Russian Caviar

Abisha brings the good stuff. Fine Russian caviar, served on porcelain, the pearls glossy, black, and salty. She tastes first, lets it melt on her tongue. Then she sets the dish aside, slides to her knees, and pushes my knees apart. Her breath warms the inside of my thigh. I feel her tongue—hot, soft, deliberate—as it traces the line of my slit. She finds my clit, circles it once, then again, slow and steady until I shiver. The tiny pink folds part for her, wet and sensitive. She presses deeper, lips sealed, drawing the wetness out of me. My fingers twist into the sheet. I taste salt on my own lips—caviar and want—and I let her keep going until the tremor hits and my thighs close around her head.