0 comments/ 7043 views/ 0 favorites Sensuality Still Hangs in the Air By: SweetOblivion Sensuality hanging in the air: it was a thought. A solitary nagging question of 'What if I did?' They'd written to each other and talked about it, of course, but somehow the situation had never quite arisen: timing, mood, other events getting in the way. For the most part, the thought never surfaced, buried now in the layers of friendship, the discussion of books, love and the day-to-day demands of life. Sometimes, however, like this afternoon, it invaded Clare's mind. It made her head spin and her body respond of its own accord, despite her attempts to overrule it. At times like this, she struggled against the urge to touch herself; one part of her mind wanting to but another trying not to encourage the thought's growth. By keeping her fantasies in the past, where they'd both shared them, it was under control. If she allowed herself to come picturing Andrew, imagining the way their bodies would meld, the way they would make each other feel, it could escape and grow. She might find herself saying something inappropriate - or worse, doing it: and the time for that had passed. Clare fought against the thought, distracting herself with her publishing work: there was enough of that to keep her busy. The insistent seductiveness continued unabated all the same. She could feel herself almost ready to melt in the heat generated by her yearning. This, in turn, lent more credence to the thought itself. Yes, her own arousal always aroused her further: it was a whirlpool that sucked her down until she couldn't hold back any longer. She just had to let herself float away, abandoning all control. But no: she managed to keep her head above water. It was a struggle but she would not let herself think about him more than she had to. She would not think of kissing him - not the simplest little kiss possible. She would not consider how her lips might gently touch his, with barely any pressure as they enjoyed that first touch. After all, she always knew that it was a certainty that she would never be close enough to breathe in his scent. She would never feel the warmth of his arm. She would never actually have to give in. She shook her head, trying to shake off the mental sensation of him returning the barely perceptible pressure, trying to decide whether to take things further. Then, as their bodies moulded to fit each other's form, she shut her eyes tight. She would not contemplate thigh against thigh, chest to breast, arms gradually moving up to hold each other closer. Her eyes screwed up would push away any idea of them kissing harder. The innocence would remain innocent. The pleasure would not give way to a strong hint of unfulfilled desire. There were times when Clare could feel herself slipping. Then she would take a deep breath and bring her attention back to the document in front of her, but still...still...his arms strong around her back, gripping slightly now, feeling the taut muscles in her shoulders, releasing the tensions of her day as his hands started to move over her skin...the image haunted her. The sky darkened outside as the afternoon drifted into evening and her proof reading was left unfinished. She could not return to her work. She was too busy returning the embrace: sliding her hand up his back to his neck, gently teasing the hairs at the base of his head, pulling him to her as the kiss deepened. There was a streetlight that had just lit up outside her window and a tempting restaurant across the way. Pasta would be nice. Very nice. There was a tongue slipping over her lower lip. She was unsure which might happen first, but one was mundane and the other intoxicating. He had created a world for her to escape to. The kiss, still gentle but teasing now was a frontier. His tongue running over her lips was a sentry. And hers: the reluctant traveller, hesitant at the border - still not quite daring to enter. A moan escaping her lips, signalling her desire. A slight push of her mind reaching out to his and their tongues would be entwined. She put down her pen, giving into the kiss with a tremble now. The nerves became anxiety, worry and concern almost to the point of pain. The thought of feverish tongues, grinding bodies, hands moving to her waist and lips to the neck became overwhelming. And after that she was sure there would be a return to his lips, by now the kiss showing clear intent: her hands running over his body, his sliding underneath the thin cotton of her top, feeling the soft skin of her midriff then moving to her back, tracing his fingers up her spine. Her hands tugging at his belt, pulling his shirt out and sliding her hands up to caress his torso. And then, the look: that point when she knew, if only for a single moment, that they both wanted the same thing more than anything else in the world. She could hold back no longer. Her hand moved inside her top as she imagined him caressing her, his hand creeping slowly over her skin, teasing the underside of her breast before moving, achingly slowly, up over the soft flesh. Clare moaned as she clutched her hand to her blouse. She moaned as she imagined him touching her. Yes, there it was: the first stroking; then the rubbing the ball of his thumb over her flesh; and then the pinching, getting harder as she squirmed excitedly under his touch. Her other hand moved between her thighs, pushing her clothes aside