He whispered, "I've been wanting to do this all night long. Just... touch you. Without all the noise."
I was getting hot and red in the neck. This was more personal, more open than any frenzied coupling. When he leaned in, his face was inches from mine, and his other hand came up and softly cupped my cheek. He caressed my skin with his thumb, a slow and rhythmic come-and-go.
He whispered, "You have one little freckle here," his eyes being glued to the area below my eye. "It's like a single star in a galaxy." I had never had anybody notice my freckle. He then kissed me. This was the same before but deeper in level now, giving privacy to the moment. It was a slow, romantic and gentle kiss. His lips were soft and firm, against mine, pressing gently and creating a slow, smouldering fire that smouldered deep within me. There were no hurry or urgency. It was a kiss to be embraced, it was an exploration, a non-verbal conversation. His finger traced down my cheek, down my neck, his hand cupped my hair in his fingers, holding me gently yet securely.
I sighed into his mouth, my body fully surrendering to him, melting under his tender assault. I knew there was Danish watching but his eyes were no longer a pressure. All my world was now between me and this gentle giant.
He broke off the kiss and placed his closed eyes on my forehead. "You feel like home," he breathed, words a shocking intimate confession. My heart pounded in my ribcage. I was at a loss for words. He opened his eyes and gazed at me, and there was a glint of understanding in his eyes. He was aware that this was not going to be simple. He was aware that I was complicated. He didn't push.
He simply backed up a bit and put his thin hands to my thin dress. His touch was reverent not lustful. He hooked his fingers under the strap and slowly, so slowly, slid it down over my shoulder. He didn't pull the dress down. He only uncovered his skin, his eyes trailing the strap. He lowered his head, kissing my shoulder again, where the strap was, soft and warm. Then another an inch lower. His lips were against my skin, a trail of worshipful kisses that followed the line of my arm, followed my collarbone.
It wasn't about being naked when he was taking his clothes off me with his mouth. It was the time of unveiling. He was removing the layers of fabric and the layers of character I embodied, revealing the woman below. He was moving and now his entire body was oriented toward me and he was giving me his full attention. He took my other hand and did the same thing, moving the other strap downwards and leaving his lips lingering in the same spot with gentle kisses.
My dress was now unfastened, and it was only my boobs which held it up. He took his gaze to my eyes which questioned in silence for permission. I saw it with a slow deliberate blink. He lowered his head and with an infinite care, looked behind me and discovered the zipper. The only sound except the waves was of its dropping.
He stripped the silk with unrushed hands, his fingers touching my skin so lightly as if they were an air. He didn't pull or tug. He led the red cloth down, his eyes running along the way, his eyes of pure and unadulterated appreciation. I sat in front of him, in just my lace panties and heels, and I felt like I was more exposed and more vulnerable than I ever had before, but I was 100% safe.
He took my hand once more, and started kissing my fingers one by one, his lips hard and dry. He was loving me with a patience and a delicacy that was unravelling me, piece by piece. This was not the adventure that Danish wanted. It was different this time around. It was an education of the heart and I was his most willing pupil. There was a cool night breeze on my bare skin, and I felt it but I was not cold. I felt seen in the soft light of the moon and the distant lights of the villa.
He gazed at me as one who sees a rare fragile butterfly that he feared would fly away. He refrained from touching me again. He merely saw, his eyes scanning curves and swells and dips, the curve of my shoulders, the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist. It was a leisurely look that had my skin rippling and gasping for air. He was practicing on my memory.
He softly spoke as he commanded, "Stand up." I obeyed, my legs trembling, I stood up from the soft cushions. He was still sitting there, his eyes up on me, and I felt powerful and vulnerable at the same time. He extended his hand and took my hand, his softness a comfort. He slowly and carefully lifted my foot onto his knee. My high-heeled sandal had a very thin strap and his eyes fell on it. He was not only an uncivilized caveman, but he was also a brute. He ran his finger down the length of the strap, then bent over to kiss my ankle as if he didn't have to hurry. His lips were warm against my skin, a point of pure, tender heat that had a shiver going all the way up my spine. He unbuckled the strap and put the shoe carefully on the ground beside him. Then he took my other foot, and again he did the slow, deliberate tracing, the worshipful, soft kiss to my ankle. I didn't know what it felt like to be on that cool stone barefoot on the deck, feel so eased off the ground as if he untethered me.
