swanheir:
this would not be the only man that would entreat helen to make meal on him, yet it was the first the girl had ever heard, and the intensity of such an oath makes her hot behind the ears. the heat spreads (as all warmth is ought to when shown land to take) as he plies her lips with his thumb to sink it into her mouth in true, her eyes widening. he tastes of salt on her tongue and, like sea-water, helen thinks it must spell poorly to swallow the taste — yet the urge, just as with ocean water, is there.
she is a girl lost in the simple move for this bore not the ease of their flirtation in youth, when they had been as much children as they head youth. she had known and memorized menelaus as the boy that chased her through clearings with arms outstretched, ever laughing, ever willing to lay shoulder-to-shoulder with her by riverside — but she is recalled by his action to the fact he had always been a man, even then, and that this conduct could then not be called newly made but rather only just earned. it should not have been a surprise to her that he could feel and elicit more than spry-boned affection, yet still she was caught off guard.
this was not the same as then, no, that could not be said; but it was still built on the spine of the self-same arrow that helen had followed even back in youth - desire - which is not always a call to flesh, but life itself. so she hums sweetly around the finger with eyes held fast on his face, which is not so unfamiliar to her as the play.
“such talk,” it is mumbled, loose at the joints, lacking firm body. yet even as she speaks, she brings her teeth together upon the thumb, teasing a nip at the hard shell of his nail and its soft underbelly. helen looks at him and narrows her eyes with a scrunch of her delicate nose, a childish and sweet imitation of feral nature. in this there is confidence gained yet, and her features lax “what if i should find i do not like the taste, prince?”
her mouth bites higher, this time around the first knuckle, as if again to make false-meal of his offering and test theorem. helen tries, then, what she believes is meant to be done in times like this, when the air is thick and you are alone: her lips close soft and tight as circlet around his flesh, tongue lashing kitten-like and curious against the salty skin, genuine exploration for the taste of him outweighing — or perhaps abetting — sensuality for its own sake. when helen decides the sample is to her liking she swallows the second knuckle, slow and tender in the swallowing, until his full thumb is trapped in the wet cove of her mouth and her tongue lavishes as guest.
her eyes drop but she is no less watching, a woman learning as she goes, a girl learning as she does. have i done right? like a witch, she sees to her work: have i found what you desire?
he wanted to speak, and oh how his tongue quivered behind the full bow of his lips! he felt his bones shiver beneath his skin; rough, torn, lived in. and yet, how be it that it was the softest lick of her tongue that allowed the prince to unwind?
his eyes, all the more darkened by such lurid actions, rolled slightly into the black caverns of his sockets; daring to take the darkness in a bid to stop the rise of her affections. yet he looks on — eyes caught, hooked and obsessed as he stares back into such devourable hues. even then, lost in the mix of tension and a dire need for more, he feels the stir within him to pounce and cry out.
“i am certain that you would delight in the taste,” menelaus quipped, though his pronunciation was slow and lazy, his tongue drawling over the sounds he made as he felt the fat lick of her tongue — small, big, thick, petite... all manner of licks allowed his cheeks to rise with powdered blushes. helen, helen, helen. do you taste like sea salt? do you taste how i believe you to taste, mused on after hours spent thinking off velveteen skin? of your flesh?
a clearing of his throat was quiet compared to the beat of his heart and the blood that thumped within his ears ( something, otherworldly, tells him to progress. to push forward with stubborn intent to make her his once more — kiss, touch — she already covers your thumb after all ).
with the flip of his stomach menelaus finds himself pulling his thumb from the tight exhilaration of her mouth, tugging on her lower lip to expose the wet flesh of her inner. such an action ( one he would dream off later in the dead of night, when alone upon straw and cottons ) reminded him of opening fruit, of pressing finger upon a fig’s centre to check its ripeness. a grunt, half licked with his own moans and tongue, expels from his throat — daring him to expose his own need and hunger for her taste ( all of this performed in a murky silence, danger surrounding by nosey eyes or foreign ears ).
he does not dry his thumb, that shines with her glaze, but rather takes her chin between it and his index finger, holding her before him with her plump lips and catlike eyes. the wetness of his thumb ( almost wrinkled by her ) lays upon her chin, as the blonde from mycenae leans forward to brush his nose against her own. brushed, feathers caressing his heart to the thump upon his ribcage. ah, it is something other that takes him high above the clouds or the cry of angels.
“it is my turn to taste you,” he whispered, soft and smooth as oiled flesh as he leaned in to kiss her. a kiss, masterful in its movement, pressed with a tenderness that soon develops into hunger as his tongue gingerly presses between her swollen lips to taste her fully. yet his tongue is thicker than her own, fat and ready for any note she may yield for him as he takes the time ( eyes closed, skin alight ) to find what lays underneath.
salt from the sea air ripe flesh of a orange the sweet nectar of a swollen flower
i yearn to kiss you forever, he calls — quietly, from inside, as he shifts his wet thumb to her cheek instead, drawing a line with her saliva against her skin as he feels both uncomfort and ease riddle from within his own skin. a moan, feral and uncontrolled, foaming from his throat and into her own mouth as a bustle of doves fly ahead ( a feather, dropped to one side, loosened from a long journey ). “ — i cannot be apart from you.”
