Inspired by a lovely Liverpudlian lass.
They lie together, legs entwined. Kissing passionately. Their mouths hungering for each other, tongues flickering back and forth, hands stroking, arms clasping.
He breaks the kiss, strokes her hair back, looks deep into her shining eyes and asks: “Do you want to try? I mean, the stuff we talked about?”
She closes her eyes for a second, and he gazes on her beauty. Those pouting lips, the bottom one hanging loose … quivering slightly? Then she looks back up at him, resolute, desiring.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Please.”
They kiss again, deeply. Then he shifts away, pulls her into a sitting position. He moves behind her on the bed and there is a rustling sound.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
She does, and then feels a soft cloth being tied gently — but firmly — around her head in a wide band. Her heart seems to skip a beat, she tries opening her eyes again — but no, the blindfold is a good one, she can’t see a thing.
He embraces her from behind, speaks softly in her left ear.
“You know I only want to give you pleasure,” he says. She nods, a quick jerk of the head, but he feels a tremor run through her at the same time. “Relax.”
She lies back on the bed. She feels his weight shift, understands from the motion of the mattress that he is lying beside her, on her left. She feels his hand take hers.
“We’re just going to lie here and let you get comfortable,” he says. “Only when you’re ready will we do anything else.”
They lie still together, his fingers stroking over hers. Her breathing deepens, he senses her muscles loosen and turns his head to whisper in her ear.
“Just imagine you’re gently starting to float off the bed. Very slowly, very gently, just hovering just off the bed. It feels very comfortable, like you’re on cotton wool, very soft. And it means you’ll be able to concentrate on all the sensations. You can move all you like, you’re not restrained, but you’re floating, like in water. Like at the lake.”
A person who loses the use of one of their senses may find that the others become heightened, to compensate. Those who find they cannot see, for instance due to being blindfolded, may become more sensitive to touch (tingle) or to auditory stimuli. Without visual cues, too, they may be able to immerse themselves more fully in an imagined situation (float).
She remembers the lake. A blinding summer’s day, the sky so blue it made her heart leap, a day when everything seems more vivid. The greenery of the wood, stones and branches cracking underfoot, giving way to the shore and the gently lapping water.
She’d skipped down to the water’s edge, discarding her shoes and then, rapidly, her clothes — well, they were miles out in the wilderness, who was going to see? — before wading out into the lake.
The cold fresh water had felt delicious on her skin, mounting her thighs as she moved deeper, generating delightful, naughty shivers as it first touched her pussy and then her nipples.
She dived, swum out into the lake and then turned to float on her back, watching the sky, the tiny puffs of cloud drifting across her vision.
II. Sixth Sense
“I’m floating,” she murmurs.
And strangely, even though she knows he’s lying there next to her, she can’t quite feel him or the bed anymore. She feels his hand on hers, like a tether or an anchor, and she holds him tightly.
“I’m here,” he says, and her grip loosens. “I’ll always be right here.”
“We’re going to start with me moving my hands gently over you. Over your gorgeous curves, every single part of you, your beautiful breasts, your legs … your wonderful pussy,” he says, his voice suddenly close to her ear, his lips grazing against the lobe and sending sparks of feeling pulsing through her.
He moves then, his hands hovering just above her skin, starting at her shoulders, then slowly gliding down, over her tits, moving with her breathing, describing their curve.
She senses the movement, more through heat and intuition than anything else. The heat of his palms radiating onto her skin, the sensation rippling outwards, or just that knowledge that someone is close even when you can’t see them.
“Touch me,” she whispers.
His hands circle her breasts and he has to fight off the urge to touch them, caress them. Instead he exhales and moves his hands down, over her belly, down the outside of her thighs, past her calves, to her feet.
She lets the feeling-not-feeling wash over her, breathes deeply. Her sense of arousal — already fired by their kissing, embracing, holding — deepens.
His hands make several passes like that, from head to toe, refusing to touch her where she most wants to be touched. With each motion, the sensation that he is touching-not-touching her grows. Curiously, she begins to feel that he is moving her hands over her back as well, down to her bahis firmaları bottom, over the curves there too, down the back of her thighs. The bed seems to have melted away, as insubstantial as candy floss.
