Tongue lashings


As with all things sex, the range of talents displayed in the performance of cunnilingus range from “Was that it?” To “Oh God! Oh my fucking God! Oh fuck! OH FUCK! Yes! YES! FUCKING YESSSS!” Some rush at it, some luxuriate in it. I’m probably going to shatter a well held belief here; but in my opinion, women are not inherently better than men. Yes, I know I have a cunt and I know how it likes to be treated, but that’s just it; I know how my cunt likes to be treated. A woman going down on me for the first time has no more knowledge or experience of the way I like to be licked than a man in that same position does. Anyway, I digress…

In a way, I was lucky. I had about 18 months or so of “oral only” relationships before I lost my virginity. I discovered very quickly that one way of ensuring I was on the receiving end of some pretty good cunnilingus was to have the guy go down on me first. Suck the guy off first and he pretty much lost interest as soon as he’d blown his load in my mouth, but promising him a blow-job after he’d seen to my needs always seemed to make a guy raise his game. He didn’t have to make me come, although nine times out of ten I would, but he did have to make an effort to pleasure me. My mouth was going nowhere his cock until I was thoroughly eaten out. The guys I went with at this stage quickly learned that the way to my mouth was through my cunt.

It was one particularly intense tongue lashing that led to me reward the guy in question by letting him take my virginity. He had always had a particular talent (it’s not generally a talent you associate with the teenage male, but he knew the more he put into his efforts, the more rewarding it would be for him). He knew how to take me slowly to boiling point and then keep me there. He knew when “Please, no more!” meant “Don’t even think about stopping!” and when it actually meant I really couldn’t take any more. And on that perfect late summer afternoon during half-term, a few weeks after my 16th birthday, having licked me and fingered me into a quivering mess of hot, sweaty, over-climaxed Morag, I begged him to fuck me; and fuck me he did.

In a similar way, Master C is one of those men that luxuriates in going down on a woman. For Him it is never a something to be performed perfunctorily, to be got out of the way quickly before moving on to the main event. For Master C, performing cunnilingus is an event in its own right. When He’s going down on me, that is what Master C is concentrating on. He’s licking me, teasing me, turning me on, taking me to the precipice again and again before, finally letting me come. Sometimes Master C can have me coming in virtually no time at all; at other times He can keep me on the edge for what seems like forever. Sometimes He’ll deliver a series of shudderingly sharp climaxes, at other times Master C builds me up gradually to one powerful finalé that leaves me utterly drained.

As I said, I’ve been extremely fortunate. I’ve known a couple of men who, like Master C and “The Other Guy”, put their heart and soul into the performance of cunnilingus; men who really know how to use their tongues to maximise the pleasure they give; men who take their pleasure from knowing how much I enjoy what their mouths are doing to me.

Most men know how to use their cocks, but a man who also knows how to use their tongue is truly special.

#MasturbationMonday The Oral Sex Project

Call me


I’ve been a way for a while, for a number of reasons; some of them nice, some of them not so much. I’ll leave it there and won’t burden you with the details.

My experience with phone sex is somewhat one sided. It invariably involves Master C phoning me when He is away from home on business and giving me some very explicit instructions.

He will tell me which bits of me to play with; my nipples, my cunt, and what to use; my fingers, a particular toy.

He will tell me how much pressure to apply to my clit, how tight and how hard to squeeze and pull my nipples, how hard and how deep to finger-fuck my cunt and how many fingers to use.

As Master C instructs me, He calls me His “filthy slut”, His “Dirty whore”. I confess that I am. I tell Him how bad I have been, letting Him know how much I need His correction.

He tells me how He will punish me when He returns home; how He will bind and restrain me, how many deliciously painful strokes of His belt I will feel on my arse.

The words that Master C speaks are every bit as arousing as the things He makes me do to myself.

At His command, the silky cold glass plug is pushed up my arse.

Another instruction and I fasten the clamps around my nipples.

My fingers fill my cunt as Master C tells me to fuck myself more firmly; stopping occasionally to be allowed to lick my juices from their surface.

The tension builds inside me as I dutifully follow His every instruction.

Will He give me permission to come, or will He hang-up and leave me waiting for further direction?

My passion flares.

My need for release grows stronger with every second.

Have I pleased Him? Will He let my have my orgasm?

The tension mounts unbearably as I wait for Master C to announce my fate.

Finally


It’s such a wonderful feeling. The relief is as overwhelming as it is instantaneous.

Pushed to the brink of my endurance, taken to the very edge and the held there for what seems an eternity. I am way beyond tears. I no longer have the energy to sob and moan in my frustration. Every nerve inside me burns. The tension inside me is so great, I feel as if I would snap in two at the slightest pressure.

For minutes that seem like hours, days, an eternity, He has held me in that place, that deliciously agonising limbo

A slow boil.

A vigorous simmering.

The pressure mounting interminably, but the release valve locked tightly shut.

I want to explode. My need for release is a physical pain, burning through me. I both love and hate what He is forcing me to endure; craving release from my torment while knowing the longer He denies me, the sweeter, more exquisite will be my final surrender.

He is a maestro, a virtuoso; he plays my body skilfully and effortlessly. He has played and conducted his latest symphony upon me; and as the crescendo builds inside me, growing ever more intense, I await that flick of the conductor’s batton that will signal the grand finalé.

My breathing is pained. Lights flash with brilliant luminescence behind my tightly shut eyes. And then I hear His instruction, I hear the words I have been waiting an eternity for Him to utter.

Two words; that is all He says. Two words that, when obeyed, ignite my climax. Two words that will give me instant relief and such intense pleasure.

Two words said softly.

Two words.

“Touch yourself.”