<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/53/Onnecamug3.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Onneca de Goni<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Night, After Dinner<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Agatha's Bedroom<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Agatha<br/><hr/><br/>Onto her side, she chased the shift of Agatha's thighs, and with a soft collapse of limbs like a house of cards, a tussle of nightclothes, she was comfortably situated to pleasure Aggy and to be pleasured. There was no heat more heavenly than the needy heat that begged for release between the tinker's thighs, and no grip more reassuring than the clasp of lily Irish legs against her body as she began to touch. Her slender arms hooked around Aggy's hips, to keep her from darting away once the intensity built, and her fingers pet across the meticulously trimmed thatch of coppery hair. From mound to the nook of her thigh, Onneca's fingers stroked, smoothing and tugging at the roots of hairs that were only a tantalizing decoration, like the soft fuzz of a peach. Her lips pressed to the fiery triangle to acknowledge the effort Aggy had taken.<br/><br/><acronym title="So pretty.">"Tan bonita."</acronym>Onneca knew the effort well. There was always that fear that a woman with a sinful heart like hers would be ready and willing, that she would work her way down, and somehow the flower she had sought would not be to her liking. There was always that hope for an unexpected night, like tonight, where everything would be perfect and she needed to be, too. She had feathered her dark hair, thinned it into a soft transition from blushing olive flesh to dark silk that let her keep her modesty until crass fingers physically spread her open. There had been a woman, once, who had wanted Onneca fully shorn. It had been humiliating, and whenever she had been on display she had been sullen, like a shaven cat, and wanted to cover herself. Onneca kissed hairs that Agatha had never seen, because she knew that effort. The firm press of her lips against the soft mound instinctively nibbled for the buried clitoral shaft.<br/><br/>One knee lifted, and supported precariously onto the tips of her toes as she both gave Agatha access and resisted the urge to squirm. Her toes swiveled on the bedsheets and there was a shiver in that folded leg that only steadied when Agatha's hand was there to hold it. Her lips discovered the firm ligament beneath Aggy's soft mound, and pulled firmly to work the scant baby fat back across the hidden shaft, and to pull the hood back with only the indirect touch of her lips. She let the exposure of the open air and the sting of her hot breath tease the vulnerable nub, and begin to reclaim the moisture sticky around it. When she could see it, with barely focused big brown eyes, the firm tip of her tongue twirled to paint it wet again and to explore every neglected fold of flesh as only a lover could.<br/><br/>She tried to give Aggy what she did not know she wanted. It wasn't all direct, electric stimulation as her murmuring pink tongue glided wet across every pink petal. There was awkwardness, as the press of her tongue slipped without traction from inner labia to outer and back with an unsteady wet pluck. Maybe she was going too far, the lengths she went down Aggy's small perineum. But she was mapping Aggy's pleasure in her mind, adoring every small part of her from fore to aft. She was saving the clit, and she was saving the roll of her tongue, until they could climax in unison. Ever harder, her breath went musical with a soft plea for Agatha to reciprocate.<br/><br/>It was beautiful, it was perfect, but it was also the creeping suspicion that the door was not locked, that they were becoming too loud, that made it so unbearably hot.