The Gift - Turning Pages

Goodness, the skill that is there before her - who has gazed into her core so closely, so intimately? The love that is given in the drawing, it is another gift.

She looks for the word that is below the drawing, and it is a single word.

Touch.

She does.

Her own lips are warm to her finger tips, her wetness a warm sticky lubricant. She splits her labia with two fingers of one hand and slicks the juice from her cunt over the length of her favourite finger on her right hand, running the slide up over the bud of her clitoris. She shudders at her own touch, and presses the tip of her middle finger to that small rising place with the pressure, the lovely press, that only she knows, and she luxuriates in her own small movements.

Her bottom lip begins to tremble, and she bites down on the side of her lip with her teeth. She needs sensation in her mouth as well as at the top of her swelling sex, and deep inside her belly a hot ache spreads. She knows she will come soon, quietly, a gentle throb between her legs, her fingers slow on her clit and then faster when she needs it.

Now her movements are steady, her own familiar circling, the wetting and re-wetting of fingers, and every now and then, when more moisture is needed, two fingers in her mouth for the added wetness of her spit, and of course her taste. She tastes herself, that slight tang, before diving those slick fingers between her cunt lips again, and running them up the furrows of her lips, her folds, and over her clit. She gasps, her arousal rising, her breath faster, her neck thrown back and the soft cloth of her gown falls aside, and her nipples are high and tight.

Ah fuck, she cups one breast hard, and cups her fingers over her sex, twisting her body to grip her hand between her thighs. She cries out, she doesn't know what words, but knows why. Jesus, sweet Jesus, rub me with those fingers, make me come, I want to come. She is faster in herself now, her focus utterly on her finger tip and its place on and around her clitoris. Her orgasm surprises her with its intensity, building higher and faster, come now, she cries out, and comes, shuddering.

A warmth spreads from her belly, but deep within, her emptiness aches. Ah me, she shudders, and the book drops to the floor, its pages fluttering like some strange bird to soften its landing.

She will grope on the floor, later, for the warm familiar leather, and stroke the soft skin of the book's cover, but now her own skin cools in the aftermath of her sudden peak. She has taken herself by surprise, not expecting her light play to bring comfort so fast. It's nice, she is aroused still, but content and warm. For now.

Now doesn't last for long. When she comes once, she wants to come again, deeper this time. Fingers are not always enough, and sometimes when she is by herself she has to push her favourite length into her, her perfect length but it's not a man, so it's second best. Sometimes though, second best still makes her grunt and moan, as if a deep swathing fuck of a cock was inside her.

Sometimes, words are enough, with her dildo deep, and even the sound on her tongue, dildo, is lewd and lubricious. She can fuck herself, deep, and even in her ass, with her dildo. Deep, lubricant dripping and slick. She'd prefer cock driven semen to drip from her pulsing ass hole, but can't always get her man to do her there. Sometimes he will, if he understands her depths, truly.

She grapples on the floor. Surely the book, that hasn't opened its pages until she is ready, and then opens its pages like her legs spread wide, surely the book will have another page that will tell her what to do. She wants her writer to write her a fuck, deep. Can he do that?

She scoops the book up, and needs both hands, she is trembling so. She turns the page, or does the page turn itself, the words as eager as her eyes?

There on the page is a drawn cock, her perfect cock, hard and erect, its length just right for her hands, her long fingers would grip it around. She is about to place the book on the table beside her chair, she needs to go to her room, to her drawer, to reach for her dildo resting amongst her lace and cotton and silk folded there. But wait, she reads the words below the drawing:

Imagine. Imagine a man, holding you. Gripping him.

Perhaps she will not need her dildo just yet. The book is making promises, can she keep them?

She stirs on his lap, pushing her ass against the heat of his groin and a breast against his chest. She is curled, and even though she is tall, her cheek rests on his shoulder so she can look up to his face. They are gentle together, no haste, her fingers a slow trail on his cheek, a slow push back through his hair. Their lips and tongues are a long kiss, she sucks his lip between hers and his tongue probes.

