Lady's Touch: Facial Shame

The rain hammered against the panoramic windows of the penthouse, each drop a frantic percussion against the glass, mirroring the frantic beat of my own pulse. Below, the city sprawled, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows, but I barely noticed. My focus was entirely, obsessively, on Michael. He stood before the oversized mirror in our master bathroom, the steam from the aromatherapy diffuser clinging to his broad shoulders, his muscular frame sculpted in the soft glow. The scent of sandalwood and ylang-ylang hung heavy in the air, a potent invitation that both thrilled and intimidated me.

He was wearing nothing but a silk robe, the color of bruised plums, clinging to his chest and hinting at the powerful physique beneath. His dark hair, usually neatly styled, was damp and tousled, clinging to his forehead as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There was a hesitant quality to his posture, a defensiveness that always surfaced when the topic of our intimacy came up. It was a subtle tension, barely perceptible, yet it vibrated through me like a live wire.

“You’re still doing this?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, laced with a mixture of exasperation and something akin to reluctant pleasure.

“Of course,” I purred, stepping closer, the heels of my Louboutins clicking softly against the marble floor. “You know I can’t resist.”

He didn't move, his gaze locked on my face, a strange mixture of discomfort and desire flickering in his dark eyes. “It feels…wrong,” he admitted, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Like I’m violating something sacred.”

Sacred? The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine. Michael, the stoic, pragmatic engineer, finding something sacred in my pleasure? It was a concept both fascinating and unsettling. I’d always prided myself on pushing boundaries, on exploring every facet of desire, but this felt different, more profound.

“Is that what you think?” I whispered, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “That it’s degrading? Or is it something more…intimate?”

He flinched slightly at my touch, a tiny ripple of heat spreading across his chest. He clearly wasn't used to being touched so freely, so deliberately. It had been five years since we’d married, five years of a passionate, consuming love affair, but there were still moments, like these, where the weight of expectations, of societal norms, seemed to crush the natural flow of our desires.

“When we first started,” he began, his voice hesitant, “you’d give me such generous handjobs, blowjobs, and you’d always let the juices drip down my face. I never thought much of it then, not really. But lately…it feels like a transgression.”

Transgression. The word hung in the air, charged with unspoken meaning. I tilted my head, studying his face, searching for the root of his discomfort. “You’ve changed,” I observed, my voice laced with a playful challenge. “You used to relish it. You’d moan with pleasure, begging for more.”

A flush crept up his neck, coloring his ears. He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. “I know,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to his hands. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, about cunnilingus and the inevitable spillage. It just…it feels like a step too far. Like I’m taking something inherently feminine and reducing it to a mere act of penetration, devoid of any reverence.”

Reverence. The concept was absurd, yet undeniably potent. He was framing my pleasure as something sacred, something worthy of respect, when in reality, it was simply a source of intense, unadulterated ecstasy. The irony wasn't lost on me.

I let out a slow, deliberate laugh, the sound echoing in the luxurious bathroom. “You’re a romantic, Michael,” I said, reaching out to cup his face in my hands. “You’re trying to elevate my pleasure to some higher plane of existence, when really, it’s just about feeling good.”

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, filled with a desperate plea. “But what if I can’t help it?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “What if this compulsion, this need to bring you pleasure in such a raw and visceral way, feels like a violation of my own dignity?”

I leaned closer, my lips brushing against his ear. “Then let it be a violation,” I murmured, my voice a silken caress. “Let it be a transgression. Let it be everything you’re afraid of, and everything you secretly crave.”

Slowly, deliberately, I began to trace the line of his jaw, my fingertips lingering on his sensitive skin. He tensed beneath my touch, his muscles clenching involuntarily. The scent of sandalwood and ylang-ylang intensified, filling the air with its intoxicating aroma.

“Let me show you,” I whispered, my voice dropping to a husky tone. “Let me take you past the boundaries of your comfort zone, into the heart of your own desires.”

With a sigh of surrender, Michael relaxed, allowing me to take control. I took one of his hands in mine, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. Then, without a word, I began to explore his face, my fingers gently tracing the contours of his cheekbones, his nose, his lips.

The sensation was exquisite, both thrilling and slightly unsettling. As I continued my exploration, my touch became more insistent, more demanding. I used my nails to gently tease at his eyelashes, pulling them out one by one, watching with perverse pleasure as he struggled to maintain his composure.

His breathing grew shallow, his pulse quickened, his body trembling beneath my touch. The steam from the diffuser swirled around us, creating a hazy, dreamlike atmosphere.

Finally, I moved on to his lips, licking them slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste of his saliva. He moaned softly, his body arching towards me, succumbing to the overwhelming pleasure that coursed through his veins.

As I continued my ministrations, I felt a strange sense of triumph, of having conquered his resistance, of having pushed him to the very edge of his comfort zone. I pressed my weight against him, pinning his arms to his sides, ensuring that he couldn’t escape my grasp.

The rain continued to beat against the windows, but I no longer noticed it. My entire world had narrowed down to this moment, this shared experience, this intense, overwhelming pleasure.

I pulled back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. "Now," I whispered, my voice husky with anticipation, "let's see how much further you can go."

His eyes widened, a look of both fear and excitement flickering across his face. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly, deliberately, he began to respond, his body arching further, his moans growing louder, more urgent.

The pleasure continued, relentless and intoxicating, until finally, both of us collapsed onto the plush white rug, breathless and exhausted, clinging to each other in a tangled embrace. The rain continued to fall, but for the first time that night, I felt a sense of profound connection, a feeling that we had truly broken down the walls between us, venturing into a realm of shared intimacy that was both terrifying and utterly exhilarating.

Looking down at his face, now flushed and glistening with sweat, I realized that Michael's discomfort had transformed into something far more profound – a desperate, desperate longing for my touch, my attention, my pleasure. And in that moment, I knew that I had not only pushed his boundaries, but had also awakened a part of him that he had long suppressed, a part that craved the raw, uninhibited expression of desire that I had so readily provided.

As I continued to caress his face, tracing the lines of his cheekbones and lips, I couldn't help but wonder if this transgression, this violation of societal norms, was truly a degradation, or simply a new and exhilarating form of intimacy. The thought lingered in my mind, a tantalizing mystery, as I lost myself completely in the intoxicating pleasure of the moment.

Story taboo sex

Lady's Touch: Facial Shame

Did you like this story? Lady's Touch: Facial Shame look, but like these, here Story taboo sex.