to feel the wetness suffusing her. As her finger slid over her sex, slicking her thighs, she pictured him bending to take the tip of her breast in his mouth, one hand sliding down to feel her belly shivering, eager for more, eager to be filled and frustrated that he was making her wait. Let his hand move so skilfully across the page. Let his hand move skilfully over her. Let him put down his pen. She wanted his fingers free to explore. She wanted them against her, inside of her, pressing and fondling and touching, just as her own fingers were pressing into her wetness. She wanted to feel more but it was too desperate, too urgent and far too needy. She closed her eyes and remembered how she had dreamt of him kissing up and down her body, his tongue flicking over her skin: over her breasts, stomach and thighs until he reached her wetness and it darted in to taste her, like a humming bird in search of nectar. The touch was fleeting, teasing, tempting, making her arch towards him and offer him all. She continued to rub herself, feeling the heat, the swelling, hard yet soft sensation of her flesh under her fingers. Her mind was his. He would be aching with desire now. Yes, time to give him some relief. With her eyes still closed she pushed her hand down to the zip on her handbag and undid it, closing her eyes and dreaming that she was reaching in to take him into her hand, loving the way that he would pulse at her touch. She could smell him in the air but she wanted to taste him. As she ducked to take him in her mouth, it was not the creak of a chair that greeted her. No, she could hear him groaning, obviously loving the way her tongue flicked over him, savouring the taste of the arousal she'd initiated. It was inevitable that reality would creep back at the point. The warmth of the restaurant lights across the road intruded. Pasta. Food. An aperitif before he rolled up. She stood up, abandoning the proof reading and sliding out of her little office, carefully locking the door, so that the cleaners would not disturb the chaos that she worked in. It was equally inevitable that there would be that trembling again as he pulled her tightly against him, his arousal obvious against her thigh; her lips moving over his neck, laying a trail from his earlobe to shoulder, eager to taste the salt of his skin. When Clare finally slid across the road and ordered a martini, something to sip while she waited. As she pushed the menu away from her, thinking about how he would slide into her, pushing her back. She could hear it in her head - there was that creaking groan again, despite being tempted to let her take things to their natural conclusion. As he bent over her, he would kiss her hard, parting her thighs - just like this - mmmmm - and sliding himself inside her in one move, filling her up more than the three fingers of her hand. Ah yes! Clare would lose herself in the sensation, in the 'what if I did', in the surrender...the sensuality hanging in the air... "Good evening," Clare smiled broadly. She reached up to kiss Andrew's cheek, shivering as he rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. "How are you tonight, darling?" "I'm in a very positive frame of mind," he smiled back, pointing at the empty martini glass in front of her. "And you have started ahead of me I see, you naughty girl!" "I am no lush, Andrew." "I am the lush; you are a luscious, Clare. Shall I order a bottle and something to eat?" "That would be lovely," Clare smiled and rearranged the cutlery in front of her. "I see your new book on the 'algebraic exchanges before dinner' is selling brilliantly," Andrew laughed. "I know," Clare smirked boastfully. "You wait until the sequel - 'post-prandial conversations leading to later'." "I'm glad to hear it," Andrew said, watching the now infamous authoress sit down and take in how crowded the restaurant was. "It will need to be if you are going to luxuriate in white cashmere jumpers all the time." "The dining room seems to be a bit of a racoon pit tonight," Clare complained. "Unfortunately you're so right. Let me go over and order for us. It will save time waiting." "Your kind offer will help us rise above the racoon pit, I'm sure." "Thank you for the vote of confidence, Clare. Pasta alright for you?" "I'll vote for anyone, Andrew, so long as you pay me enough. I have been contemplating pasta all afternoon." "Anything else?" She blushed. "There was something else I see. Tell me about it when I get back." She watched him walk across the room and have an animated conversation with one of the waiters. She loved the way he gesticulated and made his point. Mmmm - such a lovely point it was. "Well," Andrew smiled on his return with a bottle of Chianti and two glasses. "Are you going to spill your saucy beans?" "No one could call me anything but corrupt," Clare giggled, "but I prefer to swallow, not spill." "I shall note that for later," he grinned. "Take me as I am or don't take me at all." "At least you are honest about it," Andrew frowned and Clare responded by reaching across and touched his arm reassuringly. "Can I call you venal, sweetie?" "Well, you could," replied Clare, pouting a little, " but only if you are feeling charitable." "I agree. Venality can be a very overrated virtue." "You are quite sardonic for someone who says he is in a positive frame of mind, Andrew." "I didn't mean to come across that way." "Were you saying the first thing that