Testing the waters

Your eyes open from a dreamless sleep. Sunlight peers guardedly through a familiar single window into the cosy, disordered room you call yours, for half the year at least. Your bed, soft but stiff, is probably too small for two, yet two it holds: your naked skin warmed by a neighbour almost as intimate, these days, as your lodging.

You know the look, almost of concentration, underneath the heavy lids of Ally’s eyes and the thick auburn folds of her hair strewn across her face, that tells you her nighttime imaginings have not yet been interrupted by the dawning of the day. You press your body gently against hers, confirming that she, like you, remains unclothed from the night before. You feel an awakening beneath the sheets and that, along with a rush of affection for your girlfriend, inspires you to a novel morning routine. So you slide down the bed, planting kisses on her shoulder, under her nipple, on her belly, then her rump. You moisten your tongue, and with it part her thighs as – now fully under the covers – you spin your weight over her gap. Her musk enters your nostrils as they verge on her trimmed pubic hairs, and you begin to taste what’s underneath.

She jerks, but not antagonistically; you take this as a welcome to your overtures. You ease your hands reassuringly over her hips as you take long, languid licks of her vulva, your aim for now to tease, then later to satisfy. These eventually provoke the first sounds of the morning, with an intake then exhalation of breath that is ever slightly more erotic than purely functional, and so you quicken your efforts, leaning on the tip of your tongue as you circle her clitoris.

“That’s nice,” she whispers, “but you should stop.” You can almost taste the tension building in her, the quickening of her muscles, her breathing shorter breath by breath. And so you pretend not to hear her, pressing her sensitive flesh this way and that. She acquiesces, at first, but then her long little hands tug at your hair. Her voice, still gentle, loving, is fuller now. “You’re doing wonderfully, but you do have to stop”. Her words aside, she yet makes no real physical effort of arrest, and so you redouble, penetrating her smoothly with an index finger as you persist with your oral affections above her entryway. Again, your attack meets little defence, until, after deeper massage of her most delicate nerves with your finger and tongue in tandem, she stiffens; arches; withdraws. “Stop! I have to get up.”

At once you are no longer in the midst of the act. The covers have fallen over your back, and Ally peers down at you, bleary-eyed and rosy-cheeked, from under and red mess of hair and rouged, erect nipples. “It’s Saturday,” you protest, playfully. “We can stay in bed…all..day,” a message you punctuate with teasing kisses on her thigh and tummy. She draws back slightly, her leg still pinned.

“No, I just, I,” she murmurs awkwardly, “have to go to the bathroom.” Her gaze wanders and so does your mind: your realise her agitation is explained not, or not solely, by trepidation over a coming orgasm but also her confidence in her bladder control, and this realisation creates in you, weirdly you know, an erotic thrill, as thoughts of women wracked by a desperation that threatens simultaneous humiliation and ecstatic relief always has. The normal thing to do here is, of course, to let Ally attend this call of nature promptly, but you wonder: is this an opportunity to push a boundary?

“Oh,” you respond, “but I thought you were enjoying yourself?” You look for signs of denial, and seeing none proceed. “I’m sure you can hang on for a few minutes while I…finish off?”

You nuzzle at the softness connecting your girlfriend’s legs with her crotch, veering inwards. Ally’s blue-green eyes close as her mouth gapes and yours re-approaches her pussy. You manage two more tongue-strokes before she opines again. “I am enjoying myself,” she says, in a paradoxically pained fashion, “but I’d enjoy it more if I just went to the loo quickly. I could really focus on, you know, this, then.”

You are prepared for this reder. “But it’s cold out there, and so nice and warm here.” The requirement for you to reply takes your tongue away from its preferred task, briefly, but you can feel the warm breath needed to form these words flowing across Ally’s private parts. “I’m sure if you just relax, and focus on this first, you’ll feel much better.” You return to the act of cunnilingus.

“Oh,” she moans, “oh! It’s tempting, but,” she pauses, “I worry if I really relax,” the rhythm of her speech now badly affected by that of your tonguing, “I’ll have an accident in your bed.”

“That bad?”

She nods. “I really, really need to do a wee,” she near squeals, sounding more Northern than she almost ever does. The thought that she might actually be in danger of urinating right here, right now, is a tremendous turn on, but despite your thickening cock straining for attention, your quieter mind is present enough to advise you that forcing your girlfriend into a humiliating bodily function in this way could spell disaster for your relationship. You think quickly, but carefully, about the tack to take as you feel Ally pull back once more.