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Shang’s mouth had haunted Mulan’s fantasies for months. When she was Ping, she’d find herself day-dreaming about what it would be like to be kissed by the impassive warrior who had so captured her fantasies. When she’d first kissed it, her blood leapt – and her heart had dreamed of more, the things her mother and grandmother had only whispered of when Mulan was young.
The night of the wedding, lying on the ground beneath an enormous cherry tree, he removed her kimono and stroked her pale skin to goosebump-laden sensitivity. She turned in his arms and moved toward the lips teasing and lapping at her nipples.
“Shang?” She asked quite directly, “are there other places a man puts his mouth when he loves aw woman?”
He raised his eyebrow. “How did you…did your mother gave you a pillow book?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I just guessed.” And if it was improper, she didn’t truly care.
He smiled. “I should’ve guessed you’d be honest here, too.” He took her hand and led it down the broadness of his chest while he, with his opposing hand, stroked his own hand from her breasts to her hips, then to the dip between them.
Mulan lost her breath as he touches her – in and out, softly, deeply, desperately. His fingers flick against her nipples before delving between her legs to stroke her to insensibility.
His tongue followed, trailing fire.
Mulan writhed desperately under the suction of his lips, the clever wriggling of his tongue. He satisfied far more than her curiosity as he licked at the turgid bud of her sex, and she scratched furrows into his shoulders and arms as he brought her to thrashing conclusion.
Her eyes flitted open – when had she shut them? - and she blinked up at her husband, who knelt over her form.
“You,” he declared, “are more of a woman than any I’ve known.”
She smirked up at him. “I’m ready for that challenge now…”
He slowly descended toward her and Mulan stretched toward Shang, unified, afire, her whole being on fire with love for him.