came into your head?" "I'm amazed things still come into my head." "And you think you are the only one who could be foolish that way, did you?" "Well, it's hardly an all encompassing admission." "I still find it very refreshing," Clare smiled. "Why?" "I know you like to see what others make of you before you commit." "That might apply in the right circumstances." "Well, don't ask me what the right circumstances are. I do so hate to be pinned down." "I won't ask then." "Actually," Clare giggled archly as she sipped her wine, "sometimes being pinned down can be fun! My! I am so full of contradictions tonight." "I hope to be full of conversation leading to later soon," Andrew laughed, infringing Clare's copyright alarmingly. "I'll let that go this time," Clare laughed and laid a book spine upwards on the table. She rustled through her handbag looking for her compact. Raising it up in one hand and lifting an eyeliner pencil up in the other, she began to tidy her make up. "If a waiter peeked over your shoulder, would she be shocked to see what foreign novel you were reading?" "I'm ashamed to admit," sighed Clare, "I'm almost too busy at work to read. It's quite regrettable. I have borrowed Crime and Punishment for effect." "Your effects put me to shame," Andrew smiled. "I can only manage chic lit in my present frame of mind." "Dostoyevski would be shuddering in his grave at your confession." "I don't think the chic lit authors would be too happy either." "I'm sure he wouldn't take it as far as shuddering, while they will take anyone's filthy lucre." "A light tremor then?" "Perhaps," Clare shrugged. "Like that of your knee when a stray hand land upon it in a restaurant?" "Stray hands make me aware of the proximity of friends." Clare put down her compact and reached under the table to squeeze Andrew's interloping hand. "They are inevitably followed by a shared smile and perhaps a playful pouting of the lips." They paused and looked down at the delicious pasta dishes that had just been deposited on their table. Clare was intrigued by what he had ordered for her. She tried to let her vague recollection of the list of fare wipe away the fleeting anxiety that she might not like his choice. Then she shrugged. The food did not matter, but she did need to etch every detail in her memories to be able to recall this moment exactly. She looked away, feeling a little foolish at living in this dream world. Then she shrugged telling herself that she'd rather live in a dream world then face reality moment to moment to moment. It couldn't be helped, Clare giggled to herself, pondering the extra moment and looking away not entire sure of the right words - the correct phrase that would fit. She needed something light, something casual - something to break the ice and stop her from realising Andrew had eaten her pasta as well as his own. "That was perfect," sighed Andrew. "It was, was it?" Clare frowned. "Oh good." "You need to pay more attention, Clare." "I don't always need to, to see right through you." "Am I that transparent?" "No, but you can be very greedy." "Will you miss the pasta terribly?" "If you had left me more than a morsel, I'd be less put out. I shall only stop berating you, when I have dunked my amaretto biscuit in your cappuccino." "Perhaps you should taste the remnants of the pasta? Can you believe I have not yet wiped my lips?" "My piggy friend has no table manners then?" "None at all." "Well it was considerate of you to offer." "A smile such as yours deserves a service." "Allow me to lean forward then," Clare began, "and forgive my clumsiness as I lose my balance falling halfway into your embrace." "Oh my, you would do better to sit on this side." "I would if there were room." "Hey, that was mean!" "Revenge for all those remarks about my bottom when we were both younger." "Your bottom is not so much older now." "It's still big enough to stop me running off with the waiter." "You'd never leave me." "Not until I get your biscuit anyway." "That will take dexterity and ingenuity." "Then you see my predicament." "Solving your predicament has always been my bottom line." "That is no excuse to fondle my bottom, dearest Andy." "Desire knows no excuses. Where will it all lead?" "To the ladies?" "The facility is yours to use, should you so wish." "If you will pardon me for just a moment, I will be right back." Andrew watched Clare disappear through the crowd and then picked up her compact. He stared thoughtfully at it before opening it up. Then he pouted up and kissed the mirror taking care to make no noise as his lips meshed with the circle of burnished metal. Feeling restive, he turned Clare's book around on the table and found that it was a book of verse. Flicking through it idly, he found it full of the greats. He read a few lines from several of the poems and sipped from another brimful glass of chardonnay. Was Clare still studying English after all these years? "I return as promised," Clare declared loudly, stopping him in mid chuckle. "Wee sleekit cowering timorous beastie," Andrew mouthed at her "I beg your pardon?" "Burns." "I see you've kept busy in my absence." Clare pulled the book out of his hands and began flicking through it herself, wondering why he had chosen that poem in particular to quote. Perhaps he was just drunk and silly she decided. "One has to stay engaged. There are so many things to do in the bookshop of one's mind, but one must indulge