Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Last Kiss

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This time I am not here to tell you about what happened during, rather that last kiss goodbye. The one that still today I think about, maybe because it was the first of it’s kind that has left this state of euphoria in me!

It has been another one of those marathon type of days for us. Every once in a while he asks me to take a day off from work just to enjoy ourselves all day long. See, he prefers intimacy during the day, not because his work schedule dictates it as such, but because he likes the idea that day light decreases obstacles that would otherwise prevent little subtleties from coming alive.

Today was one of those occasions where I remained face down in bed sustaining burdensome breathing while he stood back some distance for a better view of his craftsmanship. I wasn’t randomly laying face down, no sir, no. He had meticulously adjusted my position just so that all of my characteristics sprinkled with his work could be best viewed.

He had culminated the act spread out through my buttocks, spilling over between my legs. I had felt it when it first fell on my rear, then when he smeared it just so between my legs. For him, though, I can only approximate the sight. He never cared to take pictures, or film us to share our good times in the future. I too wanted to see the things he is privileged to that I just don’t get to see. But, all he did was stand back, stare, and smile. I often asked, what about the view is so attractive? He never really did say much about it, except that it was enticing. I was left to wonder if his climaxing on me was some type of claim to victory comparable to the breaking of the “marker-tape” at the finish line of a race. His way of saying “I did it”. A boost if you will, of some type.

I can imagine the sight of his residue dripping down from my buttocks, little by little sliding down, reaching my privacy. How I must look after prolonged periods of constant friction, the thrusting, piercing at different speeds, both sensually and aggressively. The type of event that upon culmination, she remains slightly open from the blood rushing in to alleviate the maltreatment endured.

That sort of journey that leaves me sensitive enough to feel the echo of my pulsating heart on her. Given that I wax, completely bare, I can only imagine the details to be seen, not a single anything obstructing the flowing liquid through her. To watch it flow from my butt, dripping down the separation of the cheeks, ever so slowly until my crotch greets it hello.

There he stood longer than normal, watching me, continuously licking his lips, smelling my scent attached to his hands… I could hear him inhale as if snorting lines of cocaine. I have this habit of clapping my gulets when he stares at his remnants sprawled throughout me. Initially it was meant to seduce him, but after a while I became fond of the feeling of the sticky substance against me. I wanted to feel it trickle down to sooth the front just as it had the back.

I often wondered if the warmth, when reached by the dripping substance would cause a similar reaction as lava does when reaching the sea, where steam is in a revolt. While maybe exaggerating, that is how hot I feel after one of his marathons. I am sure that the heat is not the sole comparable, but so the colour I must take upon. That reddish colour that skin yields after constant friction against it. I bet I would gawk just as he does, were I a man looking at myself.

It wasn’t the same goodbye I had grown accustomed to, the one that he would lay on top of me, pressing his pelvis on my buttocks, kissing my check, and off to the shower before leaving for work. This time he climbed on bed, but didn’t lay on me. Instead he ran his hands on my butt, running his fingers along the same paths taken by his residue; following it down to me, sliding his fingers and pushing out to the sides spreading me… still breathing heavily.

He sat between my legs, pushing them apart just enough to make room for him to sit down. He situated himself so that each of his hands held each of my cheeks, and proceeded to push them apart exposing me to the cool air. I felt his mouth on my buttocks at first, then he ventured where he seldom does. He molded his tongue meticulously to me, sucking, kissing, caressing with his hands, with his finger, though he never did penetrate me; all he did was sculpt me with his tongue. And though I was the recipient, and a willing one, this time I wished I could also be the benefactor. I wanted to taste him on me, I wanted to experience what the coupling of our saturation was like. His hands continued to parade the same areas as his residues, smearing it around on my body as well as on his hands. And glory, I tell you, because his mouth was traveling my deepest intentions, his face, lips, mouth, and tongue too were covered in both our lust. He shifted me upwards by the pelvis to facilitate his mouth upon me. His face was saturated, by us, his chin dripping with the marriage of our secretions.

He might have tried to clean me, but he failed. His mouth was overcome by my reaction, he had to swallow. The abundance was so extreme that there was just no place for it to go but his stomach. Still, he was undeterred, he continued to push me to multiple summits. I admit that there was something devastatingly weakening about the thought that he didn’t fear tasting himself, inevitably, swallow some of it…

When he concluded, he came up to kiss my cheek, I turned my head to meet his lips. I could taste the salty residue on his lips. The euphoria of he and I still present on his lips kept me from releasing him. I want to taste what he tasted, I did not want to miss a thing. All I wanted was just that one last kiss, just one to sooth my tongue with the taste, the scent in his mouth.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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