They had been out at his work function, she in her normal jeans and long sleeved t-shirt, some little make up for the occasion and a glossy-lipped mouth. Killer heels her indulgence, making her the 6’3 blonde. She had watched him with his colleagues, nodding pleasant hellos, exchanging glances with him, keeping track of his whereabouts when she left his side, chatting absently with strangers. Afterwards, they held hands, ran through the rain (like every clichéd romantic story!), had drinks, laughed at the ‘he said-she said’ autopsy of the evening.
Now though, he is blindfolded and his mouth is on her feet, kissing her toes, drawing them into his mouth, licking at the arch of her foot, pressing his lips into her. ‘Kiss me all over’, she had told him, ‘start at my feet’. She lays back and closes her eyes, she feels his mouth move up to her ankle.
Eventually, his gentle mouth moves across her back, his lips making patterns only his mind can see, his tongue touching her skin, to the top of her arse and down further, the only sound his breathing. He kisses first the skin of her cheeks, unseeing behind the blindfold, kissing the colours of her tattoo, the pale softness, moving slowly to the centre where she feels him hesitate before his mouth trails a path between her cheeks. His mouth finds and kisses sensitive skin that makes her stomach lurch with lust, his tongue licking at her arse and away, and then back again. She feels as if she raises her hips to him, but isn’t sure she has moved, his mouth exploring, tasting, lapping at her, a moan rising in her throat, she wonders if she actually utters it, but she thinks she doesn’t. He lingers there at her arse for a long time, heaven-soft and tender, she allows it, relaxing into it, until finally he moves on.