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Could I live the rest of my life without oral sex? I wondered about this not long ago while folding laundry.

Definitely, I decided. The g-spot is where it’s at for me these days. As long as my partner would be willing to work over my g-spot and hard, I’d be perfectly content to leave the clit-lickery behind.

After the laundry was folded, I visited a friend. After ripping off our clothes, we went at it hammer and tongs until I was swollen, juicy and ready to burst. “Lick me,” I demanded, mostly because extreme arousal makes me wildly bossy.

He grabbed my hips and yanked me down closer to where he knelt between my thighs. I shrieked in surprised delight. And then he fell to as though I were the first meal he’d tasted after a forty day stint in the desert.

It was less like being given oral and more like being eaten alive. With broad tongue-strokes he licked me from bottom to top and back again. He swirled his tongue around my ass. No matter how freshly washed I am, no matter how many times he does this, no matter how much I adore it, I blush and wiggle from that kind of attention.

He moved his tongue to my vagina; I swear he stroked my g-spot with it. His hands went beneath my hips, and I took the encouragement to lift my hips high off the floor.

And then finally he turned his attention fully to my clit, sucking hard, pulling it in his mouth and humming. I’d come already from his enthusiastic tonguing, but after a moaned request for the addition of fingers in my vagina, I lost my head.

As I folded up yet another mound of laundry the next day, I enjoyed the residual tingle between my legs and rethought my previous position on oral sex. Give it up? The way he does it?

Never.

******

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