Bliss River

by Thea Devine

  She could but watch. He wouldn't let her touch him. He wanted to come solely from the sensation of sliding his shaft between her breasts and all over her nipples.

  It didn't take long. His penis was so stiff, his body so tight with all that pentup need. And then she, with her knowing eyes and her magic fingers, put out her hand and grasped him right there, and he shot like a geyser.

  All over her breasts, her nipples, trickling down toward her belly. Some on her chest and neck, her cheek. Her one hand still tight around the base of his penis, her fingers massaging his essence into her skin, into the curve of her right breast, her areola, her nipple.

  He felt himself coming again just watching her fingers rubbing his fluid all over her nipple. He jammed himself against her hand once, twice, three times. He felt himself gathering, spewing, and drowning as a huge spurt pooled on the tip of her breast, and she held him still, and rubbed his thick cream into her skin with her free hand.

  They slept, as they always did, back to front, with his hands on her breasts and her buttocks tucked against his hips. But this night was different—he was naked, his erec­tion ferocious, his penis there for the taking, wedged, sometime during the night, between her legs, so that her naked cleft sat against his shaft.

  This was delicate. It was as if they both realized it at the same time and awakened simultaneously. It was still dark. Their world was still theirs, with no intrusions. The inti­macy was there, heightened by his nakedness, by the mem-ory of him stroking himself on her breasts.

  He felt himself elongating at the thought. His fingers tightened around her erect nipples. She wriggled to settle herself more decisively on his shaft, spreading her lips to enfold his hardness.

  Her body shuddered as she felt the length of his rigid shaft jammed against her. She could ride him now, even if he wouldn't fuck her. She could still have the hardness of him right where she wanted it, right and tight against that pleasure point between her legs.

  Now if he would just ...

  He would. He knew, from the undulation of her hips, from the thickening scent of sex, just what she wanted, and he rounded his fingers over her nipples and pulled and plucked them.

  Her body melted. She ground her hips down onto the stone-hard ledge and rode his shaft, caressing and fondling him, and shimmying and writhing as if she were desperate to get away from his fingers.

  And yet she wanted more; she pushed her breasts against his fingers, demanding he do more, more, more, and he did, pulling and tweaking the rigid points until she almost couldn't stand it, until the sweet-hot moment he squeezed them, hard, and they both spiraled into a hot bone-crackling orgasm.

  No words after that. What could express what she had felt, what he had done? She shifted her body so that she was not enveloping his shaft. He cupped her breasts; she slipped her fingers all over the semen on his penis.

  "Don't ever waste your cream again," she whispered. "It would be better still if you filled me with it."

  "No fucking. Those were my terms."

  "What do you call what we are doing?"

  "Exactly what I said, pleasuring your nipples. Anything else is incidental."

  "Tell yourself that, cadi," she murmured. "That is your truth."

  "And what is yours?" he wanted to know. "What is your truth after all these days?"

  She smiled, a smile he couldn't see but he could sense, the smile of a woman well pleased. "My truth is that you have done as you promised. You have been the most greedy, the most voracious lover of my breasts, and in that, you are the master of all things."

  And then, as dawn broke and filtered through the tent, as she awakened, and her body unfurled like a flower, she shifted herself so that he was lying below her and she was propped on the pillows, with her breasts just within reach of his mouth and tongue, as she tempted him to feed on her.

  This was the most intimate moment, one she loved to watch closely, when he took her into his mouth and played with one nipple, one breast, licking it and pressing it, and curling his tongue around it until he took it wholly into his mouth to suck on it.

  It was as if he were pulling a molten thread of pleasure from her vulva to her nipple, and it was so keen, so fierce, she almost couldn't bear it.

  And in this position, she could do nothing with her hands, nothing to touch his shaft, nothing to incite him. He was an iron man, hardened like stone, thriving on the heat of her responsiveness, withholding that one thing.

  How much more could he do to her and not fuck her? It was but a passing thought as he tugged and pulled at her nipple with his lips. And then everything came to an ex­plosive point, her body bucked as waves of pleasure rock­eted through her. And then she just didn't care.

  He laid her down on the pillows, his own body as ready to blow as it ever had been. She had only to touch him; he had only to slide between her legs and she would take him willingly, wantonly, and ride him home.

  But he didn't want her to touch him. That was the Valley way. This was his. For the next five days in this hot, circu­lar little world, her breasts and her body belonged to him, any way he wished to use them.

  Today, they would make the well; perhaps they would rest a day before continuing on. He could have her then, day and night. He could imprint her with his lust for her breasts.

  Even as she lay there, spent, he wanted them. They were so round, so full, the nipples so erect and prominent, made for a man's mouth, a man's touch.

  But thinking like that was dangerous. His obsession with her breasts was far too dangerous. And when they reached the real world, what then?

  He didn't want to think about it.

  In their world, there was no one but themselves, no one to see, no one to hear, no one to know, and he could do with her as he wished, everything he had promised. He could indulge his most voluptuous greed morning and night.

  Nothing else mattered except that. And they had at least five more days of hedonistic mornings and nights to come.

