Ciana Rose's Erotic Stories


Ask Me Again

Paul Taylor

All Rights Reserved



The polished floor of the gallery gave a squeak under her little flat shoes as she drifted into the next room.

She hadn't made much effort with her appearance that day; Sundays were for herself. But then she was fortunate in possessing a definite natural beauty: eyes that didn't need makeup to captivate you; faultless complexion; confidence. The other people in the room were non-descript; the usual art-going crowd of older women--always in pairs, diffident students with shoulder bags, academic looking men penetrating pictures with a fierce glare, the younger couples on a harmless early date. They had not got the lighting quite right.

Alma-Tadema. Not her taste but she settled in front of it. A beautiful young suitor with a flower in his ear kisses the outstretched hand of a complacent girl. Ask Me No More, 1906. It is Victorian classical fantasy unfolding on marble, the female subject improbably English and fair, all fey indifference.

"Her toes are rather long don't you think?" The voice is male, neither friendly nor assertive but close; his form off her right shoulder and only a shade taller.

"I'm sorry?" She twists around to be met with a smile, almost imperceptibly smug. She feels a pang of irritation.

"Her toes. Can you see how they are very long?" Still smiling, he gestures towards the picture with his head.

"Yes. Yes I suppose they are." She feels tempted to share fair fey's ambivalence.

"But beautiful. I would prefer to discover long toes like that when I removed a shoe. Putting them on display rather spoils the surprise."

She can smell him. It isn't cologne; perhaps an expensive shaving cream. The smile is warmer now on account of his eyes, which have lost their mocking and assumed a curiosity. She knows it is the subject that elicits the change: from Alma-Tadema's saccharine to her mild indignation and raven hair. Immediate retreat is blocked by a fuller figured woman. She softens her countenance and looks back at the picture.




"Calvados?" Bottles chink as he lifts one from the throng with a weak flourish. "I'm going to."

"Why not?" Her conscience offers a few suggestions but she shoos them away.

The cork stopper makes a tiny hollow thunk and he splashes small measures into two cheap glasses. "I trust their shapes won't offend your palate?" He approaches, offering one to her. She turns back to the print on his wall and takes a sip. Its rich caramel tingles on her lips and awakens her throat. Losing herself in the detail of the scene, she doesn't really listen to what he's saying. But then he isn't really concentrating on that either. There is the mild apprehension now, the quickening of his pulse. He is standing behind her and can just smell her hair. He interrupts himself to draw on his glass and then continues.

"So you can see how..." The pretext rolls on. She remains rooted to the spot, clutching her drink and willing, despite herself, his physical presence closer. Like the Alma-Tadema, he's not her type exactly but she'd soon encountered hidden depths and his conversation--a tide--took interesting turns. For someone so open, she still knew markedly little about him. The puzzle was alluring.

Fingers brush the nape of her neck. Better like this she thinks; no awkward convergence on a sofa either painfully gradual or rudely abrupt. Now he is silent. His fingers are tracking up and down the sweep of pale skin above the neckline of her top, shifting her hair away to expose it. She hears a glass being set on a side table before both hands rest on her shoulders. Lips replace the fingers; hot, moist from the brandy and searching. She takes a small step back--really just leaning into him, her buttocks resting against his upper thighs. Abandoning her unfinished drink, she drops her hands either side to caress his legs.

The kisses are more insistent now and he nibbles at her flesh. One arm is around her waist, drawing her into him, the other finds her left hand and locks fingers. She twists around to find his mouth and the lips meet her forehead, tracking across her closed eyes and cheeks. When they meet, there is sweetness of the brandy, eagerness and exploratory flicks of tongues. Sucking on her lower lip he spins her into a face-on embrace, his right leg between hers. His hands are now clamped either side of her head, the kissing more forceful. She can feel him stiffening against her lower belly.

Impatiently he seeks a nipple. Rucking up her top under her arms, he uses the tips of his fingers to push the bra up and over her small breasts, the two nipples already firm. The bra resists, misshaping the otherwise perfect forms but his mouth attacks the nipples regardless--sucking and teasing; the losing nipple being rolled and kneaded between his fingers. Her diaphragm is heaving with the passion of the moment so that her belly is constantly tensing in a wave motion. He drops to his knees with a guttural utterance, leaving the now reddened breasts to the mercy of the disheveled bra, and unbuttons her jeans, drawing down the short zip. With an indelicate lick and bite of her belly, he starts to force the tight trousers over her hips, exposing a pair of plain white knickers--a diminutive and gratuitous little stitched-down bow the only concession to form. She uses the opportunity to remove her bra and top, tossing her hair back as she discards the clothing at their feet. Immediately, her hands grasp at his hair.