“Please, touch me!”
The movement changes again. Now his hands move with exquisite slowness up the inside of her legs. Past the swell of her calves, lingering at the knee, before climbing higher, onto her thighs where the muscles are firing and twitching, making her tremble.
He doesn’t stop. His hands move higher again, until they come to rest over her pussy, almost cupping it, almost touching her, almost stroking her.
Even though she writhes, feeling the heat from his hands, wanting so badly for his fingers to touch her, to rub her clit, to thrust inside her, she seems not to be able to reach them, no matter what she does. His hands remain a fraction above her skin however she contorts herself, deliciously just out of reach, moulding themselves to her body, like the water in the lake enveloping her.
The skin, in addition to feeling touch (tingle) through mechanoreceptors, can also feel heat (hands gliding) through thermoreceptors. (please touch me … please). These can warn of danger, for instance to prevent a person touching something that would burn them on contact. They also detect when the surroundings are lower than body temperature.
Her body had soon acclimatised to the cold water of the lake, her skin transmitting to her brain the initial shock but then the pleasure of the coolness surrounding her in the heat of that summer’s day.
She’d floated, watching the sky, feeling gentle ripples in the lake washing over her, gently moving her limbs, and she’d drifted with them.
Drifting and floating, gliding and shifting, and almost without realising it, almost without thinking, her right hand had moved between her legs — well, they were miles out in the wilderness, who was going to know? — and her fingers had hovered just above her pussy. Teasing herself. Imagining that the sky, the sun, the clouds could see her thinking about playing with herself.
She aches now to be touched, her skin jangling, a throbbing building deep inside her and moving to her nipples and her pussy. She can feel how wet she is, the heat mounting.
Even so, when his fingertips first graze against her, it is a shock, a jolt, like electricity coursing through her. She realises with that touch that the blindfold and her imagination have done their job — all she can feel is his fingers against her skin, almost burning her, it seems. She thinks she can feel the whorls and grooves that make up his fingerprints, sense the pores of his skin rubbing against her. The bed is long gone from underneath her.
“Aaaah,” she sighs. “Touch me!”
He doesn’t reply, but his fingers sweep over her skin, tracing what feel like intricate patterns. A single finger slides down her spine, trailing sensation in its wake, then two fingers dance like feathers down her neck.
His hands move down, skittering over her thighs, dancing down her calves, then back up to circle her bottom, dipping briefly between her cheeks and sending a shiver through her.
Then back up, up, and finally, finally, sweetness suffuses her as he envelopes her tits in his hands. The sensation almost sends her reeling as she feels him rub his thumbs over her nipples, almost roughly, the skin dragging and rolling under his touch. She can feel the weathered skin there on his hands, as they dance over her breasts, returning again to the hard nubs of her nipples, gently squeezing and pulling on them.
She bucks her hips, knowing suddenly that she needs his fingers now between her legs.
He doesn’t seem to take the hint, his hands continuing to stroke, squeeze, rub her tits and nipples, a wonderful feeling, but not enough, not enough, not enough.
“Please,” she almost whimpers. “I need you to touch my cunt.”
She wonders at her choice of word. While not completely averse to it, she avoids that particular word normally. But it suddenly feels so right, floating out here-somewhere-nowhere, giving in to her feelings completely.
His fingers shift, leaving her tits and gliding lower. She has time for a brief pang of regret at the lack of attention being paid to her stiff, sensitive nipples.
But then a single finger glides down and then stops, the tip resting lightly on her clit, and all regret is gone.
He must have licked his finger at some point — either that or she’s wetter than she’s ever been — as his finger glides effortlessly round her clit, encircling her pleasure, the motion in the letter ‘o’ mimicked by her lips as she gasps with the intensity of it.
“Yes,” she pants. “Yes, yes, yes, yes. God yes. Now get those fingers inside me and fuck my cunt with them.”
She feels his hand rotate, his index finger gliding lower and then tucking itself between her lips, driving kaçak iddaa deeply in and his thumb coming to rest on her clit, pressing lightly. Another finger joins his first inside her, then a third, filling her.
