Salome and Ishmael

He put his hands gently on her shoulders and said "My turn to talk for a second. You, my Big Black Woman, have honored me. I don't know why you think you can trust me so much, but I won't abuse it. I like women, I already told you that. And I LOVE sex. But for me, the big turn-on has always been giving my partner pleasure. It's trivially easy for me to come, so I've always hated being in a hurry. Coming fast means losing about 98% of the pleasure, certainly for you, and also for me... most of my pleasure is in that nice, slow, long workup to the final little moment. The orgasm is almost inconsequential, there's so much to give and receive enroute. So... with your permission, I want this to be YOUR night. At least, at the start. A nice, long, slow start, too! We'll concentrate on you, pure and simple. And that won't be neglecting me, quite the contrary, believe me. Just let things flow. No fear of asking for whatever we want, and no fear about trying out suggestions. The absolute condition is double willingness, and no pain either mental or physical, just pleasure. Okay with you?"

As she replied, her face was a study: "God almighty, Ishmael. I do believe you mean every word of that. You are amazing! Yes... of COURSE I agree! What woman in her right mind wouldn't agree? So long as we are certain to take care of you, too. You see, I also like giving pleasure."

He kissed her very lightly, then before it could expand and flower he turned her about. "First, I get to unwrap my package, then you get to unwrap yours." His hands slid gently down her shoulders, delicately cupped her breasts: the smooth, flimsy fabric separating their skins acted as a lust-lubricant. They were bigger than half-cantaloupes, and solid. Gravity would win someday, but hadn't yet.

Beneath his palms, her nipples made themselves known. She sighed at the touch, reached behind her to where his hardon lay snugly against her buttocks, slid both hands inside his robe to explore his cock and balls. She gasped when her fingers found his clean-shaven, naked skin: then she tried to lever his cock downwards from its position nearly parallel with his belly: it hardly moved.

She giggled, muttered "Oh, wow!"

Ishmael waggled himself within her grasp, and muttered "Surely you aren't surprised at THAT, are you?"

She replied, with her fingers around his shaft, "Jeezus, White Boy, I expected a hardon, certainly, but not a teen-age one! And, no damned Mister Macho brillo-pad, either. That's a first for me. I like it! I do believe, sir, that thee and me are going to get along famously. You can be my Slow-Loving Shaved White Boy!"

He turned her again, to face him, and put his hands behind his back, told her "Unwrap if you wish." She did. He stood there for a minute as her hands explored his body.

"Nice..." she said. Her hands explored his thighs and calves. "Very damn nice! No extra on you, is there? You a runner?" He nodded. She cupped his buttocks, and he flexed for her. She squeezed back. She knelt in front of him, caressed the curves and ridges of his belly with her lips and tongue. The robe puddled on the floor, and his cock stood out proud and hard. She flipped it gently side to side and muttered "Nice indeed!"

In one slow, smooth motion, she inhaled the entire length of it, until her nose was pressed against the smooth-shaven skin at its base. Deep-throating was something that had taken her years to learn, and she was proud of the ability. Men always seemed to like it! She stroked him full-length once, twice, making his shaft glisten.

He stopped her, stood her upright, said to her "You're GOOD! More later, please, but for the moment, how about letting me continue? We'll come back to this, believe me! Right now, I'm going to take that blouse off using my teeth and nothing more. Hold still."

In half a minute the blouse was on the floor. Then he was nuzzling her breasts through the gossamer nothingness of the brassiere, putting her hands behind her head, licking long and slow and sensuously up her armpits. She shuddered, and like him she was glad that she'd taken the time to shave this morning.

With his lips and tongue, he pinched up a roll of her hyper-sensitive under-arm skin, made the hidden subsurface stubble protrude, dragged his tongue against it. He nursed on the roll. New sensations for her. Lovely sensations. He was good. He was also enjoying himself, and she could tell, for he shivered, and she felt it. That was a good sign, she thought, as her belly churned non-stop.

When finally he left her pit to nuzzle her neck, working gently from one side to the other, her breasts were so hard they ached. Just as his lips closed firmly on one engorged, nylon-encased nipple, sending little lightning jolts through her brain, she whispered "Carpe, no? You did say we should ask one another for anything we want! I wonder – would you mind if we turned on the lights? I'd like to be able to see you... and myself... and us together. Frankly, well, so far, White Boy, I really do like the way you've been looking at me!"

