bakerstreet | Between your thighs

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Between your thighs

The Cunnilingus Meme
cunnilingus

noun
1. The fine art of making love to a vagina/vulva with your mouth and tongue.

2. The act of using the mouth to stimulate the female genitalia. This can include sucking or licking the outer and inner areas of the vagina, and most often involves direct stimulation of the clitoris

Some women find cunnilingus to be the most satisfying sexual act. Indeed, a great number of women report that oral sex is the only way they can achieve orgasm. The mouth can create a uniquely intense range of sensations which many find unrivaled. Any woman you learn to do it right for will appreciate you all the more for it.

Going down. Eating out. Muff diving. Eating pussy. Carpet munching. Dining at the Y. Whatever you call it, it's an act that is sometimes misunderstood and very often woefully under-practiced, be it in real life or in porn - or in smut RP.

No longer. This meme is for all your cunnilingus needs, from giving to receiving and from a loving gesture to rough hatesex. The situation is up to you; the act is up to your character's tongue.

HOW TO PLAY

Comment with your character & your preferences. Female characters, be sure to specify whether you're down with giving or receiving, though some preferences will make that obvious. Male characters, just bring your mouth.
Reply to others.
Put those lips to good use.

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Before she sought out to become a shieldmaiden, Lady Sif was a lady in all regards; born of nobility, raised in the fine arts of diplomacy and whatever else the matriarch wanted her to know and command. In short: she has been a disappointment to her mother for centuries now. From the moment she bought herself a sword and shield instead of a wedding dress, to when she let them know she was going to Jotunnheim for good, to choosing the brother who would not be King. If they saw her now, though, wanton and about to be debauched in broad daylight, in the middle of a hallway, they'd find pearls to clutch at.

But in lieu of that Sif clutches at his shoulders and responds to that kiss, caution thrown to the wind and mind blissfully blank. He has that talent to render her speechless with touch, and pleasure, and kiss; maybe it isn't his intention to do so now (maybe he'd prefer if she told him she's his) but it's the achieved effect.

Elemental, he calls her. A fire in the heart of winter. A knot in her throat releases, and she watches him drop to his knee before her and thinks: I want you to burn for me, then.

She bites the inside of her cheek when he slides his hands up, and finds her; for a second she wishes she could be naked beneath the armour she still wears in court; for a moment she wishes she were dressed in dark blue silk, fit for his queen.

"Anyone could catch us here," she murmurs, eyes on him. Instead of protesting or pushing him away, however, she shifts to stand with her feet further apart, and lets her head drop back against the wall with a sigh of pleasure, as his finger meets the fabric of her underthings.

Rip them off, she wants to ask him. Cut them off, she wants to beg and she'll donate one of her blades to the cause if she could.

Anyone could catch them here. His loyal subjects, his disloyal subjects, maybe even one of the Asgardian envoys. (Imagine that. Word going back to Asgard, to Odin's ear, that Loki feasts on her shamelessly, and she shamelessly enjoys it.)

She lets out a drowned little moan and lowers her gaze to him, wild. Elemental.

"Taste me."

Edited 2021-10-28 15:17 (UTC)

He would like it if she told him she was his, and he will never get tired of reassurance, no matter if they wed and rule Jotunheim together for centuries to come. Loki is all too skilled at questioning himself and anything good that is placed in his arms. But she is in his arms now, and she's placed herself there, and the way she clasps him and returns his passion is as clear as any words could be. She is here by choice. She chooses Loki, and not Thor, and not Asgard.

There's light in her eyes when he draws back and sinks down. She is too canny to fall for his silver tongue, but she knows by now when he says something he means, particularly in the heat of desire and affection. Lust makes some men liars, but it makes Loki far more honest.

"Let them," he says, "Anyone who caught us would only envy me, as they should."

His eyes meet hers, blood red and hungry, but there's something surprisingly soft underlying that, almost tender. Almost adoring. You're here.

He has to push her skirt aside with one hand--she does have a point, blue silk would be much easier to gather and hold out of the way than her leathers--but he wastes no time with her request. His cheeks are cool against her thighs; the bridge of his nose rubs against her through her underthings, and then there's a wash of warm breath, because even Jotnarr breathe out air that's hotter than the outer layers of their bodies. It's probably a tease the way he starts, a game, nuzzling her through the fabric of her smallclothes. He even licks, the surface of his tongue not quite making enough contact to be satisfying. Gradually, though, between the wetness of his mouth and the wetness coming from her, the cloth will be soaked.

