Licking: A Love Story

Speaking in tongues, of love and desire

He licked me as though he were a sun-blind desert nomad and I an ice sculpture of his most longed-for mirage. No tip-of-the-tongue delicacy, no butterfly-soft tease; he gave me the full weight of his tongue from the cleft of my buttocks to the nape of my neck as I moaned and my legs opened in involuntary expression of my arousal.

Inflamed by my reaction, he dipped his head again and painted swirling circles of heat in the small of my back and across my arse cheeks. I closed my eyes and lay passive, sublimating between a fierce burning crucible of need and the molten liquid fire of response within.

With each stroke, a nip of flesh between teeth to make me stiffen and gasp, the gentle brush of enamel on skin then return again to hot, wet tongue. He explored the landscape of my backside, finding and addressing each curve, each plane, first with gentle leisurely strokes then sucking wide-mouthed on my rounded softness, probing and searching, assessing with his questing tongue, his spit-slippery lips.

Moving slowly, with certainty and deliberation. hands followed mouth, kneading, stroking, filling, until at last I felt his heavy cock press against my slick and eager cunt. As his lips enclosed my earlobe, I dissolved in the hot breath-filled hollow between shoulder and neck. He made a warm sweet puddle of me and immersed himself with a sigh of delight.

His hands covering mine, our whispers of pleasure and desire met and mingled in our front-to-back entwining. Plunging deep inside me, he took and gave in equal measure; control without demand, understanding that the submission of my body to his brought mutual uplift and fulfilment.

By the time he turned me over and presented his dripping cock to my open, eager mouth, I would have given him my soul for the asking.

He already has my heart