Ida, early morning [NSFW]

I am so close to finishing what would have been book one in the ouro duology (hm, lots of thoughts there that I don't dare to say out loud yet, but will, once I finish and get some new perspective!) and today I just felt like writing something saucy. It might have been inspired after finally moving on with the artist I am currently working with-- Igordoodles (go commission them if you are in want of a highly professional and wonderful artist!)-- we had some legal stuff to get through in regards to commercial use-- and then debated from a handful of poses to finally end up with this (heuuurgh, very good) pose for her illustration:

Anyway, I hope you are all doing good and taking care of yourselves-- I wanted to extend a true, from the bottom of my heart thank-you for sticking with me even as I prefer to work in silence. Your sacrifice is not lost on me, but as my partner just got laid off and times are rough, your support means more than ever. Even if I am quiet, it has offered me the space to work and write daily. Even as I work through some rough stuff with my therapist, I give ouro every ounce of energy I have left; if only for you to read it some day, but also, writing it in solace has been my greatest escape, so thank you, thank you, for allowing me that. I hope I can give back what you have offered to me, some day. Hopefully soon, but you know how I am with promises right now.  I hope you enjoy this little offshoot, nevertheless, and never forget that you are in my thoughts day in and day out!!

Ida lays there, top askew and her hair akimbo, embraced by both the wrinkled sheets of the pathfinders bed, and the tender light of early morning. She lifts her hand to catch the colored dots that jump from the dangling sun-catchers on the balcony, turning her hand over and under, admiring, her eyes half-closed against the intrusion of light. Outside, in the kitchen, the pathfinder hums to themselves as they craft a breakfast, coffee puttering in the percolator on the gas-lit stove.  Ida’s hand travels to her mouth, vestiges of the pathfinders taste still found there, still soft like velvet against her memory. 

Sure footfalls grow closer to the wide alcove that marks the entrance to the bedroom, draped in greenery and dusty books.

“Breakfast?” the pathfinder calls, their voice drifting softly, near a whisper. 

She scrunches her eyes closed, pulls the sheet over a smile still plastered on her lips, sure to give her away. What she would do to just encapsulate this moment; the smells, the sounds, the crushing gentleness of the pathfinders nearness. 

“You have to get up at some point, soon.” The voice is a half-laugh, more a melody than a mandate. It lingers, wrapping around the still air in the room, still scented by sex— Ida halts herself from drawing a deep breath of it, and settles in, listening to the distant puttering of the coffee, the pop of a toaster, and the muffled chorus of life outside the blissfully closed windows.
The mattress warps under the weight of the pathfinders knee, their palms settling on the sides of her head. Her eyelashes flutter for a brief second, the pathfinders breath washing over her features, their lips pressing warmth over the cool skin of her forehead. She schools her heart, beating rhythmically like a drum, and pretends to sleep. 

The pathfinder doesn’t speak, but lingers still. Surely they know, how Ida wields silence for both good and bad; a convincing facade that flirts with deception, yet never fully succumbs. Their voice is husky as they speak next, gravel in their throat, a groan caught in a cage; lust, contained in a space far too small to fit. She thinks she hears the word beautiful, and keep, but it is lost in the rustle of the sheet being pulled off her body, painfully slowly, until her splayed limbs are exposed, her clothes still fitting far too loosely to cover anything at all.
The pathfinders mouth travels south next, without Ida’s knowledge— all she experiences behind the darkness of her resting eyelids is the wet mouth of theirs, closing around her soft, relaxed nipple. 

The pathfinders tongue leisurely maps the pebbles and peaks of the first, then tugs her flimsy top to explore the next. The wet, suckling sounds is now all she hears between the thundering pulse in her ears. 

She stretches out, pretending to wake; the gentle worrying of the pathfinders teeth sending electric currents straight to her sex, too intense to ignore.  

“You can sleep, if you wish,” the pathfinder’s voice offers, a finger drawing a path around the edges of her knickers, so easily accessible with her leg thrown to the side. “But I have to leave. Feel free to stay until I return, I’ll be gone for no more than an our, or so.”

Ida says nothing, breathing softly, knowing where it’ll lead.

“Do stay,” the pathfinder breathes, placing a kiss on her inner thigh, breath of their next words traveling higher, closer. She feels the next words right over the apex of her awakening sex, but she cannot make out the words, at all.