  Only five days—?

  Her breasts beckoned. She turned and looked at him, a sultry heat simmering in her gaze. It was still early, so early. There was so little time. And she wanted it. And he just could not leave her nipples alone.

  She had too much time, as the journey progressed that day, to think. It seemed to her the more he played with her breasts, the more she needed him to play with them.

  It was the strangest equation, intensified by the fact she was under her abeya and her nipples were constantly erect. And wanting. This was a new sensation for her. She couldn't get enough of his handling them and sucking them. She wanted days and days of just that—the two of them alone as they were nights and mornings only now, and his unbridled possession of her breasts.

  She was breathless most of the day and sunk in a swamp of remembering all they had done during the night and the early morning. He was utterly enslaved by them, and she was totally enthralled by the pleasure he gave her. Waiting for this evening when they would make the well seemed an impossible task. She wanted to strip off her robes and have him take her nipples now.

  The heat was getting to her, the desert heat and her own libidinous heat, stoked by his covert glances, and her body's traitorous need to feel his hands on her breasts.

  Five more days to go ...

  Only five? It seemed as if they would go on forever, as if there were no end whatsoever to the sun, sand, and sky, as if they were in their own glorious little world where no one else could intrude.

  Only five more days ...

  It seemed like five days before they would even stop for the night. She felt an escalating urgency that there would never be enough time for all she wanted him to do to her.

  Five days .,.

  She sat hunched over her camel's neck as she scanned the horizon for anything that looked like a place they could camp. But there was only sand and sun for as far as she could see.

  And yet Rashmi led them with the confidence of a guide who knew all the secrets of the desert. He had t
o know theirs, but he was being paid enough to camp far away from their tent and ignore them. It was almost like having a ghost in camp.

  And that was well and good. Her pleasure was too pri­vate for anything else, and she wanted it now. And there was only the sun and sand to comfort her.

  As they proceeded farther west and north, ridges of dunes rose up like waves before them,

  "Never go alone on the dunes," Charles cautioned. "You will lose sight of everything, get turned around, get lost, and possibly die."

  "I never want to be alone," she murmured, and he sent her a sharp, telling look. He wanted it more than she: their private time could not come soon enough.

  Three hours later there was a speck on the horizon.

  "Cadi, cadi—we are here, we are here—" Rashmi was almost dancing for joy. And it wasn't even dusk.

  "We'll make camp here for a day," Charles decreed. "Too much time, cadi."

  "I am weary. The camels are weary. We need rest, we need water, we need time."

  Rashmi bowed. "As you say, cadi."

  But as they came closer, they could see that there was barely any shade. There were three or four scraggly palm trees overlooking a wellspring that wasn't more than ten feet across.

  "It is enough," Rashmi said. "We will rest."

  He helped Charles raise their tent as close to the trees as possible, helped him off-load the camels, and then, she and Charles retreated to the privacy of the tent, while he fed the animals and started coaxing a little fire for cook­ing.

  "Tell him to go away," she moaned, ripping off her robes and veil.

  He reached for her nipples, pressing them firmly be­tween his fingers. "I couldn't wait another minute to take you like this."

  She felt breathless, as if the sensation of his fingers squeezing her was as new as the dawn. "We have all after­noon and night and all tomorrow to ourselves ... it's not enough—"

  "I don't want to move."

  She contracted her body slightly, so that he was forced to come to her. "Don't move then. Don't stop—just keep doing that to my nipples."

  He tugged at them. "We should have something to eat or drink."

  "Are you hungry?" she whispered.

  "Only for your nipples ..." He bent over and took one hard tip into his mouth. Just the tip. Between his lips, com­pressing it, and pulling at it while he still held her other nipple between his fingers.

  The familiar darts of pleasure assaulted her vitals.

  "Don't stop . .." she begged.

  He made sound around his sucking of her nipple and then covered it tightly with his tongue, and fed even more avidly on it.

  The whole afternoon, the whole evening, without coming out of the tent for something to eat, something to drink, he feasted on her breasts until she lay weak and sated on her throne of pillows, her body bursting for still more.

  Then they ate and drank just to take a small respite from the intensity of his devouring possession of her. But he positioned her against the pillows so that her breasts were thrust forward, her nipples erect and protuberant, and it was his visual feast while he ate.

  Then he disrobed, his eyes never leaving her naked body, and she saw that his penis was hard as an iron bar, and that he had wasted some cream.

  "Don't speak of it," he warned her. "My semen is mine to waste."

  "It could be mine."

  "I will only give you my cream for your nipples."

  She eased herself up from the pillows and reached for his penis. "Then give it to me now."

  "Don't touch me. Lay down ,.." He moved to straddle her, positioning himself just above her hips so that the head of his penis was even with her nipples.

  She couldn't help it; he was so huge and luscious and ripe that she had to take him in her hand. The moment she moved the undershaft across one blooming nipple, he shot all over her chest.

  She was dripping with his essence. It was thick, creamy, clinging to the tips of her nipples, oozing down to her neck, her shoulders, and still she held him, she pumped him and she made him ooze and spew some more.