With the jeans down below her knees, he grips her thighs and pushes them apart, forcing her to adopt a tense little squat as his face burrows into the musky space between her legs. The knickers are damp on the tip of his nose as he searches for better access to his prize. Under the taught cotton, her pubic hair forms a springy mound. The material is rough to his tongue as he tries to give her a sense of what is to come. Then his lithe fingers infiltrate from behind and push the elastic to one side. The pubes close to her opening are dewy. He uses his nose to plough a furrow, following with a strong and intrusive tongue. It hits the rich wetness of her opening before sweeping up to seek out the button, already proud and expectant beneath its tiny hood. Her legs quiver.

He guides her onto a sofa, smiling up mischievously as he tugs the jeans off her feet. The shoes clack on the floor. Next are the knickers, riding down her slim legs with only the briefest pause at the ankles, overcome with a deft little kick. To spare her blushes, he wrenches his shirt over his head. Now he takes his time. Tracking back up the softness of her inner thighs with a flurry of licks and kisses, he guides her ankles wide and settles at the aroused folds. Starting with a gentle circumnavigation, he uses the tip of his tongue to explore the intimate spaces at the very top of her thighs, all the while taking deep inhalations of her scent. She shifts under this carnal examination, her walls twitching and clenching in anticipation. It is not long in coming. Soon the tongue is once again lapping at her sex, always finishing its sweep with a tease of her now aching clitoris, his nose nestling in the dark fleece of her pubes. While grazing at the engorged pussy lips, his hands are plying at her breasts and running across her ribs. His chin--glistening with juices--tickles her with its stubble as it yaws up and down.

Focusing his attentions on her clitoris, he introduces both hands: the left manipulating her lower stomach to better expose the region; the right using a long middle finger to probe inside her in place of his tongue. She lets out a small cry at its welcome invasion and bucks her hips. With a corkscrew motion, he withdraws the finger, sticky with clear cum, and sucks on it. Energized by this shameless display of appetite, he sets to work on her hooded bud, all the while working his finger in and out of the vagina below. Respecting the clit's hyper-sensitivity, he darts the tip of his tongue over it as a cat laps milk; each pass building its arousal. In the distance, she can sense the approaching climax. Her fists clench around the sofa's upholstery and she turns her head, the darkness behind her closed eyelids turning red in the light from a nearby lamp. Varying his approach, he makes tiny circles and presses down with the very tip of his tongue, at one stage even pursing the bud and its hood between his lips. Moaning louder now, her hips twist and flex in impotent effort to draw more of him inside her, desperate to amplify the divine glow in her loins. Involuntarily, her thighs vice his head, muffling his breathing. His own blood up, he pauses just long enough to grease the tip of a second finger and work it into her tight anus, already lubricated by the passing of her excess spend. Having kept its distance, the climax is suddenly upon her; a flood that blocks out her senses. Someone is crying out--a sustained, almost plaintive wail. In her ecstatic detachment, she realizes that the sound is hers.

As he pulls away, there is lewd satisfaction in the engorged pink pussy he has sated, sopping wet from her juice and his saliva; framed by matted pubic hair. His cock is as hard as it's ever been, almost painfully imprisoned behind his trousers. Its call becomes strident. On hearing the jingle of his belt buckle, she looks up from the sofa, fire in her green eyes.

"Free it," she hisses, surprised at her own venomous delivery.

Rigid, it springs free, proud and purposeful; the purple head angry and glistening. She springs forward with feline grace and grasps it like a trophy. With a quick lustful glance upwards, she descends on the penis. The spongy wetness of her mouth is sublime. Depositing a frothy string of saliva on the crown, her tongue feathers across it and down the shaft. With one hand gripping his right buttock, the other cups and teases his balls, tickling with her nails and squeezing gently. Returning the helmet to her eager mouth, her right hand starts to masturbate the length of his cock with long vigorous strokes. At the top of the cycle, his foreskin gathers under the rim, collecting drops of her saliva that then mark its progress downwards. Her nostrils flare as she breathes and obscene sucking sounds accompany her lascivious abandon. Mindful that the tempo could foreshorten this heaven sent experience, he whispers "gently," and the action relaxes.

