Forbidden Flesh

Forbidden Flesh

What I wouldn’t give to have her.

She’s so pretty that it physically hurts me to look at her. And she’s nice, and intelligent, and friendly, and funny.

She’s a Democrat, but I’ll forgive her that.

I see her every day at work, walking past, or sitting at her computer, or getting coffee. She is unapologetic about the fact that she never gains weight. She is unapologetic about the fact that she’s pretty. She is unapologetic about the fact that every pair of pants she wears shows off her ass perfectly.

She should teach a class: “How to Purchase and Wear Pants that Most Flatter Your Body”.

I first read the phrase “small, high breasts” in a novel. I never really thought about it until she started working for us, though. I know plenty of women with small breasts, but she’s the only one whose breasts are both small and high.

They’re not that small. B-cup, probably. But they are high on her chest, firm and prominent on her frame. Maybe a little small compared to the rest of her body. Nice to look at, but not her best feature.

Sometimes I walk over to her desk and we talk. I lean on the lateral file, she sits in her chair and leans back. She raises her arms to stretch. Her blouse or sweater slides upward, revealing two inches of pale, soft, rounded stomach.

I feel a lump in my throat, and I have to make an excuse to get away. I return to my desk, fall into my chair, and gulp water until the lump goes away.

She doesn’t know that those two inches of stomach are what I find most attractive about her. Not her kind eyes, or her quick wit, or her splendid ass.

If I could press my lips to her stomach, kiss it, run my tongue over its curves, I could die happy.

I have a wife. She has a husband. We shouldn’t be kissing across the center divider of my front seat. But we are. Her lips are cool and soft, her mouth warm, tongue rough as it strokes the roof of my mouth. Small, slender fingers with short nails pull my head closer.

She moans when I graze her lower lip with my teeth.

She moans more when I climb over the divider, kneel in front of her, body contorted to fit under the glove box, and run my hands up satiny skin, under her thin sweater.

My fingers tease the tops of her breasts, places roughened by a lace-edged bra that I can’t see.

Her sweater moves up, exposing two, three, six inches of curved, soft stomach.

I can’t help myself. I turn my head to the side and lean forward, my lips to her flesh, sucking it gently into my mouth.

She lets out a soft cry. Her hands go to my head, guiding me as I taste the expanse of her stomach, stroke under her bellybutton with my tongue, dig my teeth into the bottom of her ribs.

I have never seen her naked. I have never seen her in an outfit that revealed her legs – at least, not unless she had tights on underneath. And I don’t care. I have her stomach. My throat is closing with lust; my vision is star-spangled with desire.

She pulls up her skirt with one hand. The tights end at mid-thigh, staying there of their own accord. Above them, black panties, the scent of cotton and sex drawing me down to press my mouth and nose between her legs, inhale her, sigh into her, make her stiffen and pull at my hair.

My dilemma: do I break the flow by asking for her help to remove the panties? Do I pull them down myself?

She whispers “please”.

I grab the waistband with both hands and pull. Damp cotton tears like a wet paper towel and her sex is before me, medium-brown curls trimmed neatly but still covering her, modestly. I breathe her arousal, kiss the shining hair, feel her thighs strain as she works to keep her legs apart.

And I taste her. The tiniest lick, the faintest taste, her flavor strong like her opinions, the sweetness and bitterness over my tongue, the taste like charcoal at the back of my throat.

Her own throat lets out a deep, shuddering moan that turns into a broken cry as my tongue finds its way through her hair to breach her lips, to taste the wet flesh, the heat of it almost visible as it washes over my face. I inhale deeply, then let out the hot breath across her clit, and she cries out again. My hands go to her thighs, pulling the tights down to reveal more of her skin. I feel the hairs on her legs tickle my cheeks as I curl my arms under her thighs, entrapping myself against her.

She arches her body, her weight on my shoulders, just a small bit of her bottom touching the seat, my mouth covering her, drinking her, stroking her, kissing her, until her nails dig into my shoulder and my head and she floods my mouth with her body and my ears with her repeated pleas for more.

“I want you,” she gasps out when she can finally speak. She releases my head, twists in the seat, until I can see her perfectly-formed ass up close, pale and round, her sex wide and dripping on my front seat as she kneels on it, and I can’t help but to touch her, to let her cheeks fill my hands.

She pushes against me. “Please,” she moans, voice half-muffled as she presses her face into the headrest. “Please!” Insistent.

I can’t help but to lean forward, to taste her again, feel her body pulsate as my tongue delves into her, my nose between her cheeks, her scent sharp and bright.

