Panties and petroleum.

At the King Street border between the pretentious, yuppie, upstart Liberty Village and the historic, downtrodden, depressed Parkdale 'hoods of Toronto stands a high-walled, gated, ominous compound. It's the city's Road Operations and Transportation Services building, where the heavy machinery and working vehicles that maintain the city's streets are kept. Inside, boiler room dispatch offices respond to emergency calls regarding flooding, fallen trees, and other city problems.

My current work routine takes me past this building several times a day. And every single time, I'm reminded of the Grrl. It isn't just because the West Queen West pad that we shared is only a few blocks away; that happened later. It's because of the dark evening when we were inside that compound together and where I first saw her (mostly) bare body.

Flute was a friend of mine. A sometime handyman and fulltime freespirit, he played a charming First Nations flute when he wasn't helping someone put up drywall. He worked inside this compound at the time, handling dispatch calls to ferry emergency repair vehicles to Toronto homeowners who were freaking out over this thing or another. And he had access to city vehicles.

My situation was different then. I didn't own a car at the time. For reasons that escape me, I was unable to pick the Grrl up from the airport, and Flute was more than happy to offer me a ride with a van that he was using regularly. He and I had a bond about the women in our lives, and he was totally cool with helping me out when it came to Someone Important Coming To Visit.

It was the first time she had come to Canada, the first time we would be together. After our first meeting, we were touch-and-go for a while as she mediated matters with a previous partner. By the time we were planning her visit, she had left that boyfriend and I was excited to pieces about the all-clear signal.

I remember watching her stroll down the walkway at the airport. The roses I gave her. Our first, real kiss. Taking her and her luggage to That Van.

That Van was not exactly a chartered limousine. A bluecollar working vehicle, it was an awful shade of sky blue with countless scuffs and dents and marks and stains. The interior was packed with plumbing and electrical equipment, used rags, safety gear, hardhats. Flute was a smoker, so on the grimy dash was a mayhem of crushed Du Maurier boxes and snubbed filters along with the old Pepsi cans and dozens of torn road maps, fuel receipts, work orders, and the like. Both the seats and flooring were stained and worn. A side mirror was cracked. Rust bordered the double panel doors on the side. And throughout it all, the lingering, dense odor of old oil, gasoline, kerosine. It was a scent that was so deep that it almost had a texture, as if you could feel it entering into the pores on your face if you found yourself around it for too long.

Romantic, no?

I loaded the Grrl's luggage into a reasonably clean spot in the back, she found some acceptable space on the rear benchseat, and the three of us laughed as we pulled away from the airport.

She was hungry. I already planned on taking her to dinner, but as it turned out, traffic had kept Flute away from his duties longer than he had hoped. It became necessary for him to stop by the Road Operations compound for a short while. The Grrl smiled through the minor inconvenience. We decided to do dinner first, after this detour, and go back to my pad later.

It was growing dark. After we pulled into the compound, Flute secured a gate behind us and parked That Van in a small alley before he dashed into an office for almost an hour.

The Grrl and I relaxed, talked, passed the time. We kissed some more. I was feeling the first stirrings of what would become one of the deepest love affairs of my life.

Practical-minded, the Grrl asked me to fetch a few things from her luggage. Since we were doing dinner first, she decided to change clothes. Here and now. Then and there. In a dirty van that was parked in a narrow alley between two foreboding municipal buildings, on a stained and cruddy backbench. I fumbled a little in the twilight, but found and returned with some fresh pants and a very bohemian sweater.

Still seated, she smiled. Both of the van's center doors were wide open as I then watched her slowly remove the black Tshirt she was wearing to reveal a tight sportsbra. We talked, casually. She kept smiling. She removed her Doc Martens to lower the khaki camoflage pants she had on, leaning back into the seat as she reached for her belt buckle. She kept looking into my eyes, smiling as I listened to the clink of metal clasps, the zing of a lowering zipper. I smiled back as she raised her beautiful, broad ass from the dingy seat and started to wiggle the pants down her legs.

Her radiant, slate eyes. Her thighs. Black thong. Her facing me, her legs open as her knees were level to my eyes as she took the pants from my hand.

The mound between her thighs. The bulge and the faint hint of seam, barely made out in the dark.

She put on the pants. Flute would return shortly after.

Changing into dinner clothes on the stained seat of a workhorse van, and all the while beaming with a wide, toothy smile as she watched me watch her. That's the kind of woman she is, and why it became so easy for me to go crazy over her.

Later, I would learn all about that mound, that bulge, that seam. I would learn all about the way the Grrl's outer labia would flush several shades of red when she got excited, hot, wet, and how that labia would swell like two crescent-shaped pillows. I would learn all about the way the flesh of her cunt would resemble a short-stemmed tulip, as if the flower were simply laid upon her body, the petals ensconcing the tender clitoris that I would enslave myself to for the next several years.

I really miss giving her head. And how she would do me too.

The sex we shared that night was extraordinary. We simply kissed and caressed for longer than I could remember. We smoked some dope, listened to soothing yoga music, and entwined for hours upon hours. I relished in her joy to be taken in her ass, and loved how she moaned deeply as she had me, her eyes crushed tight and her teeth biting her lower lip as she felt my calves to her thighs while I slowly and deeply thrust. She would breathe deeply and groan when I would stop to lay still on top of her back. I remember the soothing, complete pleasure I felt to have my bodyweight on her, holding her, my legs snaked around hers, my fingers massaging her scalp through her short, auburn hair as her opened sphincter gripped the very root of me tightly, snugly, warmly when I filled her with my total all.

Between wine and cannabis and sensuality and beauty, we didn't simply "see God." We became God. Kali and Shiva.

And it began with that moment of seeing her bare legs, her thigh, her underwear in that most unsexy of places. That unsexiest of places that, of late, I pass every day, several times a day.

Wow. That was at least seven or eight years ago.

Yeah. I miss her. Still.

My foolish sweet tooth.

Once again, I didn't follow my instincts.

She was a reader of the blog, a sexblogger herself, and found me through a fetish networking site. She was going through a breakup at the time and had moved nearby from another city to the west, and she approached me to see if I'd be willing to escort her around the Toronto fetish scene. It sounded like fun, and I've come to really enjoy meeting blogreaders lately. She wanted an opportunity to make new friends, start over, and move beyond whatever it was that her previous Top partner had apparently stung her with. She was missing "kinky submissive goodness."

Me, I expected that we'd make platonic good friends, and having her on my arm would give me an excuse to go to all those local fetnights that I've allowed other elements in my world to keep me from lately. Win-win.

