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Pillow Talk

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If anybody had idea what the Hermes family’s most loyal customer does with their scarves, Miranda Priestly would never be allowed to wear them in public again.

Take that emerald green scarf, for instance.  It’s supposed to resuscitate outfits composed of lifeless neutral tones.  At the very least, it’s supposed to be worn around the neck.  It’s emphatically not meant to be used as a makeshift blindfold as Miranda kneels in front of the crotch of her former assistant, wearing only what Mother Nature made for her and trailing her lips along the edge of a triangle of pubic hair.  It’s certainly not designed to render Miranda blind to everything except the whimpers seeping from Andrea’s throat, the quivering of Andrea’s coltish legs, the musky aroma wafting from between Andrea’s thighs, and the seawater taste oozing from Andrea’s vulva.

And that poor Venetian red one is being stretched to capacity as it tries to keep Miranda’s hands behind her back.  Miranda tenses against the flimsy fabric as she worships Andrea with her mouth (oh yeah), kissing (right there) and licking (that’s it baby), probing (oh God) and sucking (so good) Andrea from clit to slit and back again (don’t stop).  Andrea struggles to keep her balance on Blahnik pumps while simultaneously trying not to suffocate the woman with her head between her legs.  

Imagine what Page Six would say about that: Killer Pussy Slays Dragon Lady.

At least the Venetian red fares better than the charcoal gray.  It happens when Andrea starts to come.  She thrusts wildly into Miranda’s eager mouth.  She jolts (oh shit) then goes stock still.  Her cunt quivers (oh my God), hands clutching Miranda’s silver locks (ohGodohGodohGod).  Miranda devours Andrea’s orgasm, all but inhaling the young woman’s pleasure.  When it finally subsides, Andrea needs to step back and gently push Miranda away to force the woman to get some air.  Ever so delicately, her tongue fills Miranda’s mouth.  Then, horror of horrors, she picks up the charcoal scarf and wipes her come off Miranda’s mouth with such painstaking tenderness that this travesty is almost unnoticeable.

Andrea removes the emerald green scarf.  It floats to the floor and rests atop the charcoal gray one.  Another soft kiss (you’re incredible).  The Venetian red slips from Miranda’s wrists and plops on the carpet, the indignities these hapless objects suffered  completely forgotten as Andrea gently pulls Miranda into an embrace (are you okay).  

Lips and tongues still entwined, they slither onto the bed.  Andrea slips on top, her knees spreading Miranda’s legs wide (quelle belle).  Miranda welcomes Andrea with arms, legs, heart, and soul wide open.  They lie together, tongue to soft tongue, breast to soft breast, groin to throbbing groin, with Andrea kissing and caressing as much of Miranda as she can reach without shifting positions (I wanna see you come).  Between kisses, Andrea takes her by the hand and guides it between her legs (show me how to make you come).  She showers Miranda with kisses on her lips (show me), her cheeks (c'mon), her neck (show me), her breasts (go ahead), and Miranda shows her everything.  Like how to rub her labia and tease the entrance to her vagina (nice), how to ease her fingers inside and curl them forward (that’s good), how circle the clit before pulling back the hood and touching it directly (you like that don’t you).  She gazes at Andrea, her pupils so large they make her eyes look black (God do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are).  Her eyes squeeze shut.  Her hips buck frantically against her hand.  She comes, shuddering from inside out and puncturing the silence with a “Fuck!”

The destruction they’ve wrought upon the discarded scarves is the furthest thing from their minds.

The Snow Queen has melted into a glorious mess.  Her hair is a sweaty curtain of silver plastered against her face (you’re amazing).  A whimper escapes her lips.  Andrea pulls Miranda’s hair from her face and freezes (what’s wrong). There are tears.  Fresh, glistening tears.  She gently cups Miranda’s face (did I hurt you) and licks them off, erasing the streaks with her kisses.  Deeply, tenderly, they kiss.  Then, without breaking contact, Andrea plucks up the emerald green scarf and rubs Miranda’s cunt dry (mind if I keep this).  Miranda smiles, practically glowing from inside out.

Yet, the torment of these precious fabrics is not at an end.

