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by Robert Buckley © 2007

PatienceIt was discouraging. She just lay there like a dead woman, no response, not a twitch, not a moan—nothing.

Still he kept at it, willing away the fatigue that had begun to set in to his jaw. He had prepared for a long siege. He could last another twenty minutes, maybe a half-hour. Hell, he could go another hour if that's what it took; he wanted to do this for her—he loved her.

It took time to convince her to let him try. He'd been puzzled at her reluctance. After all, popular culture had deemed it an essential part of lovemaking; women demanded it, didn't they? How many times had he read comments from women who preferred it to penile friction? If a man had any hope at all of pleasing a woman, he'd better be skilled with his tongue and lips. Well, that's what he read, and that's what he saw, especially in the soft-core porn he preferred.

So why did she resist? Women were supposed to be wild for it; why wasn't she?

At last, she confided that she thought she wasn't clean "down there." She worried about odor.

"I just wouldn't feel comfortable," she demurred.

So that night he left work early, prepared dinner for the two of them, with wine and candles. And while she finished her dessert he drew a bath, and poured in the scented bubble powder. No lights—candles flickered about the tub.

He led her to her bath, undressed her, and held her hand as she stepped in and settled into the steamy foam.

"Ahhh," she sighed. "What has gotten into you?"

"Shhh." He began to soap her shoulders. "Just relax. I'll do all the work."

She settled into a sweet lethargy as he caressed her body, lifting her thighs and soaping them down, coddling her breasts, and swirling a finger around the rim of her belly button. When his hand swept between the cleft of her pussy, a whispery gasp escaped her lips.

The water cooled and finally he lifted her out of the tub. He toweled her body with such gentleness, each touch like a kiss, and then he kissed her for real, before swathing her in an oversized, fluffy towel he'd bought that very night.

He guided her to their bedroom and had her lay down. He sprinkled faintly scented talc onto her breasts and belly and began to swirl his hands over all her soft and curvy places. She smiled and closed her eyes, savoring the languor into which her body had settled.

He moved down the bed and smoothed more talc over her still moist thighs. His eye caught the reflection of candlelight in the shiny trickle of moisture from her pussy.

He lowered his face and placed a tentative kiss on the wetness.

She immediately went rigid and shifted her hips.

"No … don't, please."

"But, honey, you're beautiful … your pussy is beautiful. Let me? C'mon, please? I'll stop if you don't like it. I promise. Please … let me?"

She had lifted her arms so they covered her face. She didn't say anything for a moment, then … "Okay … but …"

"I promise."

She nodded.

"Just … let me know how I'm doing, okay?"

"Alright," she replied, but her tone was dubious.

So he went to work, careful to be gentle. Even though his cock ached, and his ears burned, he fought the urge to rush and devour her. He kissed her thighs, then slid his tongue the length of her slit, stopping to use his lips to nibble hers, all the while moving closer in slow deliberate progress toward her clit.

He licked around its hood, trying to coax it into becoming more conspicuous, but held off touching it directly with either tongue or lips, except to swipe it, as if inadvertently.

He had fallen into a rhythm and was building to a crescendo. He had no idea how long he had been at it when he realized she hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound. His heart sank. He wanted to be good for her; he wanted so much to please her. And he was failing - miserably.

She was probably biting her tongue, afraid to ask him to stop, concerned she'd hurt his feelings. But he supposed she couldn't wait for him to quit. Then she'd tell him it was "nice," but it would be understood they'd never do it again.

He was ready to give up. He felt so useless and angry at himself. For bullying her into letting him eat her pussy. He resolved never, ever to be so selfish again.

But, he only wanted her to enjoy it; he only wanted to please this woman he loved so thoroughly he couldn't imagine life without her.

This was going nowhere. Time for the finale, as anti-climactic as it was likely to be. He captured her clit between his lips and sucked, like one last, long, melancholy kiss.

She raised her legs and brought them down over his shoulders, her heels thumping his back so hard she nearly knocked the wind out of him. She arched her back, lifting her ass off the bed, and in the process bending his head back suddenly and painfully.

A banshee shriek rattled his eardrums. She rolled away from him, drawing her knees up to her chin in a tight, fetal position.

"God-God-God! No more!" She shivered, and her voice trailed off into a raspy whisper. "No-more-no-more-no-more. I can't take it. Oh, Jesus. Honey, please … oh, Jesus."

His heart raced and his eyes teared over. She had come - she'd come so hard her body continued to shake from the aftershocks of that one magnificent, out-of-control tremor that left her weak and trembling.

"I did it." He grinned, and spooned against her in a tight embrace.

"Just hold me for a while, okay," she pleaded. "That was so … so ..." Her voice faded into a long sigh.

He kissed her shoulder and fortified his embrace. His cheeks cooled as her fluids evaporated.

He adjusted his legs and his thigh came into contact with a thick, cold, sticky gob. His eyes snapped open in amazement, and then he chuckled to himself.

She'd made him come too.

©2007 Robert Buckley. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Robert Buckley? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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