For eight months, off and on, we chatted through the fetish networking site. She was full of compliments about my writing, and eventually the flirting began. It became more personal. I already knew that she had also connected with a new Top Daddy, and since both my being largely poly and the fact that she hadn't really become Serious on my radar yet, I had no issue with that and told her so. After all, if nothing clikked, there was no reason why we couldn't stick with the original plan and just be buds exploring the local vibe, right? Sure. We set up a date for drinks.

Over a perfectly pleasant Indian meal, we discussed ourselves, our desires, mutual interests... the usual on-a-date thing. We talked about her past experiences amid the fetscene in her previous city, and she bemoaned the drama in her post-breakup experience there.

(Oh, the irony. ...But I digress.)

Gradually, our datetalk seemed to shift from comrades-in-kinkdom-looking-to-attend-stuff-together to potentialities-in-seeking-primary-partnership-in-life. Was she asking me if I was interested in pursuing a partnership with her? I rolled with it, enjoying myself.

Cupcakes is an early30s mulatto brunette BBW with a passion for shoes but yet, curiously, is also hugely podophobic. (I would later tease her that the worst BDSM punishment I could ever put her through would be to blindfold and restrain her as a circle of men and women gently touched her body with their bare feet.) I was initially intrigued with her background in French literature, her mixed race status, her desire to submit.

And, yes, it's true: the possibility that maybe there might be something here beyond dating, beyond even fucking, appealed to me. I do enjoy being single. But it's also not been since Kara since I had the compatible opportunity for More. Cupcakes appealed to that sweet tooth.

While we were relaxing on the couch in her small apartment, I was looking into her dark eyes when I moved closer for the first kiss. Her lips responded lightly, and as I brought my hands upward to her head and nipped at her ear, she began to slowly melt under me.

I enjoyed the texture of her tight, small, black curls as I held her head and nibbled upon her neck. Her gasps were moist in my ear. Her groans were soft as I tugged her hair from behind. Her nipples began to harden under her lacy top, and when her round, firm breasts were revealed to me, they were capped attentively.

When I found myself kneeling on the floor before her couch, tugging her jeans down to reveal the equally lacy black panties under them, my cock was straining inside my jeans. I removed my shirt, parted her thick legs, and began to taste her. The panties were tugged aside, and I nipped at her thigh as a very lightly sparsed mound opened itself up before me. I swabbed her with my tongue. She gasped and cooed appreciatively.

After a short while, I was eager to see her ass. Turning her down and around, she rested her knees to the floor and bent comfortably with her tummy on the couch. I tugged the panties down and off an ankle, and knelt back as I enjoyed the sight her her womanly round derriere. Opening her up, I continued to taste her from behind, but soon switched to lay down on the floor itself with her thighs to the sides of my head, holding her hips gently as I lowered her pouty cunny toward my mouth. She was warm and rich and definitely moist, and her scent soaked my light beard and lips as she gently rode me.

Soon, I knelt up. I caressed her broad back, massaging her shoulders as she whimpered into the cushions. I moistened and began sliding my fingers inside her, probing her Gspot as I fucked her with my hands. My fingers teased, slid, twisted, cupped, fucked. When she finally came, I was stroking ribbed flesh within her body as she shuddered and quaked beautifully.

I stood and stepped to her bedside table, where a small stack of condoms already awaited me. Selecting one, I tore the package open with my teeth and continued to watch her, on hands and knees over the couch, as I rolled it down the length of me. I brought my knees to the carpet, held the base of my cock with my fist, and slowly guided it inside her thick body. She looked at me from over her shoulder, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. I ran my nails along her spine. I massaged her shoulders more as I started thrusting inside her. I gripped her wide hips and pumped, feeling her phat ass against me. When I started to grip her coiled hair and tug her head backward slightly, she cried out and shook once more.

I brought my pace down, smiled, stood up, and peeled the latex from my cock. She was still shaking gently and panting into the cushions when I reached for the wineglass on the floor and drained it.

Bringing ourselves up to the couch again, I coiled my arm around her waist and lay her across my lap. Her arms and head lay on the armrest of the couch as she realized what was about to come. She had already confessed to me that among her needs was to be spanked regularly, for "maintenance," so I saw no reason to let a fair opportunity like this go to waste.

I held her as we had a Time-Out moment to discuss what would be coming next. I gave her her safeword for the evening.

Once she was comfortably settled, my caresses to her bum shifted to gentle pats. Gradually, pats become slaps. Slaps became strikes. Upon one asscheek, then the other, I alternated and changed where I brought my palm to her submitting body. But knowing that she already had experience and desire in this kind of play, I didn't linger on gentility for very long. Soon, my palm was noisily striking across her seam in crisp, short strokes, and I smiled to myself as I felt it across my fingers. It had been a while.

She began to shudder again, and so my grip around her waist tightened as my other arm continued to alternate the intensity of my strikes. But this time, it wasn't an orgasm that was swelling up inside her, but tears. When the sniffling little thing was reduced to soft sobs, I gradually came to a stop.

The energy shifted. My first thought was that, like other subbies I've enjoyed back in the day at the BDSM clubs, she was of the kind to desire this sort of release. But, no. A nerve had been struck, she had been brought to a place she didn't necessarily want, and so the only thing left to do was to hold her and caress her and try to help her feel safe. Listening. Confirming the thought that, ok, this didn't go right. More listening.

This happens sometimes. And, in my experience, a healthy Top endeavors to handle it as gently as possible, as nurturingly as possible, especially with a new partner.

The silly tart hadn't used her safeword, and this elicited a strong but nurturing response from me. Lesson learned. "I need to trust that you'll alert Me when you've gone into an uncomfortable place, because I may be thinking that you're otherwise enjoying everything that's happening. I observe, I see, I'll make a call if it doesn't look like fun for you, but that doesn't mean I expect to do without your responses, baby."

Cuddles. Relaxation. Wine. Talking. Soon, we were discussing more about our shared interest in having Primary Partnership in our lives, and we each opened up about our respective backgrounds. The time went by enjoyably.

I would be spending the night. Her luxurious bed awaited us, and I smirked as I saw the Hitachi wand still tussled amongst burgundy sheets. Stripping, we slid under the duvet together and held one another.

She wanted me to read to her.

But that's another story.

And to my even later surprise, this otherwise lovely "night out for drinks" wouldn't become what it seemed like it could have been.

And that's another story too.

Sunday comics.

The Mound of Venus.

Ami had been working very hard, and she's almost always completely stressed.

As we curled underneath her exquisite tiedye duvet, the coolness of the sheets ensconced us as we listened to the clicking insects singing outside the window. All was dark, all was comfortable.

I smiled as she cuddled close. Feeling her long, auburn locks cascade across my bare chest and shoulder, I smiled to myself as I thought of the
small purple vibrator that she openly kept on the bedside shelves, just beside the egg vibe that I had given to her.

