Sometimes she wanted him to go down on her because he wanted to, not because she wanted to come. Not because the thought of his handsome face, his stubble burning her inner thighs made her melt and shudder, though it did. Of course it did.
She wanted him to go down on her and eat her cunt and not care if she came or not. Actively avoid the things he knew would make her climax. Though her clit ached and her cunt grasped, his face nuzzled possessively between her thighs was powerful enough. She wanted him to press the flat of his tongue against her vulva and lick her with fury, not delicacy. With taunting, grim determination to taste every inch of her; her enjoyment irrelevant.
Swipes would be made at her pulsing, reddening nerve endings but only enough to make her twitch, and this was an excuse to hold her tighter, place the full weight of his body against her parted thighs and raise his head long enough to hiss “Keep still you little bitch.” before descending to torture her once more.
He liked it when she came, of course. Just he liked the squirm more. The drum roll. The wet mess, pliant under his mouth. The scent of her caught in his beard, reminding him of her sweet desperation.
And some days she wanted to come. Wanted to grind her pretty fleshiness against his mouth and make frantic, sticky love to his perfect face, grinding and flexing until she shuddered and fell limp against the floor. His tongue was agile and neat – he knew which spots were sweetest, elicited the loudest moans; and made her slicker, quicker.
The first handful of their encounters, he didn’t touch her much. Instead, he instructed her to sit on the floor before him and touch herself.
“As long as it takes. Show me how long it takes you to please yourself.” and she sat with her knickers around her ankles, one hand spreading her fleshy cunt and the fingers of the other rubbing her clit. He laughed when she spat on her fingers for lubrication. After a minute or two he got down on his belly before her so he could watch where her fingers ventured to precipitate her release, and how she grew wetter, redder, twitchier. Wetter above all. So wet.
“I can hear your cunt.” He licked his finger and inserted it into her; she spasmed at the intrusion and her skin touching the icy tile floor.
“Continue.” she resumed rubbing and when she came, pulling the finger deeper inside, he yanked it out and stuck it in her mouth.
She liked it when he examined her like a science experiment. She liked it when he touched her with only his own curiosity in mind. She liked it when he allowed her to come, or took her orgasm from her, but perhaps more so she liked him to perform oral sex on her with no intention of allowing her to climax.
Sometimes he came round explicitly to work his tongue over and over her slit, when Claudia was delayed or he was bored or she was on the precipice of sleep and he wanted her to remember who her cunt truly belonged to. Turn up on her doorstep, bend her over the sofa arm in a hazy state and go at her from behind, trusting her not to reach between her slippery thighs to her clit because if she did he would have to hold her hands behind her back which always affected his stroke. He would lick her from the puckered hole above, to the plump lips below and back again, and as his delicate touch around her arsehole made her squeal like a stuck pig, he would work the tip of his index finger inside that tiny hole and laugh when her legs began to shake – and that would be enough for the time being, for both of them. Torturer and tortured, sated in different ways.
“Puppy can’t come” was such a fun game.