When they finally get up to the bedroom, and to the bed with his shirt discarded messily over a chair and her dress tossed casually into a corner and his trousers gone god knows where, she seems unable to restrain further giggles as she perches upon his waist. He can only smile, fondly, slip his fingers up to caress the still warm skin of her thighs as she laughs and laughs.
“…Well?”
“I’m a little bit drunk,” she confesses, in something that is probably meant to be a whisper, but that ends up more of a shaking snort.
“Right…” He makes another face, still not entirely serious because nobody could manage entirely serious in this sort of situation, flips them before she can protest and kisses her so thoroughly that she won’t even want to.
“…Well?” He asks again when he comes up, maybe gasping for breath.
“Well,” she only drawls in reply, holding onto his shoulders and beaming up at him so brightly that he couldn’t resist (even if his boss was holding a knife to his throat, which is quite something if you think about it), “Have you ever heard of sixty-nine?”
…Oh.
Oh.
No further words are needed, for he may have fantasised about that sort of thing all the way through university and the many long years of marriage to Judith, and instead they do, indeed, end up kissing for some time. Her nails scratching at his shoulders and his hands tangled in her hair.
“…Well?” It is her turn to ask when they part again, her fingers caressing ever so lightly up his neck.
“Yes,” he can only breathe, and is already shifting into position before a single word more can be said on the subject.
It is quickly decided, after a few more moments of giggling and awkward shifting (and almost kneeing him in the shoulder, but he can forgive that), that he should be the one to start and she can quickly follow – it seems sensible, after all, she is usually the one with the most stamina (unless he’s had a few beers and is perfectly amiable to make her come screaming against most surfaces) and is generally better at dealing with such things.
…He still has to poke her in the thigh after a few moments have passed, of course, but it would’ve been worse with him.
And is worse with him, actually, as his tongue briefly stills upon her (so sweet and slightly tangy and he will never get sick of that taste) and he can’t help but moan as her lips close tightly around his cock.
But, then, at least he recovers with the needy twitch of her hips.
And leans forward to run his tongue over her again, closing his eyes and moaning into her flesh as she responds with a pleased rumble of her own and a happy hollow of her cheeks.
…And he has to say, as he starts seeing stars after only a few minutes of such treatment, this? Is the sweetest torture ever devised by man or woman or porcupine from outer space (and he really has been spending far too much time with his boss), and he loves it about as much as he loves her.
He finds himself absently thrusting his hips after a few moments, also finds himself closing his eyes and giving an involuntary shudder as she simply takes him deeper with every single movement.
He has to respond, of course, and hopes that he does so in style – she still tastes wonderful, brilliantly and strangely wonderful, and he speeds up his pace: lapping at her over and over again and feeling her writhe over him in the happiest way possible.
She rewards him with a flick of her tongue, a happy scrape of her teeth…
And when he comes, only a few moments after that treatment and with a happy flick of her fingers just behind his balls, he narrowly resists the urge to flop boneless to the bed and close his eyes – instead uses the extra surge of energy to speed up his tongue, to daringly thrust it into her as she lifts her head from swallowing and groans helplessly out at the air.
When she comes, only a few moments later and with a happy tensing of her thighs, he may take it as a sort of victory.
When he wakes the next morning, with her wrapped in his arms and the sound of birds tweeting outside, he may soppily take it as a far bigger one.
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timeasmymeasure
UNPROMPTED: The Wednesday Sixty-Niner, Female!Chris/Tim, NC-17 [2/2]
Date: 2011-11-05 04:06 am (UTC)“…Well?”
“I’m a little bit drunk,” she confesses, in something that is probably meant to be a whisper, but that ends up more of a shaking snort.
“Right…” He makes another face, still not entirely serious because nobody could manage entirely serious in this sort of situation, flips them before she can protest and kisses her so thoroughly that she won’t even want to.
“…Well?” He asks again when he comes up, maybe gasping for breath.
“Well,” she only drawls in reply, holding onto his shoulders and beaming up at him so brightly that he couldn’t resist (even if his boss was holding a knife to his throat, which is quite something if you think about it), “Have you ever heard of sixty-nine?”
…Oh.
Oh.
No further words are needed, for he may have fantasised about that sort of thing all the way through university and the many long years of marriage to Judith, and instead they do, indeed, end up kissing for some time. Her nails scratching at his shoulders and his hands tangled in her hair.
“…Well?” It is her turn to ask when they part again, her fingers caressing ever so lightly up his neck.
“Yes,” he can only breathe, and is already shifting into position before a single word more can be said on the subject.
It is quickly decided, after a few more moments of giggling and awkward shifting (and almost kneeing him in the shoulder, but he can forgive that), that he should be the one to start and she can quickly follow – it seems sensible, after all, she is usually the one with the most stamina (unless he’s had a few beers and is perfectly amiable to make her come screaming against most surfaces) and is generally better at dealing with such things.
…He still has to poke her in the thigh after a few moments have passed, of course, but it would’ve been worse with him.
And is worse with him, actually, as his tongue briefly stills upon her (so sweet and slightly tangy and he will never get sick of that taste) and he can’t help but moan as her lips close tightly around his cock.
But, then, at least he recovers with the needy twitch of her hips.
And leans forward to run his tongue over her again, closing his eyes and moaning into her flesh as she responds with a pleased rumble of her own and a happy hollow of her cheeks.
…And he has to say, as he starts seeing stars after only a few minutes of such treatment, this? Is the sweetest torture ever devised by man or woman or porcupine from outer space (and he really has been spending far too much time with his boss), and he loves it about as much as he loves her.
He finds himself absently thrusting his hips after a few moments, also finds himself closing his eyes and giving an involuntary shudder as she simply takes him deeper with every single movement.
He has to respond, of course, and hopes that he does so in style – she still tastes wonderful, brilliantly and strangely wonderful, and he speeds up his pace: lapping at her over and over again and feeling her writhe over him in the happiest way possible.
She rewards him with a flick of her tongue, a happy scrape of her teeth…
And when he comes, only a few moments after that treatment and with a happy flick of her fingers just behind his balls, he narrowly resists the urge to flop boneless to the bed and close his eyes – instead uses the extra surge of energy to speed up his tongue, to daringly thrust it into her as she lifts her head from swallowing and groans helplessly out at the air.
When she comes, only a few moments later and with a happy tensing of her thighs, he may take it as a sort of victory.
When he wakes the next morning, with her wrapped in his arms and the sound of birds tweeting outside, he may soppily take it as a far bigger one.