She floats further, feeling as if only her pussy exists, that her only purpose is to be fucked by his fingers and almost burn with pleasure. Her skin seems to be rippling with waves of cold and hot, like sudden rain on a sunny day.
The nervous (relax) system is built of neurons, single cells that can extend to over a metre in length. These cells carry electrical impulses (tingle) from receptors, such as the skin’s mechanoreceptors and thermoceptors, at speeds of around 100 metres per second. The five senses (can’t see, but can feel, oh god, can feel) are powered by the nervous system.
She’d floated in the cool lake, her left hand clutching at her breast, her right hand rocking back and forth between her legs. She’d pushed two fingers deep into her pussy, feverishly fucking herself, eyes staring up at the sky, where rain clouds were gathering.
She’d cried out — well, they were miles out in the wilderness, who was going to hear? — when her fingers first moved inside her, the contrast between the cold water and the heat of her pussy almost shocking.
Then she’d closed her eyes and floated away on the motion she’d created, her thighs moving in time with the tendons in her forearm, flexing to drive her fingers deeper each time into her hungry cunt.
At first she hadn’t understood the new feeling, the splashes of cold on her face contrasting with the flush generated by her masturbation. She opened her eyes to find raindrops falling, clouds racing over the lake, and laughed at how alive she felt.
Suddenly he is close, whispering in her right ear.
“Oh, my gorgeous darling, my angel, my wonder. I almost wish you weren’t wearing the blindfold, so you could see how beautiful you are now, your body reacting to my touch.
“You can’t see either the effect it’s having on me. You haven’t touched me, I haven’t touched myself, but I’m absolutely rock-hard, and leaking precum everywhere.
“I’m not going to stop, either. I’m going to keep my hands moving on you, worshipping your tits, your arse, your cunt, your legs, your arms, your neck, your back.
“I’ll switch from stroking you like a feather to driving hard inside you, from roughly rubbing your swollen clit to dancing over your nipples.”
She shivers at his voice, marvelling at the tones she is hearing that she hasn’t heard before in it. His voice seems to route itself directly into her brain, bypassing that normal stage where she makes sense of things, analyses and decides on a response.
“And we’re nowhere near finished yet,” he says. “I want you to float and feel, soak up the pleasure until you’re fit to burst, until the pressure is unbearable, until you cum harder than you ever believed possible.
“Now I want you to tell me what you’re feeling,” he says. “And I’ll just keep going here, playing with your nipples, fucking your cunt with my fingers, feeling how hot and wet you are, as you float with me.”
She doesn’t quite know where to begin, she has floated so far that the world of words and sense seems far away. Incoherent sobs and gasps seem like the only way to communicate.
“Fuck,” she begins. “Fuuuck. I … I can’t believe what you’re doing to me (pant). I can only feel … fuck … your fingers pistoning in and out of my cunt, my wet, dripping cunt … I want to be your slut, use me however you want (gasp) just don’t fucking stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
He keeps one hand busy with her cunt, but moves the other down from her tit, over her belly and round to her bottom. His finger quests, probes between her beautiful cheeks, hovers over the hole buried there, almost as if asking permission, the question nearly audible inside her head.
“Yes,” she exhales. “Yes, god, yes, fuck me there as well. Fill my holes. I want you in my cunt and my arse at the same time. It feels so … so fucking good.”
Again, she wonders at just how wet she is, as his finger glides smoothly into her arse, no friction, no pain, even as a second finger joins the first. His hands move together, finger-fucking her deeper and harder.
“I can’t even begin to imagine (sigh) how filthy that must look,” she says. “But I can hear how wet I am from your fingers sliding in and out of me, god, I’ve never been so turned on. All that exists is my cunt and my arse and your hands, your wonderful hands, your darling hands.”
“You look gorgeous. And feel gorgeous. And sound gorgeous,” he whispers in her left ear. “And I’m just not going to stop. Maybe you can feel the start of your orgasm coming, but it’s going to take a while to get there yet.
“I’m just going to keep going, my fingers buried as deep as I can get them in your beatiful cunt, your darling arse, my thumb rubbing over your clit,” his voice kaçak bahis deepens, taking on rumbling, crackling tones in her right ear. “My hands … your cunt … your arse … your clit … your pussy … your … my … your …”
She drifts away on his voice, no longer knowing where it is coming from.
