Lick -- TrickC ficlet
Oct. 15th, 2002 09:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymSo, another friend to cheer up, another fic bit :-) Seems to work better for the mproving :-)(ooh, and a new icon--one of the kink series Gale and I are using between us!)
Any time was good. You liked to taste him no matter when, where, or how. Kisses, bites, nibbles, tasting him with your fingertips by stroking everywhere over his body.
But your favorite was licking.
He called you a cat once, which was kinda funny, really, since he was the one your fans called kitten. He even reminded you of a kitten sometimes, the way he would stretch after waking, shimmying just like a cat might. Or the big, sleepy eyes he would turn your way before curling around you to go to sleep.
And he licked you, no mistake about it. But he didn't…relish it, the way you did.
Good was fresh out of the shower, when droplets still clung to him, some caught in the hair on his chest, arms, or legs. When the scent and flavor of bath gel combined with his skin, turning him into something exotic, like a Mai Tai or a Daiquiri.
Better was early morning, first thing when they woke up, or maybe after a quick workout—jogging, or basketball or free weights. A little sweat, fresh air, or that sleepy, warm taste to his skin.
But the best…the absolute *best* was right after a concert or a rehearsal. When the sweat on him was heavy, filling your mouth and nose with the heady tang of salt, of skin, of something that felt almost electric, when you ran your tongue over his skin.
You like to start with a kiss. Long, wet, sometimes sloppy, mouths working at each other while you run your fingertips over sweat-slicked skin, teasing nipples already hard and tight with excitement, arousal, the rush of performing. If you pinch them he'll moan, hands grasping at your shoulders. Sometimes you do, but sometimes you simply smooth your fingers over them, rubbing and stroking.
When you have your fill of his mouth, for a moment anyway, you press him backward, laying him out like a banquet feast. You taste the skin behind his ear, along the edge of his hairline, droplets of sweat clinging like dew on the grass in early spring mornings. His neck is next, your tongue sweeping down over the long tendons and chords, his voice a low, raspy whisper above you. You trace across the leather cord holding his pendant, savoring the odd combination of sweat and leather, a different sort of musk layering over your tongue. The pendant is warm from his skin and you press a kiss to it, where it touches him, one side against his body, one side against your lips, a conduit, not a barrier, between you.
Then you push his arms up over his head and start at his wrists, long strokes of your tongue down his arms – long, impossibly long arms – until you reach the hollow there, damp hair crinkling against your tongue while you lick under his arm, breathing in deeply, pulling his scent down into yourself, making it a part of you. Sometimes you bite at the soft skin there, just below his armpit, then lick back up over it, memorizing his scent and taste until you're sure you could find him in the dark, by that alone.
Each nipple is traced, laved, until JC is moaning and moving beneath you. You lick across his chest and dip into the hollow beneath his arm there, scenting and tasting him, nearly insensate with the lust coursing through you.
It's always like this. You can get high on the scent of JC. Don't need anything else. You wonder if that makes you more of a freak than you already thought you were, but don't want to ask and have it confirmed.
Each bit of him is licked, tasted, scented. He's totally hard; was, before you ever began this, and you swallow him down your throat once, burying your nose in the nest of pubic hair, inhaling deeply. Hair holds the scent wonderfully, slightly sticky, sweaty, a deep musk that makes you want to bite down and never stop, gnaw on him until you've swallowed all of him, whole. You do bite down once, on his thigh, hard enough to leave tooth marks, but all JC does is moan and arch toward you. As much as you love licking him, he totally gets off on the experience, once you're into it. This isn't a prelude to sex, this *is* the sex, when you're both this hot, this ready, this wanting.
You roll him onto his belly, smiling when he humps the bed, hips moving gracefully, slow, liquid thrusts you can feel deep inside you. A long, slow lick down the center of his back, vertebrae bumpy beneath your tongue. The dip at the small of his back gathers kisses in between licks, then you're moving back up, down, repeating until you've covered his entire back.
His waist begs for a bite or two and then you shift so you can straddle one leg, something to rub against, moving in time with the rhythm he's set. You spread his cheeks and lick lovingly downward, shuddering with pleasure. Rimming, always a favorite kink, achieves new heights during this.
Downward, lapping at his balls, then back up, up, and your mouth is so dry, but you don't care. You lick at his thighs, the short hairs there rough against your tongue. He's rocking, now, body straining against the bed, back up against you, his moans a continuous chorus that fills the room. You whimper low in your throat, carrying the harmony.
You come first, colors exploding in your vision, heat racing through you like a fireball. You're surfeited on taste, touch, scent, and overwhelmed by pleasure. When JC comes, he nearly bucks you off him, body shaking with the ferocity of a tropical storm. It takes a few minutes before you're calm enough to slide down and lick his leg clean, the sharp, bittermusk taste of semen adding another layer to the flavors inside you. He's limp under you when you roll him back over, licking his belly clean, now. He tastes different than you do, less bitter, more salt, but whatever. It's the last bit of him you can take inside for a while, 'til you've both rested, showered, consumed a gallon or three of water.
But it's glorious getting to this point. When you've sampled all of him and can still feel him, smell him, taste him.
You lick your lips once more as you close your eyes, needing just to rest for a minute. Yeah. He's still there.
