Simple Things Done Well.

When the first kiss comes --- pressed gently to her shoulder -- she curls even more tightly into herself. Hugging her pillow into her chest and her middle, riding the edge of the bed; she has retreated.

A hand pushes her heavy hair, slightly damp from the unremembered struggles of her dreams, off her neck and the second kiss settles there. He tastes the salt on her skin. Her tension always gathers -- confounded knots -- in her shoulders and he begins to undo them with his tongue, his teeth, his kisses. Nipping lightly, licking gently, kissing softly. He feels her resistance as his hands and thumbs join in the assault. Kneading with thumbs, stroking with his palms - the outer surface of tension in her muscles beginning to flatten out as he moves deeper into the tissue.


He's kissing his away across her shoulders now as his thumbs press between the vertebrae. A forearm passes across her front as he embraces her from behind, fitting their bodies together, two spoons in the tangle of sheets. He holds her quietly this way, breathing in the scent of her hair, occasionally nibbling on the ticklish place behind her ear lobe until he feels the first rumble of a chuckle and knows she is starting to come back to him. He tucks his other arm under her body - her breast overflowing his hand until he feels her spine begin to unwind and press back into his body. The tension returns when his hand drifts down to stroke the curve of her tummy, but he's adoring her. These  places on her body make her the queen she is , so at times like this he lingers there -- stroking or kissing away the doubt. Building sensations that are like a lover whispering "you are beautiful to me" across her skin. When she relaxes into him again, his hand drifts lower - her hands have now crept up to hold the arm that's circling her shoulders -- and he traces the unseen scar across her heart and her abdomen. A silvery snake where the skin has no sensation, but it is part of her history, so he pauses there. Then his hand moves lower, to tease the crease where her thighs meet the V of her sex. Stroking across her upper thigh muscles, scraping his fingernails lightly across her skin until she shudders. Pulling gently on the hair. Kissing her neck.

It is a slow and hypnotic dark dance that he plays out on her skin -- hand stroking below, mouth teasing above. She shifts her weight and languidly begins to lift a knee, a wordless invitation to her boy for more intimacy, her bottom pushing against his pelvis -- soft seeking hard. He smiles against her neck. Although her moods sometimes confound him and he knows that he is and always will be her boy. He believes that these long, lingering, tender mornings when he pauses at her perfection both push his boundaries and smooth away his imagined hurts. With each caress, each kiss, he gilds her body in armor - shoring up her defenses. He ignores her parted thighs and the softness of her arse and gently disengages. Pulling his arms away, he presses a kiss to the tendon of her neck and whispers the first word of the day, "Mistress".

He slides from the bed and tucks the quilt around her back to fill the warm space he's just vacated.

Just as she's beginning to drift back to sleep, the smell of hot tea wafts up the stairs. She hears the click of the mug against the top of the nightstand. This simple act unloosens yet another knot in her shoulder. The bed dips as he slides back in. Skin to skin, his thigh seeking hers, he fits himself to her back, but instead of spooning in, begins to kiss her shoulder until she allows him more and she begins to turn onto her back. He rolls with her, angling his body over hers, settling his weight fully upon her, pressing her deep into the pillows. He strokes her face... kissing the lids of her eyes and wiping his own tear as her skin makes him cry. Kissing the bridge of her nose, her cheek bones, her brow bones, her temples. Kissing her forehead, the sides of her face, the tip of her nose, the corners of her mouth, her chin. Such a lucky boy to be allowed to worship her this way. He doubts his worthiness to serve but she smiles to him. Her breathing is getting deeper and he coaxes the hint of a moan from her when he presses kisses into the hollow at the base of her neck, and then drags his tongue up her neck, nibbling the tendon, tracing the patterns of her freckles with his mouth.

His hands are in her hair when he finally settles his lips against the part of her own, tugging gently on the bottom lip with his teeth, stroking the bow of her upper lip with his finger tips. Kissing, licking, biting...until her body softens even more and he feels her become boneless beneath him. SHe takes his hand and places s a fingertip into her mouth which she suckles gently, as he begins to move lower down her body. Her breasts are exquisitely sensitive and on lazy mornings like this - he seems to tease for hours. Kissing her armpits, the undersides of her breasts. Using his hands to push them together... letting them slide apart so that he can kiss her breast bone… feeling their abundance... nipples peeking between his parted fingers. He is truly worshipping at his Goddess's temple.

Suddenly a new sensation and she cracks open her eyes to see him watching her, poised over a breast, the last summer rose from the garden between his fingers. She smiles and closes her eyes again as he begins to stroke the velvety softness of the petals against her breast. The deep pink of the rose a darker cousin to the colour of her areola and nipple. When her breathing is ragged and he can see her body needing to be touched, adored - her breast trembling, puckered, and pushed up towards him, he takes her in his mouth - sucking her deeply in. Swirling his tongue around the hard nub, drawing her against the room of his mouth. She is gasping now as he crushes the rose against her skin, pushing both breasts together so that he can move from crest to crest with ease. Worshipping  her body, worshipping her. The scent of the rose mingles with the tea and the spice of her desire. She cannot come with these sensations alone, but she feels the tug of his lips against her breast arrowing down through her belly and straight to her core. The dampness between her legs began when he was kissing her neck and she feels drenched now - not wanting him to stop what he is doing, but hungry for more.

The warm roughness of a washcloth between her legs catches her off guard. He moves lower and bathes her - his tongue playing with her belly button and the swell of her tummy as the washcloth removes the stickiness of the night. He follows it and presses a gentle kiss to her labia before kissing his way down her thigh - smoothing the knot of blood vessels on her left thigh, lighting upon the scar on her knee, teasing a bruise on her calf. Each imperfection, perfect in its own way. to the boy. He kneels at her feet and begins to massage them, pressing his thumbs firmly into the arches - pulling on each toe. This is a different level of pleasure - not erotic, but sublime, and as he watches her body, he imagines the last of his sadness is trickling off the edges of the bed to fall between the cracks in the floorboards. Her sighs releasing the vestiges of his doubt and breathing him in.

As she likes he parts her thigh and lays himself between them - one of her legs draped over his shoulder, the other resting on the bed, knee slightly bent. He opens her to him - parting her legs, inhaling deeply her scent,  preparing to worship her in the manner she demands. As her hands creep up to her breasts, he begins. Parting her with his fingers, licking from her entrance to her clit and back again. Rubbing his cheeks against her thighs; her essence on his chin, his lips, the tip of his nose. Sliding a finger in, his tongue. Stroking her thighs, her stomach, her naval, all of her with his wandering hand as his mouth continues to kiss, coax and suckle. Building her to climax, but backing off at the last minute to begin again. Savouring the repeated pleasure to worship his Mistress again and again. It drives him mindless with sensation, knowing he is pleasing her again and again until she's gasping, but still he holds off. she demands that he does.

In the moment that she scoots down the bed, hooking her hands under his arms to pull him up her body, then twisting them both and turning him under her, he feels the satisfaction of knowing he has given her what she needed - in a different way than she thought she wanted, but in a way uniquely himself. Settling his head into the pillows, leaning her arms against the headboard, resting her head there and straddling his face. Grinding herself against his mouth, milking the sensation, until she comes with a shuddering cry -- faith restored in herself -- his passion an act of worship, a benediction -
TBC