Page 62 of Glitterland
His mouth curved into its wide, generous smile. “It’d be a bit weird if you didn’t, babes.”
“In your world, maybe,” I muttered, running a thumb over his chiselled model’s cheekbones.
I unwrapped him slowly like it was Christmas and somebody had given me a shyly shivering glitter pirate, who made soft, uncertain purring noises beneath my mouth and fingers. Surely the best present I’ve ever had. I lingered over the smooth expanse of his skin, taut as silk over his sleek muscles, felt the beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath, and the heat that gathered like a benediction beneath my mouth. My fingers and lips became the enthralled cartographers of his flesh. My tongue traced the deep blue vein that ran like a river down his forearm, down to the branching tributaries that formed a delta at his wrist, and across the intricate paths that scored his palm. I’d done this in Brighton, at the time hardly knowing why, bewildered by my response to him, wanting everything and nothing at the same time.
I stroked the sinewy muscles of his upper arms and shoulders, tasted the deep hollows of his clavicles, the intersection of throat and collarbone, a secret, pendant-shaped plateau of skin ridged by ranges of bone. I slipped downwards, traversing the subtle planes and valleys of his body all the way to the neatly trimmed hair that formed a tantalising trail between the V of his obliques, leading from belly to perfectly groomed groin.
I dropped to my knees, and in the sudden, breathless silence, I actually heard him swallow. On a strange, entirely inexplicable whim, I turned my head and kissed the inside of his knee. I swept my hands up his thighs, the muscles flexing beneath my palms, the skin hot, and then I leaned forward and swirled my tongue over the straining head of his cock, sweeping up a drop or two of pre-come that had gathered there.
My glitter pirate made a noise that sounded a bit like “eeep.”
I glanced up, heedless, smiling, generally idiotic. He wore an expression of intense concentration, as though someone had asked him to do a really nasty piece of long division without the aid of calculator.
“Yorite?” I asked softly, in terrible Essex.
His hips moved infinitesimally. He opened his mouth. Said nothing. Then, “Y-yeah.”
I curled a hand about his hip, over Gary actually, and the other at the base of his cock. And then I took him in my mouth.
Darian gave a hoarse cry that he tried to turn—unconvincingly—into a cough. One of his hands fluttered down to rest very lightly in my hair.
“Omigodbabes”—the words blurred into an incoherent whole—“I gotta sit down if you’re gonna do that. I’ll fall over.”
I had to stop sucking his cock to laugh.
“Bed’s behind you.”
He flopped down as though he didn’t have a single bone left in his body. Well. Maybe one.
I crawled forwards (dignity, what’s that?), pushed his knees apart and pressed in close. Darian leaned back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to control his breathing.
“I’ve barely started,” I said.
“OmigodI’mgonnadie.”
I ran my tongue up the underside of his cock, teasing him.
“Do…do…that fing again.”
“What thing?”
He made a tortured sound. “What you just did. Y’know.”
“I might have forgotten.” His hips bucked, his cock thudding against my lips, leaving a damp smear that I licked up gladly. He whined. Adorably. I gripped him again, circled his cock with my tongue and my lips, until he was arching off the bed, and then I took pity on him, opened my mouth and slid down on him until I met my own hand.
It had been, in all honesty, a while. And my gag reflex spasmed in protest. But it was worth it, entirely worth it, as Darian grabbed the nearest pillow and covered his face with it, muffling a blissed-out moan.
I prodded him in the knee until he re-emerged. And when he was back with the programme, I took my hand away, letting the last few inches of his cock sink into my mouth. I spread wide my arms in an absurdLook ma, no handsgesture that made him laugh and then gasp and then groan.
“You’re well good at that, babes,” he mumbled. “Wellgood. Like pafeshunal standard.”
I spat him out, trailing saliva and choking with laughter, a few tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “That is not a compliment.”
He sat up, aghast. “Oh no, babes! I didn’t like…mean…oh no! What am I like?”
“What I want to know,” I said wickedly, “is where you acquired this knowledge of professional-standard oral sex.”
“No, no, I ’aven’t. I ’aven’t! I didn’t mean…it’s just like…if somefing is proper good, right, you sometimes fink, wow, like, it’s so good, you could get paid for doing it.”
