the crying game
I enjoy watching her cry.
Tears that fall like a continuous rain over the contradicting curves and crevices of her face. They enchant me. All too often, I would make her cry. Over the joy of things. Over the sorrow of things. Over anything at all. Anything...
just to see her cry.
Burying my head in her naked, warm lap she would cry. Not an outward sob, but with an inward grief that you can feel if you lay your willing cheek upon her rounded belly; the delicate shudder of one who cannot gain control over her emotions, nor wants to. I would wait patiently, my face slightly lifted like a child waiting for a falling dew drop, for a wayward teardrop to fall upon my cheek. Rolling down my face, a familiar excitment grips me. As it would near my lips, my tongue would dart out to taste it, as it desires any and all of her bodily fluids that flood her so fully, she needs to release them. She would look down at me, watching me with curiousity and care. I would look up at her in ecstacy before parting her thighs and shedding my own private tears of joy upon her soft, sweet mound. She would shiver and then...
she would cry.
Naked and on all fours in our bedroom, I would admonish her for the things she had, or had not done. I would not focus on her lush, large and pendulous breasts, with their berry colored nipples, dangling eagerly before me. I would not see the swell of her ass as it rises before me, still autographed with my signature handprint from the games we had played a night earlier. I would not see her smoothly shaven wetness, for I was busy looking for wetness elsewhere. And, as if on cue, she gives to me the nourishment and nurturing I need. Her eyes would meet mine. Brown as a paper bag, drab eyes. Nothing special about those eyes, should you happen upon them on a crowded subway, but oh, those eyes. All I live for are in those eyes. Just as quickly as she would lay them upon me, she would turn them away, closing off her soul to me. I would scold her for casting what I love best about her upon me. Though inside of me, I screamed, I cried for more. However, the rules were set and permission was not granted. She took liberty anyway, as she always did, knowing that punishment would follow and...
she would cry.
She didn't cry for herself or for any one thing I inflicted upon her. I would be fooling myself if I truly believed that. She cries for me. Cries, because she knows that in each of her tears, there are words of love embedded. Cries, because she knows it makes me feel more human when I see her become so vulnerable. Cries, because she knows it arouses me. Cries, because more than anything, her whim, her will, is to please me. She would lay between my legs, taking what is left of my libido between her lips, suckling softly. I would feign sleep. She would nudge me innocently, a fingertip slowly making its way up the length of my thigh, urging me from my repose. My response was, purposefully, none. She would soon roll away, turn her back to me and eventually, in frustration, in need...
she would cry.
The muffled, muted sound of her first sob, more than enough to arouse me. I would lean over, a pawn in this game, and pretend not to know why it is she cries. A soft kiss placed on the back of her neck. A fingertip running along the crack of her heart-shaped ass, lingering there, ready to delve deeper the moment I feel her body arc in my direction. Compliant was she, as I would roll her back in my direction and taste the salty sweetness of her teardrops. With every droplet, she would now own me. She knows this. Kissing her eyes, she would press her lids tightly together to bring more of her warm fluid to my lips. She would think sad thoughts, to keep the momentum alive and the river of tears flowing into my parched mouth. I would kiss my way down her body, lingering long over her breasts, knowing that a lake of tears often nestles in the valley between these peaks. I would continue on my journey, for it was now my turn to rest my weary head between her trembling thighs. Probing her sweet pink flesh and finding a wetness with that familiar taste, the taste of her teardrops, only with a thicker consistancy. And as I would throttle her clit with my over-zealous tongue, slapping at it relentlessly as I do to her beautiful ass...
she would cry.
On days when we would only linger in bed, talking, I would ask her why she cries. She tells me, she does it for love. To make me happy. To make her wet. To make the happiness and the sorrow all come together at one time. No matter how many times I ask her, in so many different ways, her answer is forever the same.
She cries for me.