Suddenly he is arrested by an overpowering desire to penetrate her. The fellatio is glorious but it is a tease. "I want you. I want to be inside you." Another flash of her libidinous eyes is all the invitation he needs to grip her firmly under the arms, raising her up and back onto the sofa. The boxers and trousers come down as one, his cock swinging from side to side in an unrestrained, arrogant arc as he kicks away the bundle of clothes like they were an irksome pooch.

She paws at her pussy as he bears down on her, mouthing something unintelligible but all too clear in its meaning. First he leans down to deliver a deep, searching kiss and their teeth clash as lips compete to bite. They can taste each other. With a strong arm down by her waist and the other steadying himself against the wall, he prods at the moist opening, drawing the tip over her clitoris and gyrating in a teasing fashion. "Please," she entreaties as a hand hastens in to take control of the meaty lance and guide it towards her sex. At first there is resistance but with a gentle pressure, the lips yield and take an inch. She surrenders with a muted whimper and he can sense her vaginal walls clenching in spasms, willing him to sink his length into her. He does so with a measured thrust, all the way to the hilt. She yelps. His eloquence fails him. "Fuck."

She is tight, soft and warm. He fits her hand to glove--neither painfully big nor frustratingly small. There is no feeling like it. They pause in union to savor the moment: he with a sense of triumph (he hadn't dared to imagine his when he'd seen her alone in the gallery); she with a very feminine sense that this is somehow auspicious. He starts to build a rhythm. Using the full length and tensing his upper body, he draws in and out, almost to the point of withdrawal before plunging back in. As the frequency gets more rapid, she bucks her hips in time, meeting his thrusts so perfectly that the tip sometimes brushes her cervix. She is panting; her chest and cheeks flushed red. His balls slap against her rump, a bawdy metronome. Her pussy squelches and breasts oscillate. The couple become lost in the dance as her cries get increasingly brazen. Beads of perspiration gather on his forehead; she digs her nails into his buttocks and garners the determination to climax a second time.

"Roll over," she gasps. "I want to ride you to the finish." Grateful for the brief interlude, he withdraws, stealing a glance at his slick wet cock and collapsing back into a seated position. Pushing the tousled hair from her face, she straddles him, gripping the back of the sofa. With uninhibited relish, she impales herself, sinking slowly down his length. Initially, she maintains the penetration, using her weight to push down while she flexes her hips like a belly dancer, grinding her clitoris against his pubis. Leaning forward, he seeks out the nipples that veer towards his mouth, suckling them to renewed stiffness as her long hair tickles his shoulders. In the closeness of this embrace, he can smell sex--the humid funk of it--and shudders with licentious zeal.

Now the waves are upon her again; the gathering storm. She starts to ride the full length of him, all manner of coarse utterances growled into his ear; an imagination she didn't know she had. "I want you to explode deep inside me. I want to feel your spunk firing into my twat." He leans back and cups his hands beneath her buttocks to assist, delighting in watching the piston action of his cock; the rapidity of her bouncing. Pussy juice has coagulated at the base of his penis like flecks of cream. She pauses just long enough to put her feet up on the sofa, now squatting on him to allow a furious cadence. Whining like a wounded animal, she rides with fury. It cannot last long. He feels the swelling; a tightness in his sacks. He implores himself not to come first. Her breasts are almost a blur. There is the smutty slapping sound of her buttocks rebounding off his lap. He grabs her waist like a ballerina and propels her nubile body up and down. This time her climax is drawn out; sweeping over her relentlessly. She is on another plane, in the clutch of euphoria. It is a feral scene as he builds to his own crescendo. As she feels him start to swell and stiffen further inside her, she grabs at his hair. "Come, baby, come." Both their faces are creased with concentration. He can feel the semen building at the base of his penis, his innermost muscles steeling themselves to jerk it out. He can hold no more. With a primeval grunt, he clasps her sweaty frame close against him and spills his seed; two, three, four convulsions. She can feel his penis tense with each effort, the ropes of semen flung into the depths of her vagina.

The squall subsides gradually. She is twitching and blushing; he panting like a vanquished athlete. They roll to one side in a knot of limbs. Her hair is stuck to her cheeks. They kiss tenderly this time. All they can offer is blasphemies.

"Jesus," he sighs.

"Christ. Ask me again."



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