She was stiff beside me. I could tell that she was trying to relax, but to little avail. I kissed her head, deeply inhaling the scent of her russet locks of hair. I whispered in the dark.

"Would you like me to jack you off? So you can sleep better?"

Dark though it was, I have no doubt she she blinked several times as she digested my question. It often amuses me, in a perfectly nurturing way, to introduce her to new experiences. She paused.

"Um," she whispered back as a breeze caught her plants near the window, "would you like to? You're not too tired?"

I chuckled.

Her lips met mine as my right palm began a slow caress down the shoulder that rested on my chest, along her arm, and soon gently clutched her solar plexus. As always, Ami's skin was warm, soft, yielding, just slightly innocent. I pressed my head to her hair again, savouring her scent, feeling a slight stirring in my cock as I took her energy in.

She dropped more weight of herself against me. She began to relax more. I smiled in the dark.

My arm continued to explore under the pillowy duvet. I traced circles around her navel, and after completely bypassing her mound, began tracing a slow finger in circles at her upper right thigh. She sighed gently.

Clutching her thigh now, caressing it wholly, my fingers very almost grazed against the light tuft of black fur she kept between her legs. I opened my palm and grasped her thigh firmly, squeezing her, knowing that her petals were oh so slightly parted as I firmly tugged her flesh. I kissed her temple.

Wiry, feral, just slightly curled fur at my fingers now. How I adore a nest of pubes. My fingertips swirled in slow circles as I enjoyed the texture, the faint coarseness of her forest thatch, and my cock grew alongside her leg as I closed my eyes and licked my lips.

But, no, I wasn't going to taste her tonight.

Instead, my fingertips found themselves darting lower, and soon both index- and forefinger found themselves making gentle caresses at her labial mound. I lowered my hand further and gently cupped her, holding the entirety of her feminine essence in the hole of my hand, embraced, possessed, adored. I felt the Mound of Venus of her vulva against the Mound of Venus of my palm.


I brought my fingers up to my face to lick them liberally. I returned them to her core, and this time, my first and second phalanges angled themselves convexly so their nubs could press sensually just above her hardening clitoris. I began to swirl them, feeling her nubbin against my fingers.

Fast, slow. Clockwise, counterclockwise. Hard, soft, hard, fast, clockwise, soft, counterclockwise, wetter, firmer. A probe within, just so slightly.

Slow. Very slow. Firmer. Clockwise. A few gentle pats. Another probe, feeling the new wetness, a finger trailing it upward. Clockwise, soft, softer, hard, harder, harder still, faster, even faster, spinning, my left hand caressing as she rests her head on my chest, firmer, wetter, spinning.

My hand is a swirling blur under the duvet, but the actual pressure against her flesh is moderate. I'm jilling her. She's going to cum in my hand.

And in another few moments, as she rested herself against me in the dark, the summer breeze whispering through the window, Ami let out two... three... four quick and deep gasps in succession. I felt her wetness against my gradually-slowing fingers. I felt her tense up upon me, hold herself so still, shake, quake, and soon drop her weight against the bed and my broad chest.

She had cum.

I slowed my fingers down, but not exactly right away.

She kissed me deeply, moaning into my mouth.

We fell asleep.

Ami.

"Hello, buddy," she said, talking to my semi-hard cock.

She stretched herself out on the futon, raised her head as I stood beside it, and took me into her mouth. My shower could wait.

Oddly, that moment was somewhat foreshadowed by the flirty dating-site messages we had been exchanging back in March. In them, sometimes I visually 'put her' in the position of being in my bedroom, seeing me with a towel around my waist that would... oopsie... drop to the floor. She was amused, we would chat more, and eventually began to date. Or something.

Ami is a bit of a departure for me. There's much that we simply don't have in common, and frankly I thought our first date was something of a wash-out at the time... until, after a walk through Chinatown, she turned to kiss me.

It was a nice kiss. The kind that awakened my then-largely-unused cock straining hard in my jeans after only a few moments. The kind of kiss that, after dealing with so much angst in the previous months, felt Really Fucking Good.

And it's with a little bit of surprise when I say that things just seemed to gradually happen from there.

Ami is an ever-positive, in-many-ways-innocent, articulate, curvy brunette mid30s grad student with a penchant for bicycles, couch surfing, and sumptuous breakfasts. She is, hands down, one of the gentlest souls I have ever known. It actually surprises me that, given all of her intelligence, straightfoward confidence, and disarming sense of total kindness, that her dating life hasn't been more vibrant.

That's also a nice way of sharing that her sexual experiences have been very limited. Granted, that sometimes means that my own sharings with her may not always be, shall we say, as receptively mindblowing as some other past experiences I've had, it's still totally true that I have a personal thang for corrupting the innocent.

That her vibe and looks often leave me mistaking her for a woman ten years younger than what she is doesn't hurt.

Her slightly Rubenesque form features a very friendly pair of 38Ds, and after partnering with so many tomboys in my life (God love 'em all), Ami has given me a new appreciation for bigger tits. Hers fit perfectly in my grasp, and when I'm clutching them from behind her and gently giving them the massaging squeezes that she adores so much, her flesh only just barely peeks out from between my strong, outstretched fingers. And how she does love to have her breasts squeezed this way, especially if I'm nibbling at the nape of her neck or gently chewing on her ear.

Her tummy paunch is a cute and enjoyable palmful when we're spooning to sleep. She tells me that her massage therapist criticizes her bottom, but I keep saying that's nonsense. And, in a way that makes perfect sense in my brain when I think of her relative innocence, she sports a completely natural, completely carefree garden of coarse, dark fur that feels totally glorious to me when I'm gently rubbing my cheeks against her just before I begin to taste her essence.

And I've been tasting her essence frequently. In fact, I think my giving her head is the most frequent play activity that we've been doing. She is definitely not complaining.

During one of first dates, as we cooked together in my kitchen, random kisses quickly turned into a fun quickie session that eventually had her bent over one of my kitchen barstools. Her strong legs were sumptuously splayed apart as she bent over and across the seat of the stool, her lovely round ass before me. She had no choice but to gaze forward into the sunshine that brightened the deck as I squatted behind her and opened her up like a book.

I've written before about how one of my favourite activities is to discover, learn, study, enjoy the sight of my partner's anus. To me, there's a total intimacy in the sight of how she's crinkled, coloured, shaped there. Like fingerprints, like labia, the shape and contours of my lover's asshole are unique to her, and I enjoy the forbidden pleasure of learning hers.

And when I first gazed upon Ami's and began to give her light caresses there on this occasion in my kitchen, she bent over a stool, I immediately subconsciously knew that she had never been in such a position before. In such a vulnerable position before. And that, when I began to gently rim her, the gentle gasps for breath that I was hearing were very likely being accompanied by widened eyes that I could not see.

