Lust Story: Night Lust Story with Step Family Part 1

Fire is sexy because fires burn like lust. The warmth it brings to the outside echoes what passion kindles within you. also there’s the look of it commodity important and beautiful about the light cast by dears on naked skin, picking out highlights to respect while making you want to explore what’s hidden by the corresponding murk. Anil my step brother agrees, and didn’t indeed tease me for putting it that way when I first suggested it. The citation of warmth on his skin turned him on as important as the internal image of me stripped naked such a tactile, voluptuous person. He craves skin- to- skin contact like a factory craves water and light. That’s the thing he longs for utmost when we ’re piecemeal just the feeling of our meat entwined. Strokes, touches, leverages, and — of course the coitus it inescapably leads to when we burn too hot for each other.


Our relationship is a great timeline of hankering, pointed by these violent gloamings when we ’re actually suitable to touch. I want to cement the memory of every single detail of his body in my mind. The exact texture of his lips on my neck, the splashing shiver of his fingertips stroking my guts, the heat of his body between my shanks.


He wanted this too, it was like a pact between us tonight we will spend the night exploring every inch of each other, so on the lonely nights over the coming months, we can picture each other in perfect description. supplicating the exact images of his skin on mine — warmed by fire, lust and the blood palpitating through our modes.

Stripped naked, wrapped together, we start off with kisses and caresses. Gentle touches and strokes, each over each others ’ bodies. The fire crackles in the grate and I kneel in front of him — back pressed tightly against his casket to feel the silk of his meat upon me.

He circles my nipples with his fingertips, and that's the first — however far from the last – time I let out a deep shriek of pleasure. He knows me so well. Understands that just a light, glacial touch can get my nipples tense and hard and paining for further attention.

I mug his hands onto my guts, intertwining fritters and adding gentle pressure, so I can savour his triumphs pressed tight against me. My hair falls over my shoulders and tickles my fire- warmed skin so that it’s hard to tell where his traces start and my own begin — we ’re moving as one, in perfect sync. And oh God how I'll miss this. How can I live without this?
It’s too soon but I do n’t care, I've to taste him I turn to face him and he dips in for a deep, passionate kiss. The flavour of this man, the soft- yet-firm texture of his lips as he kisses me so intensively, this is the first thing I ’ll think of when I ’m alone and hungering for him. Just as the real thing does right now, I know indeed the moping memory of that kiss will turn me on. He’s still playing with my guts — grabbing and squeezing them with his hands. It makes me pain.
I try to counsel myself towards tolerance. Take your time, there’s plenitude left. But when he runs his hand down over my crotch through my dark lace panties, I can not bear to stay any longer. Neither can he. We ’re both torn between wanting to make this night last ever and knowing that soon it must end. Before it ends, we want to witness everything.

I straddle his knees, rubbing the throbbing pang of my clit against his ham, his crotch. I can feel how the creaking fire has warmed his smooth skin, and how hard his incline is under those tight black cotton prizefighters. When he lies me on my reverse on the soft mask to kiss my neck, my body and mind are both howling for release — for him to slide that incline inside me and sate my hunger.

He sucks gently at my gemstone-hard nipples before teasing me with retreating kisses — down my ribcage, to my stomach, and further. Each glacial touch of his lips makes me rustle. Each establishment stroke of his hands down my skin makes me want to buck and writhe beneath him.
I concentrate on fixing the memory of him in my mind running my own hands over his reverse, his big shoulders, and through his hair. Squeezing his upper arms so when I want to flash back him latterly I can picture the exact texture and range of his muscled biceps echoing in my fingertips.

I need him to take off those panties. Need his lingo on my clit and his incline inside me, and it’s getting harder for me to cleave on to my restraint. I can see the reflective bulge in his own undergarments and I do n’t indeed try to suppress the kick of pride when I know that’s all for me. Because of me. He ’ll flash back this domicile fuck too, when he’s far far down and alone and gripping that bulge with firm hands late at night.

It’s this I picture while he’s licking me gentle kisses and nibbles all down my stomach — his lingo a ruby-red tease. I look down at him, watching this nut’s- eye view of the top of his head as he shifts down to pleasure me, and there’s a flash of palm in my mind — yeah, that’s it, fuck yes — as he presses his mouth up against my knocking clit.

Hands either side of my hips, mouth wet and soft and open, he envelops the total of the top of my slit — far and wide it’s warm and wet and paining for attention. This is one of the effects I've always enjoyed most with him. The way he artificially knows where my pleasure lies, and how to draw it out. The way he does n’t just give me some token licks and sucks, but settles down to really concentrate.

I throw my head back and close my eyes, all the better to appreciate what he’s doing. Trying to memorise the stuffiness between my legs, the way his hair felt running through my grasping fingertips, and how each film of his lingo is like a spark – creaking from the fire that we're fuelling together.

I love when he makes noises. Love to hear how important he's enjoying my body. He looks up at me with eyes as hot as the fire — dark, purposeful, clouded with lust. I snare his hair and press myself against him, nearly smothering his mouth with my cunt. also I can hardly take it any more, as he shifts lower down to give that cunt some plaintively- demanded attention with his lingo, I rub at my own clit with my fritters, combining our sweats to nudge me near to the edge of orgasm. But not now. Not yet. There's so important to do first.

As he licks at my labia and kisses the covers of my shanks, I'm trying so hard to bring myself near without tilting over into orgasm. I want to flash back thispre-orgasmic bliss, this unsated covetousness. But it’s too important. The fire, the sparks, the way he looks when he’s down there. The touch of his lips on my shanks and my own hands squeezing my tits and rubbing my clit and I unmask over.
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