The other morning in bed, I got myself off by imagining you and oral. A fairly normal (and regular) routine except you weren’t going down on me. You had me in your lap, hands on my waist and lips to my ear, while I closed my eyes and listened to a hypothetical description of what it’s like to get me off with your mouth. The words felt more rumbled and purred than actually said, but the meaning came clear across.
You’re familiar with every sound I make: that sharp gasp at the first bottom-to-top lick, the softer iteration for when you delve inside with your tongue, the drawn-out sigh at the circles you draw around my shy, peeping hood, and those steady little intakes of breath—a slow-building crescendo—that give away how close I am before the breathing abruptly cuts to choked-off moans.
My scent fills up every corner of the room: the initial rush, so bright and heady, wraps around your head, squeezes tight, and locks you in. You can almost taste it—except, you’re too full with the rest of me. A milky slick that sits so sweetly on your tongue, coating your chin, lacing the inside of your mouth, trickling down your throat, all messy, all mine. You can’t ever get enough.
And you murmur how indescribable it feels to press your lips against my clit, its fleeting contractions baring a shapely nub one second and retreating the next. How velvety smooth my lips are, easy to nip and easier to suck. How easily you predict the timing of my orgasm by the rigid arch my back freezes in, waiting for an internal cue to begin a freefall: the whole-body shudder that starts deep in my belly and frantically spreads north until you have to hold me down so the entire bed doesn’t shake.
The sight of me twitching and trembling to cool down, the flesh between my thighs still flushed rosy. You know every sign, and I believe it because you told me all of this—or at least the you in my mind did.