coquetterie

Cupped firmly in my hand, my fingers smooth over the soft-fuzz covering the skin. Staring intently at it, my mouth waters, hungers for it’s sweet taste. Teasingly, my thumb rubs back and forth over the firm skin.

My pink tongue slides from my mouth and laps lightly, once, at the resistant flesh. Leaving a slick, glistening spot, I know where to aim.

My lips are pursed in a delightlful manner. Not a pout yet not a pucker for a kiss, my lips, naturally plum, with a small beauty mark in the lower left quadrant, remain posed at the ready. Using my fingers, I pull my prey closer until I can press a small peck against the skin.

I kiss the pre-identified area again. This time, my lips part slightly and I feel the fuzz on the firm, fragrant skin. My eyes close, the target in my mind’s eye, I kiss again. My teeth lightly scrape the skin, a little coquettish taunt. The taunt firm enough to wonder if I might bruise the flesh.

Harder. Stronger. This next kiss is both. My teeth scrape the skin and taste the flesh. My tongue laps at the moistness, sticky and sweet. Moaning in delight as the taste bursts on my tongue, my eyes open.

The last peach of the season, ripened to perfection, is always the sweetest.

Now playing Mikabomb: Sweat Peach: The Fake Fake Sound of Mikabomb [3:09]

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The apex of summer passed with a relative whimper this year. I haven’t been in the pool yet, which means I won’t swim at all this year.  Call me finicky. I will only swim in tepid water on the ultra-hot days of summer.

And, when I say swim, I mean lounge in a raft or on a float hopefully only having my feet and calves getting wet. I let the raft go where it will in the pool, when it bumps against the wall, I push off.

Also, I haven’t lounged on the patio either which surrounds the pool. Why? Chalk it up to the disasterous results of a few summers ago. I fell asleep without my sunblock and cooked myself to a delightful shade of red. I literally only half-baked. You see, my back side remained a delightful creamy color.

This year with my odd work hours, my pleasures have been relegated to bed. Now, there isn’t anything wrong with that. I’m quite fond of my bed. It’s a delightful feminine confection. It’s in a confection of a room, swathed in pink roses, green leaves, creamy walls and white wood work, pale wood and green-washed furniture. Pillows crowd the bed and, at night, I push them off onto the floor with delightful glee.

I adore the contradiction of polite, sweet domina at night when I work and the girlish, feminine frame for me as I sit there, taking calls. Indeed, it makes me giggle and smirk. I love to prop up my firm pillows and recline against them. I love to breath in the scent of lilacs, from the detergent and fabric softener I use. I stretch out in the middle of the bed and immerse myself in the luxury of having it all to myself.

The sheets, actually all the linens are soft against my skin. Although, my skin is softer, more supple. And, I love to have it touched, stroked and caressed.  I want to see a man in this bed with me. His masculinity the perfect antidote to all the feminity, the perfect juxtaposition. I want to thoroughly debauch this pretty bed, in this pretty room. 

I want you to imagine all the naughty, dirty fun that we could enjoy. Now, you just have to tell me about it.

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