The pathfinder hooks their fingers under the garment, lifting it to the side, the warmth of their mouth following right after. They lap their tongue against the closed outside until her pussy is glistening and lustrous, and then they work their way in, opening her with a thumb and forefinger to suckle greedily at the small pearl hidden beneath the small hood of flesh, so swollen and needy.
The pathfinder fits the entirety of it in the gathering wetness of their mouth, sucking and lapping in alternating modes, their arms working to push Ida’s thighs as wide as they allow.

When the pathfinder chances a look above the mound of Ida’s abdomen, their mouth still fastened over her cunt, working rhythmically— Ida’s eyes are wide open, dreary, her hands fisting the sheets; her mouth open in a quiet, wild cry of wonder. The pathfinder smiles wickedly between her thighs, and then continues their onslaught, sliding their hands beneath Ida’s rump and lifting her to their mouth, working every inch of her slick, puffy folds.

“Your taste,” they say, in between damp kisses of the salt and musk that now trickles out of her at a steady pace. The pathfinder pulls back enough to nip her inner thigh, bringing just enough relief to drive Ida senseless for more. “Intoxicating,” they say and mercifully go back to licking her.

Ida’s hands release the sheets only to tug at the pathfinders hair, her legs shaking with effort to reach the final stretch; her back arching, her juices flooding the pathfinders tongue. The pathfinder speaks as they lick, praising her efforts to come. Open wider for me—, that’s it—, and explicit curses all spilling from the pathfinders mouth as they work their tongue over her. Ida’s hips buck and she wails an thrashes as she seizes and trembles, and the pathfinder with patience abounds, works her through it as she flails and soaks their face with her release. 

The sound of heaving breaths and lapping tongues is deafening, now; as is the drum of her heartbeat-- Ida kneads her own breasts to ease the noise, languid with pleasure.

With the tension slowly abating, the pathfinder slows things down to the starting, leisurely pace, tonguing Ida with barely-there kisses and a prevailing warmth that settles her nerves. 

“Fuck,” she says at last, her fingers curling strands of the pathfinders hair as they lap and lick on the swollen bits of flesh that are yet to be overstimulated. “Fucking… fuck.”

“Didn’t think I have it in me?” the pathfinder says, glint in their eye. They know her need for control is absolute, and the smugness in their glistening face is enough to suppress her vicious need to be on top. She maneuvers her feet to push and tumble their body straight off the bed, and rises to stand above them, her center still dripping wet and shiny in the dancing spots of light from the window, and says— her foot still firmly planted on the pathfinders chest— “You better hurry— I will eat your food and read the paper, but then I’ll leave, unless...” she twirls a hand in the space beside her, as if to accentuate her point.

“Yes ma’am,” the pathfinder answers greedily, a goofy smile spreading their lips and a vacant look making their eyes glassy, dreamy.

“Chop, chop.” Ida says, wandering off, shedding her clothes and tossing them aside to eat breakfast in the nude. 

The pathfinder stares after her for but a moment, braced on their elbows against the cold, tiled floor; they watch the muscles of her thighs, the soft flesh of her rump, work as she walks away, caught themselves in a dreamy haze, her taste still soaking into their face. They wipe a hands across their wettened mouth, get up and step into their boots, before clicking the door closed and leaving for a briefing. 

Ida sighs uncharacteristically sweet as she hears the sound of the door closing and locking, pleased to have a little moment to herself, being as she is, completely drained of her normal cadence. She drinks the coffee— she eats and she showers, drawing deep breaths of the pathfinders soap. She wanders and wonders, drawing her hands over the sheer curtains turned golden by the light of the sun. She filters through a vinyl collection, placing a card on the player and singing along in the robust voice of hers, and she imagines, just imagines, what a life like this would look like ten, twenty, fifty— a hundred— years from now.

Shocked as she is, at the ease of those imaginations, how they fit so easily into her dreams, she tries to rid herself of a sudden unease by watering every plant she can see, tending every brown leaf with a nipping thumb and a whispered encouragement. Her tender care might be coy, but scary to her, never the less. She knows, she knows in her bones, that this isn't like the rest— that she is in love; deeply, irrevocably, but not in the least unexpectedly.
It all comes down to this, all those years, those furtive glances, that overbearing yearning she had shoved away and not paid attention to unless she had to.
It just leaves her feeling so strangely vulnerable, so utterly amped that she is left pacing grooves into the pathfinders floor as the key turned in the lock, and they finally step back inside. 

She freezes mid-pace, her muscles all tense, staring at the pathfinder like a starving lioness. 

“My turn?” The pathfinder tentatively asks, looking for all the world as if they just accepted death.

“Your turn,” she says but it is contained in a growl, and she launches herself after the pathfinder as if it would be her very last meal.