He rose up then, towering over me with his huge body, but there was nothing to be feared of him. He just wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a hug. It was not a foretaste of sex. It was just a hug. Full body embrace from below. My cheek was held against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, while the steady, reassuring beat of his heart was against my ear. I shut my eyes and inhaled his clean, masculine fragrance filling my lungs. I felt cherished. I felt safe. It was the first time in a really long time that I felt like I was not someone to be desired, but someone to be loved. He held me for so long, simply swaying. He then stepped back slightly so he could look into my eyes.
His hands went up to my shoulders, his thumbs running over my skin. "Shaking?" he whispered. I whispered back, "I'm... not used to this."
"Used to what?" Handle with care?" His eyes grew tender; there was a touch of sadness. He pressed his lips to my forehead and it was a long kiss. "Then someone has been a fool," he said with emotion. He grabbed my hand once again and took me out of the seating area and towards the glass wall of the villa.
He halted in front of a full-length mirror, his image reflected, a large dark and strong man, and a thin pale woman, bare, save for a scrap of lace, standing in the circle of his arms. "Look," he whispered, his chin putting pressure on my shoulder. He didn't look himself in the mirror. He was gazing at a reflection in my eyes. "Look at you."
I saw myself. My skin was flushed, my lips swollen from his kissing, my eyes were wide and dark with awe and apprehension. "So beautiful," he said, in a reverent murmur in my ear. "Every line, every curve, that's what I saw when I saw you." He lifted his hand and softly pushed my hair off my shoulder. His eyes looked in my eyes in the mirror. My bare chest was exposed to the cool air, and to his warm gaze. Then his hands descended gently, down my arms. He didn't take or knead. He traced. His fingertips danced over my skin and left a trail of fire in their wake. His fingers trailed the soft slope of my collar-bone and then down the curve of my ribs, his fingers barely in contact, almost like a tickle. I was responding to it; my nipples grew erect, a soft gasp came out of my mouth. He noticed how I was responding in the mirror and a little bit of a smirk crossed his lips. His hands went back up again, but this time from underneath and held my breasts. His hands had a nice warmth to them, and they were rough. He didn't squeeze. He just held their weight, resting his thumbs down on my sensitive skin, just beneath my nipples.
I stretched my back to say, "Give me more!". He laughed softly, a laugh that was both deep and warm. "Patience," he whispered. We've got all night. Eventually, he placed his thumbs on my hard nipples, and the sparks of pleasure that went off made my knees wobble. He held me firm with his strong arms to support me. He started to circle my nipples with his thumbs, a slow maddening exquisite torture that created a deep coiling tension in my belly. But he was in no rush, I was wet, aching, my body ready for him. He was happy to discover, to teach himself, to love me patiently, carefully, with loving determination, in agonies, in sublimity.
He was making my body into an instrument of a poet. I could feel the warmth of those hands on my breasts, his thumbs lazy, maddening circles around my nipples, while he held me like that. It wasn't a lightning bolt of pleasure, but a gentle swell of it, a low, full bass that danced through the whole of me. My head was resting against his chest; I was totally lost in his embrace. I could feel his own arousal, his hard thick pressure against my lower back, but he did not do anything to satisfy his arousal. His attention was all on me. He lowered his head and his lips came to the sensitive area below my ear.
"I could do this all night," he said, his voice an intimate vibration in my skin. "Wait till you're ready to respond and wait till you learn what makes you sigh." And, to make his case, he moved his hands. The thumb of one hand was on my breast, teasing me, while the other hand slowly and languidly traced its way down my tummy. His palm was warm and flat, and moved across my ribs, down the curve of my belly, and stopped just above the lace of my panties and his fingers spread wide.
My breath hitched. Each nerve in my body was calling out to him to go lower, to come to an end to the sweet torment. But he didn't. He merely held his hand there, a promise, a tease, while his other hand kept on its patient exquisite work on my breast. It was an exquisite torture--double torture, a gradual, measured up, and down that was pushing me to the very edge of my sanity.
