The lights off, the fan spinning overhead, the tress speaking outside my window. I can taste the chocolate on your skin. The wetness of it, the sweet flavor, the stickiness on the tip of my tongue, it’s all I taste.
The chill bumps on your thighs from the cold strawberries, the way you giggle when the juices fall in-between the crack of your ass. The way you suck the whipped cream off your finger showing me a prelude of things to come. You love putting on a show, you love performing. Sliding your tongue across your lips, the dark syrup dripping down your chin, you love it when I watch. “Lick it off” you tell me, “Don’t be scared” you say as you trace a chocolate trail for me to follow from your collarbone to your bellybutton to the spot no one gets to see but me.
Touching you feels amazing.
Your skin is soft and vibrant, moist and lickable.
You eyes are warm and flirty, there’s sexiness, love and nastiness in those eyes all at the same time.
Your body is a portrait, a canvas and my tongue and fingers are the paint brush. Sticking two fingers in the bowl of syrup I trace a circle around your most sensitive button. When I touch it you moan, when I flick it your legs open wider, when I lick it you scream my name as if I’m the only man that has ever brought you this sort of pleasure.
You cum hard. Really hard! You pull me until I’m on my back, your lips wrapped around by. The syrup in the palm of your hand, your hand wrapped around my nature. Once the chocolate is soaked in, you treat it like it’s an ice cream cone.
One long lick up the cone.
One long lick down the cone.
Our eyes never close, I never stop watching you bring me pleasure. You keep me on the verge of cumming but with every stroke you know my limits. I see in your eyes you enjoy teasing me, enjoy sucking me. You have no intentions of making me cum, you just love the game.
Pulling myself out of your mouth, I kiss you deeply! You lick some syrup off my cheek and sit down.
I wake up… I wake up… You’re not here.
The ceiling fan is blowing, the trees are talking but there’s no syrup, no you. Just dreams and nightmares.