I liked that.

And so I slid my fingers inside her drenched, furry pussy and made her cum as I stood behind her and gently stroked my cock with my other hand.



But whether or not things with Ami are "relationship material" has been unclear. What were we doing? What were our parameters? Where did we want this to go? I've certainly enjoyed her company, and continue to, but for quite some time I didn't have my finger on the pulse. (G-spot yes, pulse no.) Our thang lacked clarity. Are we just-dating? Are we FWBs? Is she interested in romance? If I tell her that I lower-case-L love her, is she going to freak out or suddenly get distant? That kind of ambiguity makes me insane.

Ami, who commutes to and from the city frequently, has nurtured a slightly gypsy-ish grad student lifestyle. She housesits for the friend who's currently in Paris. She crashes on another friend's couch because it's close to campus. And recently she started spending enough time at my pad that it became a no-brainer for me to give her a set of keys and empty some drawers so she could move an amount of her stuff in my place and stay whenever she wanted to.

Ain't I cool? God, I frighten myself. cough

But her teaching and study schedule is intense. Despite a hot beginning, we've only rarely been able to spend "quality time" together lately. We'll share the same bed, but time and energy for fucking comes and goes. Eventually, I started to ask myself what it was that I was doing here, what it was that she was looking for, and it started to piss me off. Critical mass was approaching, and with a gentle nudge, I made sure she knew that a Conversation was soon becoming necessary. I needed to know where she stood, where she wanted to stand, and that she knew the same in return.

A relaxed sushi picnic in the park later and I had the clarity I needed. And, thus far, it seems that Ami and I are definitely in the friends-with-benefits camp. I sought clarity, and I certainly got it:

"Basically," she said to me after she listened to my mind, "I decided to get involved with you because I sensed that you'd be good in bed."

blink Oh.

Um. Ok.

I can handle that. Sure.

We finished our homemade miso soup in the park and went back to my place.

A feast for the senses.

Young Kinkster, aka Lolita, writes to ask:

"I have a question that needs your attention. My recently-acquired boytoy seems unwilling to, as we said in high school in the 'hood, go down. Specifically on me.

"I've taken a lot of sections of his cherry but this one frustrates me to no end. How do I go about persuading some almost-virgin to do this for me?"


Short answer: You can't.

Probably.

Well, maybe. It depends.

Read the long answer.

But first, have you tried tossing him into a crowd of drunken sorority sisters yet?

I'm going to begin with some comments about pussy, capitalism, and raising sexually informed men. Come walk with me.

One of the reasons that I am a strong believer in early sex education is because, in my view, it's the only way to undermine what mass market corporate advertisers impose on us from the moment we come screaming from the womb. Take the current trend toward bald (i.e, visually sterilized) pussy as an example.

Perhaps because of (mass market corporate) porn and its post-90s influence on pop culture, fashion, and advertising, throngs (thongs?) of women (and including, in some cases, children) have been starry-eyed foo-foo convinced that Brazilian waxjobs are de rigeur. It's the new conformity in marketed body modification. Consequently, hordes (hoards?) of men now may fully expect that the only "worthwhile" pussy is the seemingly pre-pubescent, bald, shaven one. This marketing concept has become so conceptualized into socio-sexual hegemony that I figure that the pressure on other (read: unoppressed?), furrier women feel must be huge. Big as a Victoria's Secret billboard.

Both feminist and queer theory have shown us how politically powerful bodies and sexualities are, and that's because of how fundamental it is to our personhood and identity. Genital modification is, and has been, used in cultures throughout the world as a means of social control for the same reason. How much difference is there then, for example, between young girls in Arabic cultures who are forced to undergo circumcision as a means of social control, and those women who "voluntarily" undergo cosmetic labiaplasty? Are they not arguably submitting themselves to the same end result? And for what? Because pussies terrify and deserve to be domesticated? Ok, YK, these examples are peripheral and extreme to your question, but don't they suggest that with so much control and unnecessary confusion imposed on women's (and men's, surely) genitals, is it any wonder that they remain such mysteries to most people?

In other words, sexual anthropology jargon aside, most men simply aren't appreciatively, reverently, respectfully exposed to a celebration of women's bodies... and as a result, are usually either terribly uninformed (at best) or are subliminally scared of pussy. There's a reason why the ancient Celts used sacred vaginal sculpture as a warning sign, not an enticement.

How could we break young men (and women, surely) away from that ignorance in their adolescence? Take the kids to a nudist resort. Please. Make some hot cocoa and sit down with them at the computer to explore the virtual Vulva Museum. Visit England and check out the sculptors at Brighton Body Casting, who have embarked on an extraordinary art project that will dash any notions or expectations about what women are "supposed" to be.

I know an excellent young man who developed a reputation as a superb, considerate, hot lover. He was raised in a polyamourous household in California, and in his late teens was introduced to the ideas of romantic sex-as-pleasure by various articulate and caring women. They taught him by discussing their experiences and what they expected from men. They used what could be described as softcore porn. They taught him that sex wasn't exclusively about procreation, but also about communication, and they taught him the basics of how not to fuck it up.

There are those in the world who might jump to the conclusion that this is tantamount to borderline sexual abuse, if for no other reason than his age at the time. Yet, he's been exposed to loving, caring, body-positive people who wanted him to grow to be a good man for his partner. Elsewhere, more sexually conservative, "legitimate" families do produce men who are abusive, controlling, selfish, socio-sexually inept, or fail to respect and value the women they profess to love.

Why am I writing this? What does this have to do with your boytoy not flicking your bean? Because when I was an older boy/young man/adolescent punk, pussy was as much an almost total, absolute mystery to me as it probably is for your playmate and most other men. Hell, it's only been within the last five years that I learned that the clitoris doesn't consist of the nubbin, hood, and shaft alone, but that its nerves and musculature are part of an entire wishbone-shaped mass that ensconces under and around the entire labia like an inverted horseshoe. Cool! Damn, I love it when there's something else to learn.

(Raise your hand if you knew that already. ...I'm counting about a tenth of you.)

So, to your question, dahlingk. I tend to shy away from seeking to "convince" a partner to do anything. My attitude is that if s/he doesn't already have a desire for something, the most you can hope for is to expose him/her to what it is you're into and make an effort at nurturing a new interest where none may have been before. You may find that he's simply not into it, and this might forever remain a sexual incompatibility between you. Whether or not that's a dealbreaker is up to you.

The Tomboy doesn't particularly like to suck cock. It disappoints me, but I'm mature enough to deal with it and choose to not let it bother me as long as I'm just her occasional lover. But if she were my primary partner (and especially if we were going to be monogamous), it'd be a Problem.

