes, wanton again, and that is when I cum the hardest.
I don’t know the language or geography of your thighs yet.
So many things to learn.
mjc
m jane colette 