Chapter 18: Thigh-high Anilingus
The glow from the television painted the living room in shifting blues and greys, the only sound the muted gunfire and groans from the PlayStation. Imani’s feet, still encased in the soft charcoal wool, remained in Lesha’s lap. His thumb continued its absent, rhythmic stroking just beneath the cuff, a silent conversation on her skin.
She finished the round, her character performing a gory victory animation on screen. She dropped the controller onto the cushion beside her with a soft sigh.
“My thumbs are tired,” she announced, stretching her arms above her head. The hem of his old t-shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of her stomach. “And you’re distracting me.”
“I’m not moving,” he said, his thumb pausing.
“Exactly.” She pulled her feet back, folding her legs beneath her. In the twilight of the room, her eyes found his. The playful glint from the store had deepened into something hotter, more concentrated. “Your breathing is distracting me.”
He knew this ritual. The slow build from the public tease to the private claim. He set his own controller down.
She uncurled herself from the couch and stood, a silhouette against the city lights beyond the windows. Without a word, she padded toward the bedroom. She didn’t look back, but the expectation hung in the air, thick as the settling dusk.
He followed.
The bedroom was dark, save for the single, orb-like salt lamp on her nightstand. It cast a warm, amber glow that clung to surfaces, pooling in the folds of the unmade duvet. The scent from the boutique—her vanilla perfume, now mingled with the day’s salt air and his own soap—lingered here, intimate and familiar.
She stood at the foot of the bed, her back to him, looking out at the jeweled grid of the city. She pulled the old t-shirt over her head in one smooth motion and dropped it to the floor.
In the dim light, she was a sculpture of shadow and warm, mocha highlights. The new thigh-highs were the only article she wore, the dense wool a dark contrast against the long, elegant lines of her legs and the perfect, rounded curve of her ass. She had bought them for this. For him. The absolute territory was no longer a sliver; it was the entire landscape, breathtaking and undisguised.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching him watching. A slow smile spread on her lips. “You’re just going to stand there?”
He crossed the room. His hands found her hips, his skin meeting the wool, then sliding up to the bare warmth above. He pressed a kiss to the ridge of her shoulder blade.
“I was admiring the view,” he murmured into her skin.
“Admire closer.”
She turned, looping her arms around his neck. She kissed him, deep and searching, her body melting against his. He could feel the soft scratch of the wool against his calves as she stepped into him. Her hands went to the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. He broke the kiss long enough to pull it off, letting it join hers on the floor.
Her palms flattened on his chest, pushing him gently backwards until his knees hit the bed. He sat, and she followed, straddling his lap. The wool was surprisingly soft, insulating her heat against his thighs. She rocked against him, a slow, grinding pressure, and he groaned, his hands tightening on her waist.
“I like these,” she whispered, her lips at his ear. “They make me feel… powerful. And very, very naked everywhere else.” She bit his earlobe, a gentle nip. “You did good, Cucky.”
The name, here in the dark, was a flare of pure, undiluted sensation. It bypassed thought and went straight to his gut.
He leaned forward, kissing her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. His mouth found a nipple, and she arched into him with a sharp gasp, her fingers threading into his hair. He worshiped her there, with his lips and tongue, until she was trembling, her breaths coming in short, hot puffs against the crown of his head.
“Enough,” she breathed, not meaning it.
She pushed him back onto the bed, following him down. For a moment, she lay atop him, skin to skin, her heart hammering against his. Then she rolled off, onto her stomach beside him. She wriggled, getting comfortable, and then she was still.
She lay prone, her face turned toward him on the pillow. Her expression was one of sleepy, heavy-lidded command. She hooked one wool-clad leg over his hip, drawing him closer.
“My turn,” she said, her voice a low, smoky thread in the quiet room. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Since the fitting room.”
She didn’t need to specify. He knew. He moved.
He shifted down the bed, his body aligning with hers. He kissed the small of her back, the twin dimples above her ass. He ran his hands up the backs of her thighs, over the wool, gripping the firm muscle beneath. He nuzzled the perfect, exposed crease where thigh met cheek.
