His hands kneaded the backs of my asscheeks, pulling my hips forward. I screamed softly as his tongue thrust into me, then retreated, then thrust again. My hands had moved down to push him away, but now my fingers threaded his hair and pulled him urgently to me.
“Yes,” I whispered. I tilted my head back. The ceiling, too, was white, pure white, and just above me the green dripped like a dark growth. The paint was all over, in my hair and on my body, and I didn’t care a single bit. All I cared about was the insistent rhythm with which he thrust his tongue farther, farther inside of me.
The slickness, the press of his lips, the suction that ebbed and grew, all tore me from side to side. The room had turned hot again and I was breathing hard, my throat burning along with the rest of me.
Cl
