Why do I love to eat you?
It’s sort of rude, I know, to jump in to the topic at hand without any foreplay, no teasing, no delicious meandering around the point. But just like that act, I am so eager I find it hard to restrain myself. Hungry to start.
Why am I writing this down? When I’ve told you so many times before how much I love to go down on you? The more I commit words to paper, the more I’m afraid that you’ll see me as a deviant, a single-minded pervert. I do have a concern that this will turn you off, or scare you off. You’ve said that you don’t think you’re enough for me sometimes. You are. I want you–completely. And I would like you to understand me. That’s all. I am tentative and nervous, awaiting your judgment of these words.
Is this crude? Maybe. It isn’t written to be, but I can see how it could be taken that way. It is written by a man, not a woman. I can use words like fuck, cunt and pussy interchangeably with female fruit and flower, without turning the slightest shade of pink–no embarrassment or shame. I am not a woman, and I unapologetically do not speak like one.
You may think, “is this all he wants out of me, to be something I could never fulfill? Would no end of ravenous devouring quench him?” True, I would worship your pussy as much as you would let me. If you ask for it twice or three times in one day, I can accommodate you. But it is not my expectation. I do not need to lick you time and time again until you are raw and throbbing. I do not require being fed your beautiful fruit each and every day. I will take what you can offer readily and thankfully. Like a polite child offered a chocolate bar, I will greedily accept what I am given and try not to beg for more.
Do I love only to eat you? No. I love all of you, and I love to take your body in any of the ways you can give it to me. I love fucking you in every single way. But this way is special to me, deserving of explanation and exposition. Don’t think I don’t love every other part of making love, gazing into your eyes, holding your pretty face in my hands, petting and stroking you, admiring every other part of your beautiful body. I do. Don’t think I don’t love our life as partners, as husband and wife, our friendship, our life together, and everything that happens outside the bedroom. I do. There are other times and places to explain those feelings though.
You’ve asked me several times before, wondering at my devotion to lapping at you. I know exactly why I love eating you. We were young, my first and only love. We could do anything, full of youth and excitement at everything. Our bodies constantly vibrated like tuning forks, frequencies tuned to each other. We were in my car. Fooling around like many times before. In our overprotective intelligence, we didn’t fuck, vaginally anyway. I wouldn’t let us. I had a deathly fear of becoming a teenage pregnancy statistic. Maybe we were being too cautious, but kissing and fondling were the only items on the menu.
And of course oral sex. I ate you with a hunger that couldn’t be contained. I was a sexual act waiting to happen, hormones and lust personified. The closest I would let myself get to the “real thing” was to go down on you. And I did so voraciously. You were a succulent female fruit, finally open for exploration after all my teenage yearning. The taste of you was the first taste I had of raw sex. All my lustful young energy was focused on eating your beautiful cunt for months and months on end, training me to worship your pussy.
I made you come for the first time under my tongue. The first time *ever*. I felt like a god. The surprise you had when your tension was finally released: your eyes full of wonder. “This is what it feels like, what everyone’s talking about, what I’d been missing?” you asked me. You hadn’t ever masturbated before then. My mouth had the privilege of being the first to introduce you to the pure pleasure of sex. My pride was as stiff as my cock.
I remember when we were young and had no homes of our own. In our car on a lonely country road. Both tired, but neither of us wanted to end the night, to separate to our parent’s houses, to end our precious time together. I had rubbed your shoulders, your body. You were relaxed, almost asleep. I was languidly kissing and suckling at your vulva while massaging your ass, cupping your cheeks with my hands. Without any warning at all, you came. Just like that. From a state of complete relaxation, almost asleep, you suddenly cried out and grabbed my head as you spasmed. Even you were surprised as it came out of nowhere; I could see the shock and surprise on your face. The pleasure I felt at your instant orgasm filled me, and since I was already so excited from sucking on you, without any stimulation I came in my shorts.
