I remember the way he looked at me that evening—like my lips held secrets he had been dying to uncover. The silence between us was not empty; it was dripping with anticipation, thick and slow, like honey about to spill from the rim of a jar.
I leaned forward first, almost shyly, but with a kind of hunger already trembling inside me. My lips brushed against his—not just a kiss, but the opening of a door. His breath mingled with mine, hot and damp, and then our mouths opened wider, like two rivers crashing into each other.
Our tongues touched, tentative at first. Just a flick, a tease. And then—oh, jaanu—he let his saliva mix with mine. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't clumsy. It was deliberate, a slow swirl of wetness as if he wanted me to taste every drop of him. And I did.
I pulled back for just a second, feeling the sheen of moisture between our lips like a tiny bridge, a thread that refused to break. A small string of saliva stretched and snapped, leaving me giggling and breathless.
He whispered, "Again."
I leaned in, and this time, it was wetter. I let my tongue roam against his teeth, against the roof of his mouth, gathering saliva, sharing mine. It felt like a game of exchange—his wetness pouring into me, mine pouring into him, until I couldn't tell which belonged to whom.
I loved it. The intimacy of it. The taste, the sound, the way our lips smacked softly, the way the saliva pooled and shifted between our mouths. I loved how it was messy and beautiful, like art painted not on canvas, but on tongues.
At one moment, I trapped his lower lip between mine and sucked it gently, drawing out both his breath and his saliva. I let it linger in my mouth, savoring the salty-sweet warmth before pressing my lips back to his, returning it like a gift.
He moaned into me. And I laughed softly into his mouth. "You like it, don't you?" I teased.
He didn't answer with words—only with wetter, hungrier kisses.
Soon, I became bolder. I let my tongue slide into his mouth fully, not just tasting him but gathering him, like I wanted to drink his essence. I pulled back again, opening my mouth slightly, and let my own saliva drip from my tongue into his waiting lips. He received it, swallowed it, and then gave it back to me in a deeper kiss.
We were no longer just kissing. We were creating a cycle. A rhythm. A symphony of spit.
It wasn't dirty. It wasn't shameful. It was raw, primal, and strangely tender. Our saliva had become a language of its own—soft whispers, bold exclamations, teasing laughter.
The sound of our lips smacking, the wetness between us, the playful exchange—it all felt like music. And with every passing second, I wanted more.
At one point, he pulled back, cupped my chin, and opened his mouth wide in front of mine, sticking his tongue out. His saliva glistened on it under the light. Without hesitation, I leaned in, wrapped my lips around his tongue, and sucked it gently, pulling the wetness into me.
When I pulled back, my mouth was dripping, shining, and I licked my lips slowly, deliberately, making sure he saw the trail of saliva.
"You taste like home," I whispered.
And then I kissed him again—messier, wetter, louder. This time, we didn't care about control. Our mouths became playgrounds, our saliva the toys. We licked, sucked, exchanged, swallowed, laughed, and gasped in between, always returning to the kiss, to the wetness, to the taste of each other.
It felt endless. It felt eternal.
Because in that moment, jaanu, it wasn't just about lips touching.
It was about you inside me, me inside you, through nothing but saliva and love.