Yet, in a way, Cherry Boy's inexperience can also be to your advantage! If he's game, it might even provide you with a rare treat.

He's so new to his sexuality that everything is a fresh slice of pie. Apart from whatever it was he was stroking his cock to before he met you, all topics, nuances, and experiences remain fair game. Uncharted territory! If you have the patience, that might be fucking hot for you. You have become his sexual initiator, and as long as you're aware that almost every move you make will leave a longlasting impression on another human being's sexual consciousness and confidence, you could be in for a riproaring time. But it's a big responsibility.

I lost my virginity at 17. A late starter by some standards, but I more than made up for it by doing on-stage bondage performances within the next two years. Me, once the opportunity presented itself, I was eager to give my partner head and went at it with gusto. In retrospect, I wasn't particularly good at it then (too fast, too much pressure, not enough handplay, clueless about body language), but what's a kid supposed to know?

But it sounds like Cherry Boy lacks even the zeal. Assuming that he's at least been jacking off to images of women before you came along to offer him your delicious, flesh and blood self, then there's a reason.

He may simply be that selfish. So many young dudes are so focused on their own exclusive pleasure that it's become a stereotype. If Cherry Boy's among those ranks, I'd suggest that it's time to update your dating site profile.

He may be very shy. If he's otherwise trying to be a good lover, then he might not have the confidence to give it a go. I'm less inclined to believe this, but it's possible.

If it isn't selfishness, and if it isn't shyness, then (for him) something is standing in the way between his mouth and your body.

(I'm about to tread on some very sensitive territory. Caveat: as a man, I feel wholly unqualified to intelligently remark on the functioning of women's bodies or sexual health, and God knows guys have been doing that for centuries. What follows is strictly from my own experience and how I think I can best articulate it. We're all adults here.)



For the uninitiated young buck, bringing one's face and mouth and tongue to his lover's pussy can be a world-class adventure. Even young, experimenting proto-lesbians would, I'd think, have some clues as they share the same anatomy, but young lads feeling thighs on their shoulders for the first time have almost no idea whatsoever of what to expect and how "she" will respond. Pussies are complex, beautifully feral creatures that, for the mortally clueless, take a little getting used to. There's a full and rich orchestra happening there with diverse colours, scents, fluids, shapes, nuances, textures, zones, personalities and all of which capable of shifting its needs, demands, and sensitivities at a moment's notice.

When he places his face to you, it's your scent, wetness, and texture that's going to greet him first. You already know that. Like many women, maybe you've had some anxiety about that because, let's face it, sometimes men behave like insensitive morons.

For his book Coming Of Age In New Jersey, sexual anthropologist Michael Moffat "went undercover" and lived among coeds in the Rutgers University dorms to study sexuality among college students.

"Oral sex did not touch off alarm bells of guilt in either females or males as often as did "going all the way," he writes. "(Oral sex) dilemmas were more often that of hygiene. Men and women worried about learning how to do it and about whether or not their partner enjoyed doing it to them. Men complained occasionally about vaginal cleanliness."

Now, I know you're an intelligent, healthy person who knows how to take care of her body. I also know that if you did have some obstetric concerns and its possible relationships to your sexual wellbeing, you surely wouldn't be asking a man who writes a damned sexblog.

But consider this: what you know is a wonderfully healthy, happy pussy may not be what he thinks is a healthy, happy pussy. Brie takes a little getting used to when all your palate knows is cheddar.

A big part of his (current?) aversion probably is about your body being so foreign to him. He may be a little overwhelmed by all those new scents, juices, and textures. He's so new to sex in general that, despite what he thinks now, he really hasn't too much of an idea of what he's into, and not everything that he'll be into later will be something he'll crave right away. Some things take time, and for many lovers, enjoying oral can be an acquired thing.

Only once in my (younger) life did I make the mistake of suggesting to a partner that perhaps her cleanliness was an issue. I know now that it wasn't, that the cunnilingus experience I was receiving was perfectly natural and normal... but, like so many other guys, I never expected that the perspective problem was with me rather than a body issue with her. The partner in question was terribly embarassed and took to vaginal vinegar douching, which many now know isn't completely advisable. I wasn't rude or crude in my approach, but once I learned more, it became an important lesson for me. Embarassing a lover is no fun.

It took a little time, and a few lovers, before it really became clear to me how extraordinarily different bodies can be and that scent, taste, texture were as equally varied woman to woman, diet to diet, happenstance to happenstance. Eventually, learning the subtle nuances in scent, taste, texture a new partner's body might possess became part of the reason I'd be eager to feast on her. And the first time I'm with a lover, I'm always going to feast on her. Count on it. But it took time and paying attention before I got there.

So let's assume that it's his unfamiliarity with your yummyness that has him holding yellow flags. Because, let's face it, he's clueless. You ask how you can "persuade" him. I suggest that you try some playful games.

If you enjoy foodplay, you probably already know that whipped cream is the signature oral enhancement. Warm fruit nectar, maple syrup, canned cherry pie filling (poetic justice!), honey, crushed fresh berries, cream... anything that's wet and messy that makes it to his face can help him bridge the foreign sensation of stickiness while also blending with the (natural, healthy) scents and fluids that he's still learning about. Slice papayas and mangoes and smear them on one another. Use plastic bottles of chocolate sauce like water cannons. Enjoy the post-gooey-fuck shower together.

Roleplay some power exchange scenes like "Private Tutor." You're the professional sexual surrogate contracted by his wealthy guardian to teach him the "arts of pleasing a woman." His massive inheritance is completely dependent on your assessment of his ability to follow instructions. He does exactly and expressly what you tell him to do. Or "Cleopatra's Slave," where his very life depends on his ability to please the sovereign Pharoah queen as he kneels, head back in submission, waiting to be ridden. "Stick out that tongue or my guards will yank it out with pliers, you loathsome Greek!"

And when he's ready, get naked and read Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide To Cunnilingus or Ian Kerner's She Comes First in bed together. Make some popcorn and check out Nina Hartley's Guide To Better Cunnilingus DVD.

But sooner or later, if he has any hope of being a good and appreciated lover, he's going to have to wake up to the fact that pussies have fluids and scents and expressive diversity. If he's having a boundary with a perfectly healthy, natural, happy, properly enticed quim, dude is going to be awfully lonely. And doesn't he know that getting a rep for giving good head can only work for him?

As an added bonus, I polled some joyfully moistened blog readers (hi guys!) to share their thoughts about your plight. (See what perks there are when you become my Facebook friend?)

"How might you respond if your lover refused to go down on you?"

The Fearless Consultant was straightfoward: "That would be a no-can-do moment. I'd find out why, and if it were a pattern, it'd be see ya!"

