Worship at The Altar

I don't have the best of luck with men, having few sexual partners under my belt. Of all the ones who've come and gone, only two have given me actual pleasure. Out of those two stood a man of six feet, three inches who was a strange yet titillating gentleman. As young love goes, we were off and on quite often. When we were off, I wrote bitter poetry and listened to sad music on Windows Media Player. When we were on, I spent a lot of late nights in his arms, sweating and throbbing in ecstasy from head to toe. I would sneak him in, strip him down, and we'd pretend we were married. Sometimes Prince would serenade us, and sometimes the heated breathing of two horny 20-somethings was all we needed.

As far as pleasure goes, he always told me that mine came first. Having gone through so many Adult Friend Finder failures who were selfish jackrabbits, it was refreshing to be with a man who got off watching his woman cum and pass out. Who knew that the things Prince sang about could be so neatly wrapped in one soft-spoken Blerd from a two-bit Chicago suburb? His talent, bluntly put, was eating pussy. He would go into a frenzied trance, seeming to come back to reality with a shocked jump if I made a request, covered from his forehead to his beard in my pussy juices.

Any part of his face that could muff dive would be deep inside, licking, salivating, sucking, and tasting all I had to offer. The flicking and rolling against my clitoris always drove me crazy, making me gush and throb in orgasmic satisfaction. I would writhe and grind on his face like I was workin' it at a blue light basement party. His touch made me feel weightless and free, forgetting all the bullshit of the day-to-day. The friction of his talented tongue made me cling to him, and all I ever wanted was for him to suck me, fuck me, and hold me in his arms. Had we not clashed so much during waking hours, I would have given anything to be his little cumslut sex slave. He might have worshipped my pussy with his gifted mouth and tongue, but I belonged to him, because he bound me in submission with the power of sex.

It's always the quiet ones who usually have the most talent. He didn't brag about what he would or could do to me, but rather told me what he liked. He told me what he'd studied, opting to show me what his raw talent was capable of. When Jill Scott says you can get dick-motized, she meant it. Behind those large, brown eyes was a big dick energy demon with an addiction to making women cum. His innocence masked his ability to make me do his bidding without question.

I don't want to wax soft poetics about how we made love, or even how we fucked. We definitely fucked, and I definitely left some wet spots that soaked the mattress and sent my soul closer to heaven. Those tales will take forever, and all I can say is that the cosmos opened right on my bedroom ceiling. Angels sang, children were almost made, and I found my g-spot. I want to tell you about the hot Summer night when I felt like a glowing goddess when he spread me wide and ate me well. I want to tell you about the moment where I came and came and came, and between my fat and shaking legs was the king of the altar of my love. Women like me are rarely worshipped, and I felt what he gave me deep within my soul. It was definitely spiritual and more than just some young lovers' game. I can only describe the "spiritual" side as a swirling, squirming, spinning sensation that could hardly be contained inside the human body. It was a warm sensation that pulsated all over, and turned me into a wriggling, moaning, scrambled-in-the-brain mess. His passion and my pleasure collided and showed me the beauty I possessed.

The request/desire was simple: "I want to eat you out over and over until you can't take it anymore."

Oh, ok. Sounds like fun. How many men promise that, and tap out after about twenty minutes? I knew he was different because I had the proof stains on my mattress. If I didn't cum, he didn't stop. If he couldn't feel my whole pussy throbbing and shaking, it wasn't over. If I wasn't shaking and sweating, he wasn't doing his duty there. His track record and my hoarse voice spoke for themselves. Still, jaws get tired, tongues get numb—I was so sure I was going to make him tap out and go home.

I wasn't feeling particularly sexy at the time, sweating from head to fupa in 80-something degree Chicago Summer weather. I'd thrown on a cheap, green tank top and a bohemian green maxi skirt, just to have something on when my boyfriend came to visit. Being ever so cheeky (and honestly, not in the mood for extra layers touching my fat body), I decided to go commando that day. The phat, slightly hairy caramel brown goddess known as "Miss Glam" was free and feeling the breeze. A part of me knew that at some point, he was going to either fuck me or feel me up anyway. Why not let him have full access?

