Nursing

She was always slow to orgasm, except when I nursed her breasts. I had the impression that as soon as my tongue glided around her areolae, every bulb in her head lit up at the same time. She could be lying drowsily in the first breaths of the morning but all that would be left behind the instant she felt me near them.

She wasn't into s&m, but she did love to have some light tooth pressure on her nipples; it was a task to get the pressure right: for her to feel my teeth but not so much as to cause her excessive discomfort. At first, she'd lie almost still and it would be a simple matter to position my face and then my mouth and then my teeth on her teats. Gently holding the nipple between my canines by way of welcome then slowly dragging my face from side to side, letting the sharp edges of my teeth lovingly threaten her flesh. She adored it.

The thing was that, as she became increasingly aroused, and she exchanged the persona by which the world knew her for that of a driving, mewling-greedy fucker, it became ever harder to keep her between my teeth. She'd start to writhe and flex, jerking sharply, then dislodging me as she hammered on my back with her fists, I'd find I was biting too much. She'd drag by face off her and hold it hard front of hers to admonish me for my enthusiasm and imprecision.

Thus, just keeping her teats in my mouth became quite a challenge all by itself. So much so, that the first time I truly desired to tie her up was inspired as much by the plain technical business of keeping her still as by the odd pleasure in controlling her use of her body. The prospect of drawing her along to a [cascade] of orgasms was an incentive but I adored too the idea of someone physically immobile about to take a long journey that would move her body not at all but take her clean out of her mind.

Her body moving increasingly in spasms as her capacity for coherent speech diminished, I had to attend to her more fully with my mouth, by sucking her breasts deep inside. Lips to seal off the air, tongue free to wipe the nipple itself, my mouth defining the ring, my tongue the circus-master. She loved the way I'd trap a teat between the back of my teeth and my tongue, and then suck it up, folding it tightly behind my teeth. Alternatively, I'd pull my lips down over my teeth and clench tightly, thence to slowly pull away. Unfailingly, she'd cry out in pleasure as the nipple spring free from my mouth. How I enjoyed the change in texture between the breast, the side of the nipple and finally the crown itself; an astonishing galaxy of delights scarcely one inch wide.

She loved randomness. I've read that one approach is to trace out all the letters of the alphabet with the tongue: continuous movement whose lack of repetition ensures continuous stimulation but I confess, I always got bored by the time I'd reached b. Isn't one of the joys of lovemaking the way we refind ourselves as animals? With her breast in my mouth and legs around my back, the last thing I wanted was a primary school exercise. How much more satisfying to flick my tongue over her nipple: working it randomly from side to side, catching it on the side and folding it over as I dragged my tongue over, varying the strokes for weight and direction.

I still had to pay attention but with my body, not my mind. The central delight for me, other than that of witnessing her arousal, was to gradually let go of the intellect and let my body speak for itself. I noticed that I would lick her more and more deeply the longer I had her in mouth: I was letting my mouth itself do the thinking, giving it its head to race away alone, undistracted by reason and calculation. My lips would close and open, my tongue pull back to flicker over her lightly then push itself down to suckle. It appeared to happen outside of my control, all my existence appearing to serve only the ultimate ambition of keeping my mouth on her. On keeping her on her path to her next climax.