Tickled Pink

I had to have more… you know you were asking for more, too, begging for more, aching for it, rocking back against him, deeper, harder, working so hard for that next, sweet climax. God. Yes. So worth it. Oh, yes it was. How many times did we come? I lost count… all the rubbing and pounding and begging and sticky, sweaty fucking, oh honey, there was just no way I could have stopped him or even slowed him down. No way. I wanted it too bad…and so did you.

But I really am sorry you're sore today. So red and swollen… you poor thing.

Even the warm bath this morning didn't help all that much, did it? I could always try ice, but brrrrrr. I do have an idea, though. Want to hear it? Since I was so wanton and thoughtless and you're oh, so very pouty because I didn't think about the consequences to your sensitive little self…

Since you're still so sore, guess what I'm going to do for you?

Tonight, when he comes home from work, we're going to ask for soft, slow, easy kisses. What do you think-will a hot, wet tongue bath make up for all that hard pounding? Ya think?

Well, it's worth a shot, isn't it?

Let's find out!

XOXO

Me

C-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s

"C-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s. I spelled it out for him myself."

"There's a word I never got in the spelling bee." I snorted, closing my copy of Plato's Republic and tossing it onto the floor.

Christy was sprawled across her bed, swinging her feet and finishing the last of her Zima, her tongue fishing for the lime. She stretched out to plop the empty into the cardboard container, her shoulders hanging off the bed, her little breasts pointing toward the floor.

"Want another one?" she offered, but I shook my head, waggling my half-full bottle at her. I'd already had too many, but mid-terms were over and we were celebrating. She settled herself back on the bed with a sigh, stretching, her tanned, bare bottom rounding with her arch.

She didn't have to worry, really-we were in an all-girls dorm. Although she got more than her fair share of strange looks at first from other girls, no one ever said anything to her when she walked down the hall to the showers in her birthday suit She was one of those people who could pretty much get away with murder.

"Then what?" I asked-me, the shy girl, the one who changed every day in the bathroom stalls. I was too self-conscious to wear shorts or even tank tops. I was the button-down, jeans girl, winter or summer, didn't matter. I could spell c-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s, but I could count on one hand the number of times a guy had half-heartedly attempted the thing.

"And then he said if I was waiting for him to do that, I might as well put a candle in the window for Jimmy Hoffa."

She rolled over onto her back, putting her feet up on the wall and hanging her head off the end of the bed, making a face at me. I made one back, reaching for another Zima and grabbing a cut lime off the desk.

"And then?" I prompted.

We were a strange pair. Christy was a spoiled rich girl whose father paid for her to attend an Ivy League school. Me, I was there on grants because my parents were incredibly poor. Welfare poor. To say I was a stranger in a strange land wasn't just a cliche-it was also a great big understatement. And still, we got along. We had become fast friends in spite of, or maybe because of, our differences.

"And that's when I left with his best friend." She grinned at me, slithering to the floor and reaching for the remote, flipping channels on the TV.

"Did you do him?" I twisted around on the bed and curled up, propping myself on an elbow.

"Yep." She grabbed a pillow off her bed and fluffed it behind her. "Of course, that's when I thought he was going to return the favor!"

"No tit for tat, huh?"

"Oh, he got plenty of tit." She pressed her bare breasts towards each other with a grin. She was much smaller than me, barely a handful-they were the perkiest, prettiest little things and it made me envious. I wished I could walk around like she did, slender and tall and proud.

"Well, maybe not plenty," she amended with a wink, looking at my chest. I crossed my arm in front of my sweatered breasts, self-conscious. "But enough, damnit!"

"Maybe next time, you should make sure he does you first," I suggested, taking a swig of Zima. It was half-gone.

"Guess I'm just too generous." She sighed. "That's my policy from now on.

Cunnilingus before fellatio."

"Do you want me to make you a t-shirt?" I grinned.

She snorted. "It wouldn't be on long enough for him to read it."

"You're such a slut." I laughed, shaking my head.

"Can I help it if it feels good?" She stuck her tongue out at me. "You could use a dose of slut slipped into your Zima along with your lime!"

"Wish it was that easy." I finished off the last of the alcohol in my bottle, watching her watching me.

"So does the boyfriend do it for you?" she asked. "I mean, when he's not being Mr. Long Distance?"

I shrugged, blushing. "He's tried… a couple times…"

She raised her eyebrows. "That doesn't sound promising. Can you spell c-l-i-t-o-r-i-s?"