You fall asleep smiling.
~finis~
Any time was good. You liked to taste him no matter when, where, or how. Kisses, bites, nibbles, tasting him with your fingertips by stroking everywhere over his body.
But your favorite was licking.
He called you a cat once, which was kinda funny, really, since he was the one your fans called kitten. He even reminded you of a kitten sometimes, the way he would stretch after waking, shimmying just like a cat might. Or the big, sleepy eyes he would turn your way before curling around you to go to sleep.
And he licked you, no mistake about it. But he didn't…relish it, the way you did.
Good was fresh out of the shower, when droplets still clung to him, some caught in the hair on his chest, arms, or legs. When the scent and flavor of bath gel combined with his skin, turning him into something exotic, like a Mai Tai or a Daiquiri.
Better was early morning, first thing when they woke up, or maybe after a quick workout—jogging, or basketball or free weights. A little sweat, fresh air, or that sleepy, warm taste to his skin.
But the best…the absolute *best* was right after a concert or a rehearsal. When the sweat on him was heavy, filling your mouth and nose with the heady tang of salt, of skin, of something that felt almost electric, when you ran your tongue over his skin.
You like to start with a kiss. Long, wet, sometimes sloppy, mouths working at each other while you run your fingertips over sweat-slicked skin, teasing nipples already hard and tight with excitement, arousal, the rush of performing. If you pinch them he'll moan, hands grasping at your shoulders. Sometimes you do, but sometimes you simply smooth your fingers over them, rubbing and stroking.
When you have your fill of his mouth, for a moment anyway, you press him backward, laying him out like a banquet feast. You taste the skin behind his ear, along the edge of his hairline, droplets of sweat clinging like dew on the grass in early spring mornings. His neck is next, your tongue sweeping down over the long tendons and chords, his voice a low, raspy whisper above you. You trace across the leather cord holding his pendant, savoring the odd combination of sweat and leather, a different sort of musk layering over your tongue. The pendant is warm from his skin and you press a kiss to it, where it touches him, one side against his body, one side against your lips, a conduit, not a barrier, between you.
Then you push his arms up over his head and start at his wrists, long strokes of your tongue down his arms – long, impossibly long arms – until you reach the hollow there, damp hair crinkling against your tongue while you lick under his arm, breathing in deeply, pulling his scent down into yourself, making it a part of you. Sometimes you bite at the soft skin there, just below his armpit, then lick back up over it, memorizing his scent and taste until you're sure you could find him in the dark, by that alone.
Each nipple is traced, laved, until JC is moaning and moving beneath you. You lick across his chest and dip into the hollow beneath his arm there, scenting and tasting him, nearly insensate with the lust coursing through you.
It's always like this. You can get high on the scent of JC. Don't need anything else. You wonder if that makes you more of a freak than you already thought you were, but don't want to ask and have it confirmed.
Each bit of him is licked, tasted, scented. He's totally hard; was, before you ever began this, and you swallow him down your throat once, burying your nose in the nest of pubic hair, inhaling deeply. Hair holds the scent wonderfully, slightly sticky, sweaty, a deep musk that makes you want to bite down and never stop, gnaw on him until you've swallowed all of him, whole. You do bite down once, on his thigh, hard enough to leave tooth marks, but all JC does is moan and arch toward you. As much as you love licking him, he totally gets off on the experience, once you're into it. This isn't a prelude to sex, this *is* the sex, when you're both this hot, this ready, this wanting.
You roll him onto his belly, smiling when he humps the bed, hips moving gracefully, slow, liquid thrusts you can feel deep inside you. A long, slow lick down the center of his back, vertebrae bumpy beneath your tongue. The dip at the small of his back gathers kisses in between licks, then you're moving back up, down, repeating until you've covered his entire back.
His waist begs for a bite or two and then you shift so you can straddle one leg, something to rub against, moving in time with the rhythm he's set. You spread his cheeks and lick lovingly downward, shuddering with pleasure. Rimming, always a favorite kink, achieves new heights during this.
Downward, lapping at his balls, then back up, up, and your mouth is so dry, but you don't care. You lick at his thighs, the short hairs there rough against your tongue. He's rocking, now, body straining against the bed, back up against you, his moans a continuous chorus that fills the room. You whimper low in your throat, carrying the harmony.
You come first, colors exploding in your vision, heat racing through you like a fireball. You're surfeited on taste, touch, scent, and overwhelmed by pleasure. When JC comes, he nearly bucks you off him, body shaking with the ferocity of a tropical storm. It takes a few minutes before you're calm enough to slide down and lick his leg clean, the sharp, bittermusk taste of semen adding another layer to the flavors inside you. He's limp under you when you roll him back over, licking his belly clean, now. He tastes different than you do, less bitter, more salt, but whatever. It's the last bit of him you can take inside for a while, 'til you've both rested, showered, consumed a gallon or three of water.
But it's glorious getting to this point. When you've sampled all of him and can still feel him, smell him, taste him.
You lick your lips once more as you close your eyes, needing just to rest for a minute. Yeah. He's still there.
You fall asleep smiling.
~finis~
no subject
Date: 2002-10-16 09:53 am (UTC){{{{{{{{{halo}}}}}}}}}}