"I think it's a deal breaker," replied Alise from the French spanking bench. (J'ai manqué voir vous là.)

"Not only is it selfish behaviour," she rightfully tells us, "but it would make me question his feelings towards the female body and women in general. If a guy wants his dick sucked (and which one doesn't) and thinks that should be his gods-given right but dislikes going down on a woman, then maybe he should consider trying a bloke so he won't have to worry about there being any vaginas in the equation. Even knowing the guy doesn't particularly like doing it and does it under sufferance is a deal breaker for me.

Sextoy Hostess was more patient, but to a limit. "As long as it isnt a regular occurence, I wouldnt worry. Sometimes I want what I want and I would imagine that he's the same, or we just want to get right to penetration and a quickie is just right. But, if it's regularly one-sided, I don't think that's fair. It's selfish and I probably would begin to feel cheated out of the enjoyment. I'd probably discuss it with him to find out why he isn't going down any longer. If he continued to NOT, I would take ORAL pleasure away from him as well. If that didn't change his mind I'd probably ask him (sarcastically) if he minded that I invite a girlfriend over while he's at work to replace what he's not giving me."

Poet and visual artist Shane Girl (no, not that one) would also have limited patience. "Depends on why he refused and if it's something he's done before with me. There really shouldn't be a refusal. No WAY! Otherwise, I'd need to figure out if this was his first time kissing below the belt and may give him a coaching lesson. He might love it! But if it's not his first time, then I'd need to know what the hell is wrong. The cootie is clean, free of germs and diseases, so why not? It amazes me when men want their knobs polished but don't want to return the favor, or if they're over-sensitive about doing something they know will drive a woman CRAZY!

"If he played his cards right, he'll know that's one of the ways to grab a woman's attention, providing he executes the tongue just right. There is a technique. Otherwise, it's not a two way street but a one way dead end, and then he's outta there."

And Boots, who tells me that she sweetens herself before an evening's feasting with milk and honey baths, reminds us exactly what it is that Cherry Boy is missing. If I could, I would pat her man on the back. Maybe he and I should take this kid behind the shed and learn him up some.

"I am concerned for your reader, the poor thing. My heart (well, my heart and elsewhere) go out to her.

"Having been beautifully and thoroughly attended to, year after year, with regular worship by my good husband's mouth, I cannot begin to imagine this girl's plight. When I think on the lovers that have come and gone, I cannot recall a man who didn't, at the very least, aim to please with his tongue and intentions, even though a fair few would do well to stick to receiving rather than giving.

"My man loves to pleasure me. And, oh my, he pleasures me well. His passion for tastings and tongue-fuckings is truly a thing of wonder and delight, and therein lies the key for giving good head methinks... That your man is unquestioningly enjoying himself whilst nose-deep within your wetness, to feel a man moan whilst his tongue explores your depth, or while he sucks and gnaws upon your eager clit... mmmm... to hear and feel and know that your lover is relishing in your scent, your texture, your wetness and your waves of pleasure is such a delight to the senses. He grows hot and swollen with lust 'tween my glistening thighs, not limiting himself to location nor limb, and it pleases me to see him so hard in his enjoyment as he worships my wellspring.

"After twelve years of his mouth on my cunt, he still brings me to that place of leg-shaking, panting, squirting exquisiteness. He teases with a mix of lip, tongue and finger, making my hips rise in anticipation and longing. A finger slowly circles my folds whilst teeth nibble at my turgid clit, and a tongue licks the length of my seam then pauses at my arse. A finger slides in there whilst another circles the button elsewhere, and he's eating me, hungrily. The stubble on his face is dripping with me, and he loves it. His tongue is at its length as he laps me up, his hot breath upon and within me, and I cum in his mouth. Hard.

"The wave washes over my body, and he inserts another finger into my tight arse, and moves his mouth to my clit to suckle while his other hand delves deep into my cunt, and my orgasm is kicked back up to the full height of eye-roll-back-pleasure.

"I do hope her man finds his manners, as poor head is surely poor etiquette."

She came for another ride.

"You know something?" she asked me the last time I saw her, perhaps a year ago, when I was helping her move out of the Toronto area. We were standing at my car as I got ready to go. Her idiot boyfriend, unhappy I was there but probably grateful for my help, had skulked back into the house they were leaving. We were dirty. Their U-Haul was packed.

"After we broke up," she continued, "you became the one I thought of the most when I masturbated."

Words I'll never forget.

More than three years since I ended things between us, we've remained friends. She's still with her freeloading, unemployed boyfriend and his sidekick, still defiantly polyamorous, and still as high-energy and boistrous as ever. She had heard that I'd recently become single again, and when she made plans to visit mutual friends in my area, she texted me to see if we could "meet over coffee or a beer." She said she'd be riding in and was concerned about the weather for the trip back. My brain was still on we're-just-friends mode when I mentioned that she'd be welcome to crash at my place if a night drive through the coming cold would be too much for her to bear. "We're-just-friends." I swear.

But it's also true that, still in post-Kara mode, I hadn't been properly laid in a while, and even during these last months she and I were together, things had cooled down some. Leave it to The Tomboy to tease me on this.

Tomboy: Ooo! I get to crash with you?

Me: You'll like the new place. And my new futon is way comfortable.

I have two futons. Only one of them is my bed. I swear.

Tomboy: ...Does that offer come with all the bonuses I'd like? Ha ha!

The Tomboy is an athletic, mid30s soldier who is among the most pro-poly women I know. Her myriad list of outdoorsy hobbies make her a riot to be with, and while sometimes I think she can be a little crazy, she's good people. And here she was, randomly suggesting that after more than three years, she'd like to share my bed again. A year of monogamy under my belt left me blinking my eyes a lot at the possibility, but I also knew that breaking my cherry again would go down so much nicer with a former lover and friend.

I was letting a bottle breathe when I heard her bike rumble down the driveway behind the house. I hadn't even seen her since she moved from the city, when she gave me that delicious praise, and it was a treat to hear her boots clonk up my stairwell to my pad. Hugs and laughter abounded. She removed the black leather chaps she wore, and as she turned her back to me, I was reminded of how gorgeous her heart-shaped ass is in a pair of jeans. My cock thrummed.

Small talk. Catching up. I tinkered with the filet mignon I was preparing and started to sauté the cremini mushrooms. Slowly, as we spoke, we found ourselves drawing closer to one another until, standing in my kitchen, our arms touched. I coiled a hand behind the nape of her neck and ran fingers through her dark brown hair, now much longer than I remember it being last.

