Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, couple, public, rimming) by Paul Hellion Page A

notice.
    You run your fingers along my hair.
One hand props you up, making you sit up a little. Your mind flashes to what
you're wearing. You have your bra and panties left. I have my shirt, albeit
unbuttoned. You lift one foot to press your toes against my thigh, and make
tentative steps closer to my crotch. I'm hard already. You feel your sole press
against the tip of my cock. You push it back just a slight bit. I continue
kissing your stomach, descending these kisses slowly but surely, to the band of
your panties.
    I can trace my lips around the band
of your panties, caressing lips against fabric with a certain reverence (all
hail that triangle of cloth covering my prize); I can trace my hands up and
down the sides of your hips. I want you with a deep desire, and no moan I
convey to that curving band can capture it.
    My hands massage your back,
starting from the lower back, edging upwards, stopping at your bra, and my
fingers try to unhook your bra and free your breasts. It's not exactly an easy
thing to do, and I've failed in the past. But luck is on my side, and it comes
off, and you help remove the bra, dropping it to the floor, next to the bed.
You try stimulate me with your foot, but something about doing that just feels
silly. You try to rub your sole against my cock. It feels awkward, ungraceful.
You stop. Not without a smile, though, because that awkwardness can be overcome
with just how eager you want to reach out and grab me, taking me by the mast.
    Back to the driving. A road sign,
illuminated by the beam of the car, tells you how many miles 'til the highway
exit to the airport. I'm snoring a little.
    Your mind flashes to me kissing
your clit gently now, pulling back the clitoral hood, finding that mound,
kissing with wet lips. I kiss your clit tenderly. You know exactly how this
feels. You've felt it a hundred times in the past, and it still never fails to
excite you. You begin moaning. All that desire channels into your moans. You
know you went through four boyfriends before you met one who dared to give your
pussy a kiss; it took you another five boyfriends before you met a man who did
it well. It’s an academic exercise at this point, trying to compare these
memories: did he, old and long forgotten he, lick you better than I do? Does he
do this?
    I flick my tongue out and lap
around the hood of your clit, then downwards in a confident stroke along the lips
of your pussy. I go down, and then up, and then down again. I catch your taste
against my tongue, sweet as ever, and sticky, moist. I go back to your clit.
You sit up now. Both hands support you, pressing with open palms against the
mattress, while I continue to eat you out. Your legs spread wider and wider
with each new ripple of pleasure.
    "Mmmmmmm," you murmur — 
just as you murmur while you drive now that you're recollecting this — and I
intensify, sucking and kissing and licking your clit ever faster, then slower,
moving in parallels with the way you're inhaling and exhaling. You're wetter
and wetter. My licking elicits more and more of your juices, and I rub my chin,
my cheeks, my nose in your juices as I trace new patterns to your clit.
    Your hand brushes to your pussy
while I continue to eat you out. My beard tickles the lowest section, near your
anus. Your hand wipes your inner thighs, moist from the teasing.
    “May I?” I murmur with a dark, low
tone matching your moan. My tongue pricks pressure down on to the lower
confluence of your labia, where your pinkness comes to an end before the pause
of skin that precedes the perfect punctuation stop that makes the rim of your
anus.
    You don’t know what to think.
“Y-yes,” you say, because all you can care about is that my tongue continues
coursing all over you. You’ve come so accustomed to my mouth lapping wet laps
around your body, be it your neck or your pussy, that you twitch right then
realizing that that’s the thing you’ll miss the most when I leave. You can
taste the minutes