She Loves The Pussy

In the sultry, dimly lit bedroom, Lucia and Isabella’s bodies intertwined like vines, their naked forms a symphony of curves and crevices. Sweat-slicked skin glistened under the amber glow of vintage lamps, the only garments adorning their lithe figures the delicate gold chains at their necks. A bouquet of mingled scents – perfume, arousal, desire – perfumed the air, headier than jasmine in moonlight.

Lucia’s lips were soft pillows against Isabella’s neck, her teeth nipping playfully at the delicate flesh as her hands wandered, mapping out familiar territory with authorized curiosity. Isabella gasped, a breathy sound akin to smoky moans in a jazz club, her auburn hair cascading down her shoulders in tumbled waves. Her nails raked down Lucia’s back, leaving pink trails of phantom heat in their wake.

“Je me sens ivre,” Isabella breathed, the French words tumbling off her tongue like sweet liqueur. “Intoxicated by your touch.”

Lucia’s reply was a throaty chuckle, her fingers tracing the delicate ridges of Isabella’s ribs, trailing downwards, charting the smooth hollow of her belly… stopping just shy of the honeyed heat at the apex of her thighs. Isabella shivered, arching into the unspoken promise, her nipples pebbling into tight little rosebuds.

“Patience, my darling,” Lucia purred, her voice a husky whisper, “I intend to worship every inch of you.”

And worship she did, a high priestess attending to her most sacred altar. Delicate fingertips traced the delicate folds, painting the petals of Isabella’s sex with feather-light strokes. Wetness flowered under Lucia’s ministrations, sticky and silken, the unmistakable musk of arousal perfuming the room.

Isabella writhed beneath her, a wanton creature, splendid in her abandon. Her hands fisted in Lucia’s raven locks, urging her lower, keening for the feel of that wicked mouth against her most sensitive flesh. Lucia indulged her, feathering whisper-light kisses along the sensitive crevice, painting a path to paradise with lips and tongue.

The first flick of Lucia’s tongue against he diamond-hard pearl drew a long, low moan from Isabella’s throat. Her hips undulated, grinding against Lucia’s face, and the taste of her arousal was ambrosia on Lucia’s tongue. She licked and suckled, feasting at the source, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from her lover’s quivering body.

Isabella’s pleasure was building like a slow-moving tempest, a sensory deluge held back by the flimsy barrier of will alone. The coil of ecstasy at the pit of her belly wound tighter, hotter, a runaway train hurtling down a tracks of sensation.

“Tees-moi,” Isabella keened, the words a breathless plea, “Fuck me with your mouth, your tongue, your fingers. Make me yours.”

Lucia’s response was to double her efforts, her fingers delving deep into Isabella’s sodden core, scissoring and pumping, mimicking the age-old rhythm. Her tongue swirled and flicked and laved, an acrobat performing daring feats atop the slick nub of Isabella’s desire.

And then it happened, the perfect moment, the delicious unbearable peak. Isabella shattered, her orgasm a supernova blasting through her, splaying her open, bare, vulnerable. Her body arched, back bowing, face contorted in ecstasy as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Sweet juices erupted from her core, baptizing Lucia’s face, her fingers.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together, a mass of sated limbs and heaving chests, hearts beating in unison. Isabella’s fingers carded through Lucia’s sweat-dampened hair, her touch languid, boneless. Lucia’s head rested in the cradle of Isabella’s thighs, her eyes closed in contentment, a satisfied feline smile curving her lips.

“C’etait fabuleux,” Isabella sighed, her voice a husky purr, “Magnificent, truly.”

Lucia hummed in agreement, her tongue flicking out to lap at a stray droplet of ambrosia clinging to her lower lip. “Magnifique. You are magnifique, Isabella. And you taste divine.”

Isabella chuckled, the sound low and sultry, a melody of pure woman. “Flatterer. I taste of you, mon amour, of the passion we’ve shared.”

Lucia’s response was a considering hum, her eyes lazy with satisfaction as they roamed over Isabella’s flushed curves. “Then I shall savor this feast for as long as you’ll allow me. There is yet much territory to explore…”

And so the dance continued, a rhapsody of lips and limbs, a sensual symphony played upon skin. The night was young, and they intended to make the most of every moment, committed to their mutual pleasure, lost in the rapture of each other’s embrace. Vivid was the night, and ever would they dance beneath the silvery light of the moon, two souls entwined, completing each other, perfect in their imperfection, a love story written in the language of the body, intertwined for all eternity.

The End.