She doesn’t expect it. I stroke and squeeze the cheeks of her ass and she whines abruptly, pouring over my tongue. I lick upward, my tongue brushes her, penetrates her in a deep stroke, her taste dark and smoky, and she grinds against my chin. My fingers find her clit, spread her sex, glide easily into her and press.

She clenches on my tongue, sobbing with the pleasure of it, pulling me into her body, my fingers and mouth pulling pleasure from her body in heavy, wracking shudders.

And then, with a final gasp, she falls forward, pulling away from me. I try to continue, try to give her more, but she twists in my grip, shaking her head, hair brushing blue-sweatered shoulders, clutching the back of the seat, nails ripping against the grain.

I must content myself with stroking her bare bottom, her bare thighs, feeling her shiver under my touch. She sobs, chest catching with each breath, as I rise up, cover her body with mine.

She rises under me, presses her ass against the front of my slacks. “I want you.” The words are slurred, unintelligible, but her hand pulling my hip against her, her wetness soaking through my pants, is enough. I fumble with my belt, my button, my zipper, push downward until I feel her sex yield to me, engulf me, soft and scalding and slick and strong, gripping, pulling, pulsing, flushing, coating my cock with another wave of wetness.

I try to kiss the back of her neck but she’s too wild, biting and ripping at the seat of the car, flinging her head back as I bury myself over and over into her, aching from arousal, from having tasted the wine of her body, the candy of that beautiful stomach, throbbing and burning and gasping, her ass hard enough against my stomach with each thrust that if we were naked my stomach would be slapping her, spanking her, punishing her for her wantonness.

I reach under her, push her bra out of the way, hold her breasts in my hands, feel her heartbeat pulse through my fingers, nipples large and hard in my palms. Her sweater pushes upward, her back muscles shifting as she moves under me, fighting herself as she fucks me, is fucked by me, dripping on me, soaking my cock and my clothes and the seat of my car.

Her hand reaches back, grabs my hip and my ass, pulls me closer. “Come for me,” she chokes out. “Please, come for me!”

But I can’t. Her flesh grips my flesh, no barriers, no protection, and I have to grab at the base of my cock, squeeze it so hard it hurts, until she understands and pulls forward, falls onto the seat, turns onto her side. “Move,” she moans. “Move!”

I push my way up into the seat, passing her as she moves down to where I was. Her hands push my stomach down, her breath hot between my legs. One hand cups my balls, squeezes them, her hand warm and strong and tight and I groan and arch and she gags as I thrust into her mouth, into her throat.

Her teeth dig into me and scrape me and then her lips soothe me and glide over me and nip at me and her tongue floats around the head and caresses the ridge of it.

I touch her shoulder. She looks up at me, nods, lets out a long, low, juddering moan.

She squeezes harder.

Her other hand goes down, comes back, two fingers behind her other hand, slick and hot as she presses them into me, one hard, deep stroke.

I nearly scream, the strangled sound breaking off as she curls her fingers and presses up and thick ropes of orgasm spurt into her mouth and my heart pounds in my ears and my vision fades to gray and black and she gulps and sucks and swallows and presses and fingers and grabs and squeezes and I throb and writhe and spurt and jerk until, still hard, still in her mouth, nothing is coming but it feels like the orgasm never stopped and her fingers stroke the knot inside me and blood rushes to my face and I feel faint and against all odds I’m coming again and she’s slurping and swallowing and she pulls her fingers away and out and I choke out gasps and moans as I finally flop back onto the come-soaked seat and feel the blood drain from my cock as it falls flaccid and wet on my thigh.

She climbs up my body, straddles me, her sex still wet and scalding and dripping as her hair tickles my cock and I twitch but can do no more than that.

It’s the middle of the night. She sleeps on top of me. I sleep underneath her. Cars zip by on the expressway. Her orgasm is sweet and strong on my lips. I stir, rise, am engulfed by her sleeping body. She sighs and snuggles against me, exhausted, breath hot and wet on my shoulder and neck, her hair scented spicy as I kiss her forehead.

“Do you have a condom?” Her voice is a thick, drowsy murmur.

“Not here.” Mine is a rasp. “At home.”

She flutters her muscles against me. “Later.”

Her body gets heavier against mine, her sex slack and wet, holding my cock as my arms hold her body.

When she wakes, maybe we’ll go home. Maybe we can fuck.

Maybe we can make love.

I don’t care. I have her. I have had her. I’ve tasted the forbidden flesh of her stomach, her sex, her darkest, tightest place. I don’t need to come inside her to be satisfied.

I’ve had what I want.

***********************

She is a real person. She has the most beautiful stomach I've ever seen in person. It really does hurt me, how lovely it is. I will never taste it. It is forbidden flesh. Hence the story.