Give Me The Command To Taste Myself

6 min read

I dive my hand into my jeans.

We stand facing each other in the overwhelming humidity. It’s like a wet blanket draped around our bare shoulders. NY pushes me up against my white vehicle. The contrast of the cool metal and my hot skin flashes through my mind. I splay out, willing, against the trunk of my car. Like this come hither, come fuck me silent plea.

His hands press me against the unyielding metal. There’s the feel of his bodyweight trapping me against him. He kisses me in absolute possession of my lips. I can taste our whiskey-drenched tongues mingling together. All I can feel, sense, be in this moment is returning his kiss. Our tongues dive against each other deeper within the recesses of our mouths.

His fingers wrap in my hair and pull my neck to the side. The slight pain registers and only makes me moan. He licks and bites the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck. He bites my overflowing cleavage as I pant from his attacks. I wish I didn’t have a bra on so he could just force his mouth onto my tits right now. He plants kisses on each delicious mound. Then his teeth nip at the delicate skin.

I’m gasping, reeling, lost completely in this. The fluorescent lights of the bowling alley’s parking lot flicker overhead. We’re a little way from the entrance. The lighting is bright and we don’t hide our activity from any passerby. I feel like I’m laid out on my car with a spotlight shining above me. I’m aware anyone can see what exactly he’s doing to me. Somehow, I just don’t care.

We part from each other with a sharp sucking in of our breath. I’m nothing but fired and fried nerves. They beg to be released through an orgasm, or several in a row if he’s unrelenting in his pursuit.

“I’m so wet. You have no idea,” I gasp.

I squeeze my thighs together. I don’t know how I’m not dribbling down my legs. It’s a warmth quite like the damp, dank humidity outside. My jeans cling to my thighs in that wet moisture embrace of cloth and skin.

“I don’t believe you unless I have a taste,” he responds.


My left eyebrow primps just so at this predicament he’s put me in. He just gives me this snicker and smirk. The challenge he’s set out in front of me is one I can’t help but accept.

I don’t know if I’ll be shy about it and try to hide my movements from passersby, using his body as a blockade. Or, if I’ll just torture him by letting him thinking about my taste, not allowing him to discover what my exact flavor is.

“Yes, it’s one of those taste or it didn’t happen situations,” he says.

His brown eyes have this inherent, encouraging dominance. I feel my submission kick in at his request. The parking lot is quiet, just a few people trickling out with the last call. I wet my lips at the idea of plunging my fingers into my pussy.

A couple exits the bowling alley arm in arm. They pass us and we watch as they vanish around the corner. There are people cleaning up as the alley begins the process of shutting down. Garbage cans are rolled out to the dumpster. The clattering wheels echo in the alley.

The whiskey we tossed back together loosens my usually iron clad inhibitions. I release the belt of my jeans. The frayed leather falls uselessly against my skinny jeans. A part of me doesn’t know what I’m doing. The other part knows exactly what I’m doing and revels in it. There are security cameras that will catch my act, but it won’t be the first time.

I want him to taste me off my own finger. To taste my sweat mixed with the juices dripping down my legs. I want him to imagine what it’d be like fucking me, the wetness enveloping him, my tightness gripping him like a warm vice.

He’s never had me before. We keep dancing in bowling alleys, entangling our bodies within the city. I remember when we walked outside in the chilly, brisk winter air after the ballet we saw. How we huddled together to find warmth in each other. I locked my arm in his. We passed people on the street and they gave us little smiles. That type of smile where you find the closeness between two people endearing.

Each time we meet our kisses become more desperate. I give into him a little more as he delves into me. Our embraces become increasingly intimate as we hold on. We take in every bit of tactile information. There’s the feel of his shirt, the scruff of his beard against my bare shoulder. The looks we share, speculating whether we will submit to the letting go of our kiss.

I want him so badly I can taste him. I can taste his dick and feel myself hit the base of it. How I suffocate myself slightly, to pile drive more within my willing mouth. How I choke for a moment, regain my composure, and moan at his dick hitting my back of my throat.

With this thought my finger plunges down into my pants. It’s a tight squeeze. I wiggle it down inside of my thong. I tentatively push at the entrance of my pussy. There’s a squishing sound, and sensation, at the wetness. I push inside and close my eyes.