Down on his knees he went, with large and warm palms planted firmly on my big thighs, as he positioned himself under my skirt. The green layers settled near my stomach as he made his way to the familiar territory of my pussy. I loved the way his large hands delicately touched my body, stroking my big thighs and round stomach. He always took his time whenever he touched me.

How can I describe his technique? At the start of our intimacy, he admitted that he took tips from porno, but put his own spin on it. He was definitely gifted and creative, anxious to taste. Pussy was a treasured dish that he studied and worshipped. Cunnilingus was more than just a word, but rather a religion he was most devoted to. I wouldn't call what I felt fear, but rather shock at who he was behind closed doors. Soft-spoken, but horny. Mellow, but very hands-on when it came to my body.

He warmed up with gentle clit licks as if he were trying to savor high-end gourmet ice cream. The warmth of his wide, slick tongue against the sweat and moisture of my pussy was heaven. I squirmed, taking in the sensations of his gentle touch as he eased his way into satisfying me. I swear I could feel the texture of his tongue against my clitoris, and closing my eyes seemed to intensify the feeling. The slickness of his spit and my sweat made him slither and slip with ease. The heat of his breath made my toes curl. His admirable commitment to the task of worship felt so good because he put his heart into it. Savoring licks faded into lusty laps, and he spelled his name between labia minora and clitoris, making my hips shiver and buck just a little bit. I spread my legs a little bit more, aching for him to go deeper and a little faster with his tongue. He licked, he sucked, he slid a fat finger deep inside my pussy, stroking my g-spot with loving care. I bit my lips, feeling myself breaking out into a sweat on top of my already moist body. I felt myself growing inside his mouth, heat rising all over my body. I was hot, and he knew it. He started going a little bit faster, and I could hear a little slurping between licks.

I wrapped my hands around his head, gently gripping his soft, dark, curly hair. Laps became dripping wet sucks and savor, and he was snaking his way around my fully swollen clit, multitasking between finger fucking, drinking juices, and relentlessly pressing his face deeper and deeper into the sacred altar. To say I was going crazy would be an understatement. I was beyond crazy. I was bathing in indescribable ecstasy. There's a moment of sex I like to call "brain-scrambling"—it's the point where existence is questioned, despite knowing you're in your skin. Your heart races, your mind races, and the blood in your body is definitely pumping. Words become gibberish or screams, and madness takes over your hips, your hands, and anything else capable of movement. It all feels so good, and you can't help yourself. You don't care if you make sense.Fuck it.FUCK, it all feels so good.

I know he liked seeing me go crazy, given how many hours of screwball and goof I put him through. When he was in control, I submitted to his bidding. I was the slave to his will. Being so soft-spoken, nobody would ever expect such a show of power from him. It was by far the sexiest thing about who he was behind closed doors. When Daddy was in command, I had no choice but to listen. Good girls get to cum hard if they listen.

Spread wide, I was trembling in sweaty ecstasy, grinding my pussy in his face. I fucked his tongue, his nose, his lips, and even his itchy ass beard and soul patch. He was rolling his tongue at that point, flawlessly switching between stroking my clitoris and helping me lift my hips to press my moist, throbbing self on top of his big, pink, perfect tongue. I didn't give a fuck that my essence was all over the couch cover. I wasn't worried that my juices were coating his tongue, and would surely cause his beard to smell like pussy on the ride home. He had me where he wanted me, at his sexual mercy and vulnerable to the command of his touch.

I threw my head back, bucking and grinding. I tried to hold on to the arm of the couch, getting mine while he was definitely getting a version of his own. I was groaning and falling deep into a wild trance, and he loved every moment of it, big eyes concentrated on the pink and brown throbbing mass of sexuality before him, trying to make me cum furiously with all his nasty ass might. I was fighting back, not ready to cum. I wasn't ready to bust anything, anywhere despite the edging feeling of my orgasm rising to the top. The rolling throbs from deep inside, the full-on bright pink of my own clitoris at full attention, and his fingers on the g-spot trigger let me know I was not in control.