He stepped away for a second and flicked on the wall switches: light flooded the room. When he turned around, she had her back to him and was kicking off her shoes – the skirt was in a heap on the dresser. Her shimmering red bra was all lace, as he had expected, a magnificent piece of engineering - she filled it to near-bursting. Even from the back, he could see the swell of her breasts.

His eyes widened: real hose, held up by a white garter belt. And no panties. Nice! Her bottom was solid, prominent, jet black and smooth, hard-muscled to be every bit as solid as he'd guessed. It was framed perfectly by the belt and the stocking-straps. White on black, ivory on jet: pearls and garter belt. And scarlet bra. A gentle swelling of thigh just at the top of the lacy nylons, where her well-muscled legs exited their snug confinement.

He hadn't imagined his cock could get any harder, but it did: it almost hurt, now. She straightened up and he stepped over to her, put his arms around her from behind, across her chest just below her breasts, hugged her to him. Strong, this woman! She wiggled against his front as they looked at one another in the mirror.

She locked onto his gaze, slowly bent forward from the waist until she was yoga-doubled, forehead to shin. He goggled, realizing what this degree of flexibility could mean: was she showing off to entice him (not necessary!), or to limber herself up? She straightened, he applauded slightly. Facing him in the mirror, she took a deep, formal stage bow. He stepped sideways to be behind her, pressed his cock into the furrow of her butt and she wiggled to capture it, then stood and her buttocks pressed together, squeezing his cock between them.

Warm. Good fit. God but he was HARD!

His admiration of her beauty oozed from his every pore, and she sucked it up. It made her glow inside. And she returned the feeling, could see him react to her appreciation of his body. Nice. Mutual. Positive feedback of the very best sort.

Ishmael studied her openly. She encouraged him. Her skin was absolutely jet, shimmering like the broken surface of a lump of hard coal, liquid-shiny. So perfectly smooth that the dusting of microscopic hairs stood out clearly in the light. He described for her what he was seeing, how beautiful the scenery was, how much it turned him on. She preened. The words penetrated her like warm honey, filling some deep empty place in her psyche. Oh, yes, she could get along with this man... and the nicest thing was the transparency of his face... he really, truly MEANT every single word. How lovely, to be so appreciated just for being herself!

She cupped her brassier-clad boobs in her hands and raised them slightly as if offering them to his reflection: she whispered over her shoulder at him, "Like my babies? Most men seem to!" She was proud of them, and the men in her life had gobbled at them as if they were manna for the starving. "Men," she'd often thought ... "men and their universal tit fetish!" She shivered as Ishmael's hands cupped her own, hefted, sent his thumbs gently over her swollen nipples. Her tits had genuine shape, unlike the case in so many heavy-breasted women, and the shape clearly didn't come from the bra. If anything, it was flesh imposing shape on fabric, not the reverse.

He surprised her, then: his hands didn't stay to play with her babies, but instead started slowly down her sides and as they went he whispered "You have stunning breasts, Black Woman. Beautiful. Incredible. And I love them, and I'll give them every bit of the attention that they deserve. But first, you ought to know... I'm not your traditional boob-man. Or butt or leg or calf, either..." He paused, his fingertips at the top edge of the garter belt. Then his hands slid downwards over the front edges of her hip-bones towards her crotch, and she held her breath. His fingers raised swarms of goose bumps. "I'm a rare bird, I am. Or so I've been led to believe. I love pussies, woman mine. I simply adore them. They are the seat of your pleasure, and they are complicated and wet and slippery and pretty, and each one is a whole new universe, and they are just SO much fun to explore! I hope you don't mind if that's the focus of my attention, at least for a little while?"

His fingers coasted over her mons as she was replying in total amazement, "Good God in His heaven, Boy, no...I don't think I'll mind..." It was naked, her mons, smoothly shaved like his own, except for a close-cropped little patch a third the size of his palm that ended at the uppermost dimpling of her cleft. His intake of breath against her neck told her how much he liked the view.

