Expert Cunnilingus Evaluation

In my first job as an agency creative director, when I was 38, my right-hand man, was a woman -- a lesbian producer. We became very close friends.

She was a triathlete, a home brewer, well educated, and incredibly sarcastic. She was also very bright and hilariously funny. We were both writing screenplays in our spare time. We became close friends.

We also became drinking buddies. We shared a love of martinis. And we were both snobs about them: Gin, not vodka. Shaken, not stirred. Olives, not twists. And 20 seconds in the shaker before straining. Other than that we were not particular about how they were made.

We alternated who would buy, and it was her turn to pick up the tab. We typically had just one and talked about work, politics or whatever we were writing, and then called it a night. We were close and comfortable enough to discuss anything and make fun of each other. She often said, "you're just a big dyke" when I said something "sensitive". I took that as a compliment.

When we parted ways, she normally said, "Good night," followed by bitch, twat or cunt depending on her mood. I invariably responded with one of an array of clichés such as, "You are what you eat." Or, "It takes one, to know one." Or, "See you next Tuesday," and so on.

That night she said, "I've had a tough couple of weeks." Then she added, "Care to have another martini?" rather wistfully.

She did not provide details, so we continued talking inanely about our writing. Then she ordered a third round without asking if I wanted one. As it turned out, she had broken up with her long-time girlfriend several months earlier and was just now feeling the full impact of it.

"What's the exact problem?" I asked.

"To be very blunt, I am so horny I can't concentrate."

I had known her for a couple of years and we drank and chatted often, but we never talked about sex other than once long before when she confided that she was "asexual". When I asked her what she meant by that, she explained that although she was attracted only to women, she really didn't have much interest in sex. She performed only when her partners initiated it, or more accurately only when they complained about not having sex often enough.

I did not pursue that topic any further at the time. It made me uncomfortable, seemed like none of my business, and it was completely incomprehensible to me. Like someone telling me they didn't care for ice cream on a hot summer day.

Over the years, I had stopped thinking of her as a woman. She was just my drinking buddy. Another writer. But at that moment, I suddenly looked at her as a sexual object. She was hot. Admittedly horny. And suddenly so was I.

I said bluntly, "So why don't you just find some "hot twat" wherever you carpet munchers find each another, take her home and ravage her?" (That was the sort of irreverent way we spoke to one another.)

Because she was athletically buffed, confident, and not traditionally "feminine" I had always assumed that she was a "top" -- a dom with more girlie lovers. Then I gave the idea no further thought. That view was shattered by what she said next.

"Truth be told, I don't really like eating pussy," she said matter-of-factly. "I am kind of a 'pillow princess'. I enjoy being eaten, but I reciprocate mostly out of obligation. And I have to force myself to go down first, because after I cum, I just want to enjoy the throbbing afterglow of a big dildo in my pussy as I fall asleep. Preferably alone."

I was dumbfounded. I suppose my silence and expression made my shock and confusion evident. So, she continued explaining herself, "Honestly, I never cared much for any of it really. I felt like I could live my whole life without sex. But right now... I am sex crazed. I want to cum so badly that I can't think straight."

I still said nothing. So she continued, "Maybe it is a hormone thing. I don't know. But this whore really needs to moan."

She smiled widely at her own bad pun, hoping to lighten the mood with an inappropriate sardonic remark. At that moment the waitress arrived with our third round.

I decided it was time to be bold. I told the waitress to bring me the tab.

A little surprised, she said, "Are you leaving? Did I share too much? It is my turn to buy."

I said, "No. But I was thinking... perhaps I can help you. You live just a few blocks away. I know you must have a bottle of gin. How about we have that third round at your house. Then, perhaps I can provide some sweet relief for the pillow princess. I will eat you. No reciprocation expected."

Now she was dumbfounded, and mumbled her response, "I don't think that's a good idea..."

I interrupted, "I just want to help out a friend, and if you don't want to be eaten, the least I can do is pay for drinks and prevent moans of the wrong kind when you see the bill. She laughed and said nothing more.

Then worried she might think I was offering a "mercy fuck" and would claim pure altruism for my own pleasure, I added, "truthfully, I do love eating pussy and I've always wanted to have my skill cunnilingus skill critiqued by a lesbian. My motive is not entirely unselfish."

She stared at me for an uncomfortably long time while holding her martini halfway from table to mouth, as if she were frozen in that pose. Time stood still, yet I swear I could hear a distant click of a mechanical clock over the din of the bar.

Then she said bluntly, "Fuck it! Okay!