Sound waves (pleasure wash) cover a mile every five seconds. The vibrations in the air are detected by the ear and turned into impulses (oh god, don’t stop, keep talking, your voice is driving me crazy) that feed into the brain. The location of the ears on both sides of the head also allow for the source of a sound to be located in space (floating out here, seeing stars, shooting comets pulsing through me).
The water in the lake had suddenly seemed colder, and she’d moved more frantically — well, they were miles out in the wilderness, who was going to know? — her hands clasping, stroking, penetrating, pistoning, pinching, rolling, circling, exciting. The rain had arrived in earnest now, the drops striking her upturned face, falling in her mouth as she panted and gasped.
Thunder rolled in the distance, rumbling and crackling.
She’d frozen then, suddenly panicked, caught between fear and passion. But the sound was far away, and her desire to cum had quickly reasserted itself.
As the thunder rolled again, her movements became more feverish, groping harder, pushing deeper, wanting more.
Suddenly there is a new sensation.
His tongue flicks the tip of her left nipple, then his mouth engulfs it, the heat she feels quite amazing, the sensation dizzying as he encircles the stiff flesh. She cries out, the wetness on her tit somehow combining with the wetness in her pussy, his fingers still buried deep inside her.
Then the feeling expands, she feels him try to suck as much as he can of her tit into his hot, wet mouth, the lips wide open in an ‘O’ shape, sucking hard, his tongue sweeping back and forth over her.
He stops for a second. “Now I’m going to taste you,” he growls. “But first it’s your turn.”
As his mouth moves to her other breast, taking the nipple deep in the same way, feeding on her, she feels his fingers withdraw from her aching cunt. She senses them rise up her body, past his head, his ferociously sucking mouth, and licks her lips, knowing what is coming. He pushes his fingers roughly into her mouth, cramming them over her tongue and letting her taste her pussy. She sucks hungrily on them, adoring her flavour, wanting every last drop of her juice.
He repeats the motion, fingers moving from mouth to cunt to mouth to cunt to mouth as his tongue continues to tease, torment and devour her breasts. Each time her pussy tastes sweeter, stronger, a distillation of lust and sex.
And then she feels him floating with her, adopting a new position. His arms looping first over her thighs, then under them, his hands clamping onto her arse. His chest pushing her legs further apart still, her pussy stretching as he rises toward her. His head, oh god, his head, coming to rest just above her cunt, his breath coming in short gasps, the exhalations hitting her clit like electric shocks.
And then he licks her, his tongue running from the bottom of her pussy lips up, up, over her clit, and the world spins away.
He repeats the motion, the flat blade of his tongue rubbing over her, the tip of his tongue hard and probing, dipping just into her cunt before retreating to circle her clit.
Suddenly, she hears him in her head, even though his mouth remains locked to her cunt, his tongue burying itself deeper with every stroke.
“My darling, you taste wonderful,” he groans, the sound somehow inside her, travelling up her spine to her brain. “I adore your cunt, I love your pussy.”
He shifts his mouth higher, sucking on her clit now, pulling it into his mouth but moving his tongue back, so all she can feel is the tension there. Suddenly his tongue licks forward, hard over her clit, her hips buck and she floats away again, pulling him with her.
The tongue contains around 10,000 taste buds, which can detect five distinct tastes: sweet (sex), bitter, savoury, salty and sour. The clitoris (god yes lick me, lick my fucking clit, suck me, suck me, jesus) is packed with nerve endings in a similar way as the head of the penis. (don’t stop, fuck me with your tongue, lick me, god, bury your head in my cunt.)
The thunder had moved closer now, the lake no longer calm, the rain hammering down on her. But she didn’t stop. She had felt the waves rolling over her, had willed them on. Three fingers buried deep in her cunt, her nipples on fire, the taste of the rain in her mouth, the scent of lightning in the air. Her thighs convulsing, her breath coming only in gasps, the sky churning above her.
Her head is spinning.
She no longer knows which way is up, down, left or right.
She has no idea how long this has been going on for — hours? dear god, days? — just that her cunt is flooded and his tongue is performing magic tricks.
She floats, dives, spins, turns, soars through space.