Free Women in Lust by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page B

his tongue smooth slow and wide up from the bottom of my pussy to my clit, and I gasped and let my legs fall farther open, which was nearly impossible. He’d ripple his tongue up across me, never exactly settling in any one spot but instead touching my whole pussy, all at once. Then he’d focus back in, suckling hard and fast, with such a quick change that I’d see stars and start to beat the bed.
    My hips got good and stretched that season with Jimmy—he could spend a whole lot of time between my legs. At first, thinking he was just really into foreplay, like I said, I figured he’d give my pussy the same few licks and half suckle that my other boyfriends had offered, anxiously humping the mattress in anticipation of the real thing. But no. Jimmy languished there, lavished attention, bathed me in sensation and pleasure, built a kind of longing I hadn’t known before—and, frankly, haven’t known since. Now, that’s just between us.
    Jimmy would use his hands to hold me open, and his whole mouth, his nose and chin and cheeks. He’d fuck me with his tongue, then lap at me with the full flat of it, wriggle the tip across my clit, then capture the fat little head between his thin lips and suckle first gently, then more sharply, as I came. And came. And came.
    He got me off so many times when he was down there, like that was the whole point. Can you imagine? He may have come in his hand or his pants sometimes—I never really knew; I was too busy screaming and lost in the pillows, grabbing his head, shoving my hips up into his face, sometimes capturing my tits in my own hands (if I wanted any other part of my body to get some attention, I had to give it myself; Jimmy was nothing if not focused).

    I felt gluttonous, fat and lazy and joyful, those few months—like I had something someone could gorge himself on, and yet I came out the other side deeply satiated.
    I offered to return the favor, though I was terrified he might accept; I’d always gagged on boyfriends’ cocks in the past, and I couldn’t keep it up for very long in those days. But Jimmy dismissed my offering, not as ridiculous, exactly—more like something sweet but silly, like how your folks smile at you when you tell them you’re going to build them a big house on the moon someday.
    He just urged me to settle back and set himself to slowly licking again, practically feeding, and I would close my eyes and forget that any other kind of sex existed.
    And even though things came to a near-screeching halt when, first, Jimmy called me Meredith while his tongue was buried thick between my pussy lips, and then when my coworker Brenda started describing this great guy she was seeing, who ate her pussy for hours and made her feel more beautiful than she had ever imagined feeling. Jimmy changed something in me, opened me up to my body in ways I hadn’t imagined before he set me up on a throne of my own pillows, gently pushed my legs apart and told me, before bending down at the waist so I could watch his broad back and light curly hair descend onto me, “My god, Stephanie—you are so pretty.”
    I get worked up about it even now—just look at my hands shaking. He wanted to make all the girls feel beautiful, I guess. After Brenda, I didn’t return Jimmy’s calls anymore, didn’t open the door for him when he came over. He left two messages on my answering machine, though: the first one was so dirty that I erased it before he was halfway through describing what he wanted to make a date with me to do, and the second was so simple: “Please let me see you, Stephanie. I miss how you
taste.” It was so honest; I don’t mind telling you, I got all wet just hearing those words. Maybe it was a mistake to pick my pride—or my self-respect, I’m not sure which it was—over the magic of his mouth. But what’s done is done, of course. And Max and I have a fine time together. Nobody wants to be the Queen of Sheba all the time in bed anyway, does she?

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