[FM] Literally Suffocated by Pussy

At this point in my myriad stories I think it’s been made clear that I’m something of an *aficionado* of cunnilingus. I won’t claim to be amazing at it, but I do try to bring as much relish to the experience as I can, which I know is helpful. Women can tell when you’re having fun in the *nether realm* and can **absolutely** tell when you’re looking for the first opportunity to escape, so finding your proverbial bliss when eating a woman out is a pretty firm prerequisite to the experience.

I found my own bliss courtesy of a young and thoroughly insatiable woman who worked at the local paper. She also happened to be the antithesis of everything I am normally attracted to – she was very petite, she came from a rich family, and she was honestly fairly quiet.

But she was also a writer – a poet – and at the time I wasn’t accustomed to meeting with, talking to, and working alongside a woman who was unabashedly better at the craft than I was in almost every respect. It was a very significant attractor for me – I loved the way we would write back and forth, and enjoyed the unique way she’d pen her thoughts.

She and I studied together and eventually went on a few dates but nothing serious. In short order we progressed past an occasional lunch or dinner and moved right into that magical realm of “fuck buddies.” She was not terribly interested in having a boyfriend; she was much too busy. By the same token I was also enjoying not being tied down by simple virtue of the fact that I enjoyed the ability to have sex with whoever I wanted. Or rather, whoever would have me that I wanted. It’s a crass way of putting it, but I was still in my early 20s with a sky high libido.

Ms. Poet, As I came to find out, *really* liked having her pussy eaten. Quite a lot.

In many ways, she taught me everything I know about it. I thought I was pretty decent, but she was very specific about what she liked, and encouraged me to experiment, because her expectation was that I’d be staying down there for as long as she needed to feel satisfied. It was not uncommon during our get-togethers for my tongue to go numb.

If I were to put it into a ratio of the amount of time I spent going down on her versus the amount of time she spent going down on me, 2:1 doesn’t even cover it. It was much more like 4:1 or 5:1. In most relationships, I’d have found it immensely unfair and walked away from her selfishness, but in this case, I could not possibly complain – it was a huge turn on when I’d attempt to lift my head up for any reason and feel her hand gently push me back down while her voice hoarsely whispered out, “No, don’t stop…”

The truth is, I loved eating her out. Genuinely. I was happy to do it as much as she wanted. She even managed to *taste good*, which is something I know most of you will have to take with a grain of salt because, if we’re all being real, absolutely nobody tastes good. Not really. The best you’re going to hope for is tasting okay. It’s in your best interest to have pretty forgettable ejaculate because the memorable ones are never recalled for some positive reason. I’ts not like I ever went down on a girl and Reese’s Pieces shot out of her vagina. I’d wife that woman in a heartbeat.

So I won’t pretend that Poet was squirting buttercream frosting all over my face, but there was definitely something appealing to me about her taste that made staying down there a real pleasure. And she was in love with each experience. She’d tell me that she finally found a person who could eat her for the “appropriate” amount of time. I can only imagine the level of disappointment she feels daily in the real world.

I used to joke with her that she might as well just sit on my face if she truly wanted me to work her as long as she needed. She’d never suggested that maneuver herself – I think she just liked being comfortable by laying or sitting down.

As it would turn out, however, that idea turned her on quite a lot. As I mentioned before, at the time that I knew her, she worked for the local paper of her little town. She did stories all over the place, so she knew every nook and cranny of that little podunk like the back of her hand and therefore knew all the places to sneak around and get some privacy, which is good for a workaholic who lives at home with her parents.

We fucked in her car a lot, is what I’m saying.

One particular occasion, she decided she wanted to try the whole facesitting thing. She drove this Subaru hatchback thing, I think (I remember it was a hatchback, the Subaru part I might be making up), and she’d laid the backseats down with multiple towels so I could lay down back there and she could clean up the mess easily. Poet came *correct*.

She always wore these flowy skirts when she was working, like a little below the knee but loose, sort of like a summer dress, I suppose. She had me lay down and she’d hiked that skirt all the way up to her waist and pulled her panties to the side – a power move if I ever saw one.

When she lowered herself down on me I went to work immediately, my tongue flat and broad against her lips as she hovered right above my face. I knew what she liked by that point, so my tongue was quick to get her outer labia wet before firmly pressing inside, parting her folds and exploring the inner lips even as my nose pressed more insistently against the spot just below her clit – not quite touching, but still creating that pressure I knew she was such a fan of.

