I have a boyfriend. A lovely, kinky, dominant-in-all-the-right-ways boyfriend. He relieved me of my cumbersome virginity (More on that in subsequent posts). He eats pussy like he needs it to survive. And he likes things up his bum – tongues, fingers, implements. He’s an adventurous chap.
At first I was sceptical. He wanted to do it to me, I wasn’t comfortable with his face being that close to the bit of anatomy that makes, as we so charmingly call them “Donalds”. Or mine for that matter, but mostly his. His adoration of my arse was still something of a mystery. Well, not quite. I could absolutely understand why he liked to take his hand, paddle, or even my hairbrush to it. I was just finding it difficult to get a handle on why he wanted to bury his face in it.
He didn’t care. He wanted to do it. And I looked at him askance and carried on sucking his cock.
Some time later, we were taking a bath together (we are twee fuckers and no mistake) and the subject came up again. We were soaped up. Our bums were in the optimum state for rimming. The run up went something like this:
‘I want to do this to you.’ he said.
‘Why?’ I said, not unreasonably.
‘Because. Because I do. I like your bum. Love it, in fact.’ he said.
‘And you like it being done to you?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. “It feels…. amazing.” He might have been soaping my foot at the time, stroking bath bubbles up and down the pink, crinkled sole. Examining my chubby toes. I was reluctant to move from the warm cocoon of the bath and his gentle touch. But if there was a time to do it, now was absolutely that time.
I said ‘ok then’, and stood up, slightly wobblily in the bath. Part of me just wanted to get it over and done with, but another part was astounded I’d agreed to let a man put his mouth so close to such a gross part of my anatomy, however clean it was. I tried to quieten the voices of my anxiety and germphobia.
I wanted to do it for him.
I knew he wouldn’t push the matter and would live without it if I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want to deny him anything.
It was…… anticlimactic. I didn’t feel dirty, or exposed or deviant. I didn’t feel anything at all, other than a little let down by my nerve endings, and that there was little point in his doing it to me if all I got was cramp in my thigh from being bent over whilst he went to work.
‘I’m sorry.’ I said, turning back around to face him.
‘It’s ok.’ He was smiling. He’s perfect.
‘And now you….’ I grinned shyly, apprehensive again for an entirely different reason.
We swapped over, and I, very gingerly, repeated the process on him.
The noise from him. The noise I ache to hear, that seems to flow from his chest like fire and sets contented pleasure flowing through my veins The tension that wobbled in his knees as soon as the tip of my tongue flickered gently against his skin and proved how much he wanted it.
It surprised me how swift and powerful his response was.
It was just as Belle de Jour once wrote, that “the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else.”
Well, on some people at least.
On my person for sure.
After a moment or two more – I drew away and he sat back down and reached for the shampoo. Now we knew the lay of the land, the laying on of tongues could wait for another time.
But now I could picture myself knelt behind him with my wrists crossed against my lower back, or being permitted to stroke his cock from the same position, if I’d been particularly good.
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