Map Making


Is it cliché to say my body was a map and he searched it dutifully, seeking a path to the promised land? Probably, it’s trite, but I don’t care. It certainly felt like he was an intrepid explorer, carefully scaling down the ridge of my neck, placing kisses in precise spots to make me shudder.

He traced the planes of my body with questing fingers then his tongue, leaving no area untouched. I held his head in my hands and tugged on his silky, dark locks while he licked and lapped at the skin between my breasts.

My body curled into his, needing him close, but I became a geographical landscape again, a map unfurling as he worked his way down. Body spreading out and arching, throwing my head back, limbs flying away and clutching the sheets as his tongue delved into my wet cavern. He mapped out my most intimate area like a good surveyor should: with dedication and thoroughness, and a passion for his craft.



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