"Kiss me," I told her. What followed left my stomach tightened and my cock as hard as stone as she let loose three years' worth of fantasizing against my lips. She feasted on me, her mouth opening for me as her tongue darted across my teeth and teased. She grunted when my arm wrapped itself snugly around her waist, her lips never leaving mine, her thigh raised to graze my own and her knee pressing gently but firmly against my crotch. She reached around me to grip my ass. I reached around her to grip hers.

When the kiss broke, I saw only one thing to do. I smiled wide, grasped her wrist, and led her to the bedroom. "Come on." She laughed out loud.

She tugged my shirt over my head as we knelt on the thick futon, and she stroked my nipples when she brought her mouth to mine again. Her shirt. Her head on my shoulder as I undid her bra. Her hand clutching at the hot bulge in my jeans.

When my hand rediscovered her breasts, memories of them flooded to me. Warm handfulls of her flesh stiffened me more, and she gently chewed on my ear as we knelt before one another while I enjoyed them.

The Tomboy, for all her sex-positive attitudes, is one of those few (in my experience) women in the world who reserves sucking cock "for special occasions." Go figure. It wasn't that way when we were together, but after three years, I wasn't going to assume anything and left well enough alone there. I, on the other hand, was craving warm and randy feminine flesh in my mouth at that point, and I intended to have it.

She splayed herself on her back, languishing in the cushions underneath her, as I drew my face to her bare stomach and started undoing her jeans. Raining kisses and tender bites on her abs, I snapped her pants open and started tugging them playfully, smiling as her black cotton panties revealed themselves to me. The jeans pulled off from her legs, she laughed when I bit her calves and reached for my long locks when I brought my head between her opened thighs.

"Oh, yeah..." she cooed. She hadn't felt my mouth in such a long time.

Pressing my lips to her covered mound, I exhaled deeply and roasted her. I looked up and into her smiling eyes as my warm, wet tongue swabbed in slow, searching strokes and pressed the cotton against her mons. Her underwear was drenched by both my saliva and her trembling, expectant excitement when I finally peeled them off and began sliding my tongue along her seam in earnest.

I had forgotten how gorgeous the Tomboy's pussy is. Soft crescents of reddening smooth skin framed her long and eager clit, which nestled at the core of some of the tightest, most gentle soft petals one could hope to find on such an orchid. A disciplined tuft of dark fur above pointed the way to her button, and I followed the directions it was giving me as I swabbed, as I licked, as I swirled my tongue around her glistening grrlshaft. The lightest of flicks at either side of her left the Tomboy in a cooing puddle of goo, her legs slowly squirming at either side of us, her head occasionally jolted from the pillows, her breathing deep and full of joy.

I love it when my partner likes to have her pussy sucked. I live for it. And when I finally started to slide my fingers inside her core, taunting her G-spot and pumping while I sucked her button quickly through my wet lips, her hips bucked as she rode my mouth. My free hand grasped her beautiful ass, caressed her abdomen, squeezed those tits that were left to sway along her chest with each shaking movement she made. She came in my mouth. A lot.

It healed me.

Good feelings.

Remember Shayne?

I don't always get to deleting things from my email folders, and every now and then I find that I'm pleased for it. This is from last May, about when things began to finally change between us, before I met Kara. I was in a Toronto internet cafe and she was in her Chicago office cubicle. It's probably the last saucy little chat exchange between us before everything went haywire.


Me: Cmere. Bend over.

Shayne: hoo! every time you say that electricity shoots from my clit to my cunt and up my spine making my nipples hard in the process and getting my saliva glands all worked up. AROUSAL

Me: Well, my my. You're so easy to please, you little tart. I've been enjoying the thot of you bent over your kitchen table, the scent of fire-roasted peppers and your sex in the room. Yum yum.

Shayne: oooh, good combo. you know, i had this realization last night. when you talk about spending an hour, or hours, giving me head, i can't ::like:: fathom that. it seems completely unreal and fantastical and i don't know how i would react. all of which is rather interesting to me. damn. i'm totally horny now.

Shayne loved it when I gave her head. I have hot memories of corkscrewing my hands, alterating between my left and right under well-lubed non-latex gloves, as I took her miniball of a clit between my lips.

Me: You'd love a decadent treat like that, I'm certain. It'd be fun fun fun... you, a super comfy chair, a pipefull, some wine, mellow tunage, and my slowly circling tongue, probing hands, and smiling eyes.

Shayne: mmmm i loved when you would look up at me with a mouthful of cunt. so many good feelings associated with it.



Well, those good feelings lapsed for a while. It's been about a year, which I can scarcely believe, actually. After our final break (because God knows we seesawed for the longest time), there was the expected amount of angst between us. She was being an ass. I was being confused. Time was, as should be expected in all situations like that, necessary.

But very recently, we've become friends again. I'm pleased for this because Shayne was and remains important to me, one of my favourite people. Our lives have progressed, of course, and that's ok. We connect through sites like Facebook and FetLife. I enjoy her poetry and her blogging, she asks me for advice about reading Tarot cards and thinks of me when she rebuilds household shrines. Our worlds are good.

She's since moved to Washington state and is enjoying a good, rustic life with her new man, an artistic Daddy who takes her camping in giant geodome tents and hogties her in the woods. She's happy, and that's all that's ultimately important. Me, I smile and nod and remain pleased for her, as well as for our friendship as I continue to embark on adventures of my own and make worldly plans with my awesome friend and lover, Kara. Perhaps one day she and her Dude will break bread with me and my Pet, and over cold beers and a hearty meal of grilled Ontario salmon we'll make laughing eyes and make tribe. It's a nice idea.

Do love ya, Shayne. No, really. Nice to be ok with you again. Peace.

... and eating her too.

She had had a rough day, and so it began with a bath.

I caressed her hair as we talked, soothing her shoulders with drizzles of hot water as she told me of the trials in her day. Being a scrappy rake, a well-dressed rascal, or a nasty-ass leatherdaddy certainly doesn't prevent me from my moments of indulgent adoration and pampering. She is, after all, my pleasure. I watched contentedly as I dropped the bath bomb between her ankles as she sunk deeply into the antique claw-foot tub. For all the times I had given them as gifts, I had never actually seen one in action, and I smiled as the roiling scented froth filled the steaming water with her.



Later, naked, I stood in her kitchen and drizzled a swirl of organic chocolate sauce on the pottery plate. Setting a slice of vegan chocolate layer cake upon it, I flanked this sexy creation with four slices of fresh, ripe blackberries and made my barefoot way up the white stairwell to her bedroom.

I really have no idea where Cake and Cunnilingus Day came from, but when I happened upon its site during a casual netsurfing moment, I knew it was something I had to indulge Kara in.

She smiled at me from over her Laurel K. Hamilton novel, and her eyes popped open when she saw the cake in my hands.

