There’s this delicious suspense to providing such liquid attention to those mysterious reaches. Letting one’s tongue explore the territory—it’s folds and valleys; it’s lipid landscape rife with unexpected sensation; looking for that shangri la, that lucent pearl standing forth both shyly and boldly, that; when licked, results in such a satisfying spasming of her center.
Oh God! My own hardness remains standing and waiting and impatient with that delicious suspense. Oh yes, the longer I remain there, and when her thighs clamp my head between them and she grabs my hair, moaning my name and pulling me so tightly into her I can not breathe…
How can you possibly imagine a man could not like that… and could not wish to do that until he passes out—or forever, whichever comes first? How could a woman not imagine that I dream of her flower twenty times a day, or more? No. She knows. And she responds. And my tongue is in her dreams, day and night, so much so, that there are times I need only breathe in her earthy scent and she climbs that exalted peak in mere instants and is already begging for more.