the curious friend from time to time, must one not?" "Absolutely," Clare agreed. "It makes it easier to be swept off the feet, to be surprised, overwhelmed, shocked by the timorous hand of the stranger." "Would that be much more forward than another sleekit caress under the table?" "Yes, but less so than your beastie hand under the hem of my skirt." Andrew sighed and allowed a little break in the flow of those naughty ideas, as his hand grew bolder and more beastly. He advanced slowly and all the time, as she leant steadily forward, watched his face, trying to discern lust and passion and abandon in his eyes. With his free hand he took the book of poems from her hands and set it aside. His searching fingers glided against Clare's skin, growing bolder in the endeavours. "And in a public place no less," Clare suddenly woke from her lethargic reverie. "My goodness! Will you be pausing to fondle my breasts next?" "I prefer to be a little more discreet, no matter how well watered my companion," chuckled Andrew. "Anyway can I help the intoxicating aroma of your skin? It drives me to take such daring chances in the first place." "What do you have in mind?" "Your house is too far away." "But is there a chance you might be interested in seeing my publisher's office?" Clare murmured conspiratorially. "They are conveniently located in the building across the street and we do have a cappuccino machine." "But do you have amaretto biscuits?" "Barrels full of them." "Then, I could certainly contemplate the journey, reinforced by your generous donation of pasta and assisted by your arm." "Donation is hardly the right word," Clare frowned. "I prefer to think of it as an investment." "Are you paying the check too, then?" "I see you still work in the charitable sector." "You should never over analyse something or someone you like," Andrew pouted. "I was making a joke, Mr Red-in-tooth-and-claw-and-béchamel-sauce." "I was going a confession Miss-white-in-jumper-and-cornea-and-slip." "It's nice to be liked occasionally," Clare agreed, seeing that her slip was indeed showing. She reached down and pulled her skirt down, restoring her immaculate woman of the world look. "Does my skirt look lonely now I have covered up?" "No, it looks lovely. I have always liked your taste in clothes." "Life can get lonely without 'like' sometimes." "Even loneliness is amusing, once you find someone to share it with." "You can be quite philosophical, when you contradict yourself, Andrew." "If I couldn't contradict myself then I might end up rational." "Heavens no!" "And then, where would your next pair of shoes come from?" "Are you coming? Or shall I wait for you to continue to offer me footwear?" "Do you want to find me barefoot in the shadows then, Clare?" "That could be very interesting, although I'd much prefer to find you barefoot too and much closer than this to me." "We'll see about the vagaries of fate later, Clare." "How much Chardonnay did you drink, darling?" Clare mused looking wide-eyed at the bill. "I was thirsty." "Let's face it, Andrew. If you'd ordered Prosciutto ham, that would have been cannibalism." "You're always making fun of me," he pretended to sulk. "I know you don't mind." "I don't mind at all." Sensuality Still Hangs in the Air "Boredom and a bottle of wine are too dangerous a mix," sighed Clare, as her tipsy friend slid out of his chair. "Be careful Andrew!" "Do I cause you embarrassment now you are about to achieve the pinnacle of fame and fortune?" "Not in the least and I'm afraid I'm not in direct danger of any of those things." "We can but dream," Andrew slurred. "Will you lead me to the door?" "I will." "Across the road and who knows where?" "Don't let my arm around your waist be any sort of bother and I won't mind your ever curious hand on my hip." "I am too busy watching for traffic coming the wrong way." "You've nothing to fear so long as I'm on your arm." "And what's the occasional bottom squeeze when your attention is elsewhere?" "I'll forgive you. You are an Englishman after all - more used to horses than traffic," Clare exaggerated wildly as she pulled him across the foyer of the financial plexi-glass-and-metal fortress and across to the elevators. "Into the valley of global capitalism walked the two teasers," Andrew giggled drunkenly. "Shall we check our portfolio for cucumbers, carrots, chicory and other root vegetables beginning with c at the desk?" "Shhh," Clare whispered. "You'll wake the night clerk." It was very late and they saw no one in their way except for the receptionist behind her desk, napping her life away. They entered the elevator, their shoes sinking in plush carpeting, just the two of them. Clare pressed the button for the eleventh floor and leaned against the cold steel wall and fished in her purse for her compact mirror and lipstick. She mused that the elevator never looked smaller from the inside out as she unscrewed the cap and slowly reapplied her lipstick. Was she waiting for feather-light touches inside the sleeve of her blouse? Andrew watched her silently as they ascended, so much faster than his hands would ascend under her skirt. The cool air in the street had woken him up and heightened his awareness of her sensual presence. He reached over to touch her cheek as they stood side by side in the lift. "So soft. Are you tired?" "Yes," she nodded and smiled. "That's perceptive of you." "I can be." "I'd be more tired if I'd gone