That's the point at which he opts to remind her that he still has magic: the shimmer of his power isn't easily visible thanks to the angle, but she can feel the tingle against her legs, can feel the fabric covering her unravel and disappear as if it has simply dissolved into the air.

"Don't worry, they'll turn up later," he tells her with a flash of boyish humor, voice muffled between her thighs.

In his pocket, no doubt, so he can fiddle with them if Thor ever frustrates him again today. She doesn't even bother protesting, too occupied with sinking her fingers through his hair and pulling his head closer to where she wants him.

There was enough teasing. She didn't expect to end up here, pressed against a wall with Loki knelt between her legs, and his mouth teasing her with that insufferable combination of heat and touch and colder fingers, but here she is. It took very little convincing - just like it used to take little convincing before, when they were younger and much newer at this.

Since he's gotten rid of her smallclothes, she decides to stop pretending like this doesn't turn her on - the moment he licks her, finds her cunt soaking wet, he'll know everything has had an effect - so she reaches blindly for the straps that hold her leather armor skirt together, and pulls them loose, letting it fall on the floor at his knees.

There - now he has the Lady Sif naked from her waist down, flush with arousal, her hand in his hair to keep herself stead as she brings one leg over his shoulder.

His groan is muffled against her when she pulls him close like that, but the note of hunger and approval can still be heard. He loves doing this, doesn't care whether it's in an attitude of submission or dominance or neither. There is so much satisfaction in knowing he can please her. Even if there are rebellions in the outer provinces, the ice in the north is breaking apart earlier in the season than it should, and his brother is being obtuse and obnoxious at the negotiating table, all is not lost if he can make her gasp out his name in pleasure.

He's definitely in love. Thinking of what they have in those terms is terrifying, but if he's honest with himself, it's been the case for decades, long before they came to Jotunheim together. The more fool he, perhaps, for not recognizing that sooner.

He chuckles when she unfastens her skirt and lets it drop, laughs softly without pulling away from her or closing his mouth, and so the sound thrums through his lips and tongue against her body. He could've worked around the material, but this is much easier, and it gives them both more flexibility. He is more than happy to wrap his arm around her thigh to help steady her when she puts her leg around him.

There's a roughness to it that isn't always there when they have a longer time together in his private chambers. When they play their games, the vehemence is more choreographed, like a ritual. There's more space, and less haste. This is rawer, less controlled, urgent. There's a good chance he's leaving bruises on her hips, and he seems to have taken it upon himself to give her as much of his tongue as is physically possible, drinking deep.

Were she prone to religious worship, she's find some gods to invoke right now, as he licks her open and drinks her deep. Instead, she lets out a series of soft, encouraging curses, arching to bring her cunt closer, rubbing herself against his tongue when he makes her knee buckle from pleasure.

One hand stays in his hair, for balance and because she needs him close, needs to remember he's on his knees for her even when she closes her eyes from an abundance of lust. The other reaches behind her, grabbing onto the wall, or a nook or cranny, or anything that will keep her upright. Keep her from dissolving into a string of pleas.

This will be a first. They keep their games to just his chambers in this palace, specifically, despite how elemental their desires run. Him doing this outside those doors makes it...more. Undeniably more.

She forces her eyes open, gaze down to him, a bolt of pleasure running up her spine again. He's not wearing the glamour anymore, hasn't for a very long time, since they arrived on Jotunheim, and fuck - she could still replicate his face with her eyes closed. She may have it etched on her heart, even if she doesn't tell him.

Instead, she moans out, and slips, and breathes: "Yours." And also: "Take it."

The idea of exhibitionism has always appealed to Loki. He's always been hungry for attention, so much so that he'd happily take negative attention if that was all he could get. There's a difference between whispered bedroom fantasies and having one's kinks exposed to the bright light of day, though. Exhibitionism in practice is not something he's seriously considered undertaking, at least not in Jotunheim. This doesn't quite qualify; it's more like flirting with the risk of discovery rather than a deliberate performance, but the recklessness of it sets his pulse racing.

There's a better than zero chance he'll pull this play again some day. It clearly has them both worked up. He's not sure she's ever felt so hot, fever and flame against his mouth, can't remember her grip on his hair ever feeling so tight before.

The moan she makes, though it's softer than many he's heard from her in private, makes him shiver with triumph. She's not there yet, and he's a long way from done with her, but the sound of her pleasure is only further encouragement.

He makes a throaty, wordless noise, nuzzles deep and then withdraws enough to trace his tongue in a circle around her clit.

