[ That her natural inclination is to run β an instinct born from the dark nooks and crannies of her mind, impossible for him to navigate without her guidance β doesn't make her any more difficult to love. They're a perfect match, in that way; not the sun chasing the moon across the sky, but the loving pull of the moon and the tides. Ever reacting to each other, ever in sync.
As their fingers intertwine, he sighs, breath cool against the wet part of her legs, the ghost of sensation followed in the next moment by the press of his tongue, licking a slow stripe along the folds of her cunt. But he's never been one not to follow instruction. Don't tease, she says, and so he doesn't, his mouth chasing the taste of her, each twitch and shudder of her body. Below, his cock twitches, hard against the plane of his stomach, a clear sign of desire that would be difficult to ignore if not for the fact of her. His pleasure is in watching her, catching and filing away the way her sweet lips part, the way her face flushes β the proclivity of a former teacher's pet, aware of each point of sensation, from the silk of his robe caught between his arm and her back to the brush of his carefully combed mustache against her pink flesh.
The only shame is that his tongue is too occupied to tell her just how beautiful he finds her. Granted, the soft moan that echoes in his throat gets most of the point across, half-formed and pliant, undone to a degree only she's ever allowed to see. She's so lovely β she'll always be lovely to him. ]
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As their fingers intertwine, he sighs, breath cool against the wet part of her legs, the ghost of sensation followed in the next moment by the press of his tongue, licking a slow stripe along the folds of her cunt. But he's never been one not to follow instruction. Don't tease, she says, and so he doesn't, his mouth chasing the taste of her, each twitch and shudder of her body. Below, his cock twitches, hard against the plane of his stomach, a clear sign of desire that would be difficult to ignore if not for the fact of her. His pleasure is in watching her, catching and filing away the way her sweet lips part, the way her face flushes β the proclivity of a former teacher's pet, aware of each point of sensation, from the silk of his robe caught between his arm and her back to the brush of his carefully combed mustache against her pink flesh.
The only shame is that his tongue is too occupied to tell her just how beautiful he finds her. Granted, the soft moan that echoes in his throat gets most of the point across, half-formed and pliant, undone to a degree only she's ever allowed to see. She's so lovely β she'll always be lovely to him. ]