His tongue is so soft, barely moving. He knows he can get away with it when I am this desperate.
How long has he been torturing me? An hour? Two? No light shines from behind the curtains anymore. We started when it was fully bright outside. I think. Or perhaps not.
I approximate each passing second with one feathery lick applied to my clit. He is masterful and precise. Art and science. He keeps me teetering on the edge, denying the release my body and mind so desperately need. The pressure between my legs is such that if I squeezed them together I would immediately explode.
My clit might as well be a hot coal; he blows on me and I feel even more heat blaze up. He slides one finger inside me and I tightens in anticipation.
At the last moment, he retreats. He looks up at me with an infuriating smirk, rolls off the bed, and flicks off the light. I gasp and grab pleadingly for his hand.
“Twenty-nine more days to go. Sweet dreams, baby. I love you.”