Is it possible in nearly 25 years of sexual activity that a man has never asked me what I like, what I want? The question took me by surprise.

Men have for the most part taken what they wanted and given what they thought I wanted. Of course by now I finally tell them what I want, guide and suggest with a moan and groan, or a right there, right there, or–you know–by just pulling their head between my legs. But those who have actually asked are rare, so rare I cannot even recall any.

“what do you like?”
What do I like?
I like the way you made me feel free. Free to make you do what I wanted, how I wanted, free to keep your face buried in my pussy for the entire night.

Your place is small like a cocoon, comfortable, warm, too warm. You shed my clothing, the sweater, the blouse. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you kneel between my thighs and begin removing my boots, my socks, my stockings. My toes hit the air and your hand grabs around  my feet and begin massaging these over worked librarian tootsies. I feel my body melt into the bedding, as I recline back and allow you to begin the pleasuring of me. The opening of a closed book, my pages being read.

I asked for it, and now it is realized, it is all about me. Your pleasuring of me. Quickly this sense of complete liberation comes over me. I can do and be anyway I want. That you as the submissive little slut you are will love anything I do. It sets me on fire, it allows me to do things I would never do, things I have never done.

“Unbutton my skirt.”
The snaps come undone, the skirt drops to the floor. Below me is you, I stand above you looking down. My inverted V legs straddled over your face, as your body gravitates, I wrap my hand around the back of your head pulling your mouth into my pussy. Holding your there, the heat of your breath penetrates the fabric of my leggings, inflating my pussy and ego at the same time.

I let your head drop.
“you can take my pants off now.”
Peeling them down, I sit on the edge of the bed as you strip them from my skin. Your hands running the length of my legs, I roll over and spread across you bed, belly down, ass up.

“Unhook my bra.”
Fully exposed, normally I would feel flashes of vulnerability about this time, but I don’t. I feel sexual, I feel sexy.
“I need a massage”

Relaxation drifts into want, to gratification. Rubbing, your hand drifts to my ass, that junction between my thighs.
“Am I wet?”
Your finger infiltrates, you say
“a little.”

“check again.”
with more force you finger slides in, passes that first puffy layer, and hits wetness.
your sigh give me my answer.

Your face, finds my ass, buries, licks, roots.
The fun begins, you eat me like a starving man.

I cum. I cum, and I cum. These small cums a series of small orgasms, spasms, brought to the brink of crossing that edge, that point where all rational flies out the room. I purposefully stop myself each time. I want to save that big one.

During lick breaks we talk, I question you. I love to question men. Their motives, how they acquired those motives. I learn more, mind and body. You ask me to spit in you mouth. I am beyond turned on. In the dimly lit cocoon, the music thumps sensual, the saliva  languidly falls from my lips. The silver strand stretches and drops into yours, hitting your lips and tongue. Our eyes are locked, I feel absurdly drawn to you. I feel like I want to you to taste, to consume every part of me.

We rolled all over your little space, drinking, feeling, your lips and tongue devouring every inch.

Somehow I ended up on top of you, my ass and pussy burying  as you eat and drink every bit of me. Reaching  over to my purse by the side of the bed, pulling  out my njoy wand. I begin fucking myself, the wand hitting that spot, that spot that makes me see stars and hear nothing. You continue to lick at my pussy and then at my ass.  I know I am going to cum hard. After prolonging it so many times, it will be immense, I feel it.

“Are you ready? are you ready for me to cum, are you?”
I don’t think you were really ready, I don’t think I was really ready.

It was a like a catharsis, and expulsion of emotion and liquid. A canopy of fluid covers your face, I could hear you lapping me up. My body writhing on top of you, my thighs shaking and my mind whirling. The towels we laid down were useless.

I need to taste me on you. We kiss, lick.

Sleep.

Repeat.