"Please," I whispered in a broken voice, a pained word I could not keep from uttering. He laughed, his deep, warm laugh, comforting and tormenting. "Please what, Zeenat?" he asked as his lips brushed against my ear again. "Say what you want".
"I want... I want you to touch me! Hands down here," I whispered. I pleaded, "lower", my hips moving restlessly against him. He did, but in a different manner that was not as I anticipated. He slipped his hand from my body, down my panties, into my soft lace. However, he didn't bring them down. He just held them, his knuckles, an indirect, maddening pressure against my sex. He still had the control, he still set the pace, and still did the teaching on patience.
Then he turned me his way and my face was towards him. His eyes were serious and dark looking and he looked at me. He clasped my face in his hands and his thumbs brushed my cheeks. "You are so pretty when you are in pleasure," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't ever hide that from me."
Then he kissed me. This kiss was a different one. It was deeper, more possessive, but still with this underlying tenderness. His tongue darted in my mouth, taking me over and tasting me. It was a kiss of passion that couldn't have been denied, but not a prelude to a frenzied rush. It was a place all on its own. He kissed me till I couldn't breathe, till my body was shaking with the urgency to do it. He broke away from the kiss and laid his forehead on mine. He took a deep breath, trying to bring himself under control.
Then he took my hand and took me away from the mirror and through the open glass doors into the master bedroom. It was a huge room, all the way up the far wall covered in glass, with the ocean visible with a moonlit backdrop. The bed was a large flat platform with clean white sheets. He didn't take me to bed. He brought me close to bed and then he gracefully, slowly knelt down before me. I lowered my gaze to him, to this huge man, to a man who knelt at my feet, and my heart began to feel like it was about to burst out of my chest.
His eyes were full of reverence, almost holy, looking up at me. He touched me, put his fingers in my panties. He lifted his eyes to mine and asked for just one final permission. I nod and I say it. He made a trail of fire with his knuckles on my skin sliding down my hips until the lace reached my waist. His eyes lit upon them as he ran them down my legs. I was completely, utterly naked before him, but he didn't immediately touch my sex.
He his lips to my belly, just below my belly button, and lingered with a soft kiss. Then he looked at me again, his hands on my hips. "Lie on the bed," he whispered. "On the bed - And let me love you."
I obeyed him and my actions were like the motions of a dream. I lay down on the cool crisp sheets the night-time was like a silver light on my body. He didn't follow me right away. All he did was look at me, his gaze a caress, a touch of flesh that seemed to touch every inch of me. He was putting me into his memory, into his heart. So, when he moved, he did it slowly and gracefully. He didn't climb on top of me. He fell on his side by me, with his arm outstretched. He studied me for an extended period, his eyes moist and tender; an emotion I was too afraid to describe. Next, he leaned forwards and gave me a kiss. A tender, gentle, loving kiss. A warm hand that was steady in my stomach. He wasn't in a hurry. He was not going to any place. He was having a great time on the trip. I was too for the first time in my life.
I felt a tremendous change in myself while lying there in the moonlight. So much had changed that the power dynamic had not only evened out, it had turned around. He had spent the past hour revealing himself to me, not as an enemy, but with a reverence that left me naked in ways I could not possibly have imagined.
Now I looked at him, at the beautiful, powerful man who had been so tender, a strange, savage desire came up in me. It was my turn. I wanted to play with him. I wished to love him. I turned to my side and supported my head on my hand, so I could look him in the face. The soft light helped him to create such a mesmerizing play of shadows and planes that made his features a work of art. I touched him and put my palm down on his chest over his heart. The steady strong thumping under my palm was a grounding rhythm.
"Your turn," I whispered, my voice rough with the emotion I couldn't put into words. His lips began to curl into a slow smile and it was a smile of pure and unadulterated delight. He deepened his belly rumble, "I was hoping you'd say that."
I leaned in, and pressed my soft kiss over his heart. I felt the vibration of his delightful hum on my lips. I embarked on my own journey. The lines were clearly outlining his pectoral muscles; his fingers felt the power coiled within him. I traced the outline of the curve over his shoulder down the huge hard bicep. I wasn't touching a body just a story of strength and discipline. I leaned over him, my hair covering a curtain between us, and kissed him several times, each one light and open-mouthed. I had a glimpse of his fresh salty skin. I could sense his breathing getting heavier, more ragged.
