Chapter 367: Give Me A Doggy Position [+R18]

He reached out slowly.

His hand found the side of her chest through the silk, his palm pressing against the full weight of her boob, and the warmth of her came through the fabric immediately, the specific warmth of something alive and present and entirely real in his hand.

She exhaled.

Not dramatically. Just the small honest exhale of someone receiving contact they had been thinking about and finding it exactly what they expected.

He pressed his palm slightly firmer, feeling the weight of it shift in his hand, the softness of it specific and immediate through the thin silk, and she looked at him from close range with her eyes carrying the specific quality they had when she had stopped thinking about anything except exactly where she was.

"Mm," she said.

He moved his hand slowly, spreading his palm across the full shape of it, his thumb finding the outline of her nipple through the fabric and pressing lightly.

Her back straightened slightly.

"Oh," she said. Quiet. To herself as much as to him.

He kept going, his hand learning the specific weight and shape of her, the inverted nipple pressing back against his thumb through the silk each time he made contact with it, her sounds arriving softly with each specific motion he made.

She shifted on the couch, turning more toward him, one knee coming up onto the cushion between them, and she looked at him with her hair falling slightly forward.

"The fabric is in the way," she said.

He looked at her.

She reached for the thin strap of the top and then looked at him with the question of whether to continue already answered in her expression.

He reached forward and helped her.

The top came up and over her head and she set it somewhere on the couch beside her without looking at it and sat there in front of him in the warm afternoon light of her apartment and he looked at her properly.

Her boobs were full and round and considerably more present without the silk mediating the information, the skin of them warm and pale in the light, her inverted nipples sitting at the center of each one, slightly different from standard in a way that was entirely specific to her and entirely its own thing.

He looked at them.

She watched him look at them with the expression of someone who had recently made peace with this particular aspect of themselves and was finding that peace confirmed by the quality of his attention.

He reached out with both hands.

He held her, both palms spreading across the full warm weight of both of them simultaneously, the softness of her in his hands unlike anything he had held before, yielding and warm and responding to every small movement of his fingers.

"Oh," she said. Her eyes closed briefly. "Oh that’s."

He pressed in slightly with both hands and felt the weight of her shift against his palms, the softness of it continuous and present, and he moved his thumbs to her nipples and pressed lightly against each inverted tip.

She made a sound.

Her hand found his arm.

He pressed slightly firmer with both thumbs, the inverted nipples responding to the pressure by pressing back outward, and she gripped his arm without deciding to grip it.

"Oh god," she said. "Oh. That’s really."

He leaned forward.

He pressed his lips to the top of her left boob, the skin warm against his mouth, and worked slowly downward toward her nipple, his hands still holding both of them, feeling the weight of her and the warmth of her simultaneously.

His mouth found the inverted nipple and pressed there.

"Oh," she said, sharply, her whole body responding to the contact immediately, her back arching slightly, her hand pressing the back of his head without her deciding to press it. "Oh god. Oh."

He worked with his tongue, pressing against the specific sensitivity of the inverted tip, feeling it respond to the sustained attention, her sounds arriving with each specific motion he made, continuous and honest and entirely unmanaged.

"Mm," she said. "Oh. Oh Liam."

He moved to the other one and did the same, his mouth pressing and his tongue moving in the slow circles that her breathing was telling him worked, and her other hand found the back of his head and both hands were there now, not directing, just present, feeling what his head was doing.

He shifted his weight and she moved with it naturally, leaning back against the arm of the couch, and he moved with her until he was over her, his mouth still on her chest, her legs finding either side of him on the couch cushions.

Her hands on his back now, pressing flat against his shoulder blades, feeling him move.

He kept his mouth where it was and moved one hand from her chest slowly, trailing it down her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his palm, the specific softness of her stomach, and he reached the waistband of the silk shorts and his fingers went beneath it.

He found her.

"Oh," she said. The word arriving stripped of everything except itself.

He pressed two fingers against her and felt the warmth of her immediately, the specific heat and the specific readiness of her, and he started moving his fingers while his mouth stayed on her chest, his tongue working her nipple while his fingers worked below.

She made a sound that had no shape to it.

Her hips pressed forward against his hand.

He kept both things going, his mouth and his fingers, the rhythm of them building steadily, her sounds climbing with each passing minute, less managed and more present, her hands pressing harder against his back with each specific thing he did that landed somewhere useful.

"Oh," she said. "Oh god. Oh."

His fingers found the specific internal point that made her whole body respond differently, and she made a sound that went directly into the warm air of the apartment without stopping.

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Oh Liam. Oh god."

He kept going.

Her hips were moving against his hand in a rhythm that she had not decided on, her back arching off the couch cushions, her hands gripping his back.

"Oh," she said. "Oh I can’t. Oh god I can’t take it anymore. I want you."

He lifted his head from her chest and looked at her.

She was looking up at him with her dark eyes carrying everything her body had been building toward for the last several minutes, her hair spread around her on the couch cushion, her lips parted.

He looked at her for a moment.

"Before that," he said, "I need you to use those for me first."

She looked at him.

He looked at her chest.

She looked at his chest. Then lower. Then back at his face with the expression of someone who had received a request and was finding it more interesting than unexpected.

"Okay," she said.

She moved.

She sat up and he sat back and she stood from the couch and went to the bathroom and came back with a small bottle of baby oil, and she stood in front of him and looked at his trousers and then at him.

He helped her with the relevant portion of getting his trousers open and she looked at him when he was free, at the full size of him, and her expression did the specific thing expressions did when the reality exceeded the expectation.

She poured the oil.

She poured it across him slowly, the warmth of it arriving before the slickness, and she watched it run across him with the focused attention of someone who had been asked to do something and was going to do it properly.

Then she poured some into her palm and pressed both hands across the full warm weight of her boobs, working the oil in slowly, the skin of them catching the afternoon light in the warm liquid.

She came down to her knees on the rug in front of the couch.

She looked up at him once.

Then she brought both hands up and pressed her boobs together around him and the warmth of her and the slickness of the oil and the specific softness of her pressing in from both sides arrived all at once and he exhaled through his nose.

She started moving.

Slowly at first, her hands keeping the pressure, her boobs working up and down the full length of him, the oil making everything fluid and warm and entirely specific.

"Mm," she said, looking at what her hands were doing with an expression of genuine engagement.

He put his hand on the back of her head, not directing, just present.

She picked the pace up, her movements becoming more intentional, her sounds coming with the rhythm, small and warm, the afternoon light sitting on the oil and on her skin and on all of it.

He felt it building faster than he expected and let it come, his jaw tightening, a low sound leaving him as everything released across her chest, warm and present and considerable.

She looked down at herself.

Then up at him.

"I’m dirty," she said.

He looked at her chest. Then at her face. "Go wash up," he said.

She looked back toward the kitchen where something on the stove was making a small sound.

"I can’t leave that," she said. "It’s going to burn."

He looked at the kitchen.

Then at her.

Then at the state of her chest.

"Lick it off then," he said. "So we can keep going."

She looked at him for a moment with the expression of someone receiving a sentence they had not anticipated and processing it.

Then she looked down.

She brought one hand up and ran a finger slowly across the top of her chest and then put the finger in her mouth and looked at him while she did it.

He watched.

She worked through it slowly and thoroughly, her tongue doing what needed doing, her eyes occasionally finding his, the afternoon entirely unbothered around both of them.

When she was satisfied with the result she looked up at him.

He looked at her.

"Good girl," he said.

She looked at the couch behind him and then back at him with the expression of someone who had an idea about what was coming next.

"Turn around," he said. "Give me a nice doggy position."