  And then with her other hand, she swiped some of his cream from her nipple and licked it from her finger.

  "Fuck me now," she begged. "I'm so wet for you, and you—you've barely shot all the cream boiling inside you. You want to ... I want you to ..."

  She was too tempting, with her stiff nipples and bulging areolae clotted with his cum, and her legs spread, and her coaxing words. But this was not about his taking his plea­sure.

  It never had been about that. It was about their bargain, about what he wanted and what she agreed to. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  In spite of the seduction of her nipples and her body, and his uncontrollable lust for her breasts.

  He shifted himself so that he wouldn't be tempted to just slide his penis between her legs.

  "No fucking."

  She rolled up to a sitting position. "Then let me ride your shaft again while you play with my nipples. At least I'll have the feel of you between my legs, and I know I'll have your cream,"

  She was Eve, the way she coaxed and tempted him. She climbed up onto his thighs, nestled her buttocks into his hips, and positioned his penis between her legs. Then she shimmied and wriggled to spread herself as widely as pos­sible onto his shaft, while pulling and nudging his penis into submission.

  "That feels good," she whispered. "That's perfect. Now..." She arched back against him and he slid his hands over her breasts and downward to her belly and hips and back up again to catch her cream-coated nipples-between his thumb and forefinger.

  Her breath caught. There was something inexorable in '• his touch, something indomitable in the way he held her nipples. It was like the first time, when he wouldn't let her go. He was not going to let her nipples go no matter how hard she rode him, how many times she climaxed.

  He had her where he wanted her now, and he would hold her there, just by her nipples, all day, all night, forever.

  A different kind of excitement coursed through her. She ground down more firmly against his shaft.

  And then she waited. And waited.

  And he held her, and held her, not moving, not caressing her, not squeezing or pulling. Just there, surrounding her nipples with his fingers and holding her so she felt the very nakedness of her body.

  Her breath went short. She couldn't sit still. She wanted to coerce him to move his fingers, to stroke and caress her. She shimmied her breasts, she bounced on his shaft, she undulated her hips, she contracted her belly—and still he held her.

  And he held her, like his fingers were some kind of orna­ment just encircling her nipples, and there was nothing she could do to dislodge them.

  He held her. Not too hard, just firmly enough so he pos­sessed her nipples. Just like that.

  Through the afternoon. Into early evening. She sat mounted on his thighs, her cunt lips spread on his penis, his fingers compressing her nipples gently, firmly, posses­sively.

  And he whispered in her ear. About her incredible nip­ples. About how hot and hard and responsive they were. How much he lusted after them. About how he spent every day's journey planning how he would fondle and feel them to pleasure her. How he couldn't get enough of them. How he needed them naked day and night.

  And this was the one night he wouldn't let them go.

  And she whispered to him that no one had ever fondled her nipples as he did. That only he could make her nipples so hot, so stiff, and so responsive and that no man had ever made her feel such voluptuous pleasure in them. He was the master of her nipples, and she didn't want him to move his fingers from them—ever.

  And so they sat, with her body arched against his and her straddling his penis, and him holding her just by her nipples.

  The pleasure was incandescent, fierce, of the mind and the body.

  Now and again, he spurted. Now and again she rubbed it into his penis and licked it from her finger.

  She rocked gently against his shaft as the sun slowly s
ank and the light in the tent waned. Her body spasmed, suddenly, without warning, a blast of orgasmic heat taking her unaware.

  And still he held her nipples.

  Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure—there ought to be another word for it, she thought hazily. It wasn't nearly strong enough for what she felt, for what he made her feel just by manipulating her nipples.

  five more days . . .

  They had this whole night, and the next whole day. They wouldn't move. It was their world, centered wholly and completely on his worship of her nipples.

  She was a goddess, in thrall to his fingers and his mouth and what he made her feel.

  As only be could...

  The most voracious lover of your nipples ...

  There could be no one more insatiable than he. Every promise kept—

  .As only he could.. .

  Five more days ...

  No no no. She would he his harem of one, and they could stay in the desert forever. Wasn't he the son of a Bedouin prince? They could travel and he could root in her day and night. The only responsibility they would have would be to their sex because he was accustomed to the heat and all things of the desert.

  "Khanum?" His voice was rough, ragged, his fingers spasming on her nipples. It was finally too much, too long, too hard. She was too exciting, too provoking, too naked, too everything a queen and a temptress should be, and all his will and strength could not stem the flood rising within his penis.

  "Cadi?" she whispered, grasping his throbbing shaft.

  And he came—against everything he wanted, everything he promised, and his obdurate will—like a geyser; all his pentup emotion, every creamy drop from all the times he never fucked her... an endless spume of fruitless denial. And she pulled his penis tight against her belly so all his creamy semen coated her, chest to crotch, slathers of it, luscious, thick, and sticky, and still she pumped him for more.

  Deep in the desert with only five more days to be naked with her, to have those nipples and that body and to do everything he wanted to do with her, involuntarily and un­forgivably, he lost control.

  "Ah, cadi—" she whispered, pushing him backward, onto the pillows. "Even in this, you are the master of me."