Yours she says, and take it and suddenly the jealousy that had him wild a moment ago seems incredibly stupid. His eyes flick upward to her face; his pupils are dilated with lust, so wide he looks like he's been drugged. And he doesn't want to stop licking and nuzzling and sucking to answer her in words, doesn't even want to take his mouth away from her to smile, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and light dances in the red irises.

She sees that smile, somehow, through the haze of lust that almost clouds her sight, and lets out a whine at the back of her throat. She can't tell if he's being smug or simply pleased to hear that uninhibited declaration, but whatever it is, the effects are delicious - for her. He's found her clit, finally, and she soars a little with the first few licks. Her head falls back against the wall, her grip in his hair steadies, and she closes her eyes to surrender to the sensations.

"Yes - oh - don't stop..." There's another string of curses, in as many creative languages as she knows - she even manages the equivalent of oh fuck me that's nice in Jotnnar, because why wouldn't she have picked that one up from him so far?

But she doesn't ask for more than he's looking to give her. Even if, were he to slide his fingers inside her cunt right now, she'd melt them with how hot and tight she is. Even if she wants to leave him as claimed and marked as he is leaving her.

(Imagine, later, her legs will tremble as she gingerly sits down on the chair next to his at the negotiation table, heat like a noose around her neck, and Loki's smug smile not betraying how his face smells like he's had it buried between her legs.)

For now, she'll take. Get taken. Stand half-naked above him and beg with impatient little gasps and moans.

There's a fine line with him, between smugness and general contentment. It's possible he's experiencing a blend of both, on top of the general feelings of lust and affection. Either way, he'll take that whine and that swearing as compliments. His eyes squeeze shut briefly; it's both touching and amusing that she's picked up the language, especially since oh fuck me is not, technically, a useful phrase in her role as his guard.

(In her role as his consort, though, whenever they do formalize it? Absolutely essential.)

He's going to need either some kind of attention from her, or a cold shower, but that can wait. Their past experiences have taught him quite a lot about her tolerances, and he's confident she can take more than one climax, as long as she wants to. He focuses his tongue on her clit, keeping a steady rhythm, but then, as if he's read her mind, his fingers slide gently between her labia. Its almost like a tease, the way he strokes around her entrance, but really he's just aware that his fingers are always cold at first touch. Warming himself with the heat that radiates from her body before penetrating deeper seems like the considerate thing to do.

The impatient sounds convince him consideration is not exactly what's on her mind, though, and a moment later he presses his first two fingers into her cunt, slow and easy and deep. There's a couple emphatic sounds that escape his mouth, then, even as he licks at her. She is scorching, soaked, and it's glorious.

There is nothing secret about the sounds her body makes; the way his fingers pull a slick, glorious sound from her cunt just as she herself lets out a heady moan to match it. Her fingers have found their way into his hair earlier, and now they tighten and pull, pulling him closer, directing his insufferably, unfairly, headed mouth against her clit right where she needs it.

"Please," slips out, unfettered, before she can even catch herself. Her eyes open to half mast, taking him in like this. Kneeling before her, lips fastened against her clit, nose brushing the top of her pubic mound, a faint flush to his face and that utterly pleased look in his eyes. He's devastating. It isn't fair - she trained her whole life to be strong, to be solid and honourable and loyal and worthy, and Loki fucking Laufeyson renders her speechless with his tongue.

Has in the past, does it now still.

"Please..." Her throat seizes on one groan, then she lets her head drop back for a moment, as a wave of pleasure makes her toes curl up in her shoes. And finally, she manages the plea to the end: "Take me. You know - you know I am yours. Take me."

He's heard pleas like that from her before, in their bedroom games. She likes to be pushed, he thinks. Likes for him to earn her desperation. And he, in turn, needs to work to feel like he's earned affection; if it's freely given, he can't trust it. And so they push one another in their own ways, they make each other work, and he dares to think they're both the better for it.

Right now, though, the please feels different. Heavier, more significant, because this isn't a game, it's not a scene set up and discussed ahead of time, with limits and an endgame. It's just him reaching for her and her reaching back, and she's still willing to want him. Still willing to give herself to him.

What can he do but accept?

His eyes are shut tight for a moment, as if he's trying to memorize this, the sound of her voice, the taste of her and the feel of silky skin under his tongue, the way her cunt squeezes his fingers and the pull of her own hands in his hair. And then he draws back with a whine, kisses her belly and the cradles of her hips, and stands to his full height.

