Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.
“What do you like?” I ask after a long spell of contentment on her part.
“Don’t be a bastard!” she laughs. “I like it all.”
“So you’re OK with this?” Here, I feather slurps all around the stem of her clit before taking the bud into my mouth...sucking hard as if a bellows...then releasing the morsel, and returning to worrying the surrounding skin.
“I need to finger my asshole,” is her answer, and so I watch as her hand appears under her, her middle digit swab up some of her greasy effluvia, then poke past her rubbery ring of a sphincter...and plunge deep. Very deep.
“Nice!” I quip, sliding my own fingers into her vaginal canal...and searching out what’s on the other side of a wall of a couple of membranes. “Hello!” I eventually say, pressing against her, rubbing through to her digit.
“Fuck, that’s hot!”
There’s a moment of silence before she erupts into laughter. “Don’t tell me that was Morse code you were tapping out!”
“I was a boy scout.”
Mai’s eyes narrow in interest. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘I’m in love with your pussy.’ And ‘I want to eat you from the outside-in.’ Just small talk,” I add, lapping at her labial folds.
“You’re in love with my pussy...and I want to marry your mouth.”
“My mouth brings you pleasure?” I ask, corkscrewing my hand, having teamed-up two other digits.
Mai shakes her head.
“It doesn’t bring you pleasure...?”
“I don’t know why you’re different,” she says, clearly holding her breath. “But even your fingers inside me feel different.”
“Like I went to the University of Mai and got my doctorate in pleasing you?”
“Something like that!”
“Know what I like? Know what I like to do, even if it’s not on your ‘Must Have’ list?”
“Show me.”
And so I apply my mouth to her cunt...and I suck.
My tongue’s fluttering, like some sort of mono blender-blade that’s acting schizoid, even as I suck.
“Oh.”
I lift my head off her to silently enquire.
“Don’t stop!”
I kiss her twat. And pause.
“I liked that! Keep doing it!”
So. Three fingers in her pussy...her own finger up her ass...my mouth performing its ‘burbling’...and for good measure, a hand on a breast, twirling its stud, forearm making contact with her ribcage, elbow with her belly, contact, contact...contact.
“Fuck!
She stares down at me.
I look up and see her staring down at me.
Anyone in the vicinity would see us staring at each other.
With the ambient sounds of skating.
We’re at Nathan Phillip’s Square. At Toronto City Hall. I’m tying Mai’s skates. She’s gripping the wooden bench, hunched over a little, staring down at me.
“Tight enough?” I ask. “Too tight?”
“I can’t believe you bought me an outfit!”
“Pshaw!” I say, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not ‘nothing’!”
“Maybe you could do a shoot in it,” I suggest. “Or out of it.”
“I love it. I’m not sharing it with a photographer or wanking subscribers!”
Standing up, I extend my hands to her. “Then let’s make some use of it.”
So yeah, here we are in the middle of winter, in the middle of Toronto, me and Mai Bailey, skating.
Her outfit?
Skates, obviously. White. Black leggings. A loden-green skirt. A brown jacket, with faux-fur on the collar, the cuffs, cut short. And a chapeau. A white toque. With a green bauble.
Mai looks both cute...and radiant.
And she knows it.
And she blushes because she knows that I know that she knows it.
She shrugs this off by asking the obvious question: “Do all you Canadians know how to skate?”
“It’s in our contract,” I tell her, gliding backwards at arms’ length, tugging her down the edge of the rink.