She loved it. I felt her dripping onto my face in less than a minute, her breath coming in hot gasps. She was awkwardly poised for a time, holding her skirt so she could watch me work, her hips lightly moving back and forth above me, almost as though she was scared I’d disappear if she moved too far. Too quickly her first orgasm came, her body tensing above me and her hand tightly gripping her own thigh as she shuddered slightly with her eyes closed.

When she opened her eyes to look down at me I made the happy mistake of looking up at her with my glistening face and saying, “Give me more.” It had the effect I assumed it would, though to an extreme degree I hadn’t anticipated.

In hindsight I think she had some dominating tendencies because she took to the next part rather quickly and ecstaticly, her voice nothing but a groan as she finally lowered all her weight down onto my face. I was freshly shaved that day, so there was nothing but smooth skin for her to come in contact with as she happily began grinding against my face slowly.

My arms came up to grip her thighs, but not in any sort of commanding way – I just wanted to feel the stockings she was wearing and the way her tight, small muscles tensed and released with every shift of her weight on me. She was tiny but surprisingly powerful, and soon after her second orgasm she dropped all pretense of trying to move lithely and sexily. She’d clearly been trying to create a visual spectacle to go along with her pleasure, but she was too far gone to give a shit about that anymore.

She leaned forward over me and dropped her skirt. She didn’t care if she saw me anymore. At that point all she cared about was feeling good. I could sense it in her movements, more erratic and less caring of my own personal well-being. There were some long stretches where I simply could not breathe. I’d developed a habit of tapping her thigh to get her to shift again so I could grab an air pocket.

You might think that if a woman is riding on a man’s face, that there is really nothing for him to do but lay there and be used, but that’s not really the case. Friction alone isn’t enough to make this magic happen – my mouth and tongue needed to work in tandem with her movements every step of the way. There were times she wanted my tongue deep inside her, when she would press down hard against my face and barely move, and there were other times when she simply wanted me to make my mouth into a certain shape as she dragged herself against my face to her heart’s content. Her juices were everywhere. My shirt, which I should have taken off, was absolutely drenched, as were her panties.

She came…to be honest, I don’t know how many times. In the dark, under her skirt, all I got were muffled movements, heavy breathing, and occasional grunts. She’d tense up, and then keep going.

Then, finally, came a moment that will perhaps get mixed reviews when I tell this story. I passed out, you see. I literally lost consciousness. Now, part of this is because it was hot under her skirt. Stifling. But another is obviously lack of oxygen. I don’t tell this part to recommend it in practice – I simply tell it to reiterate my dedication to the cause.

She found a sweet spot – a perfect rhythm that paid in dividends. It worked my nose into her clit while also driving my tongue between her folds. It made her cum twice in a row, and she was intent to turn that into more. The only issue was, I genuinely could not breathe in that position. I let it go for a bit longer than I should have, and then tapped her thigh. She did not stop. I tapped her thigh harder. She did not stop. I began tapping an intense, fast tempo **dance rhythm beat** into her thigh, and she frustratedly gripped my hand against her thigh as she began a third orgasm onto my face while grunting out a litany of “Fuck yes, uhn, uhn, uhn, feels so good,” and other beautiful sonnets.

At least, I think this is what happened. The next thing I *actually* remember, she’s slapping my face repeatedly. Light slaps, to wake me up. She was suitably relieved when I opened my eyes, confused. She’d felt my hands go limp and slip off of her and, to her credit, jumped off me immediately to try and wake me up. So overall I was probably unconscious and out for a minute at the most. But it was enough to shake her and she learned a valuable lesson in listening to her partner when he indicates that breathing is a priority for him.

Still, I wear that moment like a badge – the time a tiny little woman knocked me out cold with her pussy.

“That’s magical, Von Scriptenstein,” I hear you say. “Why did you not stay with this woman, so you could tell this story to your inevitable grandchildren?”

Well, we were just never that into each other. Sexually? Sure. But that only carries you so far. If she magically appeared on my doorstep and hiked her skirt up again I’d be on my knees for her in a heartbeat, but there’s no way I’d put a ring on it. We weren’t aligned on a lot of things, both philosophically and in terms of our priorities, and we both knew it. We had a fun time while it lasted and I’ve no doubt she managed to track down another lovely guy to worship at her Altar of Pussy however much she likes.

I wish good luck to that dude, because unless she’s changed dramatically since I knew her, she will never get enough.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/6kbrt5/fm_literally_suffocated_by_pussy