©2000 by Cher Ladd-Vuolo
Tears that fall like a continuous rain over the contradicting curves and crevices of her face. They enchant me. All too often, I would make her cry. Over the joy of things. Over the sorrow of things. Over anything at all. Anything...
just to see her cry.
Burying my head in her naked, warm lap she would cry. Not an outward sob, but with an inward grief that you can feel if you lay your willing cheek upon her rounded belly; the delicate shudder of one who cannot gain control over her emotions, nor wants to. I would wait patiently, my face slightly lifted like a child waiting for a falling dew drop, for a wayward teardrop to fall upon my cheek. Rolling down my face, a familiar excitment grips me. As it would near my lips, my tongue would dart out to taste it, as it desires any and all of her bodily fluids that flood her so fully, she needs to release them. She would look down at me, watching me with curiousity and care. I would look up at her in ecstacy before parting her thighs and shedding my own private tears of joy upon her soft, sweet mound. She would shiver and then...
she would cry.
Naked and on all fours in our bedroom, I would admonish her for the things she had, or had not done. I would not focus on her lush, large and pendulous breasts, with their berry colored nipples, dangling eagerly before me. I would not see the swell of her ass as it rises before me, still autographed with my signature handprint from the games we had played a night earlier. I would not see her smoothly shaven wetness, for I was busy looking for wetness elsewhere. And, as if on cue, she gives to me the nourishment and nurturing I need. Her eyes would meet mine. Brown as a paper bag, drab eyes. Nothing special about those eyes, should you happen upon them on a crowded subway, but oh, those eyes. All I live for are in those eyes. Just as quickly as she would lay them upon me, she would turn them away, closing off her soul to me. I would scold her for casting what I love best about her upon me. Though inside of me, I screamed, I cried for more. However, the rules were set and permission was not granted. She took liberty anyway, as she always did, knowing that punishment would follow and...
she would cry.
She didn't cry for herself or for any one thing I inflicted upon her. I would be fooling myself if I truly believed that. She cries for me. Cries, because she knows that in each of her tears, there are words of love embedded. Cries, because she knows it makes me feel more human when I see her become so vulnerable. Cries, because she knows it arouses me. Cries, because more than anything, her whim, her will, is to please me. She would lay between my legs, taking what is left of my libido between her lips, suckling softly. I would feign sleep. She would nudge me innocently, a fingertip slowly making its way up the length of my thigh, urging me from my repose. My response was, purposefully, none. She would soon roll away, turn her back to me and eventually, in frustration, in need...
she would cry.
The muffled, muted sound of her first sob, more than enough to arouse me. I would lean over, a pawn in this game, and pretend not to know why it is she cries. A soft kiss placed on the back of her neck. A fingertip running along the crack of her heart-shaped ass, lingering there, ready to delve deeper the moment I feel her body arc in my direction. Compliant was she, as I would roll her back in my direction and taste the salty sweetness of her teardrops. With every droplet, she would now own me. She knows this. Kissing her eyes, she would press her lids tightly together to bring more of her warm fluid to my lips. She would think sad thoughts, to keep the momentum alive and the river of tears flowing into my parched mouth. I would kiss my way down her body, lingering long over her breasts, knowing that a lake of tears often nestles in the valley between these peaks. I would continue on my journey, for it was now my turn to rest my weary head between her trembling thighs. Probing her sweet pink flesh and finding a wetness with that familiar taste, the taste of her teardrops, only with a thicker consistancy. And as I would throttle her clit with my over-zealous tongue, slapping at it relentlessly as I do to her beautiful ass...
she would cry.
On days when we would only linger in bed, talking, I would ask her why she cries. She tells me, she does it for love. To make me happy. To make her wet. To make the happiness and the sorrow all come together at one time. No matter how many times I ask her, in so many different ways, her answer is forever the same.
She cries for me.
©2000 by Cher Ladd-Vuolo
posted by Beyond Goddess at 9:04 PM
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