He placed his hand on my back, a comforting, supportive weight, but not forcing or pushing me. He allowed me to proceed at my own speed. I went down lower, unbuttoning his shirt buttons slowly one by one, and my lips following a line down the middle of his chest. I stuck my tongue in his belly button and he growled slightly, his fingers biting into my flesh.
Then I stood up on his mighty thighs, knees pressing against his strong thighs. At him, at his splendid chest and belly, I looked down. My eyes locked on the thin, white scar that was diagonally across his ribs, just below his heart. It was the only flaw in his flawless body--dark skin contrasted with light hair. I touched it and drew it out with my finger. "What happened here?" I asked softly. He glanced at my hand on his scar, his face momentarily expressionless. His voice was low, "Old life". I bent and kissed the softest, gentlest kiss on the scar. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but one of empathy, of healing. I could feel him shaking under me, a rumbling that was more intense than any other sign of lust I had ever felt before and more than pure physical attraction.
I went on down. I spread my arms out flat on his difficult, rough, wrinkled belly, and his muscles tightened and squirmed when I touched them. I could see the effect I was having on him. A thick, long, hard ridge stretched against the confines of his jeans, still stuck within his pants. All this made me feel a new rush of desire, but I held myself back, took my time, made myself wait like he did.
I touched his jean button with my fingers. I raised my gaze and turned my head towards his face, hoping to find his eyes. Dark and intense, his gaze held a silent fire that burned in its depths. He nodded slowly and softly. I unsnapped the button and slowly and torturously pulled down the zipper. It was loud in the quiet room, a metallic difference that meant the last unveiling.
Grasping my fingers around his waistband of his jeans and his boxers, I pulled them down together. Had to move around to get them over his strong thighs and when I budged them his cock came free and slapped hard on his belly. I gasped. He was magnificent. Utterly, breathtakingly magnificent. Long, impossibly thick, he was a work of art in black velvety skin rising from a neat thatch of black curls. The dome of his head was wide and flaring, a bead of precum already glistening on his ridge. He was larger than I'd ever thought; strong and formidable, an elegant statement of his manhood. For a moment, I was frozen, just looking at him. He was so still and his breathing was shallow and I could see his hands clutched in the sheets at his sides, like he was trying to push them away or something, like he was trying to push the space and time away.
With a shivering finger, I touched him and clutched at the base of his penis. He was hot and hard in my hand, skin impossibly smooth over the firmness of his erection. I delicately squeezed him and a soft, low guttural growl came out of his throat. I started to make my hand move, then it was a slow and exploratory motion from the bottom to the tip. I watched his face, and looked at the workings on his face, the joy, the agony, the total giving up. I leaned down and, with the tip of my tongue, licked away the bead of precum from his slit. He was salty, clean and distinctly male.
His hips jutted up his skin without a thought, and it was a silent request for more. I smiled, and a slow confident smile. I was at the helm of this moment. I bent over him, my hair brushing his thighs and sucked his dick head in. I didn't rush. I savoured him. I used my tongue to explore the sensitive ridge, I hollowed my cheeks and sucked softly, listening to his pleasure, feeling it in my own body. I was kissing his dick tenderly, patiently, knowingly as he had been with me. I was kneeling over this beautiful and vulnerable man, and at that moment I felt a power that I had never known before. It wasn't about seduction or doing well. It was the simple, powerful intimacy of giving and receiving unadulterated intimacy. I learned the geography of his desire, exploring every ridge and vein with my tongue, taking my time.
I loved his low grunting noises, his hands gripping the sheets, his back arching slightly as he strained to speak, as if calling out the names of the rest of us. I knew this was just the beginning, though. I had seen everything of him - the entire, imposing length of him - and wanted to have him, all of him, not for his pleasure but as a sign of devotion, an expression of closeness that we were creating. I took a breath, focussed myself and started to take him deeper inside. I relaxed my throat and leaned my head down, my lips curling around his magnificent girth. I inch down as the hard flesh folds into my mouth, its heat, its wetness.