Human Sexuality 101: The Tongue & The Clit

The tongue is composed of skeletal muscle covered by a mucous membrane. It is studded with receptors called taste buds. The four basic or primary tastes are sweet, sour, bitter and salty. Salty and sweet tastes are detected by taste buds at the tip of the tongue.

The clitoris is a small mass of erectile tissue that projects into a region of the vulva known as the vestibule. It rests like a little secret between the legs of my lover. It enlarges during sexual arousal. It gets so hard that it resembles one of her nipples. It wants to be suckled by the small child that is my mouth.

The labia majora (major lips) are two elongated folds of skin that encircle and partially conceal the labia minora (minor lips) and structures of the vestibule, like the clitoris. Fluid secreting glands provide secretions into the inner surface of the labia majora and lubricate them. The fluid is a cornucopia of flavors. Fruit and seaweed, chocolate and cinnamon, blood and cum.



When the skeletal muscle of the tongue contacts the major lips, minor lips, vestibule or clitoris, the fluid secreting glands wash the mucous membrane of the tongue with sweet and salty flavors. The taste buds convert chemicals to electric energy which flows to the brain and induces the production of dopamine, a neurohormone. Dopamine is associated with the “pleasure system” of the brain, providing feelings of enjoyment. It motivates a person to perform certain activities. Dopamine is the brain’s way of rewarding the tongue for licking the clit. It motivates me to drive my lover to heights of ecstasy, to make her legs shake and flail, to makes her buttocks clench, to make her yell like a female wolf in heat.




And this, my children, is our science lecture for today.

Tree Whore

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

She buckled, then stood and concentrated. She wanted to be wet. She wanted to pour. She squeezed her insides, trying to make the cum stream out of her. She didn’t know it, but streams of liquid already dribbled down the insides of both legs.

He had led her to the tree. It was a perfect tree, straight and sunlit. It was “her” tree he said, as he ran his hands along the rough bark. He tied her to it, hands behind her, ankles spread. Her back and buttocks pressed into the trunk as he wound the scarf around her head, blocking her sight.

He stood back and admired her. Her auburn hair stirred, gently, in the mountain air. The sun flowed across her tanned breasts like olive oil. Her smoothly-shaved pussy arched away from her flat stomach, standing like a golden hill at the end of a flat plain. Her legs, strong and muscular, tensed and released in anticipation. She gasped when he touched her with his hand. He ran it, from her slightly parted lips to her thigh. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out the clamps. First, the left nipple, then the right. The clamps were tight and painful. She took a deep breath, then groaned. He kissed her.




The sun poured over her, the wind “shushed” in the soft needles overhead. The bottoms of her feet rested in pine duff. Every once in awhile, an ant scurried across the top of a foot. Her nipples ached, her pussy drew all of her attention. It was the center of everything. She secretly hoped someone was crouching in the weeds, watching her. She secretly hoped men were stroking their cocks in the bushes. She was leaking without being touched.

He took out the soft flogger and whipped her with it. The leather stung her thighs, then her stomach, then her pussy. With each strike, she lurched. With each strike, she wanted more. With each strike, her knees became weaker, her breathing shallower. Harder and harder the blows came, until her stomach was red and tight. Then, he stopped and licked her nipples, tenderly, circling around the clamps. He reached between her legs.

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

He reached into her sopped crotch. The cum coated his fingers. Her clit was huge, as hard and insistent as his cock. He rubbed it slowly, spreading her delirious liquor all over its rigid head. With one hand, he masturbated her. With the other, he pulled on the chain of the nipple clamp, stretching her nipples to the breaking point. Her toes dug into the earth, her ass ground into the tree, her fingers clenched. He sensed all of this and increased the tempo of his rubbing, his maddening rubbing.

He felt the head of her clit erupt from its hood. This is where he focused his attention. He pulled on the clamps and pressed his flicking fingers into her, harder, harder, harder. When the clamps snapped off of her nut-hard nipple, she came, screaming. Her legs buckled and she slid down the trunk of the tree, scraping her back against the ragged bark. Her legs shook involuntarily. Spasms wracked her abdomen and ass and thighs. She envisioned the men in the bushes squirting their loads into the air. She remembered his cock in her throat. She wanted to be seen like this, her shining pussy thrust shamelessly into the forest air.

