THE LOLLIPOP

 

I've got this lollipop in my pocket.

Cherry.

We take turns tasting the cherry orb, a little round diamond of crimson sugar and magic. We get it all nice and sticky, and when I kiss you, you can taste the cherry on my tongue. When I kiss your breasts, I leave little sweet-spots, sticky red lip prints that lead to your nipple. I suck on the lollipop and touch it to your nipple, drawing lazy circles around your pert point until itís gooey with cherry juice, then I draw you in, between my lips and teeth, and your nipple awakens and stretches against my tongue, and you taste like a cherry sunrise.

Your breasts crave more attention, but I have other plans. I dab the moist lollipop in your navel, leaving a scarlet puddle that I lick clean, filling your belly button with my tongue, swirling in your sensitive dimple like a tiny tornado of flesh and warmth.

Meanwhile, I drag the lollipop to your thighs, painting a trail of cherry sap to that spot high and inside, and I find your pink slice waiting with a sprinkle of eager dewdrops leaking like crystal beads. It takes serious concentration, but I paint your slick lips with the sticky, sweet, cherry red lollipop. Up . . . and down . . . and your hips rotate, yearning for pressure, so I bring the round, hard candy to the lonely knob standing patiently high, head peeking valiantly among your blushing folds, and I let the syrup flow over your anxious button and run down your leaking slice, mixing scarlet juice in the cloud of curls until I smell the sugar melting with your heat.

Itís just a little globe of hard candy, innocent and ordinary, but I poke it inside you and rotate, and . . . can you feel it? A little singing cherry ball that fills you with sweet syrup. Up to your clit and down again. Inside. Deep inside, and you canít tell whether the draining juice is the lollipop or you, but it doesnít matter.

 

COPYRIGHT 2003 CHAZ THOMPSON