She sighed, a long, luxurious sound, and spread her legs just a fraction. An invitation.
He needed no further instruction.
He buried his face between her cheeks, his nose finding her asshole as his tongue sought the wet, swollen heat of her pussy from behind. The taste of her, musky and clean, flooded his senses. She was already dripping for him. He licked broad, flat strokes, savoring her, before zeroing in on her clit with a focused, rhythmic pressure.
Her response was immediate. A low moan vibrated through her body. She pushed back against his mouth, her hips making small, desperate circles. “Yes… right there,” she slurred into the pillow.
He obeyed, his world narrowing to this: the scent of her arousal, the soft give of her flesh, the sounds she made. He drank her in, his hands holding her thighs apart, his own desire a hard, aching pulse between his legs, ignored, secondary.
Then her legs shifted. She uncrossed her ankles and brought them up, crossing them over the small of his back. She squeezed.
The pressure was sudden, firm. It pinned him deeper into her, his nose now firmly lodged in the cleft of her ass, his mouth sealed against her. He groaned, the sound muffled by her flesh. The sensation was a complex cocktail of submission and intense, electric pleasure. He was trapped, servile, utterly at her mercy, and he was exactly where he wanted to be.
She giggled, feeling his groan vibrate through her. “You like that, don’t you?” she teased, her voice thick with her own building pleasure. She squeezed her thighs again, a brief, powerful clamp around his head and shoulders. “My good boy. In your favorite place.”
He couldn’t speak. Could only redouble his efforts, licking and sucking with a fervor born of worship and breathless constraint. His hands slid from her thighs to grip her ass, spreading her wider for his tongue.
She rocked against him, her giggles subsiding into ragged, open-mouthed pants. “Don’t stop… don’t you dare stop…”
He didn’t. He traced intricate patterns with his tongue, feasted on her, until her thighs began to tremble where they crossed over his back. Her moans climbed in pitch, losing coherence. She fisted the sheets, her knuckles white in the lamplight.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” she warned, her body coiling tight.
He locked his arms around her thighs, holding her in place, and pressed his tongue hard against her clit.
She came with a cry that was half-scream, half-sob, her body convulsing under his mouth. Her crossed legs squeezed against his back in rhythmic pulses, a vice of pleasure, choking him, owning him. He rode it out, gentling his tongue as the waves subsided, lapping softly at her sensitive flesh until she shuddered and went limp, her legs sliding off his back to rest heavily on the bed.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh in the quiet room. The salt lamp glow seemed to pulse in time with her slowing heart.
She rolled onto her side, facing him. Her eyes were dark pools, sated and soft. She reached down, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, wet from her. She brought her fingertips to her own lips, tasting herself with a thoughtful expression.
“You,” she said, her voice hoarse, “are incomparable.”
He moved up the bed to lie beside her, facing her. He was painfully hard. She didn’t touch him there. Instead, she shifted again, onto her back this time. She parted her legs and looked at him, a simple, silent command in her heavy-lidded gaze.
He understood. He kissed his way up her inner thigh, over the wool, past the bare skin, until he was there again. This time, he didn’t linger. He positioned himself, his tip nudging against her slick entrance. He looked into her eyes as he pushed inside.
She was so wet, so warm from his mouth and her climax, that he slid in effortlessly, to the hilt. They both gasped at the fullness. He braced himself on his elbows above her, not moving yet, just feeling the perfect, clenching heat of her around him.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, the wool of the thigh-highs a strange, soft friction against his skin. She hooked her heels above his ass, locking him in place. “Mine,” she whispered, pulling his face down to kiss him. She could taste herself on his lips.
Then she began to move. Not with the frantic energy of before, but with a slow, deep, rolling rhythm of her hips. She used the leverage of her legs to dictate the pace, pulling him into her, over and over. He surrendered to it, letting her set the cadence, his own thrusts meeting hers in a syncopated dance.
He focused on her face, on the flutter of her eyelashes, on the way her lips parted with each deep stroke. He worshipped her with his body, as he had with his mouth. His hands cradled her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.
