Let Him Kiss Me

by Jane Davitt

A/N Many thanks to T Verano for beta reading this fic with her usual meticulous eye for detail, Caro Dee for editing the 2010 Moonridge Orgasm anthology, featuring this story, and all who bid on it.


Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.
Song of Solomon


Blair's licking his lips. Literally, as if he can already taste me. I watch the sweep of his tongue, fascinated by the gloss it leaves behind. Lick, flick, a nibble at the end as his teeth bite down… He's dining off his lips and, curious, I ask him what he can taste. I'm the sentinel, not him, after all; I get to pick up on his brand of toothpaste after a kiss, not to mention every single herb and spice in the teabag he's dunked into his mug, making the kitchen smell like joss sticks and compost combined.

But Blair's done nothing yet but crouch over me, eyes glittering, his hair wild, cock jutting forward aggressively as he stares at me, lying under him, waiting.

He hasn't even kissed me yet, dammit.

"What can I taste?" He grins and sticks his tongue out at me, wiggling it and reminding me of all the places on my body that his adventurous, inquisitive tongue has visited, teased, invaded. I've been tortured by experts and screamed less. He's good. "Victory, Jim."

I tug half-heartedly at the cuffs he's finally persuaded me to wear in bed. He swore bondage would heighten my arousal, sharpen every sense, but so far the cuffs have chafed my wrists, my shoulders are aching from the angle my arms are at, and not being able to wrap those arms around him is killing me.

"Helpless," he croons. "All mine."

"I always am," I point out testily. "You're spoiled, you know that, Chief?"

He bends, limber in ways the gym's never taught me, and the next thing he licks isn't his lips but my cock, root to tip. It tingles, extra-minty toothpaste time, and his tongue's not smooth, not to me, not there. Feels like a cat's licking me, a rasping drag that I want to feel again.
"So give me some sugar, sugar," he says, grinning.

"You did not just say that."

He sucks the head of my cock and closes his eyes, blissed-out. That lasts for a second and then he pulls back with a pop and grins at me. "Give it up, bitch? Is that better?"

"These cuffs are gonna come off at some point, and then your ass is toast," I warn him, but it's hard to keep my face straight, let alone scowling. When Blair's feeling playful in bed, he usually takes me along for the ride. I never really associated sex with laughing so hard your stomach aches and your eyes are wet, but it's happened with Blair. Not often, no, but it's happened. We generally sober up for the blow-off.

Tonight, I guess the joking is just his way of spinning this out, because he's already focusing on my lucky, about to be ecstatic, dick again, and this time he's all business. He drops his hand to fondle his own happy inches just before he takes me deep into his mouth, and I nearly lose it just from that, because he moans, his lips making shapes I see when I'm fucking him.

A moment later, the head of my dick is kissing the back of his throat and I'm trying not to push deeper and make him gag.

I can see his mouth as it moves on me. Watch the way his lips form a circle for my dick to slide through, see them get wetter, spit-shiny, and their color deepen.

Lick. Flick. He raises his head, smiles at my spit-shined erection, then shifts his attentions a few inches lower. My dick's missing him already.

 "Spoiled for anyone who isn't you," he murmurs against my balls and I feel his tongue, a warm, wet touch. Having my balls licked and mouthed drives me nuts -- no pun intended. Blair complains about ending up with a hair-coated tongue and yeah, that sucks, but if it got me that incredible feeling more often, I'd shave them smooth; hell, I'd wax them.

He jiggles one inside the haven of his mouth and I make a sound too close to a sob of pure pleasure for me not to blush. I can feel his tongue lapping and the swoosh of spit against my captured skin.

I close my eyes. Have to. I can overload on this, all of it, but mostly just from what Blair's mouth does to me, whether it's talking, kissing, or driving me fucking crazy. The cuffs are doing what he wanted them to now. Of course they are. I'm aware of the fact that he's controlling me and somehow, given how much he does that without coming clean and admitting it, it's good to have it happen and be honest, out in the open.

He's cuffed me to our fucking bed so that he can drag that hot, wet mouth all over me and make me beg and whimper. Yeah, I don't think there's much doubt who's running this show tonight.

"If I beg will you get on with it?" I ask and he chuckles.

"Not a chance in hell, Jim. You're still making sense. I wanna drive you way past sane into desperate."

