Bistro
Alone at a sidewalk bistro she sits, too famished to eat. It’s that brand of starvation – that sort of aching hunger the insubstantial limp and lifeless dare not hope to gratify. Snug in the flesh of hands long-empty of thick and lengthy form, she clenches a tall brimming mug of hot and dark Ghanaian cocoa, contemplating the surprisingly dense constitution of the ceramic. Her slender fingers take in tightly the growing warmth of the glazed goldenrod vessel while a stiffened spiral hood of whipped sweet cream stifles below it the rich aroma awaiting its inevitable full-bodied forthcoming. How badly she has longed, how long she has pined to find once again firm in her grasp something she can trust in with the whole of her substance, something dependable, something solid and deep in promise. It’s cold and dry as a bone outside, not frigid yet still challenging to one’s basal homeostasis. She welcomes the soothing relief of moist heat to the tightened pores of her thirsting skin. Her cheeks have gone rosy, flush with the mischievous trick or treat spank of the autumn wind. Its incessant breeze has slipped in between the unconscious knob-knocking of her raspberry knees. Steadily its blow has crept underneath the ruffles of her delicate Halloween princess skirt. Penetrating six, maybe seven inches up into the slight parting of her unsettled and pressing pink thighs, the persistent invader nips and nibbles its stark-naked way along a smooth and narrow path toward a yearning and vulnerability she can no longer contain. Her mind begins to wander. The heat in her grows. It spreads like waves along awakened goose-flesh, moving into, up and then around the long nape of her neck. Down her yoga-supple rounded shoulders it flows, coming at last to her tingling unharnessed breasts. Her invigorated nipples flash to erection as their golden loop piercings begin to burn like hot rings of fire beneath the faux fur jacket that softly caresses their inspired rigidity. Like copal cones of incense, they flare up and flame as she envisions the famed Italian lover, Giacomo Casanova, the Prince Charming of her every erotic fantasy. She watches in her mind’s primed eye the lusting man of lore (who, as legend has it, had once brought the women he ravaged to the glorious edge of convulsion and hysteria) as he appears from between the pink slit in the silk draping of her canopy bed. He hovers with bedroom eyes and whispers over her dewy anticipation. Taking the strings of her lace gown in his smile, he denudes her with aplomb. Lifting her into his arms, he kisses and bites lightly her feverish lips and lobes. He sucks gently then passionately the arch of her swaying neck. Without reserve he savors the mouthfuls of fondled cleavage she now finds at the mercy of the relentless and masterful lover whose erotic expertise she imagines in vivid detail. Like plump peaches spiked with cherry crowns, the dreamy lover coats with ladles of dark chocolate the now lain prone fruits of his desire. The notorious Venetian disrobes, lowers to his knees and devours voraciously the aphrodisiac delight. Aroused by its succulence – and hers, he now extends a slow and deliberate drizzle of the herb-laced sweet concoction from her salivating mouth down to and below the milky glisten of the pearl stud that pierces her heaving navel. She sighs, deeply, as her magnificent masked manipulator of emotion sups and slurps his way to and fro. Slowly moving his flickering tongue and circling silver ring-ribbed fingers toward the core source of her soul-trembling excitement, he gauges her ever more intense reaction to their earth-shattering synchronicity. Eleven-fold they probe her soaked and swollen confection of waxing submission. The wise and whetting instruments of his seduction slip and slither about single-minded until, at the very moment of her unraveling, they depart from her twitching full readiness, making way for the toying all-too-slow entry of that which she now with utter abandon and desperation uncontrollably cries out for. Fully present in both the here and there, her sweating thighs begin to shudder: involuntarily opening, closing, contracting and releasing. Every hot, pulsating degree of sensitivity has now gathered between them, betraying the rest of her helpless flesh and its increasingly undefined hazy existence. She crosses her vacillating legs beneath the haven of her rawhide handbag. She’s one of those women who can bring herself to powerful climax with a progressive rhythmic rocking of precisely positioned thighs – massaging between them and her pubis the bud of her mounting pleasure to a watering and blossoming pique of pure ecstasy. She closes her eyes. Her lips begin to quiver, her drenched womanhood to spasm until, like an electrifying fume dispersing throughout the very space of her, the incandescence of a trillion intoxicating candles irradiates every cell of her ethereal enrapture. And in the twilight of an almost subliminal ponytail-to-toe orgasm (an all-encompassing coming together of body, mind and spirit she can regulate at will), she slowly bends her radiant red head down. And as the unleashed nutty vapor of dark cocoa at last rises to greet her lips – moistening a glisten onto the widening crack in their glossy pucker, her tongue slips through to lick off in inching bottom-to-top fashion the sweet white cream that has run from the now flaccid whipped spiral mound down the length of the glazed vessel she cradles in soft and reddened fingers soon to be relieved of each and every last drop of the drippings one-by-sticky one.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/cwm1x7/bistro