the kiss ; short butch/femme erotica
That handsome butch suffered the impossible task of forgetting your lips. Her mind subsequently surrendered to a barrage of sleeping fantasies, though she only remembered two with any clarity. But the fire in her belly was so dense and heavy; it was obviously a night-long marathon.
Dream after dream, all about you.
She woke, face crinkling in the white light of a new day, but her mind faraway.
She dreamed about you, pressed against your door after the date. Dreamed about a braver redux in which she didn’t pull away, but grabbed your hips and eased your body over her thigh. You had seemed so surprised by the abrupt end to the good night kiss.
What a better surprise it would have been, though, to be swept into that deep kiss as you came helplessly in her arms. You would be so wet, it would seep through her jeans, maybe even streak her thigh, and you would tremble and gasp and stare up at her with those beautiful eyes. The thoughtful calculation of your careful glances would falter, replaced with that dreamy delirium like when you held open your arms and first invited her in.
And if you came, it would affect you deeply. That was when one dream bled into the next, and suddenly she had you on the floor of the empty gym, the place you met. You were in those little blue shorts you always wore there, a grey t-shirt rucked up over the soft shape of your belly. Everything about you was deliciously soft and curvaceous, and she wanted her hands to spill over with the touch of you.
“Take me,” you begged, holding her hand to your lips. You licked so sweetly at her fingertips. “Please,” you whispered, “It’s you. I’ve always wanted you.”
And so she woke, tingling, frowning at the daylight, longing for the shadows that held her fantasies.
She groaned, rolling onto her back. She slept in just her boxers and a t-shirt but even that infuriated her at present. The cotton teased her nipples and her boxers were hiking up, bunching where she was hot.
Kicking the boxers off, she immediately slid her hand down and slipped her fingers through the eager wetness there. A hand found the soft curve of her breast and touched gently.
Immediately, she imagined it was you. You touching her, her touching you. Either way, it was good.
Take me, she remembered that breathless plea from her dreams, I’ve always wanted you.
“Fuck,” she mumbled, chest heaving as she traced circles on her throbbing clit.
She wanted to touch you so badly. She couldn’t remember ever wanting someone so much.
And maybe that was part of it; she had gone so long without touch. Real touch, sensual and sexual and searching. Deep, thorough strokes and hungry, scorching kisses.
Hungry. That’s what she was. Absolutely starved.
She wanted to satisfy that hunger with a rich devouring. To touch and kiss and suck every inch of you, and once you were shaking with ravished satisfaction, crying for only one more touch, she would slip her fingers inside you.
Oh, and you would be perfect. Silky smooth and hot, sucking her fingers down greedily, taking as many as she wanted to give you. You would ride the deep motion of her hand and open your body to her, allow her to take her pleasure against you as you both came, hard and wet, her fingers slipping out of you.
She wasn’t sure if you were loud, maybe not, but she could imagine your head thrown back, a wordless cry on your lips.
Your lips. She had kissed those lips. They had kissed her back. Wildly and passionately and needy—
She came to the memory of that, just that simple kiss. She was practiced at stifling her own reactions so as to not rouse her room-mates. So it was quiet, but it was substantial.
She breathed heavy, slowing her touch to a dull drag then flinging her arms out at her sides.
“Fuck,” she said again, certain it was going to be a routine exclamation for the foreseeable future mornings.
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