“You feel so good,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his. “My Lesha. My good, good boy.” Her hands slid down to his ass, urging him deeper, faster. The slow grind became something more urgent, more primal. The bed frame began a soft, persistent knocking against the wall.
He was close. The coil in his gut tightened beyond bearing. She saw it in his face, in the strained cord of his neck.
“Come for me,” she commanded, her voice a throaty whisper. “Come inside your hotwife.”
The word was the final trigger. He threw his head back, a broken sound ripped from his throat, and emptied himself into her in long, pulsing waves. She held him through it, her legs locked around him, milking every last drop from him until he collapsed, spent and shuddering, onto her.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. His face was buried in the pillow next to her head. Her hands were gentle now, stroking his damp back.
Then, she shifted beneath him. Her voice was soft, but the thread of command was still there. “Baby?”
He knew. He pushed himself up on trembling arms. He slid down her body, past the wool socks, until he was between her legs again. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed his mouth to her, his tongue delving into her, cleaning her, tasting the mingled salt of her pleasure and his own release. It was bitter, intimate, and profoundly right. A seal. A completion.
When he was finished, he rested his cheek on her inner thigh, the wool scratchy against his skin. She carded her fingers through his hair, her touch now utterly tender.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He kissed the inside of her knee. “Spasibo.”
She smiled at the Russian word. Still wrapped in the afterglow, she stretched, a long, cat-like motion. “I’m starving,” she announced, the goofy, normal Imani re-emerging through the haze of sex. “And my socks are itchy.”
He lifted his head. “You’re not taking them off.”
She raised an eyebrow, a challenge.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice firm.
She considered him, then grinned, that familiar, playful light returning to her eyes. “Okay,” she conceded. “They can stay on for a little while longer.” She patted his head. “Now go make your hotwife a sandwich. Something with… pickles. I have a craving.”
He laughed, a short, exhausted, happy sound. He pressed one last kiss to her thigh, over the precious wool, and rose from the bed. As he walked toward the kitchen, naked and barefoot, he heard her sigh contentedly behind him, snuggling into the sheets, the city lights playing over the dark wool still hugging her legs.
The cool kitchen tiles were a shock against his bare feet. The domestic quiet felt enormous after the humid intensity of the bedroom. He blinked under the stark fluorescent light, the afterimage of her amber-lit body still printed on his vision.
He washed his hands, the ritual grounding him. He pulled rye bread from the breadbox, sliced turkey from the deli drawer. He slathered mustard on one slice, mayo on the other. The pickle jar made a satisfying hiss and pop when he twisted the lid.
He layered the meat, added two crisp, cold dill spears, and pressed the sandwich together. He cut it diagonally, the way she liked, and arranged the halves on a plate.
A sound made him turn. Imani stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She had pulled on one of his flannel shirts—it hung open, completely unbuttoned—but the charcoal thigh-highs remained. The combination was absurd and breathtaking: the lumberjack fabric brushing the tops of the wool, and everything in between a stunning, naked expanse.
“Couldn’t wait,” she said, her voice still a little husky. “The smell of pickles is a siren song.”
He lifted the plate. She padded into the kitchen and took it, immediately biting into a half with a soft, contented crunch. She chewed, leaning against the counter, the open shirt sliding off one shoulder.
He didn’t move. He leaned against the opposite counter, his arms crossed. His gaze was fixed, not on the shirt’s gaping fabric or the skin it revealed, but lower. It tracked from the sharp angle of her hip bone down the long, smooth plane of her thigh to where the dark wool began. It followed the sock’s perfect line up her calf, over her knee, to its defiant cuff midway up her thigh.
The absolute territory was no longer a geometric band. It was a fluid, living space defined by the shadows in the crease of her hip, the subtle shift of muscle as she shifted her weight, the way the lamplight from the bedroom kissed the inner curve just above the wool. His cock, spent only minutes ago, stirred against his thigh, hardening with a swift, demanding ache.
Imani swallowed, watching him watch her. A pickle-juice drip escaped the corner of her mouth. She caught it with her thumb, sucking it clean. She took another bite, chewing slowly, a knowing smile blooming.
