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Anticipation turns up the heat on a dinner date.

Already, my thoughts were racing forward, unable to be held back by overwhelming sensation as I would be in real life, and they moved further -- thinking of the slow roll and thrust of my cock against your thigh, of the shaft, swelling and grinding over your soft, sensitive flesh, of the thick, smooth head slick and sliding over you with increasing speed, even with a certain type of grace. I thought of how badly I'd want to be inside you by that point, before my fingers had yet eased their way into your wetness, testing the depth, the readiness; of how my urgent cock would try to take over my lusts, needing to feel the embrace of your lips, of your ass, but most particularly the perfectly-formed, sweet surround of your cunt, diving to the very floor of your oceans, thrusting and rocking and bursting through foam as it surfaced again. I would want all of that so agonizingly, I'd be moaning against your breasts; and yet, I would pull back from you until only my lips pressed against you, perhaps the sweep of my bangs, and deny my cock for the time being as my kisses moved down your ribcage, as they traced the curve of your belly, the corner of my lips catching at your navel and my tongue teasing out for another moment.

So many times I've imagined this already -- the way my chest would be pressed between your thighs, your legs up over my shoulders, as I moved down to devour you, as the almost-invisible hairs on your lower belly would tickle my lips and the scent of you would rise to fill my nostrils, even more enticing than I'd expected, and again making it difficult to move slowly. But I'd find the control, wanting to take time, to make you my own and savour every individual perfect moment of the act.

Even after descending, I'd begin by kissing my way up the trembling trail of each inner thigh first, feeling your body already shifting beneath me, your legs spread wide, your hips tilted to offer me more of yourself. But I wouldn't linger there for long -- my kisses would find you, soft as air for a beginning, tracing the outermost edges first, then moving in, barely touching as they moved over each fold, as they came so close to your wetness that the humidity approached a hundred percent, then moved back up to the hood covering your clit, and there my tongue would peek out for the first time, as if to invite this other hidden flesh to expose itself, perhaps teasing the very tip of the tongue beneath to say hello ... but then sliding down; once the tongue is introduced, it cannot be ignored, and I would explore you with it every way that I could find. I'd lap at you, I'd flutter gently at your clit and at the opening to you, working it bit by bit apart, I'd twist and turn and tease my way inside, finally drinking you in, finally learning the true taste of you and how you would shiver at that first lingering hidden caress.

But by then, my fingers would have grown anxious to play -- after moving from hips to breasts, squeezing, tugging, and back down, they would want to be inside; and my tongue would have its own agenda as well.

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