Only You Can Taste Me

Copyright, 2013 by Winterdelight.

All right reserved. All characters and events are purely fictional, any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. If it happens, kindly tell me so, might be that my imagination was peeping through your life while I am in the state of trance.

Photo credit of the book's cover goes to Favim.com and Ralph Lauren's Men collection photo. And in this juncture, I am thankful and would not be liable to any rights issued, only if you tell me so.

The book current title is 'Only You Can Taste Me' written by winterdelight. Any comments, posts or ramblings would be kindly welcome in the future :) Message me or comment in the comment box.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Before proceeding to Chapter 1 nor the Prologue, ask yourselves. Am I 18 years old and above? If yes, then you can proceed, go and read with the delights of your heart. BUT ooops! Next question first please: are you open minded? If yes too, then cool!

But if your a hidden pervert deep inside and have devoured all of E.L James's trilogy, then you're most welcome to read this story, not that the story was similar, but because it touches love in a somehow different telescope, in a sexier and more compassionate throes of desire and heat. Let's get to know the difference of love and lust in this compelling tale of compassion, desire, love and acceptance :)

Meet George Hunter Farris, Christina Barret and Bennett Wilkins as they journey towards the deeper, dangerous paths and sometimes touching paths of love.

Happy reading <3

Prologue

"Read..." he whispered in my ears.

I am fully aware of his scent, it was the scent of musk and wood, probably his perfume, but there was a crisp cleanliness in his scent, I was reminded of a spill of water in the shower.  The tip of his nose touched the back of my neck. He sniffed me.

I shut my eyes. I cannot read anymore.

George, how could I tell you that you, only you could have a license to touch me? To taste me?

It was our forty-eight night in bed.

I glowered my eyes to the pages of Charles Dicken's Tale of Two Cities. It was a new cover book from Barnes&Noble. He puchased it yesterday afternoon, when he told me what we'll gonna be playing along.

I read aloud.

""It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us..."

"Good..." he delightfully commented, "The best first lines of literature, and what could you condense from those lines?"

I shut my eyes again, his lips has replaced his nose at the back of my head. I must be strong. I must play along, that is what George wanted us to do. He must finish his book, his diary, he must fill more than three hundry-sixty pages of it. Fill it with tales of encounter, of delights. Later, so he could tell the world what it feels to have fucked three-hundy sixty-five women in a year.

And all that three hundered sixty-five women was me. It was all me.

Yesterday, I played the little once lost orphan child who hid in the locker. Today, I was the literature student teased by the professor. I sat in a room,  the theater room he specially had.It was designed today like a university classroom, chairs, empty tables with random books all spewed the place. There was a whiteboard hanging in front of me. Words were scribbled down those whiteboard: Read me, every inch of me.

George is a renowned sexologist. Yeah, he's a sex doctor, he had a sex lecture down the basement of this huge white ashen mansion encased in tinted glasses. If I craned my neck in the left, I could see all the lights of Las Vegas, lights which hit and reflected light in my wanting eyes. I wanted him to make me stop reading! I wanted the back of my head dipped in the pages of this book, while he read the crevice of every ounce of my skin.

 And he, George Hunter Farris, is my stepfather.

Well, not basically my stepfather. He was twenty five when he fell in love with my mother. I was nine then. We were eleven years apart. My mother died before they could marry, we have no family, my mother was an orphan who turned into the bar, dancing around men.

George, was forced to take me in. He fed me. He clothed me. He made me breath.

And in this point on, after all those three hundred sixty five years were done, he will set me free.

I will be free, I would not be locked. I would be free to love someone, to breathe the world. I would be free and rich, he would leave me everything, every cent he have, he would legally adopt me and leave his will unto me. I would never worry for the rest of eternity for my life. I could go to North Pole or bask in the beaches of Bahamas, or roam around India, I could be whatever I want.

 Why? Because he is dying soon. George would die. And he would give me all freedom and wealth, all in exchange for one thing: He have to finish his last book, the last book about sex in his life.

Please read further and click Only You Can Taste Me (Chapter 1)