She sighed as his fingers explored her sharp-rising prominent mound, played delicately with the top edges of her upper lips. She smiled at his face in the mirror, and patted his hand atop her hillock. "That's why I just said I thought we would get along just fine, a moment ago when I felt that you were shaved, too. Among other things, that is!"

He practically purred as he turned her around and knelt before her, buried his face against her mons: he washed the entire vee with his tongue then sent it slithering briefly deep into her slit. Her clit was still hidden, he couldn't quite get to it. But that momentary 'failure' didn't mean she got no pleasure from the touch. She shivered violently, and started to open her legs for him, but he stood up and kissed her, hard. She could taste little traces of herself on him, salt and faint delicious female musk. Other men hadn't liked that, but this one, he was different. He licked his lips at her, lewdly, and laughed at her expression. All this was horribly sexy. Her whole body seemed to be throbbing, now. It should be pulsing, glowing. But the mirror showed her no such condition – pity!

Ishmael scooted the armless chair over with its back against the wall and sat down in it. He reached for her, brought her to stand in front of him, leaned her forward to arch over him, suspended between her feet and her hands on the wall. In this pose, her boobs, still lace-encased, hung heavily. He reached behind her and set them loose, undoing the complex clasp without hesitation or fumbling. Her breasts sagged wonderfully, right into his face, their bottom-curves hanging free of her rib-cage. She waited.

He sighed, studied them.

She shimmied them briefly and, giggling, whispered "Free at last! Free at last! Great God Almighty, they're free at last!" Ishmael recognized the line, and cited the author, which pleased her no end. They were beautifully contoured. He described them to her while she waited, almost panting, for his touch. Shapely. Pointed, not smoothly rounded like most big boobs. Not headed southwards, towards her navel, either.

The smooth, shiny darkness of half-dollar sized areolas, only differentiated from the surrounding skin by a subtle change in texture. He studied the slightly darker creases and folds on the underside and edges of each breast, where the complex microscopic wrinkling of the skin made excellent light-traps. He saw her very differently from how she saw herself, and she liked his description.

He raised each breast in turn by pinching on the big, rough nipples and tugging gently, slid his tongue along the dark creases where the tit's under-belly met her ribcage. It was a new erogenous zone for her – one where the mere touch of his tongue made her shake. She was always slightly sweaty there, and wondered briefly if that would bother him, but then he raised his face to look at her, he licked his lips again and said "Salty. I like that! Means you're excited. That's good."

Then, finally, his lips touched first one nipple and then the other. They had never been harder. Or more sensitive. And he knew how to nurse... after all, there really is a 'best' technique, known to every newborn and forgotten by almost all adult men. Mothers routinely orgasm while nursing, due to nipple stimulation alone. Ishmael had either re-mastered or never lost that technique... she was squirming!

As she accepted his worship, below her, past his head, she could see the upstanding arch of his pale, hard cock protruding from his lap. The head was almost purple. She wanted to touch it for him, for herself, but doing so would be complicated, what with her position against the wall and with all those mind-boggling sensations flooding her: she decided it would have to wait. He slid one hand down between her legs. She thought she wouldn't be able to continue standing as his fingers slid through her drooling wetness, then parted her lips, touched her clit, explored it. She shook as he stroked. Nursing PLUS this expertise... what a paragon she'd found!

Then, suddenly, he was leading her to the bed, half inviting and half directing her to lie down on it. She did as he indicated, and was delighted by the look on his face as he studied her. He looked, she thought, like a devout Catholic studying a new and glorious painting of the Madonna. Transfixed. By her, by her nakedness. Astounding.

"What's so fascinating down there?" she asked.

"God almighty, woman, but you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. All that shimmering, smooth black skin and hair spread out over a perfectly white sheet! Where's your imagination? You have no idea! But you could ask my cock..." He twanged it: the rod jumped up and slapped him hard in the belly with a sharp little report.

She giggled, spread her legs wider, shimmied her boobs.

Again, he marveled at them: they didn't just sag shapelessly sideways the way they always had on every other big-breasted woman in his experience. But Ishmael was even more fascinated by her crotch. Perfectly black, her outer lips swollen and shut so there wasn't the least bit of inner pink showing, and long, protruding inner lips. Butterfly lips. Every woman's configuration was different, and she had a superbly attractive display for him to study. He said so as he knelt on the bed, between her legs.

