She constantly struggled under the weight of her introversion. At nineteen years old, she felt so much younger. Not a child. But not an adult either, even though she was. And her beauty hadn’t made any of it easier. Because if she wasn’t going to initiate conversation, the intimidated boys and men weren’t going to either.
So she wrote.
She poured out the hunger for all that she was missing into passionate pages.
And poetry. She wrote primal, exquisite conflagrations of art tangled with grunts and clawed skin.
Then, she met him. So much older. So quietly confident. She loved his writing, but he didn’t really want to talk about that. She shared some of her work, and his intense eyes and aura of roots burrowed deep into the earth made her secure.
And he was wonderful when he read her less intense work. Supportive and appreciative, but honest. And he sensed how much she was holding back. As if he could see the ghosts of manuscripts behind her. He somehow knew that there was an entire world of her work that she could not bear to reveal.
When he insisted out loud and not just with an undercurrent in his stare, she refused. Of course she did. But he was on the hunt now and didn’t relent until the next night when her shaking fingers offered a stack of well-handled papers.
He read as her whole body shivered. She was mortified and exhilarated at the same time.
“You’ve never been licked,” he said after a time.
“I’ve never been anything,” she said, less of a revelation than an avoidance of admitting how spreading the petals of her pussy for a man’s tongue had risen to nearly mythical wonderment in her mind.
“You want to be slowly laid open. Your pussy savored like a work of art. Like the portrait of an old master. And then, made real. Tasted. Not just art. An ecstasy of religious transcendence. A feeding on the mysteries of your soul. Laying all of you bare. Your orgasm becoming your first true birth. The beginning of your life. Everything before fading into an inconsequential dream.”
She made a series of motions that meant dear-god-oh-please-yes-you-understand, but the storm in her body made it confused and chaotic.
He understood anyway.
“Now. You will feel all this now. Right now.”
She began to cry. The storms inside her howled so loud.
Fear. Thankfulness. Release. Passion. Fever. Starvation. Love. Wonder. Modesty. Impatience. Exhilaration.
He moved so slowly and gently.
Her pants slid. Her feet pulled free. Her panties drew down next as her tears of ravenous relief sprinkled her chest.
Then he position her so lovingly. Displaying her pussy between the two of them. So each could bask in its loveliness. And he composed poetry without the impediments of thought and consciousness. She saw her sex through his eyes and mind. The wetness flowed unrestrained. And her clit contracted in waves of uncontrolled bliss at his words.
He began to whisper “now I consume you” again and again as his head descended.
And then he licked her.
And she grabbed his shoulders and moaned in a low roar.
She could not believe how good it felt. How intimate. How erotic.
Far beyond her dreams.
She grunted through each stroke of his tongue as her body curled up violently. She watched the dance of his tongue and her pussy.
And then, she was grinding against him. Her instincts took over. The orgasm just over the horizon possessed her body like a spirit from the first flicker of creation. She humped against his tongue and lips as she climbed up the mountain of lust that towered inside her.
At last, she threw herself back and flung her legs as wide as her hips could flex.
And she screamed an impossible, first orgasm.
It bathed him. Splashed him. Anointed him.
She writhed and convulsed.
And when it finally eased, he curled her into his arms. She did not emerge for a very long time. Not until their silence had spoken many volumes of all that did, and would, pass between them.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/aejetf/a_poets_first_time_m4finsane
Beautiful!