I stiffened up, I groaned loudly as I rolled my hips, and I came, helpless and wet. He licked me one good and long last time, gently petting and French kissing my pussy from clit to minora. I tried pushing him away, and he dodged my denial. He pushed my hand away. My pussy was his. HIS. Who was I to deny?

It's funny, because back then I thought I had the power. HE was on his knees, worshipping at MY altar. HE was the one who made the request, and I was the one grabbing his head and gettin' MINE. I was getting off, not him. I thought I was in control, until I realized years later that HE was in command of my orgasm. I was just there, hearing Prince singing Come in my head. Again, Mr. Six-Foot-Three was the one who stated that the woman's pleasure was also his. What he failed to mention was that a woman's pleasure was his means of dominance. She would always want more.

I tapped out, requesting fifteen minutes to remember how to breathe. I needed water, a stiff drink, and a reminder that I was very much alive. He smirked, sitting next to me and watching TV. Not once did he wipe his beard or spit. Whatever I squirted or came, he swallowed every drop. All I could see was the usual sweat and pussy moisture. It glistened under the den lights, conditioned in flecks of white and black on his luscious face. All I could feel was my pussy, trying to recover throb by throb. I shifted my skirt, feeling the slick wetness of sweat, spit, and juices. The heat started not to matter. When my fifteen had passed, he was back on his knees.

Mr. Six-Foot-Three lifted my skirt again, diving back into the pussy and singing the praises of the sacred space with the beauty of his tongue. Once again, I was helplessly spreading, and once again he was sliding fat fingers deep inside.

Lick, lick, lick...

I could feel myself shaking already.

Slurp, lick, lick...

I closed my eyes and savored his technique. Round and round my clit with his tongue, slower this time. The intent was intense, and his "come hither" with his finger deep inside drove me crazy. He beckoned, and I began to grind. I was still very slick and very tender from the first round, still trying to be the strong female rebel under his power. It was useless, as the super-wet surface made it easier for him to get me hot again. It all happened so quickly, and before I could push him away, he planted his lips on my clitoris and started to suck me like a Top-Notch Burger milkshake. I cried out, grinding on him once more and letting my hips savor the pleasure of his technique. I could feel my heart rattling all over my chest as I humped, pumped, and slid all over his face. Two fingers quickly popped inside, stroked me gently, and there was no time to react. I hissed and cussed, cumming helplessly to his touch.

I hated him for being so in touch with my body, but lowkey loved that he was in such complete control. When he stood up, I grabbed my digital camera and took a picture of his face. I came so hard that I squirted on his beard. He looked so mellow and proud of his work, walking away to get a towel.

"Wanna go again?"

I was horrified at the idea, yet intrigued. There's a threshold of pleasure and pain that I dared not to cross, but the passionate side of myself wanted more of him. He'd have to go home at some point, and I couldn't let him leave me hanging. I shrugged my shoulders and asked for another fifteen minutes. Ever the defense queen, I kept trying to act like he didn't boil my goddamned potatoes and whip me up like a Sunday dinner side dish. I think he knew better, looking at my sweaty face and wide-open eyes.

The last round didn't last long, as Miss Glam had reached her peak. It felt good, of course, and was the standard quickie pussy eating. He took his time in the last round, kind of like a fitness cool down. We grooved together, with him sucking and licking with care, and my hips grinding and pressing up against him slowly with care. My legs were spread wide, and my hands were yet again running through his hair. I closed my eyes and focused on how he made me feel. The heat from his mouth made me bite my lips. The technique of his tongue swirls made my nipples hard. We moved like a Quiet Storm R&B song from the 90s, and the shockwave orgasm washed over me with his tongue deep inside. I shivered one last time, he stroked my thighs, and it was all over.

He treated me like a sacred earth goddess that night, and I ended up getting some good ass sleep that night. He showed me a kind of love and honor that every woman should feel and receive from her partner.