I looked at him, smiled, and asked a simple question.
“May I smell your jacket?” He returned my grin and stepped into my personal space. As my feet dangled from the short stage, I felt lost in the wondrous aroma.
“I got this in Florence.” Real Italian leather, soft and supple leather. I rested my face against it, wanting to melt into him.
Bringing myself back, I had to ask.
“So, do you want to do anything?”
He did, but… he had event duties and other dates already set. Still, he acknowledged the desire was there, as was the feeling that if we played it would be fun.
For a second I stuck out my finger, but then I pulled back.
“Do I have permission to touch you?” He looked on me quizzically, but then gave his consent, provided I stayed on the outside of his clothing. I poked his exposed tummy, just above his belly button.
“May I touch you?” I gave him carte blanche, but then he wondered what my definition of touch was.
“You can touch anywhere, including under clothing. You may take off clothes, but not rip off without consent.” A devilish grin crept across his face. Out popped his small knife. “Dammit! I’m not wearing destroyables.”
I gave my usual caveats: no broken bones, no load bearing rigging from my piercings, no riping out of piercings.
He looked at me, seeming to come to an understanding, and said, “Okay.”
Slipping his hand into my hair, he gripped and pulled. My moans started.
Tilting my head to the side, he brought his face to my neck. I could feel his hot breath just before he sunk down, his teeth gripping my flesh.
I yelped at first, squirming, before settling into the pain and pleasure, my hands finding his hips, holding him to me. My moans grew loud. Symmetry being important, he graced the other side of my neck as well. Pulling my head back, his teeth found the front of my neck, gripping down not as hard, avoiding damage to my wind pipe.
Stepping back, he looked on his work. His impressions laid in my skin nicely, but he decided to make them beautiful. Attacking each side of my neck again, his teeth once more found their places in my flesh, staying in their spots for much longer, digging in further. My moans, in turn, grew deeper and longer. The pain and pleasure was exquisite.
To commemorate his work, he photographed each set.
Later, as I stood around, chatting with him and another friend while coming down from watching an intense needle scene, he slipped his hand to the back of my neck. His fingertips grabbed around my tattoo, pinching the flesh in, intense pain coming from his touch. I whined, high pitched and longingly.
“What? It’s a neck massage.”
Gripping my hair, he sunk his teeth down into the back on my neck, framing my tattoo. I screamed, yelped, and then finally moaned as the delicious pain swept through me. I wiggled, squirmed, but again found myself inside his space, leaning into his body, diving into this moment with him.
And, once more, he took a picture.
It is now about twelve hours later. No matter how I move my face, my neck always aches… just a little.
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