They had a little game that they would play. She’d close her eyes, and he’d put

They had a little game that they would play.

She’d close her eyes, and he’d put something on his finger. Usually a sauce, or something similar. Honey, yoghurt, mustard. That sort of thing. The object wasn’t to make her be disgusted or surprised. The trick was in getting her to use every tastebud, figure out what it was that was on his finger, and identify it. 

No purpose, really, but it was always fun. Always a little erotic.

But she wouldn’t let his finger go. Even once she’d licked whatever it was clean, once it had started to prune in her mouth, she’d carry on holding onto it. It wasn’t the honey, or the yoghurt, or the mustard, that she wanted to taste. It wasn’t that that she was training her tastebuds for. No, it was him. Just him. The faint musk of his skin, the ever so slight saltiness of whatever sweat and oils was on fingertips and fingers. 

That, then, was what she savoured. The challenge was to be able to taste him, after her tongue had just been bombarded with whatever it was. The challenge was to find that faint musk, that slight saltiness, and revel in it. 

She was getting pretty good at it.