The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson Read Free Book Online

Naked. A beam
of light bouncing across the dew of our sweat. Limbs entwined. A silent theatre, a hundred anonymous voyeurs, ears bent on catching the muted choir of our yearning. I painted the picture of us
fucking from the stalls and the wings, from up above. The view that God would have if he were watching, wicked thought. I didn’t care, I would be wicked.
    Time spread out like a string of pearls and we floated along the beads.
    ‘Go on . . . please . . .’ Her voice was a murmur of wind, barely audible.
    I held my middle fingers together and slid deep into Iris, searching back and up until I found it, that ridged coin of flesh inside her that made her whole body convulse when I pressed against
it. She shook with tremors, feverish. Her mouth parted and she buried her chin in the hollow of my neck, her hair brushing against my cheek.
    I shifted slightly, my teeth nibbling her ear lobe, my tongue flitting inside her ear’s hollow.
    ‘More?’ I whispered.
    ‘Yes, yes.’
    I drew my face away from hers, distanced my hand from her sex and moved down between the crumpled covers, plunging deep through the moist heat that our bodies were generating in their closeness
until my lips reached the coarseness of her pubic bush. I got up on my knees, my rump tenting the bedcovers and, extending my hands held her cunt open and lapped the length of her opening from
bottom to top, then delved between her inner lips and finally plunged my tongue deep into the simmering heat of her.
    Iris tensed her feet and lifted her butt up in immediate response. But the weight of my own body pressing down on her kept her pinned to the bed.
    There was nothing that I could compare the taste of her to. The particular tang that was Iris, warm, sweet, sharp, salty, sometimes sour, but never bitter. Joan had once told us about a fleeting
love affair she’d had with an Asian man who had introduced a fifth taste to her palate, umami, that was somewhere between indescribable and all four other tastes combined, in perfect balance.
I wondered if that was how Iris tasted. Knowing those secretions were the very essence of Iris was a feeling like no other, it gave me a sense of awe, of almost religious adoration and I had no
need to analyse it. I just wanted to experience it, wallow in its oh so shocking intimacy, the way it connected us for ever. Her juices marking me as hers and my consuming her was a communion far
greater than any I had ever undertaken in church.
    My tongue dived deep inside her, until it could venture no further, embedded, my taste buds mapping the texture of her pink inner walls, my lips on heat brushing against the hardness of her
jutting clit, her white thighs clamping me in place, tense, vibrant, her whole body under my control, open, effervescent, singing to the tune of my tongue.
    Iris dug her fingers in my hair, pushing me hard against her midriff, holding me down.
    ‘That feels good,’ she moaned, her words reaching me through a cloud of sheets.
    I briefly came up for air and then went down on her again with renewed energy and lust.
    I was floating in space when I heard her ‘Do you want me to . . . do the same?’
    I shook my head. I wanted to stay like this forever. Abolish time and space. Me, Iris, London, this bedroom, this bed, connected in greed and desire with her. Nothing else mattered. No one else.
This was pleasure enough.
    With every flick of my tongue, Iris shivered.
    With every passage of my lips across the beautiful ravaged rawness between her wide open thighs, Iris moaned, squirmed, swam against me.
    Again, intent on pleasuring her until I dropped with exhaustion or cramp, I realised I was holding my breath and inhaled deeply. The heat floating upwards from her cunt warmed my whole face. Her
aroma washed over me. Stronger and stronger as I orchestrated her senses towards further delirium.
    Buried in the welcoming delta of her legs, I failed to hear the words she muttered.
    ‘M . . . Moana . . . love . .