“You’re staring,” she said around the food, her tone playful, almost sing-song.
He just nodded, his throat tight.
She glanced down at her own chest, at the way the flannel barely grazed her nipples. She laughed then, a light, genuine giggle that filled the sterile kitchen. “Babe.Seriously. Any other man on the planet would be looking right here.” She gestured vaguely with her free hand, the motion making her breasts sway.
She popped the last of the first half into her mouth. “I’m naked. I’m wearing basically a blanket and socks. And you’re completely hypnotized by my legs.” She shook her head, still grinning. “You are such a specific, wonderful weirdo.”
“It’s not just your legs,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He finally met her eyes. “It’s this.” His hand gestured in the space between the flannel hem and the sock’s cuff. “This is what you bought. For you. For me. And now you’re eating pickles in it.”
He pushed off the counter. The space between them vanished in two strides. He didn’t reach for her breasts. He didn’t kiss her. He dropped to his knees on the cool tile.
His hands slid up her calves, over the scratchy-soft wool, his palms memorizing the shape of her. His thumbs found the bare skin above the cuffs, pressing into the warm, firm flesh of her inner thighs. He leaned forward and pressed his open mouth to that sacred space, just where her thigh met her hip, his nose nudging the rough flannel aside.
He inhaled her scent—soap, sex, sweat, the faint tang of dill. He kissed her there, a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss that wasn’t a prelude to anything else. It was an end in itself. A devotion.
She shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cool air. Her hand came down, her fingers sinking into his hair, not pushing or guiding, just holding. The plate with the remaining sandwich half clattered onto the counter behind her, forgotten.
“Lesha,” she breathed, the laughter gone, replaced by a thick, awed wonder.
He didn’t stop. He kissed a trail along that territory, from one hip to the other, his thumbs keeping her thighs apart. His own hardness pressed against the hard cabinet door behind him, a blunt, secondary pain. Her skin was silk under his lips, impossibly soft, still holding the memory of his earlier worship. When his tongue traced a slow, wet line along the crease where leg met torso, she gasped, her hips twitching forward.
“You’re going to make me drop my second sandwich,” she whispered, her grip tightening in his hair.
He pulled back just enough to look up at her. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. The flannel shirt had slipped off both shoulders now, pooling in the crooks of her elbows. She was a vision of chaotic, borrowed masculinity and strategic, intimate femininity.
“Eat it,” he said, his voice low, raw.
He stayed on his knees, his hands resting on her wool-clad hips, watching as she picked up the other half. She took a bite, her eyes locked on his, chewing slowly. A piece of pickle fell, landing with a tiny wet sound on her sternum. She didn’t brush it away.
He leaned forward again and caught it with his tongue, cleaning the salty brine from her skin. She moaned, the sound vibrating through her ribs into his mouth. Her free hand left his hair and found his face, her thumb stroking his cheekbone as he attended to her.
She finished the sandwich, licking her own fingers clean. She looked down at him, her eyes dark and bottomless. There was no tease left. Just a frank, hungry reciprocation of his worship.
“Okay,” she said softly. Her hands went to his shoulders, urging him up. “Enough. Up.”
He rose, his body throbbing. She took his hand, her fingers lacing through his with a startling, sudden tenderness. She led him, not to the bedroom, but to the large, L-shaped living room sofa. She pushed him down onto the middle cushion, the soft grey fabric cool against his back.
She stood before him, finally shucking the flannel shirt. It whispered to the floor. Then, with deliberate, slow movements, she climbed onto the sofa, not straddling him, but turning her back to him. She knelt on the cushions facing the back of the sofa, then folded her body forward, resting her forearms and head against the sofa’s top.
She presented herself to him.An offering. An altar built entirely of the lines he adored. The curve of her spine dipped into the swell of her ass, which was framed perfectly by the high cut of the thigh-highs. The dark wool was a dramatic frame for the entire stunning, vulnerable landscape of her.
She glanced over her shoulder, her cheek against the cushion. The city lights from the wall of windows caught the gold in her eyes.
“You wanted to look,” she said, her voice muffled slightly. “So look. And then do.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice.