I have led you here. [FM] [soft suckling in the Scottish lowlands] [outdoor oral] [feelsy]

I have watched your calves strain to carry your muscle and bone through the lowlands; listened to low hum of your breath ahead of me, surveying the rolling hills below us. We keep getting closer to the sky, and I can’t tell if I’m lightheaded due to the altitude or from being so close to you in such silence for so long.

I don’t know how to say what I want to say.

I don’t know how to say what I want to say, which is that I have waited a lifetime to find someone good enough to bring here, to lay down among the heather. Now we’re here, lost to the world in the Ochils, it feels almost criminal to disturb the peace of the wind whispering through your hair. I know I should be grateful for sunshine but mostly I am grateful for the line of your shoulder blades and the silence between us, which is calm and comfortable and not as fraught and charged as that shared with shadows from my past.

That’s what I thought love was. Racing hearts and sweaty palms and feeling like the ground might crumble if he-who-I-loved didn’t hold it up.

But I’m doing nothing apart from unrolling a blanket, milky thighs marred by briars, covered in pollen and a glaze of effort, and wanting you to feel as warm and soft as I feel. And I think, maybe, this could be love.

You catch me tracing your silhouette against the bright blue sky and stride over to my little camp, taking my extended hand and lowering down to sit between my outstretched legs, back to my chest. From here I can hold your hand and kiss your face, letting my tresses dance across your collar to offer faerie kisses out of my reach.

I can feel you start to melt, so slowly, into my thighs, until the long grass around us covers you from the world. You turn to rest your cheek on the pillow of my leg, almost purring as I trace away the worries wrinkling your forehead with the pad of my index finger.

You will never be able to know all the whorls of its print, and I know now that is okay. Maybe we don’t have to know everything about each other.

I know enough, after all, to rest that finger at the corner of your lips until you look up with big eyes, extending a flittering tongue to it. I know how you grunt when I scratch your scalp and suckle on anything in sight.

And I’m learning the inability to anticipate can be a gift—you still surprise me when you draw my hand from your face so insistently and gently to your waist, resting it there, allowing me to choose.

But I always, always, choose you.

I pet your forehead with one hand as the other pushes firmly enough to give you my heat past the fabric guarding you from the world, steady as I was taught to be with all animals with pasts. I don’t take my palm off you, sliding down, down, down until I can wrap a hand around you, feeling you grow with each throb. The sensation of feeling you harden is. Intoxicating. I can’t help but gasp, and hope the lavender floating through the air makes up for my saccharine nips at your ear.

You reach up for the hand that’s petting your hair and I acquiesce it, only to have it clasped in yours and laid to rest against your chest. This way, I can feel your heart, strong and steady and familiar. You do this to prove to me it won’t stop, and I’m grateful for you taking even the silliest of my paranoias so seriously.

I am always amazed at how you keep your breathing level, keep my gaze, as your body starts to catch fire.

I can’t decide whether I treasure squeezing the sheer girth of you or rubbing a thumb into the very tip of you, which is like velvet starting to go slippery in the rain—but the sun is out and you’re sinking further into the ground and all the sudden I want to know what it’s like to taste you in this place, to hold you inside me without agenda, just warm and safe and wet and yours.

You must know by now my body is your home. I can tell in the way you ease off me as I start to crawl over you, smiling and gathering my mane into one fist.

You want to see me, and I don’t blame you.

My mouth expands to take you in, and I cover as much of your cock as I can with the hollow of my cheeks, the laving attention of my tongue. One hand still holds yours, receiving squeezes in time with your steadily-increasing gasps, while the other caresses your bollocks. Such precious cargo they carry. Such a tender part of you, the most tender of all my people. I have mastered the arts of feather-light presses and suction and hand-holding for you, and it can’t even be called seduction, because I’m more aware of your reactions than I am of my own actions.

A choked-off gulp of air. A muffled squeeze, pushing your fistful of my hair to the back of my head, fighting not to force me further down on you than I can handle. Your thumb, even now, tracing the back of my hand. Writing out the alphabet backwards. Then on to Fitzgerald.

Your cock starts to weep in my mouth and your eyes go fiery, swimming down to mine to let me know you’re on the edge. I would eat you if you tasted of brine and brimstone, but as it is, your taste is my favourite flavour, so I press on, nodding as much as I can and sending you a slow blink—kissing as cats do. I trace your veins and ridges with my tongue, suckling at your length and kneading your balls and encouraging you to lose yourself to me.

I will keep you safe until you can return to your body. You know this. I know you know this.

I know you know this because your knees suddenly rocket against my chest, free hand clutching into the soil beside you as you honest-to-goodness cry out, loud and getting louder with each ricochet of your hips back up into me. Your cock is writhing, wringing itself out as I swallow over and over, your wails swept up and away by the winds. I stay on you like this as you convulse, then shudder, then still, only lifting away from your prick with a snail-trail of my saliva and your come when you’re completely empty and soft once more.

I fall asleep like this, my cheek on your thigh, grateful and soft and warm.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/oj0kkm/i_have_led_you_here_fm_soft_suckling_in_the