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I run my tongue along my upper lip, a mist of perspiration on the upper lip irritates my sensitive skin. She sits across from me, in my favourite armchair which she won in a brief scramble, my interests piqued more by the generous curves about and around her person jiggling a smidgen her lithe toned body, my heart skipping a beat as i watch her struggle against my half hearted efforts.

She responds by opening her mouth ever so slightly, curved luscious lips that have met mine countless times, and every time different, ever so slightly, better sweeter, knowingly familiar. She then proceeds to cock her head to the left, sweet alluring, her hair cascading over her left shoulder, innocent, a gasp escapes her lips when i switch to that cocky half smile and suggest that since she has been not been as forthcoming recently there are matters of such urgency that may need her explicit attention.

I shift in the chair to reduce attrition and to acclimatise, a less awkward position within my woollen boxers, as a struggle against the soft, pliable fabric, a protrusion which captures her keen attention. I part my legs, palms on my knees, an assertive overtly arrogant stance, study her not glazing over the fire mixed with an unhealthy dose of intense interest that arouses her and forces her to drop her gaze, grasping desperately for modesty, giving me time to study her a little more.

With each day she grows that tad more irresistible. Is it the new comfort i find with closeness? The intimacy we share? Not a secret between us. The easy intelligent banter which she delivers with the ease of a master. Fuck. I am turned on by intelligence, to a fault. Or is it the fact that i know that mentioning that that only we know about tips her over the edge? Is it because i know just where to touch, one touch that has her body beautifully convulsing in ripples of pleasure leaving her skin glowing with the mist from within? She is so fucking gorgeous i could eat her, then again i think not, just nibble, just so, there, right under her right breast. A chuckle escapes from my throat and she looks up into my eyes.

Shit. Those deep brown eyes, will be death of me someday, i will turn to look at her and never look back and drive right off a cliff, perhaps i already have. A smile pulls at the edges of those luscious lips as she enquires about leaving her suitably ample bottom by its lonesome in that armchair and pretends to make space on the seat. As she leans further to the left, a few ripples are triggered as her curvaceous breasts shift slightly to the left, beautiful silhouettes described by the unsteady light, the slight, short silk gown she is wearing revealing that she is not wearing underwear as i catch a glimpse of her, not sure this was at all unintentional.

A groan escapes from me as i rise slowly, the protuberance in my boxers unmistakable. She giggles. Instead of making me uncomfortable it empowers me and augments its turgidity. I lift her lightly from the couch and she lolls with no demurral in my arms as i sit back in the armchair she had previously occupied and place her across my lap facing me as my hands trace invisible lines along the sweet rivulets on her face and around her breast. We stare long and hard at each other as we listen to the crackle of the fire in the fireplace contemplating the magic for countless minutes.

She sighs and asks as she traces the laugh lines and the furrows in my forehead, where have you been, my prince? Looking for you, all over, i suggest, preparing for this very moment where time has no meaning. The world, not a thought in our mind. The cosy, easy intercourse blinding our senses to the crickets and frogs in the garden outside, the owl calling for its mate. She turns her head and buries her face in my neck in an embrace, sighs and kisses me long and passionately leaving me momentarily dazed. Honey, what is this? She asks with mock innocence as she traces her dainty fingers up my right leg up to its seam and finds……

| kama yule | q chillay |

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