Another time I was satisfying you with my mouth. I was slow and my tongue made lazy circles on your clit as I nursed on you. You came, cradling my head to you in your hands. Although you came, I had just started and hadn’t yet eaten my fill. I was persistent: I didn’t change rhythm, didn’t speed up, didn’t stop, but just kept gently sucking your cunt, before, during and after your orgasm. Instead of pushing me off immediately to stop the stimulation on your raw swollen pussy, you relented. You let me continue, gently stroking my hair. At first, you were quite sensitive, but after a while you relaxed. Soon, you were bucking your hips against my mouth, trying to satisfy yourself a second time. And you did, coming once again in my mouth.
I remember these early events in our sex life, very clearly, almost as if it were yesterday. Every time you came was novel and unique, and burned on my memory like a brand, molding my sexual cravings. I saw that I could bring you pleasure with my mouth, tongue, and fingers, and as a lover I sought your pleasure instead of my own. I spent many waking moments dreaming of your cunt, and she unconsciously formed part of my being. Being before her, worshipping at her altar.
Am I a pervert or fetishist for craving to eat your pussy? Admittedly, it is abnormal. Normal husbands and boyfriends don’t appear to go there, visiting only as a perfunctory act when all else has failed. Nor do most porn actors and actresses, focusing instead on the almighty cock, apparently setting normal sex acts by example to the hoards of men who watch it. So many tales about girlfriends of yours who would love to be licked, waiting in silent desperation yet complaining to their friends about their uneaten pussies. Their husbands are more than happy to feed their wives their cocks, and they distain from returning the favor. Maybe once a year on her birthday, Christmas maybe, they can muster up the courage. All those unsatisfied women, who can’t or won’t beg their husbands to lick them. Even if they could, they would almost certainly be rebuffed. Yes, I am different. I can’t imagine that selfishness. I don’t think of that place being dirty or smelly. I live to be a slave to your cunt. I can’t wait to service you. I am abnormal in this way, so in my abnormality I must be a pervert by definition.
You call it my lick fantasy. It is one of the earliest fantasies I’ve shared with you, simply where you lay back with wide spread legs and let me tease you, lick you, suck you, tongue you, as long as I want. And I take hours, reveling in the act, tickling every surface of your pussy and your clit with my tongue. Sucking and slurping and spreading and stretching your lips, gently clasping them between my own. You let me continue as long as I want, laying back and absorbing the pleasure. I’m not unnecessarily teasing you, but reveling in your femaleness. This fantasy is one of many, the first and most basic, most primal. I have many, many ways to dream about going down on you. In my fantasies, you are always greedy. You take, take, take, receiving everything my mouth can dish out. And you never ask.
You have a long day at work, and you come home frustrated and exhausted. You’re wearing a business suit with a skirt. You open the door, and almost thoughtlessly, like reflexively getting a cold beer after a hard day, you sit on the couch and hike up your skirt. You’re not wearing panties. You look at me, expectantly, wordlessly. I know what to do to calm you down.
You come home from jogging or biking. Heavy exercise, sweaty exercise. You are salty and musky, ripe and fragrant. Your pull down your shorts, revealing yourself to be swollen, hot, and moist with sweat. Before you shower, you beg me to clean you off.
It’s the middle of the night. Two or three in the morning. Everything is dead silent; I’m asleep beside you. You can’t sleep, and you’re horny. Without thinking about it, without worrying about depriving me of sleep or startling me, you wake me by clamping your pussy over my mouth. I wake up with my face full of you, and you use me as your personal vibrator to bring yourself off so you can sleep.
We’re in a movie theater, almost empty but not quite. I’m focused on the movie and not you. The movie has made you hot and bothered, and you scoot down in your seat, sliding up your skirt. You insistently nudge my head downwards, until I understand and am between your legs as the movie plays on.
We’re having a dinner party. Our friends arrive in 15 minutes, and you urgently beg me to service you, *right now*. We sneak off to the bathroom, and I obediently devour you. You come for me, just in time for the doorbell. Now that you’re finished, you quickly pull up your panties and pants and nonchalantly answer the door. All the while I’m rushing to wash your pussy juice off my face and desperately trying to suppress my giant erection so I can greet our friends.
