scots_wolf | RP post: Saffron

The caresses of her tongue slowly descend, lower and lower, down his chest and stomach and underneath his navel, and then her hands gently tug down his trousers, grabbing another piece of fruit to drizzle juices over the hard angle of his hipbone.

She hums against his hip, the sweet juice contrasting with the salt of his skin, teasing him with slow licks and nibbles.

Urquhart arches his back, sighing with surprised pleasure. She has such good ideas!

Enjoying Urquhart with fruit.

She likes this, likes being able to draw him out slowly, with noises that prove to her how much he's enjoying things like this. And it's not completely one-sided, either; she can feel her own excitement growing as she shifts her weight, settling down between his legs.

Her fingers are wet and sticky, and she picks up one last slice of peach, the fruit swollen with a combination of its own juice and the sangria it's absorbed, and squeezes it out underneath his navel, letting the juice trickle down between his legs and over his length, and then urges the peach between his lips while she tilts her head down to take him into her mouth, seeking out the remnants of the fruit's nectar as she sucks him.

Urquhart gives a long moan.

She is like nobody else. Nobody!

What a delightful imagination!

She answers with a moan of her own, the sound sending vibrations up and down and around the length of him when she takes him deeper into her mouth.

Her fingers find his hip, gently digging in, as she finds an easy rhythm, her head bobbing as her tongue licks and laps to recover the taste of peaches as she finds it.

Urquhart moans loudly, his control just good enough not to buck upwards and give her trouble.

His hands tighten on the rug, though, nails raking through the silky, colourful pile.

She knows to stop before he's reached the point of no return, drawing him out just enough to keep him hard and ready for her.

Saffron slides up to lay on top of him, fingers combing through the long, blonde strands of his hair.

"Like that?"

"Oh yes," he gasps. "I do! What a great thing to do with fruit."

She wriggles to straddle him just so, grinding down to let the tip of him slide between her folds, teasing them both for just a few moments longer.

"It's the least I can do," she says, whispering the words against his mouth, shuddering slightly as she resists the urge to guide him inside her, to feel his cock buried deep.

"The very least."

Urquhart gasps. His hips buck against her, trying to find his way inside in some way.

Any way.

She is so very good at this!

She rolls, spreading out onto her back, red hair fanning out in long curls over the rug, and pulls him over her, to bear down with his weight.

She wants him to cover her, to surround her, and her pale legs lash around his waist as she whispers against his lips how badly she wants him inside.

He complies; he angles himself and pushes down, plowing through her folds until he finds the entrance to her body, and slides inside.

He moans, deeply, with the pleasure of all this.

She arches her back, her moan practically ripped out of her when he thrusts deep, her limbs draping around his body like she's clinging for dear life.

She knows how to fake her reactions, to lie there and pretend to enjoy it. She never has to do that here, with him. Everything is real, from the way her body bows underneath him to the breathy whimpers that escape her, soft and high.

Urquhart is proud of being able to please a woman, to give as good as he gets, so she'll be back for more or tell all her friends.

He bends to kiss her, deeply and greedily, his mouth wandering down from her lips and over her throat, while he starts thrusting, slowly, deeply, rhythmically.

Meanwhile, she's thinking the exact same thing: this will be so good for him he won't be able to do anything but come back.

One of her hands clutches at his back, the other cupping the back of his head, grabbing a fistful of his hair, moaning audibly, and her hips snap upward to meet his, matching his rhythm easily.

While there are many interesting men and women for them each, there is something extra about Saffron that makes Urquhart want to come back again and again. She keeps surprising, exciting, arousing him.

His thrusts speed up, just a little, and he bends his spine more so he may kiss her breasts. His knees slide forwards so she is lifted, just a little, into his lap, and he thrusts forwards as well as down, pushing against the area in the lower front of her opening, which women especially like.

He bends over again, to kiss her breasts and lick her nipples.

He's equally fascinating in his own way: the sheer amount of strength that resides in him, the fact that he could very well unleash it at any moment, but also the way in which he knows how to be subtle, slow, gentle, apply just the right amount of force in exactly the right places. It's a difficult art, but one that spending time as a woman seems to have helped him master.

He hoists her into his lap and she allows him to maneuver her there, his thrusts quick and shallow and hitting that place deep inside that forces more sounds out of her, low and loud, almost primal in nature. She welcomes him to her breasts, her fist tightening in his hair.

"So good," she cries, voicing her approval. "Don't stop."

"I am not planning to," he chuckles against her breasts. "Ever, if possible!"

He keeps thrusting, slow and steady.

She buries her nose against his hairline, breathing in soft pants over his forehead, slowing her movements down to match his.

He knows how to draw out the sensations, just as she does; she can feel the heat slowly building low inside her.

Anybody else would speed up now; Urquhart forces himself to slow down. She's getting there anyway, now; and the slower it gets, the sweeter it will be for her in the end.

She drapes her body over his, wills herself to slow, even as she breathes hard against his ear.

She can feel the familiar coil building inside her, ready to spring loose at any moment, unexpected and unrelenting, and her fingertips dig into his back as she muffles her moans against his broad shoulder, biting down.

Urquhart is leaning on his elbows, over her but keeping his weight off her, his hands gently holding her shoulders as he thrusts and thrusts, deeply, slowly, strongly.

And watching her face. Just seeing her pleasure is sensual beyond words.

Her eyes are closed, her lips parted in a maxim of pleasure, her small frame trembling and shuddering underneath his larger one as she nears her edge.

She draws him in to cover her, to anchor her down, and in a short number of thrusts, she comes, her body quivering, clenching from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes, the sensations drawn out as he continues to thrust into her, prolonging her crest.

He keeps going, beyond what seems comfortable, because that's at the core of what he learned from Tanya.

Women can keep coming. They don't shut down like men do.

He feels his own climax approach, and tries to draw it out a little bit longer, so she'll feel that amazing full-body meltdown a little bit longer, too.

She can already feel a second climax building the moment the first one falters, the product of what he's learned. Her hand bunches up the rug beneath them in her fist, hips bucking helplessly.

She's uncontrollable, an unstoppable force, practically seeing sunbursts behind her eyelids as her body tenses again and then, in an instant, releases, a scream rising up to spill out of her lips as she arches back to send the sound to the ceiling.

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