Making Love to a Chinese Blossom - Sex Stories

Making Love to a Chinese Blossom

... before God, to another? And then, she lifted the strap off her right shoulder, letting it fall. The strap hung there, and he placed his mouth on her shoulder, biting it lightly, as she moved the left strap up and off as well. His hands were still on her waist, but slowly moved upwards towards her belly button; his thumbs gripping at wet fabric between his fingers, pulling it down slightly, millimeter by millimeter he watched as her dress fought the friction of her skin, until finally, one brown nipple emerged, erect from the cold water. His heart was now in his throat, his body - solid as a rock. He was a man, ready to love the woman he had been dreaming about. She pulled her dress back up self-consciously, covering her exposed flesh, and taking a few steps into the room before turning her head to look back at him. He was uneasy, unsure of what to do after her sudden burst of modesty or conscience. He stood silent, in awe of her jet black silky hair which still dripped water onto the floor, and her porcelain legs protruding from below her dress like the sculpted legs of a goddess. Except, her dress began to move, slowly revealing the valley in the center of her back and then her ass, covered by yellow polka dotted silk panties. She didn’t have the ass of some Victoria's Secret model. It was small and tight, and beautiful. And because he was stormily in love with every inch of her, it was perfect. The dress slid heavily onto the floor. He stood and marveled for a minute, ...

... trying to collect his thoughts. What now? 'Put her in your mouth,' he thought, snapping back to reality. Devour her, love her, and if you can, marry her. She looked back at him. “Touch me,” she said softly. He moved forward, sliding his hands down her silk legs, and then sliding them back up slowly, as he kissed her mouth passionately; his hands making their way up between her thighs. She let out a small moan as they made contact with her underwear. His hands glided out from between her legs and up her body, edging their way over her belly until they reached her arms which covered her breasts self-consciously. All women are self-conscious about their breasts. Hers were smaller; A-cup. He pulled her arms down gently, then eased his hands up, his chin resting on her shoulder, taking in her beauty like a deaf man hearing music for the first time, or a man born and raised in a cave, finally seeing the sky and mountains for the first time. His hands consumed her breasts, their softness electric, and he rolled her hard nipples gently between his fingers. She was breathing heavier now, and he engulfed her neck in his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, reacting to every subtle tension in her body. “Oh God!” she finally let out, her nipples exposed between his fingers. The electric guitar was being absorbed and reverberated back off of the walls, soaking them in sound like the rain which had soaked them only moments before. She gripped his hand, and led him to the bed, but just before she ...