Page 11 of Never Say Never

But his tongue snaked between her folds, lapping at her juices, and then he moved up to her clit and settled in as if enjoying a feast. She tugged at her own nipples as the heaviness built in her belly, in her cunt.

She tensed, a subtle movement, but he caught it. He picked up the pace, flicking his tongue faster over the hard nub, but at the same time backing off on the pressure, just a little, as she became more sensitive.

The familiar roll started, a wave building, growing, curling…

The wave broke, and she screamed as she drowned in it.

And then, oh god oh god, he didn’t stop, and the undertow caught her and tossed her and flung her into another orgasm, sharper and stronger than the first.

In “Ecstasy,” by Molly Moore, a woman loses herself in a sultry memory:

I remember his fingers finally pushing deep inside me and the slow firm rubbing of that tender spot high up on my vagina wall. I remember the feel of my warm juices as they leaked from within me and ran down over my thighs and arse. I remember the throb and ache of my clit as he continued his slow deliberate massage of it; I remember the way I spread my legs as wide as I could; I remember the feeling of fullness as he slowly eased more fingers into me; I remember the way the muscles in my lower belly twitched and spasmed as my orgasm started to build deep inside me. For a moment it felt like I was being wound up like a spring, coiled ever tighter and tighter, by his controlled movements when all my body seemed to want was more, deeper, harder, fuller, faster, tighter, stronger and then I remember the dip of his head, the warmth of his breath and finally the searing heat of his mouth on me and then ecstasy.

Cheyenne Blue writes in “A Story About Sarah”:

I taste her. I eat her. I push my face up between her legs, so far that my nose is wedged against her mound, my chin wet with her juices. She smells so strong then, and I love it. I lick her delicately, using my tongue all around her pussy, pushing it inside, and then around and around her clit. She’s vocal, my Sarah, and she hums and sighs and grunts in pleasure. Sometimes she’ll hold my head, trying to direct me, but I’ve been doing this for so long that I know the moves; I know the paths that she loves the most.

She shivers when she comes, a whole-body sort of shiver that starts at her toes, travels up along her legs, so tautly held, and into her rigid abdomen. She clenches down, as if pushing herself into the blanket, into the red earth, will make her come harder. If my fingers are inside her, I can feel her internal little tremors too, all flickery and shivery. It would be a delicate dance around my fingers, except that she’s so strong. She always comes. Once, maybe twice.

Don’t relegate oral pleasures to foreplay only. Whether you’re spending time between your partner’s thighs—or spreading your own legs wide apart, give yourself over to this luscious activity. The rewards are unlimited.

TANTALIZING TIPS

•Learn from an expert. Check out Violet Blue’s The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus for the ins and the outs, the ups and the downs, and the ’round and ’rounds.

•Trace letters, numbers, or sultry designs on your partner, or have your lover bestow this treat on you. The lucky one under the tongue can try to guess the image being created by the tongue-trickery.

•Try a new position for cunnilingus—standing up, on all fours, or bent over a table.

FICTION: CUNNILINGUS

SAVORY

GEORGIA E. JONES

When Jasmine walked into the bedroom after work, Nick was sitting on the bed with a pile of her scarves in his lap. “Want to get tied up?” he asked her. He wasn’t wearing any clothes.

Jasmine considered him. It was a pastime. He was just the right amount taller than she was, and olive skinned, and burly. He radiated calmness, as if no matter what apocalypse occurred, the center would hold. It had taken her months to figure out that he was as riven with worries as the next person and that sometimes he didn’t sleep at night. She felt guilty about that for a while, as for the most part she slept the sleep of the innocents. Eventually she decided what she could offer him was a warm body full of love to lie awake next to and, when he wanted it, she would pry her eyelids open for long enough to fuck him sideways before sliding back into her dreams.

She dropped her bag. “I might,” she said. “I just might.” It wasn’t something he’d asked her before. They had rollicking sex. She loved the sex they had. He’d been with someone else when they met. She hadn’t been paying attention until he pitched a fit one afternoon. “This sucks,” he said forthrightly. “You never hug me.” She stared at him. “I didn’t know you minded,” she said. After that she hugged him extra to make up for it. She hugged him early and often because it made him happy. Still, it was a while before she noticed his personality. He was quiet compared with some men. There was nothing brash about him. He was soft-spoken, exceedingly polite and his sense of humor was so deadpan she didn’t know it existed for a time.

And he didn’t strike her as particularly sexy until the day he picked her up. Literally, he strolled up to her and lifted her off her feet and held her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a pound of fluff. When he put her down her knees buckled from uncomplicated desire. “Honest to god,” she had sworn to a friend only the week before, “I am a person who always knows instantly one way or the other. If there’s attraction, it’s always there. If there isn’t, no amount of wishing can change it.”

Someone was laughing somewhere. It was like a lock that wouldn’t open until all the tumblers clicked into place. After that, it was fairly inconceivable that they wouldn’t be together. She wanted to crawl all over him. She wanted to rub her face on his skin until she absorbed him. She wanted to open herself up and spread herself all over him. Luckily, he was built for it.

Jasmine had kicked off her heels, unzipped her skirt and peeled down her stockings and gotten rid of her silk blouse and Nick was doing some considering of his own. “Hey, pretty thing,” he said, smiling at her. Her belly flip-flopped. She got down to her bra and panties and stopped. Nick stood up, leaving the pile of scarves on the bed. Nicholas Harvey. That was her man. His friends called him Harv, but she wasn’t his friend. She was his lover and she called him Nicholas or Nick or beautiful, though he hated that. “Take those off,” he suggested, “and I’ll tie you down.”

She fluttered her hands in an uncharacteristic gesture. She was not a woman who was shy about taking her clothes off. And with him, she usually couldn’t get them off fast enough. “I, ah, don’t know if I can do that,” she said.

That got her some attention. “Really?” he asked in his husky baritone, curious and interested. Jasmine blushed from her chest up to her face and back down in receding tides of heat, and his cock stood straight up. She loved his cock. It was big, and though it was another thing she felt guilty about, she wanted big. She needed big. She’d been actually terrified before she slept with him that he wouldn’t be big enough. He reassured her on that score, as on so many others, generous with room to spare.

He got close to her, placing his fingertips on her breastbone. He lowered his head to kiss her cheek, surprisingly chaste, though she could see the desire in his eyes. “Leave them on, then,” he said, as if it was no matter to him. He spread-eagled her on the bed, picking up a scarf.

“That’s a Fendi,” Jasmine said, watching him tie her right hand. “That’s a Pucci,” she said, when he went to work on her left. “That’s a Gucci,” she said, before he tied her ankle.

“Are you making these names up?” he asked her.

“That’s…oh,” she said. “My mother knitted that scarf.”

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