Lan's got her lips pursed because her mouth's full of come, my come, and she doesn't swallow.
Miraculous intimacy! That's what I thought when she sucked me off, as someone of my generation would—though not, perhaps, someone of hers.
I angle my shaft towards her mouth with my hand, and achingly feed myself in: Her lips, tongue, palate engorge me: I lengthen: huge like a
shunga print. I pull out and see my taut skin bubbled and slick with her spit.
Lan's head is raised up by two pillows. Kneeling between her splayed legs, huge, I thrust into her mouth. Looking down, almost from heaven, I see her cheeks hollow, see her elegant philtrum, dreaming eyelids, broad brow: her hair cut straight across her forehead, her white parting: the glossy black hair of the well-bred Asian daughter: the youngest of the family; the Stanford graduate.
All Lan knew how to do, despite
Cosmo's best efforts, was tighten around me, bob her head, and let me come in her mouth. I didn't, then, know what to ask for.
Lan never swallowed, and I never asked her to open her mouth, never saw my deposit coating her tongue, never Frenched her to taste what she tasted.
Perhaps Lan remembers me leaping: bumping her palate: spraying the back of her throat; perhaps she remembers the iron smell of my bush prickling against her nostrils.
Every moment was precious.
{NA}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 6/30/2004 02:30:00 PM
•
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