1. Fever Dream


    Date: 9/12/2015, Categories: Lesbian, Author: MadMartigan, Rating: 15, Source: LushStories

    of fear. Professional fear. The, ‘pack your shit up… you two are fired,’ kind of fear. This is different. I can feel the cold band of metal on her left ring finger as her hands clench tightly over my thighs, the only place on her body that isn’t superheated. There’s guilt there, a fleeting image of kind, sweet Grayson with his dimpled chin and easy smile. That image puffs away like smoke when her tongue starts to trace lazy circles around my vulva before any second thoughts can solidify. The pad of her thumb strokes the small, downy triangle of golden hair just above my clit. And there it is. There it is. I enter the fever dream the moment her full luscious lips brush my drooling wet slit. I let out a breathless moan and my hips arch upwards on their own accord. I grind against her talented mouth, smearing sticky honey from her lips to her small pointed chin. Pure, hedonistic hell, I think. No way heaven feels this good. Her tongue carves a sudden downward path through the folds of my cunt, nose nuzzling inside me for a moment, inhaling the scent of me, before continuing lower, then lower still. When her hot mouth seals over the crinkled rose of my ass and her slim tongue pushes past the tight ring of muscle, I convulse, muscles twitching erratically. I gasp when her hands hook under my knees, pushing them to my chest. Her tongue presses harder, sliding, circling, and fluttering like a hummingbird until I’m nothing but silly putty in her hands. I want to howl. It would be ...
    so easy now to just rip the blindfold away, taste her name of my lips like syrupy sweet pineapple dipped in chocolate. Scream till my throat goes raw. And, in turn, to hear my name on her lips, that Spanish accent turning it into glittering champagne candies. My hands release the tight grip on her hair and move upward. But the time she realizes anything is amiss, my fingers are curled under the soft material, itching to yank it away and send it flying into the raging fire. When it’s halfway down, I feel her body tense and her mouth throttle down to a dead stop. Divinci himself, returning from the grave with a not so mild case of arthritis, would marvel at the display of supernatural stillness that came over us. Neither of us moves, too afraid to break the spell of the fire and the winter wind. Afraid that when the spell is broken, the rules thrown out, the reality of what we’re doing will slap us in the face with cold, harsh logic. We aren’t supposed to be here. We aren’t supposed to be doing this. We’re vile, selfish, horrible people. The cold band of metal on her finger burns like arctic ice. I start to feel guilty and the feeling is soul crushing. For reasons I don’t want to consider, I start to remember Fallujah again, echoes of fire, night terrors I thought expelled returning in horrible clarity. Bullets. Explosions. Death. A soldier cocooning me with his body as bullets rip him apart. The sudden, chaotic swirling of emotions punch me in the face - existential crisis ...
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