Eaten Dry - “Again. Please.”

She had not been touched in nearly two years.

Not by a man, not by her own hand for anything more than the barest, frustrated release that left her emptier than before. Celibacy had started as a decision and hardened into a habit. She told herself she was done with men who rushed, who treated her body like a task, who never looked at her while they were between her legs. So when the quiet, soft-spoken man at the café asked if he could walk her home, she almost said no. He looked harmless. Gentle. The kind of man who held doors and didn’t stare. She said yes anyway, mostly because the night was warm and she was tired of her own rules.

Inside her apartment he didn’t kiss her first. He asked, softly, if he could taste her. The way he said it made her laugh once, nervous.

“You don’t have to,” she said, arms crossed over her stomach. “It’s been a long time. I might not even—”

“I want to,” he answered, already lowering himself to his knees on the rug. “Please. I’ve been thinking about it since I first looked at you. Can I?”

She nodded. He undressed her slowly. Not to tease, just because he seemed to want to see every inch as it was revealed. When she was bare on the edge of the bed he stayed still for a moment, just looking, then pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh and stayed there, breathing her in. The apartment smelled faintly of the jasmine candle she had lit earlier; now it mixed with the warm, clean scent of her skin and the salt-sweet musk of her cunt as he inhaled, open-mouthed, against her.

“You smell so good,” he murmured, voice already rough. “Tell me if anything’s too much. I won’t stop unless you say so.”

The first touch of his tongue was almost shy. A single, flat stroke from the bottom of her slit to the top, so slow she felt the individual ridges of his tongue and the wet drag of saliva he left behind. Cool air hit the slick path for a second before the heat of his mouth returned. He groaned when he reached her clit, not loud, just a low, helpless sound, like he had been starving and had just been given permission to eat.

“Fuck,” he whispered against her. “You’re already wet. Is that for me?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, one hand settling in his hair. “It’s been so long I don’t remember what this is supposed to feel like.”

“Then let me remind you.” He licked her again, same path, slower. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t suck or flick. He settled his mouth over her and began to lick in long, deliberate passes, tasting every fold, mapping her with the tip and then the flat of his tongue, over and over. Soft, wet sounds filled the room. His breath was hot and damp against her. Every so often he would pause, mouth still open against her, and just breathe her in before starting again, slower than before. She felt the slight roughness of his thumbs holding her open, the way cooler air touched her inner folds while his tongue worked.

“Right there?” he asked, voice muffled.

“Yes,” she managed. Her hips rolled. “Slower. Just… stay there.”

He did. Minutes passed. He used his hands only to hold her open while his mouth worked. When she shifted, he followed. When her hips rolled, he adjusted the angle of his head so his tongue never left her. He licked her like she was something sacred and temporary, like if he stopped she might disappear.

“I could do this for hours,” he said, pulling back just enough that his lips brushed her while he spoke. They were already shiny. “Would you let me? Just stay here and eat you until you can’t take it anymore?”

“Please,” she whispered.

He stayed. When he finally slid lower she tensed. He felt it. He kissed the tight ring of muscle once, gently, then licked across it with the same patient devotion he had given her cunt. The sensation was shocking. No one had ever done that to her. She felt every tiny movement, the way his spit cooled for a second before the next lick warmed it again.

“I’ve never—” she started.

“It’s okay,” he said immediately, mouth still close. “I’ll be gentle. Just tell me if you want me to stop.” He kissed her there again. “I want all of you. Every part. Let me?”

“…Okay.”

He didn’t force. He licked, soft and rhythmic, until the muscle fluttered under his tongue. Then he pressed the flat of it against her and stayed, humming, while two fingers returned to her pussy and stroked inside her with the same unhurried care. The contrast made her dizzy: the firm, gentle pressure of his fingers curling inside her cunt and the softer, wetter heat of his tongue against her ass. She could hear the quiet, wet click of his throat when he swallowed the taste of her.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, voice rough against her.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Both. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He licked her ass again, slower. “You taste so fucking good here too. I can’t get enough of you.”

She came the first time with his tongue buried against her ass and his fingers curled just so. It rolled through her in a long, helpless wave. She felt the wetness flood his tongue; he made another low, grateful sound and kept licking, softer now, riding the aftershocks until she was shaking and pushing weakly at his head. Only then did he lift his face. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark and almost reverent. She could smell herself on his breath.

“Again,” he said, voice rough. “Please.”

He made her come three more times. Once with his tongue deep inside her cunt, once with his mouth sealed over her clit while his fingers worked her ass in slow, careful circles, once with his face pressed so tightly between her legs that she could feel the bridge of his nose against her and every exhale against her skin. He never rushed. He never changed pace until she was already falling apart. Each time he talked her through it, low and steady.

“That’s it… come for me. I’ve got you. You’re so beautiful when you come… I could listen to you forever.”

He ate her like it was the last thing he would ever do, like the taste of her was the only thing that had ever mattered or would ever matter. Afterward he rested his cheek against her thigh, still breathing hard, and kissed the soft skin there once. He didn’t ask for anything else. He didn’t even take his clothes off. He simply stayed on his knees until she could speak again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For letting me. I’ve never tasted anyone like you.”

Weeks later she still thought about it.

In bed at night, alone, she would slide a hand between her legs and close her eyes and remember the sound he made the first time his tongue touched her. The way he had stayed, patient and hungry, for so long. How he had licked her ass like it was just as precious as her cunt. She would hear his voice again—You taste so fucking good. I’m not going anywhere—and come fast, almost embarrassed by how easily the memory wrecked her.

Months later it was worse. She was seeing someone new. A man who was perfectly fine, who fucked her steadily and kissed her afterward. But when he was inside her, thrusting, she would close her eyes and picture the other man on his knees, tongue working her open with that slow, devoted hunger. The memory would hit so hard she would tighten around the man currently fucking her and come almost instantly, gasping, ashamed and grateful at the same time. He would think it was for him. It never was.

She never saw the quiet man again. She didn’t even know his last name. But some nights, when she was alone and her fingers were slippery and her breath was catching, she still whispered the only words she could remember him saying against her skin.

“Again. Please.”