January 5, 2008
Catch and Release


My lover is a kid. I am her candy store. Ever since she learned to make me come with her tongue, my lover wants to give me head. Last Saturday afternoon, she came over and pushed me back on my bed.

“I’m dirty.” I said.

She smiled and started pulling off my jeans. “I want to lick your pussy,” she said.

“I’m a dirty little skank. I haven’t showered since yesterday.”

She laughed and pulled my jeans off.

“I smell.” I said. “Let me go wash.”

“No.” She said. “I know you’re uncomfortable with me licking you when you’re not clean. And that’s why I’m going to do it. Lie back and spread your legs.”

I did as I was told. I came. She conquered.

The other night, as we were leaving the restaurant, my lover again told me she wanted to lick my pussy. I am candy to her.

When she came into my bedroom, I had already taken off my pants and was waiting for her, on top of my bed, thighs spread.

“Good girl.” She complimented me. Then even before kissing my mouth, she peeled off my panties, placed a pillow under my hips and began licking my pussy lightly and methodically.

I felt my body start to respond, almost against my own volition. My hips started rocking back and forth, meeting her tongue as it swept from my clit to my vagina and back again. With one hand, I spread apart my pussy lips for her, and I could feel how wet she’d made me. Her finger inside me, my lover intensified her licking, pausing to suck gently on my clit.

I could hear my ring clicking against her teeth.

I started to think about this conversation I’d had with this woman online last summer, during SlutFest 2004. This very girl-next-door blonde with big tits and wide Olsen-twin eyes, she wanted to have her man fuck me, and then lick her come out of my pussy. For myriad reasons, safety being foremost, I couldn’t do that in real life, but in the polyvaliently perverse and fecund imagination, anything goes.

So in my head, my lover’s tongue became hers. And I imagined I was telling the story to my lover, even as she was licking me. It was sort of a creamy, flaky napoleon of fantasies.

My hips moving, I was getting really close to coming. I could feel that hot hot red rush of pre-orgasmic bliss washing over me, and my lover paused.

“Ask permission to come.” She said.

“Please, please let me come.” I moaned; trying my best not to come, I felt my orgasm build. “Please. I’m going to come. Let me….” My voice sounding strained and guttural. My fingers clenched my lover’s free hand with the white knuckled strain of not-coming-YET.

“You may come,” she said. And I did.

And she praised me for being a good girl. And I liked it. A lot.


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