She's not short, Lady Sif, but he's significantly taller. She's all muscle, not a fragile doll to be carried around, but he's the king of Jotunheim, and a mage, and he can lift her easily, can dissolve his armor with a ripple of magic--because no one wants ice-cold metal on their skin--but the softer fur robes can remain, only shoved aside so he can get as close to her as he wants to be. He can hold her up, back pressed into the wall until the embroidered tapestry behind her leaves little imprints in her skin, and he can pull her thighs up to encircle his waist. His cock is hard, aching, and he makes a stuttering groan of pleasure as he holds her with one arm, finds his mark with the other hand, and sinks into her to the hilt.

"Mine," he murmurs, and kisses her throat with a strange, surprising softness. "The wildfire of Jotunheim. And I'm yours."

The softness ends there, at least temporarily, with a jolt of his hips. Something seems to snap, then, and his teeth meet the join of her neck and shoulder, bruising, as he drives himself deeper inside her like his sanity depends on it.

She has a moment - while he pauses - where she thinks she did not explain herself well enough. He won't know what she means, since almost every time they've had each other, since she came to Jotunnheim with him, was planned out and discussed and negotiated. But she's asked him for more than he's willing to give, maybe, and hence the pause.

She draws in breath to make excuses, and in that breath's time, he surges up against her, picking her clean up off the ground.

At the magical disappearance of his armour, she lets out a low groan, as her fears are erased quickly. She runs a quick, open-eyed gaze over his features, drawing her own conclusions about the intent there, in the time it takes him to adjust, and suddenly she's full.

The moan she lets out carries, echoes down the empty hallway, disguises nothing. And because she cares so much about being found, another moan joins it when he whispers mine against her throat. She brings her hands up to grab onto him, one on the nape of his neck and the other in his hair, her hold firm and needy. There isn't a long pause, just long enough for Loki to call her a wildfire, and claim himself as hers. The words settle in the pool of her stomach, and she grazes her nails down the back of his neck in reaction.

"Yes - yes, you're - ah, like that..."

It makes sense, in a way, that they communicate better with sex than with words. He is notoriously deceptive, a manipulator as well as a diplomat. She is a warrior, not a poet, and she's not wrong to distrust any pretty words that come out of his mouth anyway. But this, this ravenous tangle of their bodies--there is no possible lie here. Every jarring motion of his hips is a testament of how much he craves her.

He's a bit out of breath already, and this very active form of lovemaking only creates more exertion, but he's no more quiet than she is, letting out a wordless groan as her nails rake down his neck. He did not intend for this to get so wild, truthfully. Not only are they going to come back to the negotiating table mussed and sated, they're likely to both have telltale scrapes and bruises. He nips at her throat again eagerly. He hopes they come out of this with marks. He needs that reminder, it'll help him hold onto his calm.

"More," he gasps. "Sif, don't stop. I need...to feel you..."

Something to be grateful in the years to come: she has never been able to doubt his intentions when they've taken each other to bed, whether it was during a planned game (with each fulfilling a role) or something improvised and primal. It's hard to claim distrust, when you let a person in this much.

Considering how wild their trysts have been in the past, it had never occured to her to think that he didn't want every second of it. Loki wanting her was never in doubt - and in moments like these, Sif wanting him was unquestionable.

"Feel me...what?" She is breathless, but has enough willpower, enough drive, to get a few words in, between the heavy panting and the sounds of skin slapping against skin. "Feel me come?"

She sinks her fingers into his hair, and pulls him back from her neck, to meet his eyes, a fire behind hers. "Make me, then - take what's yours."

The pain, mild though it is, is an exquisite and much-loved counterpoint, a burn in the shape of his fingers on the back of his neck. Probably fortunate that she doesn't grow her nails out long like less-warlike court ladies. That's impractical with a sword or a dagger.

"Mark me," he whispers against the hinge of her jaw, kisses her there. "I'm yours."

Lest there be any doubt, in his mind or hers. Thor can draw his own conclusions. Part of Loki would enjoy watching him draw his own conclusions, but in the end it doesn't matter; what's between Loki and Sif is between Loki and Sif. His brother does not need to be a third party to their relationship. Sif isn't some pretty prize he's successfully won from Thor, though their rivalry tempts him to think that way. She's a wildfire, belonging to no one unless she gives of herself, and she's chosen to burn in Jotunheim.

But oh, yes, he wants to feel her come, more than anything, and when she tugs him by the hair and looks into his eyes there's a feral light there. His left arm tightens, holding her tight, his body pressing her against the wall, and his right hand slips between them. The pad of his thumb presses and rocks against her clit, firm but not rough, and his next thrust is less wild and more precise, every angle calculated to hit as many sensitive spots as possible.

He holds her gaze, bright and hungry and arrogant, determined to watch her fall apart before he takes his own pleasure.

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Between your thighs

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it's been 84 years but here i am

welcome back!

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