We begin by slowly, slowly undressing you. One button, one snap, one lace at a time. With each button, a gentle touch of my lips on your neck, on your ear, on your lips. You stand, breathing slowly, appreciating the pace, trying to slow yourself down. You’re bare-shouldered now, and you feel my lips and fingers gently touching down on your back, your shoulders, your spine, your collarbone. Your breathing is still measured, deeper, taking more effort to stand still.

I push your skirt to the floor and you step out of it. My hands are on your shoulders, then move to center themselves behind you, running down the length of your back and out again over your hips. My fingers hook in the waistband of your panties and your breath catches. Another kiss on your neck, where the faint saltiness is a background note to yearning and desire. My hands move up, leaving your panties, and cup your breasts from behind. My teeth graze your ear, my fingers unfasten your bra. It falls to the floor with just a little bit of encouragement.

One hand cups your breast, the thumb gently flicking your nipple, while the other hand slips inside your panties to cup your ass and give it a squeeze before stripping you bare, naked, fully exposed. Your breathing picks up. I kiss the tip of your ear and whisper to you. My hands run across your breasts, down your sides, across your belly, and down again to caress your thighs. My fingertips stretch to part your legs a little more, my thumb glistens with your juices. I squeeze your breast and whisper in your ear. Your eyes are closed, and your breathing is becoming more irregular.

I lead you to the bed. You lie at the foot, with your legs hanging down, bent at the knee, parted wide. You protest weakly when I blindfold you, but you are too aroused and we have come too far for you to turn back. You feel my lips first on one breast, then on the other, gently tugging, teeth biting softly. I press a hand between your legs to see how wet you are, and I can’t help taking a taste.

The honey has been warming gently, and I apply it using a small paint brush: dabbing here and there, the sticky warmth trickling down the sides of your breasts. I paint your areolae, and your mons, and dot your neck and shoulders. Your upper lip, too, and your tongue emerges to catch the syrupy flow. I splash more directly on your nipples. You sigh each time the brush touches you; it becomes deeper each time. I apply the loaded brush to the area around your hood and you begin to squirm; then the hood itself, and you gasp and shift your hips some more. Immediately the sensation changes: the honey begins to thicken in place, then becomes cold. I move the ice cube to your breasts and nipples, apply another coat of hot honey and then the cold ice again so that they are stiff peaks, hard and sweet, encased in even sweeter thick and sticky syrup.

I stand back and admire you on the bed, then gently press two fingers between your legs. Your thighs open more to let me in, almost begging me to enter. While I slowly press my fingers forward, I begin to lick and suck the hardened honey from your breasts, carefully avoiding your nipples until there is nothing left. You feel my fingers inside you, then feel my thumb gently pressing your clit while I bend to lick and suck the sweet stuff from your sex. The mix of flavors — slightly salty, musky, and honey-sweet — is intoxicating. (Perhaps when we’re done you’ll take the warm brush and paint me with honey.) Your hips begin to move and your breathing is ragged, jagged, rasping. I bite your nipple and paint your clit with more hot honey, then pop an ice cube in my mouth before sucking it off. My two fingers, and then three, slide easily in and out; I pause only occasionally, to clean my fingers and taste you.

Your frenzied breathing tells me you are close. I lean and kiss you, curling my fingers upward and circling my thumb, finding the rhythm and coaxing you forward until you pitch headlong into your orgasm, crying loudly and then reaching up and pulling me close.

We lie this way while you doze and decompress. When you finally catch your breath, you pull off the blindfold and look at me.

“You’re still dressed,” you say.