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Oh god, yes.
I want more. Give me more. Spread me open. Lick me up and down. I devoted one chapter to oral sex in Never Have the Same Sex Twice, and you know what? That wasn’t enough. And it wasn’t really fair. Cunnilingus really deserves its own chapter, or night on the town, or holiday weekend.
I’ve written about oral delights in more stories than I can lick—I mean, count. Sometimes, my characters talk about what’s happened in the past, like in this clip from “Burned”:
I’d told him about the time she splayed me on the kitchen floor and licked my pussy for hours without letting me come, a candle in her hand, drip-dripping wax all over my body whenever I got too close to climax.
I’ve penned that first breath of a tongue on a lover’s pussy, like in “Seeing Stars”:
We were nine floors up. But we were on top of the world, on top of Los Angeles. His mouth crested over my pussy, not locking on, not licking in. He was teasing me. I was shuddering.
And then I’ve moved on to the main event, as in “Zachary’s Bed”:
I moan as he spreads me with his thumbs, parts my nether lips like the petals of a flower. I moan again as his warm mouth opens and he slides his tongue in crazy circles there, where I need him, there, and I can’t keep from shifting my hips to the rhythm he sets with his tongue, rocking with him while he laps at me. Laps and licks and kisses me with his magic tongue.
“Zachary—” I am begging, beyond shame, straining at the ties that won’t allow me to reach him. I need to touch him, need my hands on his skin, my nails digging down his back, my fingers twisting in his still-wet hair.
“Sh, Risa.” I feel the words against my skin rather than hear them, feel the gentle motion of his mouth and tongue echoing inside me. “Please.” I arch as I say it. Desperate.
“Sh, darling,” he croons in the lullaby voice that has infiltrated my fantasies. “Sh, Risa,” he whispers as I slide on the slippery sheets, pressing hard against his lovely mouth.
Of course, when things really get heated, I like pushing the envelope as far as settings go, like in this gang-bang piece, “Last Call”:
Brody pulls my panties down then, and I raise my hips up to help him, but I don’t stop stroking those cocks. I feel energized, as if I could do this all night. The low, hungry sighs of the men is payment enough. I am the center, the focus of attention, and I bask in the glow.
Brody dives back between my thighs, and I bend my knees and splay for him, back arching. He’s so good. Declan knows how to eat me, knows all the tricks and turns I love best. But there’s something unreal about having that magic moustache run over my pussy lips and against my inner thighs.
I enjoy the way writers dance around the topic, making sweet spiraling circles, or loopy figure eights.
Writer Angell Brooks told me, “So many of us are sexually active early on in life. I overheard someone saying to a girlfriend over coffee one day that since she thought oral sex is the most intimate act you can do with someone, you should wait until it’s someone you absolutely trust. And I wondered, what if…?” In a “A Taste of Trust,” she answers her own question.
I needed to trust before I’d let someone do this to me. And after a year, I trusted Eddie to take care of me.
To be my first.
“Eddie, I need to come, like now,” I purred. Horny as hell, I looked into his eyes and whispered the words he’d waited a year to hear. “Eat me.”
He knelt on the floor between my legs, his fingers parting my swollen lips. Leaning in close, his tongue slipped out, sliding through my wetness.
The tip of his tongue teased my clit, stroking as he would with his fingers. I whimpered, goose bumps already forming on my exposed flesh. He took his time, sipping, tasting, running patterns through the slick layer of want that covered me. He licked me with a broad stroke of his tongue, covering everything with one rough slide. I shivered. “More.”
He fucked me as thoroughly with his tongue as he always did with his fingers, twisting it inside me as if every section of my pussy was a different flavor, and he wanted to taste them all.
His lips fastened around my clit, sucking and tugging on it. “Please. Eddie…” I pleaded. “Make me come.”
“As you wish,” he whispered with a grin. With a strategic nibble and lick, he pushed me screaming over the edge. My cunt clenched in spasms as I felt him lapping at my come.
As I fell backward, a satisfied giggle escaped my lips. And one single word.
“Again.”
In “Mrs. Claus and the Naughty Elf,” Andrea Dale won me over from her opening line: “You first.” What woman doesn’t want to hear that?
“You first,” he said.
She felt inner walls flutter and clench at his words. There was nothing like lying back and being worshipped, and if he was offering, she was going to accept it gladly.
He nipped at her hip, scraped his fingers along her inner thigh, and she shivered. Rough but respectful, aware.