riding this morning, even if I really miss trotting out with Pieter." "Ah! The famous well-endowed groom." "The very same. You sound almost jealous, Andrew." "I know." "We are great friends. Nothing more: no matter how splendid his endowments. Anyway," Clare shrugged. "Never mind." "I like it when you share intimacies with me." "Maybe that isn't a good idea," Clare smiled. "It might put you in danger of being loved by me." Andrew stared at her, wondering what to say and then leant forward to kiss her. She responded and held him there her hands resting on his forearm as their lips melded together. The kiss lasted a good while, until with a little sigh she broke away and shuffled across into the corner, putting a little distance between them. "That was a joke by the way." "I love the way you tell those jokes," he grinned. "I've never kissed anyone in a lift before," she smiled back at him, his amusement contagious as ever. "I would have imagined it would be surreal." "You look very attractive standing here with me. I could imagine you naked, Clare. There would be imprints from the rail on your flesh: on your bare tummy as you lay belly down and your upper thighs as they are splayed widely." "Ah! No, it is your imagination that is stretched and displayed, Andrew," she giggled. "If you like." "I do like to giggle, unless of course, you don't like: in which case I will cease and desist immediately." "You are very flexible." "Do you mean double jointed, Andrew, or just sexually dextrous?" "Actually I would hope the first a little bit, and expect the second most definitely." "Super-heroine Miss Clare Dextrous to the rescue," she grinned. "She reaches the parts that other girls can't reach!" "Her tongue as agile as a lizards. Her need to be beaten with left over celery sticks." "If you please, sir," Clare cackled gleefully. "And how long have you had these symptoms, Clare?" "Ooh! Doctors and nurses is it now, Andrew?" "I think the night porter would object to his lift being turned into an ambulance." "Does that matter?" "That depends on what sort of a mood he is in and whether he is prepared to sacrifice his vanity to you in your glamorous nurse's uniform." "Even night porters need to be loved, Andrew." "You are such a generous girl, Clare." "Well, to be excruciatingly honest, I am not in a playful mood, at least as far as the night porters of the world are concerned." "I can stop pouting already then." "Aw! Were you feeling unloved, Andrew?" "I'm feeling tired and listless. I spent too much time out walking in the country over the weekend. The moors are so nice." "Actually, Andrew, I once had a Moorish lover," Clare giggled infectiously. "Sometimes he was nice — so I know." "Are you serious?" "Yes, of course. He kept wanting more." Andrew shook his head. "It was the way he yelled Allah Akbah when he came that finally led me to leave him." "Now your teasing is becoming absurd." "Yes, but you still love it, Andrew." "Yes, I do." "Seriously. I did have a brief liaison with an Arab boy. He was a refugee from Algeria during the troubles there." "You are so cosmopolitan, Clare. All my relationships have been with English people. I don't even have an Irish or Scottish scalp to my name." "You poor insular man." "Was your Arab boy really nice?" "Yes, he was, but he was very chauvinist..." Clare paused. "I don't think they see it as chauvinism..." "And," Clare interrupted and added in a delicious lie:" overly fond of sherbet dip after anal sex." "Are you trying to leave me speechless?" "I will leave you liquorice to eat to stop your complaining," she grinned and then looked at him seriously once again. "Tell me. Andrew..." "Yes?" "I may be too rich a mix for you. Perhaps you should water me down?" "I hardly need to spice you up." "I have to admit to being a practical 'AV' though." "What is an AV?" "An anal virgin," Clare shrugged. "I have often wanted to. I was going to buy one of those strings of beads, but I was too shy to order them. When I come I often feel like it would heighten the experience to have something, um, 'there'." "You have to be careful and gentle." "Yes, that's what I've read. I don't like hurt there, which is maybe why I've not tried it. My who'd have thought that this taxi would turn into a sex therapy clinic?" "A girlfriend told me that my kiss on the bud was nice," Andrew replied reflectively, leaning forward to close the glass panel between them and the driver, "as is the arrow point of a tongue and the soft stroke of a finger." "Kisses anywhere round there are nice specially after a really hard "sherbet dip," she laughed and stepped into the corridor. "Or a really hard spanking, you naughty girl," he smiled pressing his hand against her bottom. "I think the pressing of a thumb would be preferable to the calloused palm of your hand." "I'd like to do either to you, Clare." "I know, Andrew but while you were away and after Pieter left, I still had my hairbrush." You be careful with the hairbrush handle." "I will. I you don't want to look like a total fuck bunny." "Or a stuck bunny." "Maybe you do," she giggled perversely as they walked past office door after office door. "You know, when I get home, I'm going to look in the cupboard for my fancy dress Easter bunny ears." "Hey, I've just realised. We wrote a poem." "We did?" "Yes, I'll have to remember to write it down when we get to your apartment. Listen: "A kiss on the bud is nice And the arrow