Now she likes gum even better than cock, orally speaking. And I don’t mind, because not only do I get my lips all over her sex, I get the thrill of an erotic bubble show.
And so the sibilance serenades me while I dine on Elaine’s moist flesh.
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That first night she took me home, I observed that her apartment was decorated, wherever possible, in pink. Not “girly” pink, not pastel pink...bubble-gum pink. The lampshades, the painted wooden bookshelves, the rug on the bathroom floor...all pink as a ready-to-burst bubble.
“Orgasm is pink,” she told me that night, after I’d just given her one on her pink bedspread. She licked my ear to punctuate the thought, making an inward-spiraling swirl that for an instant seemed to turn the orifice into an ad hoc pussy.
And then there are the bubble-gum-pink panties, always those high-cut pink panties, stretched thin across the ripe bubble of her derriere. A confectionary layer that she wraps herself in, simply so it can be rolled down and she can be squeezed, fondled, and slapped back there.
The pink hues of her vulva, on the other hand, are darker, deeper, earthier ones. Here at the piano bench, those erogenous pink tissues tense with anticipation and bloat in delight. Above, I know that the bubble mirrors these developments—its skin swelling, its membrane pulled tighter and tighter toward the inexorable satiated collapse. Stage by delicious stage, Elaine breathes the essence of a woman alive with desire and its gratification into the sticky spheroid, nearly transforming it into an erotically overcome organism in its own right.
Halting for breath, I glance up at her nipples. They gleam proudly for me, sharp, pink pleasure-points that whimsically suggest a “pop” hazard for the bubble.