Making Love to a Nipple

She comes in. There's something about her. About the song in her walk and the smile in her chest. About the aroma of her being. About the puff of her ego. About her nipple.

Small, so incredibly tiny, hiding away in the darkness, lurching, waiting, conspiring, plotting. Patient. Living life in the shadows, hidden, on the edge, touching the edge, that small piece of fabric, a prisoner with threads of clothing as jail bars. Flirting with freedom, stretching beyond the bars for a breath of air, then retracting, too shy, too discrete, too familiar with the confines of society.

I imagine what it would be like, when it's finally unleashed. To grow. To roam. To dream.

Inviting. Protruding. Begging.

Like a small radio button that would make her sing. To gods. To me.

Twist it, raise the volume, sense the waves of desire stream in the air and reach the speakers. Hear the hymns, bask in the glory of control, float on the wings of angels. Transcend, beyond bodies and flesh, feel the ancient spirits channel through my hands, making melody. Rhythm and harmony.

Switch to the other channel, try lowering the volume, hear it raise instead. I feel the fragility of humanity, winning wars yet losing to a caress. To a concentration of the senses. To the five millimeters of difference between a dormant nipple and an aroused nipple.

And in those five millimeters, I glance at the world, at the towers that were risen, the skyscrapers that were built, the rockets that were launched, all in an attempt to make any distance as meaningful as those five millimeters, as powerful, as attainable.

I understand what it must be like for men. To conquer space, the moon and planets, yet fail to conquer a woman. Fail to make a nipple rise for five millimeters. Fail to take the summit of skin to the summit of arousal.

She will be my Himalaya.

I walk my fingers along the base of the mountain, gaping at the great white, knowing the challenge ahead. I start climbing the dome, feeling the cold rush through my limbs. Shivering at the prospect of what lies above. I visualize the goal, dream of the goal, until I see the goal. I don't run. I stroll casually towards it. Savoring the journey as I savor the trembles of the land beneath me. Rising and lowering with every breath, every gasp. I stand strong through its avalanches of sweat and shivers.

I plant my flag. Right on the tip. Where the skin folds into a tiny crevice. I plant my flag in that crevice, and stand on the edge, like I'm admiring a sleeping volcano. Knowing the lava that runs beneath. Knowing the risk of tampering with the dormant monster. Knowing it's a matter of time.

It's standing for attention, my attention. Inciting more touches, more caresses, more waves of desire.

I look at it, at the tiny freckles surrounding it, at the wrinkles in the colored skin that leads to it, and I suddenly realize that the little folds and the crevice look like a kiss. A tiny kiss, hidden where only a real lover would look. A kiss, that very few have been privileged to share. A kiss, that only reveals itself as a congratulating applaud for reaching the peak.

More sensual than the mouth kiss, more pure than the nether lips kiss. Transcending. A kiss from the Creator to mankind. Special. Different. Unique.

I want to be a part of it, to share it. I want to feel the love flow through it to me. I want to drink it. Absorb love. Grow it inside me. Make it blossom through millions of nerves and thousands of shivers. Capture it in a gasp, release it in a moan. And run, run all my life towards it.

I lower my head. She knows I'm coming for her, arches her back to meet me. There's something incredibly sophisticated about her, like royal blood flowing through her veins. But there's also something so primal about her ache, her starvation for me. Like she's getting her revenge for all the queens through times, for the centuries of nipples squeezed behind corsages, painfully stranded, concealed, unable to stretch freely.

I will make it count for her, I swear to myself.

It's close now, I could open my mouth and take it, in a flash. But it looks so special that I want to take my time. I part my lips and release a steady stream of air on it. Watch in fascination as the tip of the volcano trembles, see the air making waves within the little wrinkles around it, observe as it rises higher almost imperceptibly.

I smile, knowing I command it. I can make it stretch painfully and retract unfulfilled. I can make it dance beneath my touch. I can start the engine, feel the vibrations, shift the gear, and choose the pace. Accelerate, decelerate, take a turn, up the hill, down the valley, hear it roar.

I lower my head slightly again, open my lips so they form a protective siege around her nipple, without touching it. I inhale, sharply. Wanting to suck it into me by sheer force of attraction, to drink it, to own it, to conquer it. I feel the tip brush against my teeth. Knocking on heaven's door.

Open the door, let it in, let it bask in the delicacy of my inner heaven, let it bump across the teeth, slide on the wetness of the tongue, swim in my thirst for it, drown in the sea of desire that fills my mouth.

I finally wrap my lips tightly against its base, desperately wishing there was a way I could bite it off, keep it with me. To own a nipple. Maybe put it in a small jar, dangling in a necklace, boast it as a trophy of my conquest, take it out when I miss its rounded slippery wonder, stash it again when I quench my thirst for it.

I slowly let it slide out, already missing its presence in me, yet revelling in the new sensation of feeling it against my lips.

You would think that doing the same thing over and over again would get boring, menial, repetitive. But in this case, it's not.

I take it back in, then let it out, savoring it like a never-ending lollipop. And every time I feel it against my tongue, I discover a new tremble, a new fold, a new taste, a new experience.

Sometimes, I bite it. Enough to make the pain course through the dormant nerves, tingling the other areas of her brain, provoking new chants to come out of her mouth. Then I release it and let my tongue heel it, lavish it with attention and caresses, help it through the recovery.

Not to let its twin sister feel neglected, my hand raises to it while my mouth perseveres on the task at hand. My finger and tongue are partying, ecstatic to be left in control of such beauty, such fragility.

And like the adjacent notes on a piano, every time I click one, I feel the other slightly tremble. The waves carry from the left to the right, through invisible strings of flesh and shivers. With melody, with the absolute divinity of the melody being sung.

I whisper, "call my name," then plunge in for one more breathless exploration of her nipple, one more twist of her twin, one more taste of her creamy vanilla skin. My ice cream cone.

I play her like a piano, like a violin, like a flute, like the drums. I play an orchestra with her keys, her strings, her holes, her sticks. I set the rhythm to Beethoven and feel my superiority to the gods as she stops screaming to them and starts screaming to me.

And as her pleasure courses beneath me, as her vulnerability dances with my pride, as the tango of skins, tongues, fingers and nipples slows down to the big finale, I feel love, unadultered, unchained, immeasurable, love.

I raise my head to see her quiver one last time. Then I notice the tiny kiss again, in the crevice of her nipple. Fascinating. Appealing.

For a second, I wonder how the Creator must love us all, to give us twice as many nipples as there are humans in this world. I'm flabbergasted. You'd think there would be twice as much love and passion in the world. Twice as much lust and happiness. Twice as much dances and songs.

I smile then go down to kiss it back. She belongs to me now. Her nipple belongs to me now. I don't need to bite it off to own it. I know I can make it stand in respect when I come into a room, I know I can make it bow to my every touch, I know that with the slightest lick, I can turn on the radio, arouse the volcano, start the engine, play the piano.

And as my lips touch its tiny lips, as my tongue explores the crevice one more time, I sense serenity float through me. Overbearing. Peaceful. Eternal.