She stood up to continue, "I will make martini's and we can drink them in my 'dyke cave'."

Then she downed her third martini in one gulp, like a truck driver without further need to drive for the night. Just then, the waitress returned with my credit card as if on cue. I signed the bill, left an overly generous tip, and left my full third drink on the table to follow her out the door. She clearly was not waiting around for me.

We walked to her home in silence. Once there, she led me downstairs to a finished basement. It was a man cave of sorts. 'Dyke cave' was an apt description. It had big soft feminine sofa, a club chair and ottoman, plus a gigantic TV, a full bar with three bar stools, and even a kegerator. Wow.

She asked me which gin I preferred of the three she had on hand. Then as she mixed the martinis, I sort of snooped around looking at books on her shelves and art on her walls.

I decided to recite a favorite poem as she worked the shaker and strained the drinks. Being an English literature major -- and a smart-ass herself -- I knew she would know the poems of satirist Dorothy Parker.

I then recited:

"I'll have a martini."

"Two, at the most."

"Three, I'm under the table."

"Four, I'm under my host."

She laughed heartily and said, "I think the host gets to choose who is under whom." That sounded like "game on!" to me.

She handed me my cocktail and I promptly downed it as she had done in the bar. Hers did make it to coffee table before I was clumsily attempting to disrobe her. She said, "Keep your pants on mister! Let me help you."

I realized he meant that first line literally, as she removed her shirt and bra, unzipped her jeans, then prepared to take a seat on the ottoman. Before she could do so, I pulled her into me and fondled her breasts. She was silently hugging me back softly so I slid my hand into her pants. Her pussy spoke more loudly saying, "I'm ready."

She had small, firm tits with large pink areolae. Her nipples looked like they belonged on a doll. I kissed them. When aroused, her tips became impressively large, the size of my little finger from the last joint. They rose to the attention and were so hard they could cut glass. I sucked them briefly and then encouraged her to sit on the ottoman.

I dropped to my knees and positioned myself between her legs. I start to remove her jeans and she resisted briefly and half-heartedly as if still undecided about this. So, I kissed along her panty line and spread the fly so I could kiss my way down. I started nuzzling her pussy mound over her panties.

I struggle to pull off her jeans off so she raised her ass to make the task easier. Her actions whispered consent, but shouted the desire to cum. I yanked off her jeans off over her bare feet, and her panties came off with them.

She scooted back onto the club chair and adjusted the throw pillows. Then she lifted her feet off the floor and put them on the the ottoman. She immodestly spread her knees as if to say, "Okay, eat me if you insist."

She actually said, "You don't waste any time, bitch," a tad sarcastically.

"Four, I'm on my host..." I quipped back. "Before she changes her mind," I added.

I buried my face in the shocking fuzz of her electric fur and she made a soft purr. She smelled fantastic. I was pleased to discover she still had a full bush. Neatly shaped but it was a nice soft carpet to munch. I always prefer a woman with a triangle of fur. I looks like an arrow pointing the way to heaven. I don't understand why men want a woman bald down there. That kind of creeps me out and makes me feel like a pedophile. I think a grown woman should look like one.

I wanted to direct my attention immediately to her clit, but I restrained myself. I put my hands on each side of her inner thighs and parted her legs further. She did not resist, but sighed with a measured resignation that suggested giving her pussy to me was inevitable. We both knew her snatch called to me with its wetness and bouquet. There was no hiding this fact. Hence the sigh.

I kissed just outside of her labia. Alternating sides. I ran my tongue up one side and down the other. She flinched, as it was almost ticklish. I bypassed her clit and avoided the very center of her now leaking slit. With my thumbs facing inward I pressed on her vaginal opening with one thumb, and on her "taint" with the other. I didn't allow either thumb to enter her. She thrusted her hips. She clearly wanted -- needed -- more stimulation.

With a face that was still dry, I slid up and kissed her on the mouth curiously wondering if that was too "intimate" with someone who normally only kissed girls. She kissed back, with tongue. I guess not. I cupped her crotch in one hand but was careful not to place any fingers in, nor directly on, her most sensitive parts.

I held her for a bit as we made out. I wondered if she could feel my erection through my jeans. No matter, they had to stay on. So, I dropped back down with my knees on the floor and parted her legs again. I again licked around, but not on, her slit. I did this until I sensed she had enough teasing. I wrapped my arms under and around her legs. She sighed again. With pleasure this time. I softly ran my tongue right up the middle of her slit from asshole to clit. She moaned. Slowly and softly, I parted her lips with my tongue. She tasted as good as she smelled.

