to satisfy your lover
By our woman who is no stranger to eating out, Miranda S Givings
Our webmistress gets a bit fruity and ends up with a very dirty pair of knickers..
I have just left my lover in a state of complete exhaustion that even a troop of Essex' sexiest teen sluts wearing nothing more than split-crotch panties could arouse him from. Indeed, such was his repletion, that when I tiptoed from the boudoir to type this record of our amours, his smile was so wide that I fear he may never again be able to grip a Romeo y Julietta half-corona between his teeth.
But I am rushing ahead; you are no doubt agog to know how my beloved came to reach such a pitch of sensory fulfillment and why I am typing this wearing nothing but a rather torn and excessively moist, black lace thong covered in suspicious looking, green stains?
It all began prosaically enough when I was popping some undies into
the tumble dryer and debating whether or not to sit on top and think
of England. The tumble-drier that is, not the undies. I am proud to
say that lust won over maidenly modesty, and hitching up my black Kevin
Stein mini-skirt halfway up my beautifully tanned, silken thighs, I
parked my adorably pert bottom on the tumble dryer and waited for a
becoming moistness to gather around my hardening love button. No sooner
had the first tremours which always presage these moving experiences
for me, begun to ripple through my thighs, than I heard the familiar
tones of my lover over the pleasing hum of Germany's finest vibrating
Unfortunately I did not come—or 'cum'—as you hopelessly
verbally challenged young people insist on spelling the word which falls
so frequently from your lips, but I suspect is not at all well understood,
as my little tale will shortly reveal.
But I digress. You want to know what we did together after Michael found me in the high state of sexual arousal which his precipitate entrance abruptly arrested. Well, you shall, my darlings, you shall. My lover had brought some delicious smoked fish with him from Germany which sadly will not be something that most of you have ever eaten. Suffice it to say that those who have, know it to be a delicacy of surpassing excellence not to be compared with the awful muck my readers shovel down their necks in the 'burger bars' they frequent. I therefore proposed Michael whip up a light salad while I uncorked a bottle or three of a particularly light and fruity Californian Zinfandel.
Ten minutes later we sat down to a delightful repast whilst Michael regaled me with an amusing anecdote about a Spanish waiter whom he had encountered on his trip to Berlin. It appeared that this dim-witted Latino had developed an insatiable crush for a rather large and loud American woman who was staying at the Hotel Michael had booked into. Suffice it to say that the waiter bit off rather more than he could chew and was, quite literally caught by the manager, with his pants down in the lift!
By the time we had finished eating and were well into our second bottle of plonk, Michael had managed to divest me of my blouse and bra and was diligently employed in renewing his sinuous tongue's long familiarity with my breasts. So assiduous was he in paying equal attention to both nipples (so as not to cause the slightest jealously) that his fingers' exploration of my knickers was a somewhat hit and miss affair. Those of you who have caressed a woman's nipples with your tongue whilst simultaneously fingering her love button in a sufficiently expert manner to arouse her ardour and poured wine with your other hand at the same time, will know how difficult it is to give equal concentration to all these tasks while the woman has her hand around your giggle stick.
Naturally, Michael failed, but he failed heroically and we women appreciate
a man who gives his all in the pursuit of the satisfaction of his beloved.
I did not have long to wait, nor was I disappointed. The first sensation
was something round, hard, yet silky smooth, being gently pressed between
my parted thighs. I reached down to touch the mysterious intruder only
to have my hand peremptorily slapped away. Slowly the object, which
I now perceived was a small ball, was pushed under my increasingly wet
knickers. Another soon followed it and another. The most indescribably
exquisite sensations flooded through me as my lover's dexterous tongue
proceeded to induce the mysterious spheroids to commence a languorous
dance around the engorged entrance to my love tunnel.
I was trembling in every limb and had all but swooned away when the
odiferous fruit was suddenly transferred to my startled lips. Its honeyed
liquor was mingled with the sweet wine of my own copious love juices
and I licked my lips in grateful ecstasy.
For those of you who have never tasted an English greengage fresh from the tree in your own garden, let me attempt to describe the experience to you. The fruit is round and about an inch and a quarter in diameter. When fully ripe, it is a golden, transparent green—flushed with pink and purple highlights. The skin resembles nothing so much as a beautiful woman's bottom, silky smooth, and wonderfully soft and giving to the touch. Pass the fruit before you nose and you are at once rewarded with the most wonderful perfume; redolent of languid summer days, heady like a peach, spicy like a freshly cut apple, yet more complex than either and overlaid with all the luxuriance of the finest attar of Rose. If Chanel could mix such a scent, women would kill for it.
And then you delicately take it between your softly parted lips, (or in my case, my labia) and bite into the flesh. Ah! The sweetness is beyond description. So intensely honeyed it almost burns your mouth with its sweetness, yet like all Nature's fruits, never sickly in the way that man-made sweets are. But wait... there is another surprise, for as the flesh melts in your mouth and the sticky juices thrill your tongue, you encounter a delicious sharpness; a tang of apple-like crispness as you chew the skin and slowly dislodge the remaining flesh from the little stone inside.
Of course, by this time I was on my third or fourth orgasm and eagerly opened my legs to admit the author of my bliss into my dripping sanctuary. I shall, of course, draw a discreet veil over what occurred thereafter, but suffice it to say that Michael was as inventive and inexhaustible in his exploration of my love tunnel as he had been in his consummately original foreplay.
I shall no doubt continue to glow for some considerable time and I do not think I shall be needing to sit on the tumble dryer or in the jacuzzi until we have run out of greengages which Michael assures me will last out the week—even allowing for my excessive demands!
Neither will I take these knickers off. In fact I think I shall wrap
them up with a couple of greengages and post them to one of you young,
© 2004 utterpants.co.uk / NN 110306