I’m a big fan of cunnilingus. Who wouldn’t be? Well, okay, I know there are those who have ‘issues’ around it. I’m all sympathy, really. In terms of a physical sensation, though, what’s not to like? I can feel it now (and no, I’m not being licked while I type this — I wish). His tongue… just slightly rough, strong, insistent, dragging oh so fucking slowly along, from perineum, past smoothly shaved labia, circling around its target, easing back and inside me, and then that slow drag again, up, past, fuck, god, yes. Lying back, my legs spread wide, his head pressed firmly against me, reacting to my reactions, knowing exactly how to elicit each yelp, how to make my body arch into the air, how to use his upper arms to keep me anchored while I scream. Fuck. Yeah. I’m a big fan of cunnilingus.

I do have, or I have had my own personal issues, though. Lying back while he gives head? Sure. Perfection. 69? You betcha — although maintaining focus on the task at hand (or at mouth, I guess) is sometimes a challenge when I’m busy losing my mind. Still, I’ve always been self-conscious when it comes to the idea of actually sitting on his face. I don’t know what the hesitation was. I’m not particularly ashamed of my pussy. I think it’s rather pretty, in fact. I don’t think that my ass is unattractive. It’s received more than its share of compliments, really. Perhaps some nasty little internal voice has been assuring me that no one enjoys being sat upon. Or maybe I just secretly believe that I don’t deserve to be in control. I should never be on top.

Mr. Wonderful convinced me otherwise.

He didn’t talk to me about it. He just somehow made me want it. And once I was there, in control, on top, his continually and vigorously moving tongue reassuring me that he wasn’t in fact suffocating — once I was there, control was no longer the issue. I was too busy losing it. My body thrashed about as I focused on grinding my hips into his skull, making that tongue go deeper, feeling that chin press into my clit, even being aware of his nose pushing willingly inside me. His face was a thing that I was using for my pleasure, my own personal ecstasy. And he became my man again, instead of my fucktoy, as I came, and flooded him, and I screamed at him to drink me, damn it, drink me, and his muffled moans proclaimed his own personal ecstasy.

When I began to come down, I remembered to release him; I sat back with my thighs open and glistening, and looked at him, panting, grinning like a proud little boy, his face a mess. And I kissed him.

Yeah. I’m a big fan.