Speed

She liked speed, the movement of body through space. The faster, the better. The wilder, the wetter. Put her in a convertible and she was a rocket. On a bike, she screamed. But, it wasn’t ‘til she met Billy that she really appreciated speed; the really slow kind, the roll across the open space kind, the no-care-even-with-your-eyes-closed kind.

They’d gone to the desert, the salt flats, the playa, the dried-out lake bed, to search for lizards and dust devils. The windows were open, the air was hot and dry. She sprawled out naked on the passenger side, bottle of whiskey in hand. He chased the wisps of dust around while burying his left hand in the crease between her legs.




He stopped the car and got out. She didn’t know what he was doing, but she got out, too. “Go ahead, run,” he said. He had the camera on “video.” She ran across the desert, giggling, arms outstretched and flapping in the warm wind. She ran, then twirled, laughing. She was a sprite, a fairy, an angel. He could do nothing but smile behind the camera lens, knowing that the spirit he was capturing was timeless. Her exuberance and joy flew into the depth of his soul. Even without the wonders of technology, he would remember this moment forever.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I think I see a dust devil!”

He climbed into the driver’s seat and she plopped in beside him, huffing from the frolic. He started the truck and pointed it to the north, toward the far side of the vacant horizon. He put the transmission on cruise control and ordered her to the top of the truck, through the sunroof. She climbed up and out and rode on top, the air flowing through her mud-caked desert hair. Her nipples stood in the sun like antennae, soaking in the radiation like lightning rods. He stood in the driver’s seat as the truck rolled across the playa without a driver, and dove between her legs. She leaned back, feeling the rush of wind across her body and the flicking of his tongue on her clit.




The speed was perfect. Her body, moving through space, came in waves on the top of the truck. She closed her eyes, unafraid of the unknown, and let it rip.

Playa Porch

They climbed the steps and on to the porch. The moon was full and the wind blew dust through their hair. The porch was no ordinary porch; the house to which it was attached no ordinary house. The house was a museum, a memento, a showpiece, a slice in time. It was dark-paneled and decorated with aging photographs and rickety tables and pieces of the nineteenth century. The porch was a dish-shaped extension, filled with throw pillows, lined with wind-whipped blankets, open to the stars and moon. They had explored this place earlier in the week. It seemed to suit their desires. On this night, as expected, it was vacant.

They were naked in the warm playa air, except for shoes worn to protect the feet from the caustic dust of the lakebed. He went first, leading the way up the stairs and onto the porch. She followed, the dampness between her legs building. He sat down; she sat beside him. He turned to kiss her. She spread her legs to his hand. The slick folds opened and his fingers easily found their mark. She groaned into his open mouth as he touched her clit. She leaned against his shoulder as the tension built inside of her, draining all energy from every other part of her body. He rubbed her, grabbed her, flicked her, slid across her, driving her, driving her, driving her.

Suddenly, he stopped. “Stand,” he ordered. She did. “Put your hands behind your head,” he directed. She did. “Don’t move,” he commanded. She stood there, in the moon, the wind brushing her erect nipples and cooling the thick stream of liquid between her legs. He reached between her legs and rubbed her juice all over her labia and inner thighs. “Whore,” he said, as he slapped her breasts, one after another. As the momentary pain subsided, he drove his fingers deep into her pussy, rubbing her spot, making her thrust. Then, he stopped and slapped her tits, once, twice, three times in quick succession. She gasped and groaned as his hands dove between her legs again. He rose to kiss her and, as he did, his slapped her crotch. It stung and she inhaled his breath into her lungs. Then, he crouched and lashed at her throbbing clit with his tongue. She forgot his orders and lowered her hands to his head.



“Keep your hands behind your head,” he barked. He stood and struck out at her swollen pussy, slapping her again and again. She squealed in pain as he drove his tongue deep into her mouth. Then, he bent down again and licked her furiously, almost driving her over the edge. When he knew she was about ready to unleash upon him, he stopped. “Turn around,” he ordered. She did. “Bend over.” She did.

His cock entered her from behind and they fucked like beasts beneath the rutting moon. He drove into her, spewing and bellowing, as she screamed into the playa air, collapsing into a heap after the last spasm in her gut subsided. They cuddled on the porch, after that, their hands tracing the contours of their love.