I want you to rub my face in it. Not daintily dabbing my face like a cotton ball. Using your spread lips as a washcloth to wipe down my face. Pretending your pussy is a sander, and you are trying to grind off my nose. Or that my nose is a pencil, and your pussy hole is a pencil sharpener. I want to breath only your cunt, and your moisture to coat my face.
There are many variations of fantasies like this. You are demanding of your worshipful slave. Silent because the expectation is understood, you don’t need to ask. No reciprocation is required or desired. You’ve overcome your timidness in getting what you want, understanding my lust for your pussy is real and constant. You feel no compulsion to be polite, not callous but cavalier, you know there is no requirement for build-up on my part, and no possible way you could ever be rejected. You have an urge that must be satisfied, and I am always ready and waiting to taste your female flesh.
I have no way of knowing your natural desired frequency for the act; I’m always insistently begging you to sit on my face. I don’t know how much you would need it if I wasn’t there to ask. I would hope that you too would crave it often. Please understand these words are real. They aren’t an elaborate parable for making you feel good about your body or your “dirty bits”, even if they may have that effect. If you have a hunger for my tongue, even if a fleeting thought crosses your dirty mind, would that you overcome your shyness and demand it, knowing that my heart would leap for joy in pleasuring you.
Am I eating just a pussy attached to a body? Any pussy will do? An object? I’m eating you, my lover. Your pussy isn’t just a thing I use to satiate my lust, it’s a gateway to your soul. My carnal caresses are the most primal way I can connect to you. I seek your orgasm, and through it, I connect to the core of you.
I wish there was an equivalent of deepthroating for a pussy. An act of special sexual athleticism, requiring repeated training to overcome one’s body’s limits. I would practice and perfect my cunt deepthroating skills, taking you deeper until I could do it without choking or gagging. Unfortunately, there is not. I want to become an expert, to understand your pussy like no other. This is the best I can offer instead.
I hate your period. It causes you pain, and embarrassment, and mess, and makes you uncomfortable. I hate it for those reasons. Admittedly selfish, I also hate it because it deprives me of my pleasure. You won’t let me feed on you during your period. Not that I’d necessarily want to, I don’t want to taste your blood. I know you are just trying to keep me clean, keeping me from your “grossness”. I know if you’ve just cleaned yourself and I stay high near your clit, it’s safe. But I don’t think you’ll grant me those exception cases though. No clemency for the wicked such as me. So instead I try as hard as I can to time my requests, to allow me to go down on you right before, as close to the lockout period as I can. Sometimes I can taste that it’s going to happen very soon when you’re slightly metallic and more pungent. I am aware that I begin to beg you incessantly in the days before your period, and for that I apologize. My only excuse is that I am desperate for my last meal before a long fast. Then I need to wait five long interminable days.
The experience of having my face buried in your warm pink wetness is heavenly. I adore the way your pussy looks: your lips are the petals of an exotic flower, meant to be opened and stroked, tended to by your gardener. You know I love your scent; you often catch me cupping my hand to my face afterwards to concentrate the remaining whiffs of your perfume off my beard and my fingers. A wonderful aroma I can’t resist, like the fragrance of a flower designed by nature to attract bees. I love to taste your honey. To lick it off my fingers when I’m finished. I love the cries and moans you make, the little signals letting me know where I am when navigating you, like an audible map to your pussy’s pleasure zones.
If I am ever flagging, limp, not stiff enough to penetrate you, here is the cure. Let me press my face into your beaver, deeply draw in your scent, suckle at your clit. Let me suck you off, and you can restore me to a rock hard piston instantly.
Have I said too much? Is this too personal, too single-minded, too raw? I apologize for inadvertently offending you with my seemly constant focus on sex. I am a man with a high sex drive. Testosterone pumps my lust for you nearly non-stop. Despite my ability to function as a normal member of society, to perform complex tasks, to hold down a job, to walk, talk, and chew gum, I think of it all the time. Regardless of whether I’m with you or you’re absent, I often think of kneeling before you, pulling down your pants, and satiating you. That’s why you are safe in approaching me at any time; I’ve probably been already thinking about it within the last five minutes.
Your loving and admiring husband.