6 Comments on Lost

“I’m hungry.”

It’s a simple enough statement, but laced between those three plain syllables are intricate layers of delectable need:  the need to taste, the need to be filled, the need to sate a craving.

“Me too,” he says, and un-twines from our late morning sleep-in snuggle, lazily rolling over me.

Lackadaisically awake, still warm from late-morning half-slumber, I stretch under him, arching my back to push against his weight and sliding my legs outward to wrap him in the cradle of my body.

It is all the encouragement he needs.

The scent of my own arousal – the heady top notes of which still mark my fingers from my earlier solo cum – mixes with the spice of his desire and permeates the air that cocoons our sleep-warm bodies.  We share a look – His a May I?, mine a Yes, a Please, a NOW – and in seconds, his head is nestled between my thighs, his arms wrapped up around my hips, his hands spread across my belly, pressing me to him, holding me in place.

And then I am lost.

To the sensation of his tongue stroking over my clit, to the tense-muscle lightning that quickens behind my navel, to the soft of his lips, to the hot lava recrement bubbling in prickle-burn surges under my skin.  I am lost to myself, my body moving of its own accord; my legs, bent-kneed, scissor wider and my arms reach down to pull at his hair while my hips rise, demanding more.

There is no such thing in this abstracted adrift as time.  Seconds are hours and minutes don’t matter.  I am, myself, The Moment.  And I am lost in it.

In the belly-tremble shiver, in the tactile delight of long strong fingers pressing deep, in the uncontrollable thigh twitch.  In the hold-breath push, in the clamp of dripping tight against penetrating curl, in the heady roller-coaster crest.


In the antediluvian shout that escapes my lungs.  In the primal growl that follows as he climbs up my body to cover my lips with his own.

Reality swims back into focus at the the taste of my cum on his lips.  I sigh as he pushes his hot hard into my still-pulsing wet, clamping my cunt tight around his cock, anchoring him to me…

…while he, too, gets lost.


6 thoughts on “Lost

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      Scent is strongly tied to memory. And when the memories you’re making are scent-sational… Well, let’s just say it’s an infinity loop of pleasure. 😉

      Glad you enjoyed it. 🙂


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