"OoOOOOooo..." she cooed, holding her hands out eagerly for her treat, batting her eyes in oh-so-(not)-innocent fashion. The four layers of dark cake, fused by the rich and near-black icing, slid along the tip of the silver fork as she tried her first mouthful and held it on her tongue. Her eyes closed, her chest heaved with indrawn breath, and she chuckled very quietly as I drew the thick duvet from over her body and slid into bed with her.

Mammoth pillows firmly supported her back as she sat semi-upright in the bed, and my knees met her feet as I lay atop of her. I cradled her hips in my warm hands and began nuzzling into her taut belly as she slowly took another mouthful of decadence.

Pressing my lips to her soothed skin, I nibbled along her hips and thighs as I reached around her to caress her lower back from over her pillows. We each languished in our respective feasts for the senses as we relaxed. She nibbled on a blackberry, the juice staining her lips. I nibbled at her navel. She licked her fingers. I licked her thighs.

I smirked as I looked up, and with a teasingly small drizzle of chocolate sauce staining her lips, she smirked back. I leaned upward for a long, sensual kiss, tasting both sauce and flesh, before I bit my own lower lip as I started to part her thighs with a taunting finger. She chuckled as she opened her legs further, and soon I was breathing deeply in and smiling inwardly as she revealed her dark mound and pillowy folds to me.

She set the plate aside on the duvet as I leaned closer and began nuzzling my face into her soft, warm, downy, trimmed and womanly fur. The scent of the bath and her skin made sparkles in the back of my head as I drank her in, and it wasn't long before my hands were firmly grasping her upper thighs as I tilted my head to gently dart the tip of my tongue just above and around her raising clit.



I teased her, and when she opened her legs further for me, hunching lower onto the bed, I coated her puffy mound with slow and sensual swabs with my wet tongue. I slid it between her folds. I nibbled on her thighs. She moaned quietly and began to seethe lustfully as she eagerly enjoyed my attention, and when she began thrusting herself closer to my mouth I gave her what she wanted.

Slowly, I slid my tongue into her as she opened like a feral orchid, and I tasted her elixers joyfully. Kara has such a clean and feral texture to her, as if she were a polite fruit with a scorchingly auburn center and fragrantly sweet nectar underneath her smooth and charming skin. A mango.

I bobbed my head slowly as my tongue trailed circles around her clit, which always sends her into a frenzy. She gyrated on the bed when I began to suck on her nubbin, gasping and tugging my hair, almost sending her plate of cake to the floor. It was then, as I heard the fork clatter and clink, that a deliciously naughty idea occured to me.

I knelt up and held the plate before her. Kara blinked, then smiled when she watched me scoop a rich, black chocolate icing flower from the edge of the slice upon the tip of the fork. Still holding it, I brought my mouth back to her drenched and gorgeous pussy and began swabbing her clit even more earnestly then before. She bucked and groaned, and I brought the fork to her mouth. She chuckled again.

Both of hands now held her hips as I began licking and sucking her clit deeply into my own mouth, her tiny pebble darting in and out between my wet lips while I sucked, as the dense icing swirled along her tongue. Immediately, Kara was awash in a sensation of complete and total decadence, every nerve and synapse in her faerie body responding to combined heights of pleasure. In both tasting the rich chocolate at the very same time she was getting sucked in the way that always sends her off, she cascaded into blissful oblivion.

She came almost immediately, and didn't seem to know whether to laugh or cry while she tried to scream through a mouthful of chocolate. She shook uncontrollably under me, and I held my sucking mouth firm to her as she thrashed through her waves. All the while I caressed and held her thighs until she finally began to slow herself down. I lessened my pace until my tongue was only barely touching her with short little swirls.

She took a long time before she caught her breath, and even when she did, it was the rapid blinking of her eyes, her deep gasps, her spechlessness that told me just how much fun she had just had. Mmmm.

Having my cake...

I love the slow tease when my face is pressed against her taut stomach, my hands slowly caressing her arms. I rain soft and tender kisses to her there, and can feel my cock harden in my jeans when I press my jaw against her own denim-covered nexus.

As I snap the button, my head of my cock is straining against the denim I'm wearing, and the rough material makes my glans widen as I anticipate the scent of her.

The zipper gets lowered and I'm gently tugging her jeans down from the waist, while my eyes are greedily taking in the sight of her soft panties. I'm squirming under her. She raises her knees. One by one, her legs emerge from the jeans, and when one is raised enough to remove the pants entirely, I sneak a glance at the small stain of wetness on her covered crotch.

I want to bury my face there, and do. I'm drinking her in, flicking my tongue against her and over ther underwear, soaking her panties more. My hands are massaging her thighs, caressing her, biting her, enjoying her muscles and her skin and the cute ripple that comes from a gentle smack.

Slowly, teasing myself, I tug the hem of her panties lower. Her navel entrances me. The first sight of a wisp of fur captures me. My cock is made of steel and my tongue is wet velvet. I close my eyes, move even closer, and fill my lungs with her clean, feral allure.

I roll the cotton downward until they seem little more than a string connecting one outer thigh to another. I kneel up and peel them away, smiling as each of her legs, each of her feet, escape its confines. I lay back down, and she rests an ankle on my back.

I look into her eyes. I don't close them again until her moist, tender warmth has met the width of my curious, insatiable tongue and her essences seethe across my mouth, lips, and into my throat.

If you didn't know already, tomorrow is Cake and Cunnilingus Day. Enjoy.

A little horseplay.

Kara: *slurp on your shaft*

Me: Mmmm. Exactly what I need.

Kara: Might need to do a double slurp tonight ... Me on top of you, you thrusting into my mouth ... Me dripping down your chin ...

Me: Nice... I love coaxing your clit until you cum.

Kara: Coax?? A second cum might need to be coaxed, like some shy filly... But the first one's in the gate waiting for the starter pistol ... :P

Me: Keep that up and I just might show up with my riding crop. ;)

Kara: Hmmm ... *whinny* *snort* ;)

Me: Ha! ...Tell me why you enjoy head from me so much.

Kara: I love your tongue swirling on my clit ... I especially love you sucking on me ... It sends me right over the crest and tumbling into blissful oblivion ...

Me: *lik*

Kara: But what's JUST as important is that YOU love giving head ... It means I can just relax and enjoy and not wonder how YOU are doing ... And because you are so pro-fantasy, pro-kink, I've also come to a place where I just relax into delicious fantasy ... guilt-free ... And enjoy. So, my love, why I enjoy YOU is partly what you do, but also partly who you are and how you express your sexuality ... And how you encourage me to do so as well.

Me: Meow. I totally encourage you. Safe to say you're looking forward to seeing me tonight then? ;)

Kara Um ... Yep!