Slowly at first, and then he is more insistent, his tongue a harder dart, a little fuck in her mouth, a smaller promise. She fights back, she wants her tongue to push against his teeth, to penetrate his mouth, to take him, make him moan and grip for more. She wants to fuck his mouth, and she straightens herself, her body firm and long, and her eyes are level with his now, and she fucks his mouth with hers, hungry, gasping. Her hand grips the back of his head, pulling him to her. They are tighter now, his arms wrap around her tight, an embrace across her back, enclosing her.

She's not fighting back, she's not attacking, she's not resisting, she wants to be surrounded by him. Her free hand grips his hardness and pulls its heat to her thigh. She wants his long body all against hers, his arms an embrace, her hand a grip, her thighs a clench, holding herself hot and tight. She's not ready to spread just yet, she's enjoying the tension of her thighs together, holding a dam of heat and spreading warmth.

The kiss is filling her, and her slow grip on his shaft pressed against her is pulling his heat into her skin, but it's their kiss that fills her most. She gasps, a high intake of breath, and his lower moan a deeper echo.

There's a shift in the air, a reversal, and she presses him back to the chair with both her palms on his chest. She swings over his thigh, and straddles him now, and she is taller, her long body taut and proud. She takes his face in both her hands, and holds him still, gazing down at him.

"Look at me," she whispers, and it's almost a command. His eyes open and his look is held by her gaze. She smiles, and her lips are full and red from their kiss. There is laughter in her eyes, her eyes are open wide, her pupils black, streaming the light between them, and he sinks deep into her gaze. He can't pull his eyes away, and his hands are still. She is commanding him now, to look at her, to see what she does.

As she pushes herself off his body, off the chair, the book falls, and as it does so a page turns. But she does not need to see this page, she knows what it shows, what the single word says. She doesn't need to be told what to do, because she wants to do it. As she kneels before him, and takes his long cock in one hand, her other hand reaches for the book and her fingers reach for the cover.

Her caress of the soft leather touches the same velvet softness that her fingers touch on the head of his cock. There is a sigh in the room, but she can't tell if it's from her man or from his book, it's so soft, the softest whisper.

The skin of his head is velvet soft, and she touches her own lips with her finger, to test if they are the same softness. She smiles up at him, pulling his gaze down onto the top of his cock. She makes one exploratory lick, her tongue red, a single taste and lick over the slit of his head.

"Uh, uh, uh, keep your eyes open," she warns, as his eyes flicker closed to focus the sensation of her tongue. She wants him to watch as she lowers her mouth over the plum coloured head, she wants him to see everything as she worships his cock, her slow hands a long caress, a tease, her hot mouth a long suck. Her tongue swirls around the top inches of his shaft as she gives him head. She holds his eyes still, making him look at her, what she is doing to him, until she is satisfied that she has his attention.

Only then does she let her gaze go, and focuses her attention utterly on this centre of him, his beautiful cock, his heavy balls, and there is no other place for her mind to go except this place, her mouth, his shaft, her fingers, her stroke, her drip of spit as she licks and sucks and swirls his shaft, his head, his balls, her teeth on his shaft a sideways bite, nipping the skin and a gentle reminder of who is doing what, here.

It's his cock, but it's her mouth, her tongue, her taste, her grip, her control.

She's the one urging up the swell of come from deep in his balls, but not yet. It's her hand feeling his burn, they are her eyes seeing him tighten between his thighs, those are her hands cupping his balls and pulling them down to slow him, to stop him. It's his body, but it's her pleasure in it that she is taking. He is hers now, her pleasure, her delight.

On the floor, she reaches for the book, and opens its cover and with one hand turns the page until she sees the page with the drawing she is modelling for, now. She can see the ink on the single word lighten as the ink dries. She didn't need to be told what to do, because she wanted to do it, so now the book is a diary with the single word written below the picture.

Suck.

She does, but she doesn't want his come in her mouth, she wants his hard cock deep in her cunt. But she's undecided, she can't decide whether she wants to ride him, or whether she needs him to throw his fuck into her. She can't decide whether to take him, or be taken herself. He's no good to her to choose, as this has always been her fantasy, her shifting dream, and he will do whatever she wants.

