She said, “I have no problem with ‘Cunt.’”
This was after an hour of cunnilingus (about halfway through our time in bed, as it would turn out), and I had thus far had been using “pussy,” as in, “May I kiss your pussy,” and “May I eat your pussy again,” and “Can I taste your pussy one more time.”
She had said when I had come up for air and to wipe the glory of herself off my face, “I am afraid my pussy is wearing you out,” and “My pussy can go for ever.” Suddenly, “pussy” seemed inadequate to this glorious, beautiful, and, above all, powerful place.
I didn’t want to say, “Vagina,” but what? “Cunt?” I queried.
“I have no problem with ‘Cunt,’” she said.
Her cunt had unfathomable. . . .I can think of no better word than “energy;” which is to say, she had a tremendous power within her. It took me some 45 minutes to understand it. It happened when I rotated in two fingers, and curled them up under her small, delicate pubic bone while I quickly flicked her tapered clit with my tongue as stiff as I could curl it. She tensed and curled like doing an abdominal crunch, and the lips of her cunt grabbed my fingers and pulled them deeper, begging for more pressure upward. And as I pressed up harder and harder, she gripped my fingers tighter and tighter, such that I dare not pull them back. And then, the cool energy of her Chi poured out of her making my forearm shiver, and then came a fountain of wetness. She crunched up and curled forward again, and I tasted the smallest amount of sweet piss. And then, more cool Chi radiated out, as did nectar that spread throughout the sheet and deep into the bed.
Again and again, we’d return to this moment, six, seven, maybe eight times. She would shout out brief, loud sounds, sometimes earsplitting, that often sounded like a grunted “Hah” from the depth of her being.
I don’t know if she ever orgasmed. She never said she did, and I was afraid to ask.
Later that night, with fingers deep in her and tongue vigilant to the task, I sensed that her sexuality was pulling me in to trigger a huge orgasm, and each time it reared its hydra-like head and edged her closer, she permitted it for one moment and then used the rest of herself to push it back under the veil, drowning it in the lake. Who am I to say?— but I thought her reluctance was not the fear of exposing herself to me, but losing control in front of her self.
After more than two hours, I didn’t want to stop. I kept trying to quit, but the power of that fantastic pussy (that drew its power from the fantastic-ness of her) kept beckoning. She finally said her clit was done.
I started to stroke myself. With enough concentration, I can hold an erection and ejaculate, though I don’t really feel much. She watched me closely. She told me she liked to observe—a form of control I suppose. I felt that I wanted to honor her, and her gift to me, by shooting a huge load (it’s been months) and scraping it up and tasting it for her.
But my cock was clearly intimidated by the power of her.
I want her to see me again. I feel I’ve left things undone. I think I’ve figured out enough to take her further. Unlikely, probably. What’s someone young and beautiful doing with an old guy like me making love to her pussy for two hours? Or, maybe she knows that the avalanche waiting to unleash within her is just a breath away, and I hold the key.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/8k4hu0/a_random_act_of_muff_diving