"May I?" he asked.

She watched him eagerly, almost unbelievingly, could only nod.

"Beautiful! You have the most incredible, beautiful pussy... especially these long, black inner lips!" He stroked them with a fingertip: they protruded a full inch beyond her outer labia.

She couldn't believe what he was saying, and managed only a confused snort of incredulity, to which he raised a questioning glance. She explained: "Nobody ever said that before, not to me. I've always thought I was ugly down there. I really think that those long inner lips of mine are deformed! But it's awfully nice to hear that you don't think so!" She ended in a whisper, almost painfully shy.

Ishmael shook his head, and said "Beautiful. Not only are you NOT deformed, but these pussy lips of yours are simply out-of-this-world GORGEOUS! Every woman's body is different, lover... and the variety is astounding. You're different from anyone else I've ever seen, but so is everyone else: 100% different, and vive le difference!"

He leaned forward and gently spread the inner lips, tugging them outward a little, laying them back over the outer set. They were so slippery and swollen that they were almost impossible to hang onto... his fingers slipped off repeatedly – but that just yielded more touching, which Salome didn't seem to mind at all.

He grinned at her as she gasped repeatedly, and told her "There! Very artistic. You now have a butterfly, lady, a perfect, beautiful pussy-lip butterfly. Nifty, symmetrical black wings, all slippery-wet and smooth and inviting. Gorgeous. And..." He tugged gently at the lips, parting them from one another along her centerline... "... if I do things just right, voila! Now your pussy's black butterfly has a pink stripe down its back... and a perfect little bright pink head peeking out of its black hood!"

He looked up from his work, and asked her quietly "Do you suppose, just suppose, that it'd be okay with this little butterfly if I were to kiss it on its pretty pink head? Do you?"

Salome sighed deeply and then giggled, but managed to say "Please!? I suspect she'd love it if you did."

"Very well... then hold yourself open for me, Salome!" Nobody had ever asked her for that before, but it certainly seemed like a good idea. She was holding her breath now, biting her lip, waiting, watching the top of his head as he approached her. One part of her mind noticed that he had no incipient bald-spot, just beautifully thick, heavy, wavy hair. If her hands weren't so busy elsewhere, she would have run her fingers through it.

She tugged at her slippery tissues until the outer lips parted and presented him with a bright pink central depression, the actual entrance to her pussy. Beneath the jet-black monk's-hood where the inner lips joined, there peeked out just the very tip of her buried pink clit. Ishmael added his thumbs to hers, and the pressure skinned back the folds of surrounding tissues, popped the entire clit up into view, gave him perfect access. It was fully the size of the last joint of his little finger, a beautiful elongate grape, large, proud, ready. Ishmael knew where he was headed. He was glad for the bright light, but he could have found his way unerringly in darkest night.

As his face floated down and first his warm breath, then his mouth engulfed her clit and inner lips, sensations exploded through her, making her buck up hard against him. His tongue was like a moving electric current, slithering about, here, there, everywhere, diffuse and concentrated at the same time.

He settled more, his arms snaked past her hips and his hands cupped her breasts, fondled her erect nipples as his tongue continued its explorations. His mouth had to be the most LUSCIOUS thing she had ever felt! Her juices were flowing so strongly that she was worried he might not like them, but all he did was try to burrow his way inside her. The very top of her head seemed to be going incandescent.

Then one hand left a breast all lonely and unattended to help with his mouth's efforts. He explored her slowly, luxuriously, savoring every little curve and change in texture, studying her reactions, building his map of her response patterns - he was intent on knowing her reactions better than she did.

He nibbled on the insides of her thighs, chewed gently up and down the length of each outer lip, then each inner. Told her repeatedly how beautiful her pussy was, how much fun he was having. His words were nice to hear, but un-necessary – the way he was working her over was evidence enough of his delight. He nestled his hardon between her nylon-clad feet as he ate. Tongue deep inside her pinkness, circling the opening, strong-soft muscle, nearly an erection in its own right, making wet lightning bolts. Sucking on her clit, rhythmically, gently, his chin nearly embedded in her pussy's opening.