I stood her in the shower and held her face in my hands. I wanted to taste her; I wanted to place my lips between hers. It wasn’t planned that way, it just happened; a restless summer night in a small town with too few cool men, let alone anyone we’d met who could handle the shine, the majesty of either of us. And we sat in the kitchen by candlelight since a summer storm had put the electrical lines out. We swilled wine until plum juiced. Sangria to be exact. Then we got in the shower. It just seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do. Okay, now that we’d warmed and reddened, lets go get wet. With the lights off, the moon shone in the window in a tiny radiant glow that made us look like succulent porn stars, though feminist ones at that; that rode our own girly motorbikes, wore our own leather, talked back to catcalls--if only to embarrass the guy in front of his gangly friends, and still had enough high heels in our closets to make Imelda look normal. I leaned her back against the wall while the shower softly sprayed on us and I placed my hand around her neck, pressing her head back against the wall. She went. I felt powerful, like she was a girl I could take, instead of my best friend; like I was a more masculine version of myself and I felt for a moment so powerful like I could just snap her neck if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t. Instead I took her long beautiful hair and pushed her head to the side. I wet my mouth and put it to her neck. I moved smoothly, gracefully over and up and down getting her neck wet with my lips, my wine juicy red tongue. Then I bit. Prepping and biting a neck is one of my favorite pastimes. With just the right amount of rise and fall and lust intensity and pestering and raking, you can literally bring another to their knees. I read how to do this in a book my father gave to my mom when I was thirteen. It was called “How to Make Love to a Man”. She huffed and puffed and took offense in a well-I-never sort of way and tucked the book behind all the rest of the magazines in the bathroom rack and that’s why I used their bathroom instead of the one down the hall. I practiced passionately on my forearm until I got a real boy and then by the time I reached tonight with a naked girl, as a naked girl myself, in a shower under a slivery moon, in a wild and wooly green summer of a small town that felt like deliverance out your window, I was an expert in status.

And that’s when I slid down and looked at her while she stood. It was so beautiful. She was so beautiful. I took my fingers and spread her apart and placed my mouth, my lips, wetly on her clit, her knees gave but just a little. I wanted to be with her, mouth to puswah, the way I’d never found a man to do to me without volumes of instruction, various diagrams and books-on-tape. I took my mouth from her and licked her softly with the end of my tongue. I placed my mouth back to her, tasting, resting in her glorious wet softness. Then lightly, so lightly sucking, pulsating slowly in and out; the wet from my mouth and from her body made for compete heated fusion. I wanted to burrow up between her legs and put my lips wholly, fully around her. So I did. I nudged her thighs apart with my head, muscled my way in there and took her fully. I licked each side of her, spread the plate between her pelvis and kissed her deeply, fully, as I would lustily be kissing my boyfriends lips or those of a stranger I was hungry for if I didn’t another at the time. I pulled back to look at her again, brushing hair upwards to see the flush of her swelled body. It is far more luscious than any men’s journal photo could do justice. The visuals filled me with desire to be back, mouth pressed to her flesh. I dove in between her, crammed my tongue into her and her knees hooked over my warm shoulders while my hand slid behind her and brought her further into my mouth, pressing her backside forward into my face. Like tilting a flower into my senses for full on inhalation. Delicious as I never could have imagined. Her hands wound into my hair and pushed my head further into her, trying to envelop me. I went. I nestled my face in the space between, thighs taunt against my head, pushed my mouth as far inside as I could go and wrapped my lips around her. We meshed perfectly. Pulling my mouth back to her clit, I slid a finger inside of her and she squeezed her body in welcome.

The way a woman feels inside of her body is amazing; soft, hot, an endless tunnel that forms around you and sucks you in, pulsates, grips; a life, mind of it’s own, working in it’s own best, animalistic interest. I nestled in between delicate ridges and pressed out toward her pelvis, opening her up. She gave into me and within seconds her doors bestowed open and the ever elusive spot was ours; being rubbed, pushed and coiled into pulp while she relaxed from the endorphins of it and slipped into another dimension; her head lopped back against the window, her hands slack in my hair, her body sunken into pleasure. And I rubbed, entire new worlds into her. Staying out, steady pressure, pushing outward, watching her, studying her clues, a detective to ferry her to supreme release. I placed a flat thumb against her clit and rubbed small delicate wettened circles with eency beency steady increments of width and speed and building pressure. I matched my hands together and her body held the balance of being perfectly rigidly relaxed; the inner building of the relaxation of the g spot countering the clenching squeeze of the outer orgasm. I stayed. Endless, ethereal, everlasting; enduring, for her, to watch her, to feel her come. I could have been there for days, I have no remembrance now of how long it took, but we were caught between elements of time; lost in space in a steamy shower with a constant moon, my hands holding the whole weight of her, twisting into her, her back braced against the streaming marbled shower wall, bearing down on me and legs trembling, breathe tumbling, riveting a shake up her body until she jerked in rapid quick succession, up over, onto her tippy toes, as if to lift her higher into heavens by invisible puppet strings above her and I eased out, wet hair, shower spraying my face, to look up at her in amazement, in astonishment, in wonderment and crack a smile.  END

Each fantasy is crafted from an orgasm-rich personal experience, seared in my head and poured onto page. These are my fantasies, my dreams, my ultimate orgasms. If you provide the necessary components, sparse but clear, I’ll craft a personal fantasy for your own collection but I’ll have to feel it first. If it’s fake or wimpy, I won’t deliver. Make it original, deep, penetrating and you’ll have a first class flight to coming, twined in my style.