The Tongue Between Us

The first thing I noticed was the smell — eucalyptus and warm oil, thick enough to taste, and under it something else, something like rain on hot stone. Then I heard the hum of the table warmer and the soft slap of the masseuse's hands retreating behind a curtain.

"Relax, Mr. Vann. She's ready for you."

I'm a photographer, and I'd booked this studio for a shoot — "skin and light," the client called it. But the model, Ilona, had other ideas. She was already on the table, a sheet draped to her hips, her dark hair spilling over the edge.

"You're late," she said, not opening her eyes.

"Traffic. The oil smells like a forest fire."

"Eucalyptus. It's for the tension." She turned her head, and her tongue flicked out, wetting her bottom lip. "Yours, not mine."

I set my camera down. "I thought we were shooting."

"We are. But first you're going to touch me, and then I'm going to show you what I do with my tongue when I'm not posing."

That was the whole invitation. I stepped to the table, and she pulled the sheet down herself, slow, so the cotton dragged across her nipples. They were already hard. I poured oil into my palm — too much, it dripped — and laid my hand flat on her stomach. She sucked in a breath.

"Cold," she whispered. "Do it again."

I spread the oil up her ribs, over the swell of her breasts, and she arched into my hand. Her skin was slick and warm, and when my thumb found her nipple she made a low sound in her throat, like a cat.

"Now the tongue," she said.

She sat up, pushed me back against the wall, and dropped to her knees on the mat. Her hands went to my belt. The buckle clinked, loud in the quiet room, and she laughed — a soft, dirty laugh.

"Shh," I said. "They'll hear."

"Let them." But she lowered her voice anyway. "I'm good at being quiet. Watch."

She took my cock in her mouth without ceremony, all heat and wet, and her tongue did something I couldn't track — flat and slow along the underside, then a tight swirl around the head that made my knees lock. I fisted her hair. She hummed, and the vibration went straight up my spine.

"Fuck," I breathed. "Your tongue—"

She pulled off with a wet pop. "Told you. It's my best feature. Well. Second best."

She went back down, deeper this time, her throat working, one hand cupping my balls, and I had to stare at the ceiling to keep from finishing right there. The oil on her skin caught the low light, her shoulders shifting, the little choked sounds she made like she was enjoying it more than I was.

"Enough," I said, and pulled her up by the arms. "Table. Now."

She lay back and I climbed over her, and she hooked a leg around my hip. My cock slid along her pussy, slick and hot, and she reached down and guided me in with two fingers, her eyes rolling back.

"Slow," she said. "I want to feel all of it."

So I went slow. Deep, steady strokes, my mouth on her neck, her nails raking my back. The table creaked under us — a rhythmic, guilty sound — and she bit her own wrist to stay quiet, then gave up and let it out, a long shaky moan.

"Harder," she gasped. "Please—"

I drove into her, and she met me, her hips snapping up, the oil making us slide and slap. Her clit was swollen against my pelvis and I ground into it, once, twice, and she came with a strangled cry, her pussy clenching so tight I saw white.

"Don't stop," she panted. "I want you to come in me."

I lasted three more strokes. Then I buried myself deep and let go, pulsing, groaning into her shoulder while she held me there, her hand flat on my ass.

We lay tangled, breathing hard, the eucalyptus smell now mixed with sweat and sex.

"So," she said finally, "did you get the shot?"

I laughed. "I didn't even pick up the camera."

"Good." She stretched, catlike, and kissed my jaw. "Next time, bring it. I'll give you something worth framing."