Saturday Afternoon

When he touched her skin, it was with the hot tip of his cock. Her hands, tied to the tree limb over her head, flexed and extended into the warm summer air. She wanted, so badly, to close her legs, to slide her labia over her engorged clit, but her ankles were spread and bound. With each light brush of his cock, she arched and thrust, her body craving more. He circled her in the sunlight, running his hard meat across the concavity of her back and the bone of her hip, along the gentle convexity of her belly.

When he touched her stiffened nipples, it was with the tenderness of his lips. He kissed her breasts, almost imperceptively, barely. Her breathing was sporadic and ragged, each breath forced out of her with the electric spark of each kiss. Thin lines of her wetness ran down the insides of her legs, cooling in the flowing breeze. She wanted his hands, his probing fingers, the smothering warmth of his body on her. She ached inside, anticipating the muscular thrust of his ass as he drove the long pole into her depths. Still, he kissed her and rubbed his cock against her. He kissed each dip and slope of her neck and shoulders. He kissed the satin underbelly of each breast. He kissed the firm terrain of her ass and the quivering lips of her open, groaning, begging mouth.

When he touched her clit, it was with the blinding, exploding, universe of his tongue.