Whipped cream

Agnes could feel the rough edges of Norman’s tongue caressing her lips, her teeth, her own tongue, alive and vital, pressing back against his. She felt the stubble of his chin, his square jaw, as it rubbed against her own smooth face and neck. And then she could feel the prickles of that stubble travel down her neck and into the valley between her breasts – and then to the right, and to the left. And she felt his smooth, wet tongue as he fondled her nipples, one and then the other. And all at the same time she felt the rising waves of passion between her own legs as he massaged her clitoris and her vagina with a hand she adored – at once muscular, at once soft and sensitive, his fingers thin but those hands powerful with their hairy knuckles.

Agnes had never known that passion like this could exist. And as far as they had gone here – naked to each other, nothing between them, only their shared desire for each other and for this moment – this moment came to Agnes as a surprise, a revitalizing and tantalizing jolt, one that took her to the edges of her emotions. And she could never have known that Norman, muscles tense, eyes ablaze, a bright redness in his cheeks, fully erect and pressing against her abdomen and legs – never have known that Norman desired her this much. Norman leaned into her, kissed her, his lips wandering over to her left ear, biting and licking it. And as the electricity between them kept recharging itself and she thought she’d go over the edge any second now, he whispered into her ear –

“Let me go get the whipped cream.”