He reaches over and fumbles in the top drawer of the bedside table. I open my eyes when I hear a lid being unscrewed, suspicion flaring as I sniff the air. Not lube.

"Cinnamon and ginger lip salve," he says and dips his finger inside a shallow glass jar filled with pale golden gunk. "I'll test it out first, but it's all natural and it should be safe."

"Safe? Huh?" I've barely gotten the words out before he's dabbing his loaded finger onto the skin of my inner forearm, smearing it in a small circle.

"On my lips, well, I get this tingle. Very faint, just…warming, I guess. Let me know how it feels for you."

I open my mouth to tell him that I can't feel a damn thing when my salve-painted skin sizzles to life. There's a sweet heat, like I can taste it as well as feel it, the molecules saturating the air I'm breathing, flowing into my mouth and nose and carrying messages. The burn's no worse than the one from the liniment I used to rub on if I'd strained a muscle and the taste twists childhood memories of cookies baking in Sally's kitchen around a far more adult pleasure.

I nod slowly. "Feels okay," I say cautiously. God, on my arm, yeah, but is he planning to blow me with his lips coated thickly? How will that feel? Curiosity overwhelms my trepidation. Blair's experiments don't always suit me, but this one…yeah, this one I like.

"Good," he says and spreads some over his lips, working them together the way Carolyn used to when she'd put on lipstick. Again, like with the cookie smell, there's this frisson of kink. Blair reminding me of my ex-wife -- of a woman -- of a woman putting makeup on…it's all just that little bit tilted from center and I like it, unsettling though it is.

He sets the jar aside on the bed and leans over to kiss me on the mouth. The sensation's more intense, way more, and he knows it, going by the chuckle he gives as he pulls back. My lips prickle and burn and I lick them, which only makes it worse and gets the spice taste deep into my throat. Tastes of colors now, too, a paint box of them, all rich brown, gold and orange. My mind spins off on a dozen tangents, as I try to process the sensory overload, but he doesn't give me the chance to succeed. Freshly anointed lips press kisses on each nipple, dot a line down my chest, salute the point of each hip bone…

Heat flares, spreads. I want to look down and see the flames flickering red and blue, hot and hotter, but I stare blindly up at the ceiling instead, visuals lost in the rush. Cuffed, my hands can't touch myself reassuringly, can't scrub at my skin, spread and diffuse that sticky, tormenting, heavenly heat around.

I feel Blair's hands at my thighs, spreading me wide, and when I arch up imploringly, those hands slide under my ass, cupping it. Blair shifts his grip so that his thumbs can tease at my hole and I know what he's going to do, I know --

One hand moves away and he says softly, "Watch me, Jim."

I can't disobey him. I don't want to. I'm open, spread out, hiding nothing, offering everything. I watch, my breath rasping dryly in my throat as he dips his tongue into what's left in the jar. He pulls back, his smeared tongue sticking out, grinning at me as he squints at it, cross-eyed. I can't smile back. I'm waiting.

He doesn't make me wait for long. He goes to his belly and burrows between my thighs, using both hands again now, with me doing all I can to help him reach his target. The tight muscles of my hole resist the push of his tongue, the slow, delicate lapping, but I want his tongue inside me, and I relax, quivering with arousal, shaking, and concentrate on everything I'm feeling down there.

His tongue in my ass is enough to break me any time he rims me, but it's like being tongue-fucked by a flame tonight, a darting, sizzling stab of fire that sears me over and again until I'm sobbing out his name as if it's the only word I know.

I can see his ass from here, curved enticingly, bobbing as he works on me, and I've got plans for it later, but right now I'm his, writhing on the tip of his tongue. I can feel my skin, dappled with golden kisses, I can feel my climax boiling up.

He must be able to feel it too. His fingers, sticky, smeared with salve, two of them, push into my ass, taking the heat deeper, fucking me hard and fast, and his mouth finally returns to what it was doing an eternity ago.

I come before I want to, but I need to; my body is screaming at me for release and when the edge of his teeth scrape my shaft I have my own private eruption, spunk shooting out in long, forceful spurts that jolt me. He swallows the first gush and then takes his mouth away and watches the last of it rain down on my stomach.

He licks it off me as his fingers slow and gentle their slide within me and pulls them out with the final lick.

He's still hard, but I'll take care of him soon. Right now, I'm trying to remember who I am, apart from his.

At times like these, that feels like enough.




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