nimerys

You look like you’ve melted into the fabric. Breathing slow. Lashes dark against flushed cheeks. Completely unguarded.

I stand in the doorway for a long minute, just watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way the cotton clings and shifts with every breath. It’s so thin I can see the faint shadow of your areolas beneath it when the light hits just right. No bra. Just you, soft and warm and barely covered.

My pulse is already loud in my ears.

I move closer, quiet steps across the rug, until I’m standing right beside the couch. You don’t stir. Your lips part on a tiny, dreamy exhale.

I sink to my knees beside you.

My hand hovers above the neckline for a second, then I let my fingertips graze the fabric. It’s warm, almost damp from your skin. I slip two fingers under the loose edge, brushing the inner curve of your breast. God, you’re so soft. The skin there feels like warm silk. I slide my whole hand inside slowly, cupping you through the dress at first, feeling the perfect weight of you settle into my palm.

Your nipple is already half-hard, pressing against the cotton like it’s reaching for me. I circle it with my thumb, light at first, then a little firmer. The fabric drags over the sensitive peak and you make a small, sleepy sound, barely a hum, but it goes straight to my core.

I ease the neckline lower, just enough to bare one breast completely. The air hits your skin and your nipple tightens instantly. I lean in and blow the faintest stream of breath across it, watching it pebble even more, before I close my mouth over it, soft and wet, tongue flicking slow lazy circles.

You shift. Hips rocking once, unconsciously, thighs pressing together under the rumpled hem of the dress. Your head tips back a little, exposing more of your throat, but your eyes stay closed. Still dreaming.

I switch to the other side, tugging the fabric down so both breasts are free now, framed by the bunched cotton like an offering. I take my time, kneading gently, lifting their weight, letting them spill between my fingers. My thumbs brush back and forth over your nipples until they’re flushed dark and straining, glistening faintly from my mouth.

Your breathing has changed, shallower, a little quicker. A quiet, needy whimper slips out when I pinch just hard enough to make your back arch off the cushion. Your hips roll again, slow and helpless, the thin dress riding higher until I can see the edge of your underwear, the soft cotton already damp between your thighs.

I slide one hand down your stomach, over the dress, pressing the heel of my palm against your mound, just enough pressure to make you sigh. My other hand stays on your breast, rolling the nipple steadily while I rock my hand between your legs in time with your sleepy little movements.

You’re starting to surface now. Lashes fluttering. Lips parting on a soft, confused moan.

I don’t stop.

I lean down, mouth against your ear, voice low and rough.

“Shhh… just let me keep touching you.”

If you don’t respect women in real life, it is not a kink.

Mutual respect between partners is 100% necessary.

That little purple crop top is still bunched high under your breasts, the thin cotton stretched taut across your chest. Your nipples are rock-hard, pressing up so sharply against the fabric that the outlines are perfectly visible, dark peaks tenting the material with every quick breath you take. The shirt rides up a fraction more each time your back arches, exposing the soft undercurve where sweat has started to gleam.

Your matching purple panties are still fully in place, high-cut and snug against your hips. No pulling them aside today. Instead, both your hands are slipped down inside the front waistband, fingers working beneath the stretchy lace trim. One set disappears deeper, sliding in and out of you with slow, deliberate strokes, each withdrawal makes the fabric tent slightly outward before it sinks back in with a muffled, wet sound. Your other hand is pressed flat against your mound, fingertips rubbing frantic little circles right over your clit through the thin barrier of the panties.

The material is soaked dark at the center now, clinging transparently to your swollen folds so I can see the exact shape of everything underneath: the plump outer lips parted just enough, the slick shine coating your fingers as they pump, the way your clit bulges against the lace every time you grind down on it. Every few seconds your hips buck up hard, pushing your hand deeper, making the panties pull tight across your ass and ride up between your cheeks.

Your thighs are quivering, muscles flexing under smooth skin as you chase that rhythm. A thin trail of sweat slides from between your breasts down your stomach, disappearing under the waistband where your wrists disappear. Your mouth falls open on soft, gasping moans, higher now, more desperate, and your head tips back, throat exposed, lips parted like you’re begging the ceiling for release.

I’m rooted at the foot of the bed, cock so painfully hard it’s throbbing in time with your fingers. The head is leaking steadily, soaking through my boxers in sticky patches, every twitch sending a fresh ache straight to my balls. Watching your hands move inside those drenched purple panties, seeing the fabric stretch and darken, seeing your clit rub visibly against your fingertips, hearing the slick sounds muffled but unmistakable, it’s fucking unbearable.

You haven’t glanced my way once.

But you feel me watching. I know you do. Because right when I shift my weight, your fingers curl harder inside you, a choked whimper slips out, and your hips roll up like you’re putting on the filthiest show just for me.

The sunlight turns the wet spot on your panties almost sheer, letting me see the way your pussy clenches around your knuckles, the way your clit jumps under each rough circle. You’re dripping now, slick trailing down toward your ass, darkening the sheets beneath you. Your breathing is ragged, stomach fluttering, nipples straining so hard against that tiny top I can practically feel them under my tongue.

Fuck, baby.

I want to rip those panties down your thighs and bury my face between your legs until you’re screaming. I want to pin your wrists and fuck you through the mattress while you’re still wearing that soaked little set. I want to watch you come so hard the fabric tears under your own frantic rubbing.

But I stay right here.

Because you look obscene like this, hands shoved down your own drenched purple panties, working yourself open and swollen in broad daylight, nipples begging through that clinging crop top, and I’m so hard I can’t think straight.

Keep going.

Rub that clit faster through the lace. Fuck yourself deeper with those fingers trapped under the waistband.

Come for me like that, shaking, soaking your pretty panties, moaning my name without ever saying it out loud.

And when you finally look up at me with those hazy, wrecked eyes?

That’s when I’ll finally touch you.

Second, I just can’t relate to a man that isn’t infatuated with eating pussy. Every single aspect of it turns me on. From the visual of a wet pussy just needing to be eaten, to the process of opening you up with my fingers and tongue, to the biological response of her pussy flooding from stimulation, to the groans of despair when I hit it just right and she becomes undone with need and gets pushed to complete overwhelming pleasure.

“You okay with this?” You can kinda whisper this. Give him ‘fuck me’ eyes, press your body against his. Tut at him when he whines and nods. Remind him; “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

Keep asking; “Is this okay?” “How’s this?” “You like this?” And when he hums a yes, ask him how much he likes it. Keep him talking. Give yourself the challenge to make him feel so good he starts blabbering about how good you feel.

Again, whisper it. Use your sexiest voice to check in. Look him in the eyes. Check in again when you’re both done and sweaty. When you’re all fucked out so he says it with a tired smile. Watch his eyes twinkle when he tells you how much he liked it. Kiss him and tell him how well he did, thank him for being so honest.