point of a tongue And the soft stroke of a finger And the soft stroke of a finger" "And the moan of the fuck bunny?" "No, you silly Bimbette! And the pressing of a thumb." "Andrew, you are making me moist again," she laughed. "I do so love it when you tell me off." "Is that so misguided of me?" "Less misguided that the shaped carrots and aubergines I've used," Clare blushed. "Is that what you call 'vegging' in?" Clare giggled again, but said nothing, looking down at the floor of the Taxi as it drew to a halt. "Softer than a hairbrush I should think," Andrew mused. "Thank you Andrew," she smiled, reaching for the door handle and pausing to gaze down at her fine manicured fingers. "And no nasty, sharp finger nails either." "A blessing I suppose though that may depends on how boiled the vegetable is?" He grinned over his shoulder as she fiddled with the keys to her own office. "Noooooo! Raw and fresh and yielding of course; smooth and slick and sweating cool carrot or aubergine juice ... peeled naturally, Andrew." "And lightly shrouded in the darkness of your oblivion?" "Along those lines, yes." "A profoundly empty solitude where you won't sit down for weeks?" "Um...that's what I might be afraid of." "Actually, Clare..." "Yes?" "You'd look very strange with florets of broccoli sticking out there." Her mobile phone rang and she fumbled in her handbag for it, talking away to him as she hunted: "Two former boyfriends wanted to do it to me there and a girlfriend, but I wouldn't let any on them...not with broccoli I hasten to add." "Don't spoil my deliberate misunderstandings with your haste," he pouted and reached over to pull the mobile from her coat pocket and place it in her hand. "Are you saving yourself for the wombat you truly love?" "Nope! I'm just saving my arse! Hey look at this text message. It's Pieter - he wants to know if I'm home alone." "Tell him it's just you and your seven bore shot gun tonight." "Shan't." "Clare." "Yes?" "Turn it off and look at me." "Okay." "I could lay with you in a field and count cloud shapes forever." "Andrew! That is so romantic," she melted and reached over to kiss him again. "Be careful. You might make me want to lick your body until you scream loud enough to frighten all the ducks." "With the arrow of your tongue?" She giggled, pushing the key into the familiar white door and pressing the heavy wood open. "Yes," he said, patting her bum. "I will pull up your blouse and help you to wriggle out of your jeans and kiss you on the crotch of your panties and on the hollow of your belly and hover over you barely touching you." "Shhh! The night watchman." "It's okay. I'll leave your panties on. Decorum, decorum, decorum." They slid into the room together, his hands pulling her blouse from her jeans, touching the warm flesh; her hands reaching up to scuffle his hair. Andrew stood still and slid his hands down to her flanks, looking at her admiringly. Clare reached up to kiss his throat as he unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off her shoulder blades, pausing to kiss each one. He felt the swell of her breast gliding against his shirt and wanted to press her down onto the desk to roll her over onto her tummy to massage her slowly. He was impatient now. He pulled the blouse up and unclipped her brassiere, pushing his hands in place to cup the soft, welcoming breasts, while he breathed in the perfume of her recently washed hair. She lay back and enjoyed the press of the cheap fabric of the cushions and the musty smell of the place — unused for longer than the last time she felt that clasp loosen and give or her breasts cupped from behind, the nipples tender between splayed fingers. Andrew reached down to her lower back and planted kisses one after another until she was trembling and wriggling her bottom eagerly — wanting the touch. Clare's hands brushed the fabric and then touched his hands as she responded with a low, soft moan, arching her back up, impatient and needy, desiring and so far unrequited. She lifted her bottom up, parting her thighs slightly as Andrew slid lower to kiss the tops of her thighs. His hands stole round to unbutton her jeans and pull them down over the backs of her hips and then all the way down to the soles of her feet in one smooth unwrapping gesture. Clare felt the whisper of his hair at her feet: dark sleek hair that tickled her ankles, her calves as his fingers crept up to her intimate parts. Andrew pushed her legs apart and sat on the bed cross legged behind her, watching her breathing in and out, pressing her face into the pillow. He observed her until he decided that she was ready to have her thighs parted and the gusset of her panties pulled to one side, so that the 'arrow of his tongue' might slip where none have been allowed to slip before. Clare raised her arms, palms flat on the bed, moulding herself into the mattress, pressing down and then lifting alternately. She felt the arousal in her nipples, her face suffused with the a red blush, warmed by the sensation of rubbing... "Do it Andrew," she moaned softly, then more insistently: "pull them aside." He pressed his face into the soft crease of her lovely bottom, sensing how she was ready- moist...wet even. As she felt the elastic tugged aside, she sensed the air on her wetness and her thighs splayed all the more widely. Andrew began to lick and tease and caress until Clare was sopping with moisture and unable to resist