Andrea smooths the scarf over Miranda’s skin, her touch delicate as silk as she saturates the keepsake with Miranda’s scent, showering Miranda with satin-smooth licks and cotton-soft kisses while her hands never cease caressing every part of Miranda’s body.  Even her hair, even her toes, even that secret place tucked in the crevice of her buttocks.  Miranda pants when the scarf rests on her vulva, already ripe and overflowing once again.  Andrea slides the scarf between her legs, drawing out a musical whimper before callously tossing the scarf aside.  The poor thing may never recover.

Andrea - the instigator of these woes - settles between Miranda’s legs and plants a tender kiss upon her hot, wet core (you taste so good).  A pregnant pause (tres, tres magnifique).  Then Andrea’s whole mouth envelopes Miranda’s slick, wet heat.  She thrusts her tongue inside, savoring the taste of tangy cunt (mmm) while Miranda holds her shoulders in a steely grip.  Miranda jolts as Andrea gorges on her soft, juicy flesh.  Her hips roll rhythmically into Andrea’s greedy mouth, and her fingers find her way into Andrea’s hair, shoving her closer, deeper, as if begging Andrea to consume her, as if Andrea is only too willing to try.  Miranda spasms, flooding Andrea’s mouth with her essence and gasping for breath while Andrea holds her tight (you’re wonderful).  Miranda pulls Andrea into a series of fierce kisses.  Only when Andrea moans does she release her.

Then the worst of the worst happens.  Andrea snatches up the Venetian red scarf and ties knots in it.  Not the loose, stylish knots meant to secure the scarf in place.  Hard, tight knots that may be impossible to get out.  When her savage work is done, the Venetian red is nothing but a string of red bulbs (turn over, baby).  

She drapes herself over Miranda, bathing her neck, shoulders, back, and buttocks with open-mouthed kisses.  Ever so often she licks haphazard designs along Miranda’s spine.  Miranda trembles and gasps with every breath.  Andrea’s hand glides along Miranda’s skin, pausing to cup her derriere.  She lathers a finger with her saliva, parts Miranda’s cheeks, and flicks her fingertip across the puckered opening.  Miranda’s breath hitches as she tenses (it’s okay, baby, I won’t hurt you).  She nuzzles and kisses Miranda’s back while her free hand coaxes Miranda’s clenched fist to open (I won’t hurt you).  She wets her finger again, circling the tight entrance with a feather-light touch (gonna feel so good; just relax).  Andrea presses the finger against her opening, and Miranda moans (you like that don’t you).  She shudders as Andrea dips her fingers into her damp heat and traces the moisture to the other orifice (yeah, you like that).  Andrea’s finger smoothly slips past the ring of muscle and massages the velvety walls inside.  Miranda screams, rocking her hips with each slow thrust (did you let your ex-husband fuck you back here).  Her hand sneaks beneath her, fingers circling the clit while Andrea gently stretches her sphincter (I bet you he wanted to).  Andrea withdraws her finger, and Miranda nearly sobs (don’t worry; there’s more).

Andrea kisses her way down Miranda’s body, gently parting her buttocks and lapping at the winking aperture.  With each stroke, Miranda twitches all over.  By the time Andrea inserts the first knot from the defenseless Venetian red, Miranda is slick and sticky with sweat and spit and come.  At the third knot, she’s a whimpering mess.  Once the fifth knot enters her, she’s mumbling in a garbled mix of French, Italian, and Hebrew.  By the seventh and final knot, she’s drifting in and out of consciousness.

At this point, the entire Hermes family would spontaneously combust.

Andrea fares only slightly better.  Somewhere between the second and fourth knot, she’s thrusting against her off hand, slipping one then two fingers into the slippery channel.  When the sixth knot is inside Miranda, she’s biting her lip while vigorously rubbing the pearl of flesh between her legs.  As she slowly and carefully pulls out each knot, her once extensive vocabulary is reduced to three- and four-letter words (ohshitohgodohfuckyesyesyes).

Just before molding her body against a semi-conscious Miranda, Andrea unceremoniously tosses the Venetian red scarf on the floor next to the bed.

Such a pity these works of art must be abused so.  But if it’s worth it, there are more where those came from.  Many, many more.