The Little Death

She shivered as he slowly dragged his lips wetly across the back of her neck. His teeth lightly nipped her earlobe and she felt his hot breath as he nuzzled, then whispered.

"Hello, beautiful."

As the shock waned, she realized she didn't even know who this was. And he was already pushing her sexy-feel buttons. She sniffed coldly and told herself to be angry not aroused.

But by the time her head turned to him he was gone.

His voice came from the other side of her. Her head whipped around. If he kept this up, she'd be even dizzier.

"I hope I'm interrupting," he said with a smile. "You look like you enjoy a good interruption."

Okay, now he was just being...well, she wasn't sure what he was being. Not weird exactly, but different. Obviously hitting on her, but not with the obvious techniques. She was intrigued, but also glanced up and down his body. Trim, wide-shoulders, narrow hips, and...something sizable between his legs, she noticed with a smile.

"I'm up here," he said laughing and casually tilting her chin in his hand.

His touch was casual, easy, and yet obviously sensual. It was the touch of a man who knows and appreciates its sensual power. He didn't just grab her face. His fingers firmly guided her jaw upward as his thumb lightly grazed her chin. His touch was hot, too. It made her almost graze his caressing thumb with her lower lip and boldly bite his skin.

But she didn't. She wouldn't have to be that wild. He'd do that for her.

She couldn't even remember how long it had been since she'd experienced a man like this. In control of himself and also capable and easy enough to let his animal passions burn through. He'd fuck her hard and fast at first, she imagined. Then spend long hours in slow sensual explorations until they fucked each other down through the social crusts and swim in the hot pools of crazy monkey sex. The thought made her nostrils flare and she took in his scent: musky, slightly salty, like a humid forest.

Her reverie shattered as she felt his tongue back on her neck and the growing-familiar whisper.

"Love your perfume," he said.

Oh, yeah, she thought. He's going to mind fuck me first, There weren't many good ones around anymore. She'd known maybe five or six in her whole sexual life. Half of them faded out in the physical real world though. She was trying to remember their names when his eyes suddenly fixed on hers and he leaned closer.

She got lost in his gaze.

"Do you have any idea how much I want to fuck you right now?"

As soon as the words had left her mouth, she froze.

He brushed his lips across hers. "Yes," he answered. "I have several ideas."

She couldn't help laughing. She couldn't help pretending to push him away until her hands touched his chest. It felt strong, wide, taut. His fingers slid up her forearm to her wrist, encircled it like a handcuff, and dragged it across his chest to his left nipple. Her fingertips brushed its hardness.

"I want yours to feel like mine now," he murmured.

And it suddenly felt like his lips were engulfing her nipples. His teeth raking them. His tongue licking intricate patterns on the very tips.

"Magic," he whispered in her ear. "Isn't it?"

He took up her other wrist in a strong grip and began rubbing her limp fingers over her own breasts. In moments, her nipples were achingly tight. He kept her fingers cupping her breasts as he lowered his lips to her nipples. His tongue made them wet. His sucking lips made them harder. His teeth nipped and dragged.

Her eyes closed. "Yes."

She shivered again at the first touch of his tongue there. There where she wanted his tongue right now. Wanted, needed, had to have it. Teasing long licks along her pussy lips - and then doing his own Cirque du Soleil tongue acrobatics on her clitoris. Needed that. Now. Or she might die.

Life or death cunnilingus brings out the best in both partners. The French say a woman's climax is la petite morte, the little death. She wanted that sexual fainting. Craved it. Needed.

His tongue was Fred Astaire and Miley Cyrus. Sheer creative dexterity and performance at peak. His tongue tap danced across her clit like a gild-decorated ballroom, waltzing and trotting, gliding and sliding. Then he'd lick and suck more roughly.

"Just lie back and feel me fuck you with my mouth," he growled from between her thighs.

Her eyelashes fluttered. "Yes."

It began at ecstasy. She had no idea what the red line area of the eroti-meter was called but the needle stuck there forever it seemed. Her body went through every position and was sure invented a few new ones. He licked; she writhed. He cupped his lips around her clit, sucked lightly; she spasmed. On and on until she lost all sense of measurement, all sense of anything but the cosmic connection between her pussy and his mouth.

Before she lost consciousness, her lips parted. "Yes." And she fell into quick blackness.

Le petite morte.