reaching down to touch herself through the material. Andrew watched as she reached under both of them, raising her tummy up off the bed as her fingers slipped onto her fabric covered clit. Meanwhile, he pressed his hands down on her buttocks and placed his fingers in the elastic to draw them down slowly over her cheeks. He smiled as they sat empty at the top of her thighs. And Clare could feel every sensation — the descending thin fabric, pressing at her swollen need. Lifting her thighs again and pressing her face into the darkness of the pillow, she sensed his quick, wicked tongue gliding and probing. Andrew promised himself that he would kiss every centimetre of the pale flesh until he could not resist the impulse to press his mouth and nose into the pliant crease. He let his lips play on her manipulating fingers, as she toyed with herself enraptured. "And the arrow of the tongue finds the tightness of the bud," he murmured. "Shhhh! Just do it!" Clare felt so exposed, imagining being him, looking down on that dark puckered, untouched place. As she did so, unconsciously her fingers began to move faster in the top of her thick dark bush. "Oh my!" "What is it, Andrew?" "There is a taste of carrot and coriander lingering in the locus." "Hush." He chuckled and bent down to his task, watching once more as she rotated her hips in tune to the oscillations of his tongue. Was he trying to lose the image of absurdly overpriced Covent Garden soup and enjoying the sight of her sex. lifting to allow her whole hand to press and cup> It didn;t matter. His palm still slid and rubbed over the slit. He pushed his palms down, watching the imprint on her wide, open bottom. Then he let his left hand drift down to allow two fingers reach down to join hers, pushing in to the sucking slit to add to her excitement. "Yes, yes," Clare moaned softly into the warm pillow, her breath making little beads of moisture on the fabric as she panted and squirmed under him. "Understanding without effort," he recited quietly, "the language of moist existence." Her panties were stretched almost to breaking as she spread her thighs wider still. The way she was slightly raised up on her knees, allowed him to see the full swell of her mound and her open lips. Her fingers brushed his as she masturbated herself faster, panting harder now...wanting his tongue to lick the surplus juices from her inner thigh and to deposit a little load of saliva and secretion around the pertness of her behind in a perverse benediction of her flesh. He would make her nether parts atone for her pleasure, letting the punishment fit the crime in the sweetest of fashions. Clare was undulating by then, thrusting up and down on her own hand, making little moans and gasps of pleasure as each spasm moves from her tight tummy down to the V of her pussy. She could feel the roll of his saliva on her sensitive hot place... "Yes Andrew ... mmmmm...fuck me," she whispered as he rolled under her, pulling her up and over him so that she straddled him, her hands reaching down to unbutton and unzip. The loose boxers were scarcely an obstacle, the smile on his face concealed from the world as she leant over him and pushed back, forcing his lips up against her furry cunt. A warmth of sensation enveloped him- the warmth of the world between her thighs. She reciprocated reaching down to touch him with one hand, a prickling sensation adding to the heat and musk between her legs. Clare's mouth opened to take him in as he began to lick and tease and pull her hips apart. His head rested on the back of her calves as her limbs crossed under the back of his neck. The movement pulled his head up, so that he could reach up and slide his fingers from the wetness of her sex to the tightness of her crease. "Clare?" "Mm?" Looking back at him over her shoulder crouched as she was, with his erection in her hand. "Do you have any handy discarded vegetables of the genus carrot?" "No, but I have got a nice, fat cock in my hands." "I couldn't help but notice." "Me too." "Surprising that." "Hardly." "Andrew?" "Mm?" "Fuck me." He pretended to look dubiously at the imaginary vegetable clenched in his fist. "Andrew," she laughed. "I need to come here." "What, now?" "Please, Mr Andrew, sir, I want to be a very naughty girl." "You are very much so, young lady," he grinned and reached up to slap her posterior. "Playing with the invisible vegetable rack without permission." "Fuck me, Andrew. Please," she begged, leaning down to kiss the head of his cock. "And what should I fuck my sweet little darling Clare with?" He taunted, reaching up each side of her hips, his hands playing over her bare cheeks, slapping and pinching lightly and then pulling her down to his face to bite her lightly "Your cock, Andrew; your tongue; the vegetable; anything." "Oooooooh! Desperation. Goodie!" So saying he pulled her wet, hot, musky cunt hard down onto his mouth forcefully, as if wanting to consecrate her cunt on the pyre of her burning desires. "Mmmmmm, Andrew. I really do need to come now," she blushed "You need my tongue in your cute little arsehole, pressing into the dry and unexplored interior?" "Do it! Yes," she moaned as she began to masturbate his fine upstanding prick with one hand reaching down to caress her so wet cunt with the other. "A hunter lost in the tight little cavern, seeking a way into the maze of your desires." "Enough with the poetry already!" She