It feels incredibly good to feel myself. The way it hugs my finger is incredible. I scoop the sticky, slick wetness onto my index and middle fingers. The process of dragging it out is a tricky one. I don’t want to lose my flavor, this essential essence of me, on my tight clothing. I wriggle my fingers out with the pussy juices still stuck. I bring it to him as a sort of offering.

There’s the challenge now for him to taste me in public. The smirk on my lips is that of a minx trapping her prey perfectly.

He takes a hold of my hand. His brown eyes stare blatantly into my own. I watch as he dives my fingers deep within his mouth. He licks off every bit of it from my fingertips. I’m moaning at the sight, the feel of his warm mouth enveloping and sucking my fingers clean. I can see him diving between my legs and eating me out devoutly.

“Now, it’s your turn.”


“You have to partake in that yourself.”

“You want me to do that for myself?”

I give him that look. The same one as before, that says, you gotta be kidding me. And come again, all in one. He just nods like he’s asking the simplest thing.

“Yes, I want you to taste yourself.”

“I don’t do this normally.”

Ever, I don’t do this ever, I correct myself. My hand squeezes back into my jeans. I left the button open with my fly still barely holding them up. I squish inside my pussy again. It feels even wetter than the last time. The sticky liquid clings to my fingertips. I bring them up to my mouth and close my eyes.

There’s a combination of flavors. There’s the sweat of my hand. There’s also that sweet, subtle flavor of myself. The scent of my sex greets my nose. I can even taste the distant grease of the bowling alley on my middle and fourth finger. It’s strangely addictive and I find myself licking it off. I’m aware of that delicious aroma, the slight musky scent of my pussy.

“What does it taste like?”

“It tastes good, sweet, something I could go in for more,” I admit as my eyes flutter open. The look we’re giving each other, I’m surprised my legs aren’t spread wide as he has me hooked underneath his arms, spread wide, for him to plunge into and feast on. I want him in ways that make my clit throb at the ideas and scenarios.

I can see him tearing down my jeans, bending me over, and spreading me wide on my car trunk. I’d lay my face against the metal and he’d thrust into me. Each thrust would force me further against my car. I’d be helpless to any passerby who was curious enough to happen upon us. He could take me from behind and smack my ass while he owned that tight little part of me.

“I want your finger in here,” I tell him.

I squeeze my thighs together. He leans forward into me. I’m pressed against my car again. He pins my wrists down to the metal. My chin tilts up to greet his all consuming kiss. He crushes my bow shaped lips with his own. The dominance of his kiss sets my skin on fire. I can taste my flavor on our tongues mixed with the whiskey.

“In due time.”

We part from each other with a gasp. I want to sit on top my trunk. My legs would wrap around him as I pulled him into me, like a Venus Fly Trap made to eat him slowly. He’d thrust into me relentlessly, making me beg for more.

There’s a glimmer in his eyes. He’s thinking, and I can tell what it is he’s preoccupied about.

I let out a short sigh at the realization.

“You have to go, don’t you?”

I don’t want to ask the question. But we’re always in a state of reuniting, and then having to go back into the world. Whether that be work, sleep, or whatever it may be.

He takes a deep breath. His taller body with his broad shoulders leans into me. I can feel him exhale near my ear. I grip him tighter than I mean to in a hug. It doesn’t seem like he minds it. NY returns the hug just as fiercely and my breath catches.

“Unfortunately, yes,” his voice comes out softer than usual.

We know that we both have to leave. He keeps returning to kiss me. I keep melting into his lips, arms, the overwhelming deliciousness of his touch. How he holds me so close next to his insatiably hot body. The way his hardness presses my softness against the roughness of my vehicle. We kiss again and again, even after we’ve said goodbye.

I open up my door and slide clumsily inside. I’m nothing but a jumble of nerves and a pulsating clit. He leans down to press his lips against mine one last time. I cup his bearded face in my soft palms. The scruff of his beard tickles the insides of my hands. I chase my fingers up to his hair. I grab a hold of his head and force him to kiss me even deeper.

All I know is I can’t wait to cum thinking about him having me. His lips possessing my skin, claiming it, marking it as his own. I shiver as he shuts the door and walks back to his own car. I don’t even bother to buckle my belt or button my jeans. What I’m planning to do later negates that need.

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