When I hit her clit with the tip of my tongue, she spasmed as if it was a little too much stimulation. I did the same upward lick again. She flinched again when I hit the sweet spot. She was now throbbing down there. I could actually feel her pulse through her vulva. Her whole pussy was beating! I did one more upward lick, then repeated it more quickly, again and again, until she stopped flinching. Instead, she started pushing her pussy into my face on each stroke as if to say, "stay right there!" when I had my tongue on her clit. I can take a hint.

That was my signal to increase the stimulation. I inserted the index finger of my right hand into her pussy. I wanted to put in two fingers, but she was just too tight. Fucking that pussy would be heaven on earth. I parted her lips, slipped my finger in and curled it upward. She was literally dripping juice now and making a puddle on her club chair. I pressed the tip of that finger on the wall of her vagina and massaged it right behind her clit from the inside.

The "G-spot" is a myth. There is no spot, actually there is a large "root" of the clitoris that varies in size and sensitivity. The tiny hooded clit is just a pleasure acceleration button. The clitoral root is a mass of nerve endings. Actually around ten thousand of them, over twice as many as found in a penis. The whole thing is an amazing network of pleasure wiring.

The entire clitoris is more than that cute little rose bud, it is an intertwined root system that underlies that external nub, communicating internal pleasure sensations made by a properly used tool back to that little pleasure button on the outside. My cock and brain are so envious of the female physiology of pleasure.

I applied gentle finger pressure to her pleasure root as I surround her clit with my lips. I was resting my chin in the palm of my own hand with only my index finger inside of her, and my mouth working on labia and clit. She moaned loudly.

I didn't actually suck yet; I massaged and pulled on labia between my lips. Once she started to pant and thrust her hips, trying to fuck my face I rubbed her clit with my tongue up. Still no suction. I removed my index finger and used the palm of my hand to rub her labial mounds while flicking her clit with the tip of my tongue.

When she moaned again, I manage to insert two fingers, curled them upward as I worked her clit rhythmically with my tongue. She started to rock her hips, just like straight girls do when lusting for penetration. Her juices ran down my fingers and a little puddle formed in my upward facing palm. From her breathing, I sensed she was getting ready to cum.

I withdrew my fingers slightly so they were just parting her inner lips. Then I placed my chin in that puddle on my palm. And finally, I gave her what that little dyke was lusting for, I began sucking on her clit with vigor. Slurping twat. She grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled my face into her pussy. I continue to work her clit and massage her vagina inside with one fingertip, very gently. She started coming. I know because she told me "I'm coming!" Loudly.

As I sensed her orgasm peaking, I re-inserted two fingers deeper and added gentle sustained suction between my lips until her climax peaked. I felt the contractions squeezing my fingers. I held her there for what seemed like a full minute. She finally exhaled hard and let her legs fall open immodestly. She released her grasp on my hair. She was spent.

I rose and rather inelegantly wiped my face on my own shirt. I was planning to clean up, finish her martini, and leave -- as per our agreement.

She said, "I told you in the bar, that I like to fall asleep with a dildo after I come. I sleep on my stomach." Hint, hint.

She rolled over and re-adjusted one of her pillow princess cushions under her middle. Then she said a rather surprising thing, "You can be my dildo."

She continued, "I know you have a vasectomy. After you finish, let me fall asleep. Then do something women never do -- leave. Just lock the front door behind you."

I was not going to turn that down. I quickly removed my jeans, climbed on top of her and slipped my cock in. She was incredibly tight, but very wet. I came very quickly, but I swear to god, she was already asleep before I finished fucking her. I was not insulted by that. I just pulled out and left as she wished.

It was several months before we went out for drinks again. She was obviously avoiding me.

When we met, I could not help myself, I had to tell her directly I would love a repeat performance whenever she felt the need. She told me that would never happen again. She then coyly told me that the cunnilingus was as good or better than any woman had ever provided, and that I should be very proud of my "pussy whispering" skills.

However, she admitted she should not have let me fuck her. She said she felt it would be selfish not to reciprocate, but after waking up with a cream pie she found it "disturbing" to her. In her opinion, my cum made her pussy smell bad for a couple of weeks. And, as much as she would like me to eat her again, she could never let me fuck her, so she would feel it was one-sided... so that was just a one-time thing we would never repeat.

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If you are a lesbian or bi female and would like to evaluate my oral skills, I am available for the examination. No reciprocation required.