He stripped me naked, one clothe at a time, his eyes never leaving mine.

My body trembled, where his fingers touched, and my heart pounded, with the anticipation of what he would do to me.

When the last clothe, my cotton panties, came off my legs, he said to me, in that voice that never rose above a whisper. “Lie down.”

I backed to the bed. I did not want my eyes to leave his.

I sat first, then heaved on top, and stretched out on my back.

The room felt hot, but the ceiling fan was on, and rotating at its highest speed. It was the look in his eyes, so steady, so intense, that made me feel hot. I knew this.

He started to take off his own clothes. He never invited me to help in this task. I never volunteered to do so. I was inept in such matters. We both knew it.

When his clothes were off his body, he strode towards the bed, and towards me.

I moved my eyes from his now and lowered them to his shaft. I could not stop my eyes. Always, when he came to my room, and when he approached the bed and me, naked, I stare at his shaft and my mouth dries up, no spittle left in it, as thirst builds.

He was a man. That was how I thought of him—a man. I have seen other men naked without their clothes on and their shaft hanging between their groins. But never have I seen any with a shaft as long, upward curved and thick as his own.

The first time I saw it, that first night he knocked on my door and I opened to invite him in, my eyes had popped and I had actually whimpered.

“Part your legs for me.” He said, standing before me.

I parted my legs from the thighs and spread them wide on the bed.

“What do you want me to do to you tonight?” He asked.

“Everything.” I answered, my voice, like my body quivered. “Do everything to me.”

“Greedy.” He scolded. But his eyes did not reprove. They remained intense and on mine. “Touch where it is you want me to begin.”

I touched my finger, the middle one, on my mons pubis, just above my clitoris. “Begin here.”

“There, it will be then.” He said and lowered to his knees.

It was his breath that first touched me. A swirl of warm breeze from his mouth. He blew it again, trailing his lips along the wall of flesh between my thighs.

I inhaled and my hands clutched on the cotton cloth that covered the bed.

His tongue, the tip of it, stroked from the inner walls of my thighs, caressing and kissing, until it found its way to my mons, and he parted his lips and gently sucked into his mouth the plump flesh.

My breath, in one long hitch, whistled out. He was nibbling on my mons, sucking on it as if it was the sweetest fruit. His lips kissed and squeezed, fondling my mons pubis with unhurried devotion.

Then he slipped off his mouth, buried his face inside there where my vagina pulsated with heat and hunger, and breathed in, loudly and longingly, the scent of my womanliness.

“Tonight, I will give you multiple orgasms.” He said when his head came up.

“Yes.” I whispered. He always said that, and he always did give me multiple orgasms.

His head lowered again between my thighs; this time, his tongue, again the tip of it, touched my clitoris. It was a light touch, but it sent a thrill of pleasure that was like the shock of electricity through me.

I moaned and clutched harder on the bed cloth.

His tongue teased my clitoris, circling it, stroking it, prodding it and sucking on it.

The teasing drove me wild, as it always did, and my moans became incomprehensible mutters.

“Inside. Inside.” I frantically begged, wanting his tongue to slide into my vagina and bury itself there.

I wanted to be tongue fucked. I never knew there was such a thing until he came to my room that night and his tongue buried itself inside my vagina.

“Fuck me with your tongue!”

My tone was an order. But he did not obey my command. Instead, the tip of his tongue stroked, in rapid rolling movements, my clitoris, his lips and teeth alternately nibbling as he did this.

I have started to water. I always do when he does this. I felt the sweet smelling liquid drip out of my vagina and glide towards my anal hole. My legs have become restless and could not stay planted on the bed, so I lifted them and positioned each feet on his shoulders.

He did not mind this self-possession of his body. He never did.

Finally, his tongue was drifting downward, I whimpered as I knew it was heading for my vagina and it was about to fuck me.

As he always did, he tasted first with just a stroke, then another, and then he slid inside, thrusting as he went and coming out to thrust again.

“More. More.” I begged.

And his tongue gave me more. It fucked my vagina. It thrust and stroked and stroked and thrust. And with each thrust and stroke, I yelped, moaned, spoke in multiple incomprehensible tongues and poured out a stream of liquid that his mouth swallowed up.

My orgasm came fast, and it came thrice before he lifted his head, repositioned my legs so it was my lower shin balanced on his shoulders and no longer my feet. Then he plunged that manly marvellous shaft inside me and started another round of thrusts.