Perhaps she should look to the book once more, to see if her gift writer can help. Decisions, decisions, God how she hates them. Once again, she wants to be told what to do. She can no longer decide what she wants, only what she needs. A fuck, deep in her cunt. She's answering her own question, but can't articulate it, not yet.

In desperation she grapples on the floor for the book, and flicks its page. Tell me, tell me, tell me, she thinks, almost crying in her unfocused lust. She knows she wants to fuck, but how? Once again the page is illustrated, and there's her answer, magnificently drawn, lewd and abandoned, her thighs spread wide, her arms open wide, beckoning and willing to embrace. Oh glory, she's going to be fucked, hard, entered, taken, spread.

Taken.

The single word is a promise, a threat, it's a desire, it's a need. The woman wants to be taken, she needs her man's long, hard, thick cock deep in her cunt, she'll spread her legs wide for him, only him. Glorious fuck, she'll be taken, she'll take. Wide, aching, deep, she will suck his cock deep into her body. Her fingers scramble and fumble on the book, gripping it in her hand, never to be dropped.

She's feverish, her body a flush of passion, her breast is burning, her nipples hard, her cunt aching. She falls backwards onto the bed, pushing herself back up to the pillows. Fuck me fuck me fuck me she whispers, her fingers gripping the sheets like a shroud dropped in a sacred place.

He does.

With the greatest care, with the greatest tenderness, her man places his arms under her knees and pushes them back with her thighs wide and high, and she reaches down around her hip and takes the hot tip of his prick and places it at the mouth of her widening cunt, her lips spreading petals, glistening with her dew, tiny jewels dripping with ecstasy between her legs, shimmering like gossamer on her curling hair.

She is wide and open, and trusts her man implicitly to love her love her love her as he slides his beautiful cock, her cherished shaft, into her in one long delicious thrust.

Oh h, she sighs, she sighs, as he is so gentle, too gentle, her heart aches with his softness as he shafts her with his long cock, finally piercing the aching dam that has been building up all evening, a deep swelling flow of heat and spreading sensation from deep inside her belly. She is open wide for him, and he is deep inside her, one arm wrapped under her neck, cradling her head to his, her cheek against his cheek, his lips soft kisses on hers. Oh God, she sighs, love me long, fuck me deep, my beautiful man, fuck me long. Fuck me.

He does.

He falls his weight down on to her, and her legs straighten down the bed, and her hands clench his ass. Without a word, they need no words, they turn so they are on their sides, his shaft long and deep inside her cunt, her thighs held together holding him there.

They fuck, slow and gentle, as they each cradle the other's dear face in their palms like a prayer. Their timing is exquisite and together they come, their movement stopped, his hands hold her hips still so the only movement she feels, deep in her body, is the thrusting spurt of his come and the pulse of his shaft as his seed jets hot and deep into her heat. She takes him, deep into her soul.

She drifts into sleep, his body and limbs wrapped around hers, her dark tangled hair a mess on the pillow, his cock softening in her as she drifts away into sleep. I love you, she whispers; I love you back, his voice is soft. She grips his hand to her breast, and as she falls asleep her grip softens and his hand is gone.

In the morning he is gone, her thighs a dried memory of his cock pulling away from her body. She is langourous and slow to wake, remembering the dream. She pulls the covers up around her body, and sits higher in the bed, her back against pillows plumped at the end of the bed.

She reaches for her bedside table, and the book is there, the leather cover is warm. She picks it up, turns it over, strokes one finger down its spine. She shivers at the touch. Not knowing what she will find (the book is beyond belief now) she opens the book at the place it naturally falls open.

On the top of the left hand page, centred right at the top, are two words:

Chapter Two.

On the right hand page is a simple line drawing of a teapot, a cup, and a spoon, all arranged on a tray.

Down the corridor the kettle whistles, and a cupboard door clicks closed. A tea spoon jangles against the side of a cup, and from the kitchen her man brings her breakfast in bed.

She picks up her favourite book, and starts to read, turning the page slowly...