And, Then

She took the plate and placed it behind her, then moved toward him, to the edge of the table. “Now, fuck me,” she ordered, spreading her legs further.

She reached behind her and grabbed a scallop and handed it to him. He untied his pajama bottoms and let them fall to the floor as he stood and placed the helmet of his cock against the opening that pulsed and smacked and licked him in. He placed the ball of white meat against his lips and eased into her.

“Don’t finish, until I do,” she purred.

She watched him, watched each tiny nibble and the flexing of his jaws as he savored the tender flesh. With each grinding, tearing, shearing movement of his teeth, he thrust into her. Small bite, after small bite, after small bite. He measured his meal with the rhythm of her breathing and the meeting push of her hips. She watched, her eyes open. She watched the flex of his stomach, the smirk on his lips, the oceanic depth of his gaze. She watched the length of him withdraw, then disappear into her. He ate and she sucked him into her, then released him until she could take it no more.

Suddenly, the tension inside of her released like the tectonic plates of the earth. One edge slid under another and the waves of energy exploded, flooding the coastlines of her pussy in one huge deluge. She threw her head back, violently, and threw her breasts into the air as he took one last gulp of seafood and rammed into her body with full force.

The Hike

What is with you, on this hike
Is what you will see:
Bullet holes of autumn leaves
Lifeless heads of oak galls
Broken bones of ancient trees.
Unleash the grip and enter
Open-palmed, unsheltered eyed
And naked hope unfolds
Rebirthing in the scattered flesh
Multiplied and Gorgon-like
Spreading like noxiousness
In fields of the damned to take
Over the path you chose
Not to take, the red flowers
Being
simply
what they are.

License

It was not until he said to search
That she did, without the labor
Of doubting what he’d said
Thinking that the coldness
In the rooms was expected
Of the servitude of her marriage
That the unwashed dish bore
Testament, the folded shirt
A shameful story forever told.

In a sudden breath, after
The punch of daily worry
Was swept into the blast
She stood on the remainder
Of life’s edge, outstretched
In the flooding warmth her feet
Barely touching earth
Heart barely touching.

The Next Bite

He chewed that last bite, savoring all that she had offered. “Take a drink,” she said. “Then, lick my clit.”

He sipped the champagne, eyeing the feast that was, literally, spread before him. The tender light of the candle glowed off her naked crotch. He was led toward the light, like a moth. His lips and tongue touched the fire and came back for more. She was ambrosia, addiction, lust, greed. Her body was his.

She wanted torture. She wanted to be led down a long path of discovery, to burst out of a deep mountain tunnel into the light of a secret valley. When the muscles of her inner thighs tightened, she directed him to take a bite of the second scallop. He did as he was told, tasting her as he tasted the sweet meat of the ocean. She watched the muscles of his jaw as he chewed, watched the dimples in his cheeks, the movement of his lips, the piercing gaze of his dark eyes. When he swallowed that first bite, she moved a little closer toward him. “Make me cum,” she ordered.

Her clit stood rigid against its hood, engorged with senses. When his tongue made contact, she moaned and threw her head back. She thought of water and sun and touch. She fantasized of hard cocks surrounding her, brushing up against her like fish. She felt the rain of cum upon her opened body, and heard the pulsing cries of man after man. His tongue on her was even, relentless, insistent. It forced the air in her lungs out of her. It forced the gripping spasms of her vagina to push and suck and push and suck and push and suck, until she erupted.




There were bruises on the inside of her knees when she stopped flailing. Her stomach lurked with every post-coital slurp across the head of her shameless clit. He backed off to allow her to breathe, and marveled at her beauty; all the sensuous curves and angles of her nakedness, made him hard against the silk. He rubbed the head of his cock, gently. His balls were moving, positioning, getting ready.

“You may finish that one,” she offered. He did.

Celebration

The round, plump, oval offerings of flesh sat before him. Lightly seared on the outside, but tender and sweet on the inside, they rested in a pool of lemon and clarified butter, a single sprig of watercress inviting his mouth. To the side, a tall glass of champagne, dry and bubbly, fizzing about the contours of a single strawberry. She had given him four scallops, one for each orgasm to come. He sat there in silk pajama bottoms, a plate of delicacy before him, a single candle lighting the room, waiting. She entered naked and walked behind him. Bending down, she whispered in his ear, “I have waited fifteen years for this. Please do what I say.”




She circled around and crawled up onto the table top. The flickering light of the candle licked her auburn skin, reflecting off her like dusky mountain light in a pan of gold flakes. She draped her legs over opposite sides of the table, opening her sex to him like another seafood entrée. “Take a sip of your drink, my love,” she ordered in a voice sultry, yet insistent. He did, as he watched her lean back and start rubbing her olive-oiled clit. His impulse was to follow the champagne with a nice bite of scallop, but she had other plans. When he reached for his fork, she stopped him.

“Rub my pussy with one of those,” she purred. “I want to add some special sauce.”

He did as he was directed, picking up a mound of buttery flesh and rubbing its warmth across her swelling clit and down into the opening into her well. He coated his meal with her offering. She threw her head back, her hair falling nearly to the table behind her. Her smooth belly rose and fell in the candlelight; her nipples pointed toward the ceiling. He withdrew the morsel from her and was about to pop it into his mouth when she looked into his eyes and directed, “Take a small bite.”



He did. She ran her fingers across her butter, lemon, garlic coated labia and masturbated in front of him as he chewed the soft meat of the scallop, tasting her. “Please, do that again,” she said, leaning back. He did as he was told. “Take another bite,” she commanded, as her breathing became more ragged and her hand wanted to travel across her pussy more insistently. He took another bite. The scallop was slathered with her. Her fingers dove into her body, emerging and diving, emerging and thrusting, emerging and pounding. “Do it again,” she commanded.

She arched back onto her elbows. He rubbed her clit with what remained of the first quarter of his supper. Her knees clenched the edges of the table and her toes curled as she yelled out in orgasm, washing his food with her cum.

“You can eat that, now,” she said, after the waves of her pleasure subsided. He did.

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.