It’s not that your eyes are beautiful. It’s not that at all.
I look up into them; wide now, and dark. Staring at spaces I can’t see. They are beautiful. But that isn’t it.
Your eyes are the color of ocean.
They are not blue. They are not calm, limpid, placid, pale. They are not pretty. Your eyes are the deep and changeable color of a storm at sea; and I do not think of sailboats, but of drowning. They are beautiful. And that isn’t it.
When we began, they were green. Mainly green. Even when you are unclouded there is a little cold there, a little ring of grey. When we began, they smiled up at me a challenge, teasing and quick as i brought my mouth down on yours.
I love the softness of your mouth. I love that it is so much like mine, and so different. I love it when you laugh, a sweet exhalation that I catch on my tongue. I love it when I draw my teeth over your bottom lip, and watch your eyes.
It is subtle, at first. A shade darker, perhaps, or perhaps the light has simply changed.
And when your mouth is swollen with kissing, I love to plunge my fingers into the fine tangle of your hair. I love to draw your head back, and expose the arch of your neck. The skin is so finely textured. So pale and tender. You taste like salt.
And your eyes are greyer .
I move my hands down your collarbone, over your arms, then the curve of your belly; down and then up again, caressing, ending with your breasts cupped in my palms. I love the size of them, the heavy roundness. I love the gasp that catches in the back of your throat as i lift them. I love the way I can see your veins, blood running in a fine blue web beneath the delicate skin. I love the marks my fingers leave when I squeeze them. White, where I press down, then daintily pink as the blood rushes back in. I lay a spiral pattern of fingerprints to your nipples.
Where I pinch your nipples, the skin is darker. Apricot pink. Red at the tips. I can feel your heart beating under my hands as my tongue flickers over them. Your ribcage rises with each breath. Rises faster when I begin to suck at them, first one stiff nipple then the other, taking them in long turns. Your skin is heating in a slow blush. There is a fine sheen of sweat at your throat. I can feel myself becoming wet. I slide a hand between my legs, fingers pushing, and then raise it to your lips.
“Taste me.” You nod, and your mouth is hot and impossibly soft.
“And I will taste you.”
Your eyes are closed, when they open, the rings of grey overwhelm the green.
I take my time moving down your belly. The softness of it, the roundness, makes me think of goddesses, and of the moon. I want to bite down, to sink my teeth into that vulnerable skin. I want to taste the tidal rush of your pulse.
My hands spread over the curve of your thighs, each fingers leaving its own indentation. When you open to me, it is dizzying. I stop to breathe in the humid scent of you, clean and wild and ageless as the sea.
I part your lips with a fingertip, feeling the wetness there, seeing it shine and pearl on your lips. I dip my head to taste, tongue running a long, slow furrow from your anus to your clitoris, circling back again, and again, penetrating you more deeply with each pass. Your taste is salt and sweet, heady and rich. I plunge my tongue as deeply inside your cunt as it will go, my hands on your hips, bringing you up and into me. There is a low moan, and I don’t know if it came from you, or from me.
I pull back, looking at you, smiling. I slide one finger inside you, and then two, feeling the tightness, the slick ridges of your inner muscles, that lovely rough patch that makes you shake when i smooth it with a fingertip.
Your eyes are storm grey, the green flecking them like foam.
I bow my head again, and circle my tongue around your clit, not quite touching. I play a counting game. Three circles, then a hummingbird flick of tongue tip over the top of it. Your hips jerk, and with my other hand, I press you down onto the bed.
“Come for me.” I tell you, and you let yourself go.
The first orgasm is a fast one. You are smooth and slick around my fingers, and I push them hard, in and out of you as you come, adding a third, and then a fourth. The flush on your skin rises to red and you bucks against my hand, your cunt clenching hard around me.
I withdraw my fingers. There is a bottle of oil beside us, and I unstopper it carefully.
“That was good.” I say. “I want more.”
Your eyes go wider. Darker.
I wait for your nod, small and solemn. I hold the bottle up, elevating it so that you can see clearly. I love this part. I let the oil flow down in one long fall over the back of my hand, turning my arm back and forth as I pour. The light catches at it, and I watch it gleam over my knuckles. I hold my hand up high, flexing the fingers, letting the oil sheet slowly over my wrist. I look at you, lying before me. Your eyes are huge. You are so beautiful.
I pour more oil over your cunt. You shudder when it hits your skin. I let it run over you, flowing thick around your labia, gathering in a glistening puddle near your anus. I brush my thumb over your clit, just to hear the sharp intake of your breath.
I slide the oiled hand up and down your cunt, exploring every fold, exposing you more. With the other hand I pinch your clit between two fingers, pulling at it, rubbing. As your hips begin to circle, I enter you again, four fingers overlapping, relaxed and slow. The sound as I slide into you is rich, decadent, wet. My breath is coming faster.
I curl my fingers inside you, a motion so slow as to be almost languid, letting my fingertips come to rest on that rough sweet spot just below the cervix. I continue to pull at your clit, loving the slide of it between my oily fingers.
“Come for me now,” I say, and you arch up to me, crying out a tiny sound. As your muscles contract around me, I pull my hand out, just a little. I fold my thumb into the circle of my four fingers, and surge into you again.
Your cunt is tight around my hand, unbelievably tight, beautifully slick. There is pain in your eyes, and desire, and a trust that bring me almost to tears.
“This will hurt.” I say, and you bite your lip. “Come for me again, love.”
You do. You do so perfectly, your body tightening and relaxing, tightening and relaxing in long rippling waves. I rotate my hand a slow quarter turn, and push, sliding farther into you on the crest of each wave. I slide my thumb over your clit, bringing out another wave, and another. In, past the knuckles, my palm folding over. I smooth more oil over your skin, stretched so tight, holding me so deep.
Your eyes are pools of burning darkness.
My world has become these two points; your body, and my hand inside you. Slow, slow as tide. You are bathed in sweat now, dripping, your hair damp around your face and your voice a high constant keen as your cunt contracts around me. I am in a place that feels like flying, all pride and desire. I push, and push again. I feel that final give, that final acceptance. I turn again, the smallest twist, and I am buried inside you, my wrist disappearing into you, and I can no longer feel where I end and you begin.
I bow my head one last time, prayerful as a sailor home to port, and take your clitoris into my mouth. It is a long kiss, as your climax builds around me, quiet and slow and inexorable. You taste of salt and power and I am crying at the beauty. You shake and twist around me. I think I will be broken by the force and terror of it, and I am glad with an incandescent gladness that it is my name on your lips as you scream out your ecstasy.
And the storm subsides, still slowly, in shudders and quakes. I slide slow out of you, gentle. My hand unfolds into the coolness of the air, strange and exposed, wrinkled red from the pressure of your body. I stroke you. I murmur words that are not words, but only croons of pride, and of peace.
It is the peace I am here for. And I know what I will see, as soon as I raise my head. As soon as I can raise my head again.
Your eyes. New washed and wondering. Wide as a child’s, green as the ocean.
It is not that your eyes are beautiful. That’s not it, at all.