squealed, rubbing cunt and cock faster. "Just fuck my arse, Andrew." "Fuck (lick) your nice round (lick) buggerable bottom, Clare?" "Torturer." "The tight little enclave that you save just for me?" "Yes, Mr Andrew, sir...you can have it...tight and hot." "Kneel on the floor, girl." "Yes, sir." She slid off him and crawled down onto the carpeted office floor, as he raised himself up on one elbow, watching her catlike movements. "Bend down and play with your puffy cunt lips." "Yes, Andrew." "Arse up, girl." "Yes, sir." "Nice." He watched her hands hover around the velvety slit, fingers reaching up to expose the musky darkness to him. He saw her start as her index finger made contact with the crinkly folds of her vagina, exposing the secrets of her sex. Then he pulled himself onto the edge of the bed and pushed up to crouch behind her, listening to her breath coming in ragged gasps. Sensuality Still Hangs in the Air "Oh god!" she murmured as she felt the stab of his hardness into her behind. "Nice and tight," he muttered happily as he pushed in more firmly, impaling her on his saliva covered cock, listening out for the light gasping as he winged his way into her fundament, ramming her hot little hole, filling her entire universe. He looked down to see her knickers perched precariously around her ankles: all dignity gone in her search for a little death on the shores of eternity. And as he fucked her, she could only pant harder and think to herself how she was so very near to the oblivion she sought. She tried to keep as still as she could to amplify their respective pleasure by the tense connection between them. "Clare?" "Mm so near, Andrew. So very near." "Come for me, Clare. Come you lovely slut. Let me hear the burning sob of your desire." He pushed into her as deep as he could and then withdrew, just leaving his cock-head nesting in her tightness. And then repeated the gesture, creating excruciating feelings in the woman. "Oh fuck I am going to, Andrew. I want to be your arse slut...cunt slut...your wanton, hot girl." He reached round to her tits and cupped her, squeezing and feeling her big heart pounding, stretching her anus on his embedded prick, his gestures smooth and forceful like his words, now he was fully in control. "Come, girl. Come Clare. Scream my name as you give yourself away." "Andrew - do me — do my arse...do my hot slutty cunt now! I'm going to... "You know where you belong, Clare, You sultry little cuntlet." He pressed into her, slapping her buttocks as he sodomised her, murmuring meaningless endearments, as she yammered her excitement in front of him. Perspiration beaded both their faces as she squeezed him and came. "Ohhh myy goddddd! Andrew, Andrew, Andrew" "You poor...you innocent... you little...bum fucked...child," he smiled, pausing to press home after each word. As he held back he watched her get her breath back and then, suddenly realised from the blind stare she gave him over her shoulder that she was not finished. She needed more brutal thrusting into her arse to make her complete her quest. He was going to give it to her, again and again and again, until she could never, ever hope to regain her sense of equilibrium. "I will have to spank you very hard indeed you realise, naughty girl," he intoned, trying not to chuckle at her helpless surrender, knowing that his words and his embedded prick would bring her over the edge, "on your freshly fucked posterior..." "Mm...ooh...god...yes...spank...yes," she stuttered as she felt herself lifted up on the crest of a wave of delight, hearing him faintly through the rush of blood to her head. "I will have to smack your pussy too, until you come for me like a beacon lighting the whole damned office." "Ohhhhhh...mmm," she sighed, as he slid from her." That was so... so nice." "I noticed you seemed to be enjoying yourself." "I came about three times," she blushed. "The second really hard." "Kiss me, you sweet lovely," Andrew smiled, pulling her back and cradling her in his arms. "Oh Andrew," she panted, trying to get her breath back and leaning back to kiss him as his fingers played idly with her nipples and caressed her tits. "I am so glad to have given you the pleasure." "Thank you! Thank you...mm...that was lovely, Andrew," she sighed leaning back against his collar bone and raising herself up to plant a huge wet kiss on the underside of his chin. "Pull your panties up like a good little tartlet." "Stop making me laugh with your sweet commentaries." "You decorated my cock with your sweet secretions. You can suck it clean later." "Yes, sir." There is time enough for that, Clare, though, perhaps you should go riding less often." "Then I would get fat and flabby and I would squash Pieter when I fucked him." "I am sure that I could devise some other more productive form of exercise to give you a good feeling and deprive Pieter of that pleasure," he leered. "I love for you to enjoy yourself." "Yes, the good feelings are the best," Clare purred, twisting round and laying belly down on the carpet. " So...how do I sound now, Andrew?" He laughed, pushed her face down towards his dirty cock and leant over her to kiss the crown of her head as her lips made contact. She was still thinking, as she bent to her task of suckling and pleasuring and sending delightful feelings from his groin to his mind, realising how he felt mesmerized by her proximity and the innate sensuality that still hung in the air...