Pussy Worship



Worship – reverent honor and homage paid to God or a sacred personage, or to any object regarded as sacred;formal or ceremonious rendering of such honor and homage;adoring reverence or regard; the object of adoring reverence or regard.


Reverent. Sacred, adoring, honor and homage. Such words for worship. Something truly loved, cherished, but more than that. Worshipped.

And how does a man worship, exactly? It depends on the altar on which he is kneeling. If he is worshipping money and power, perhaps at the stock exchange, to worship a higher being, he would go to church. To pay homage to a sports team, a stadium, to honor a movie star, a theater, or perhaps the red carpet.

He worshipped in bed.

Between my legs, on his knees – a disciple, studying and touching and seeing and learning. Like a ceremony, he begins at my mouth, my neck, shoulders, breasts. He touches and feels and caresses, gauging reactions, listening to words and wordless sounds I form. Then he is there, I look down to see him, his face is barely visible, his eyes no long on me but on my pussy. He reaches out touches me, sliding a finger up and down, his eyes close, a blind man memorizing his prayer book. Both hands now encourage my thighs to fall open, his thumbs open me like a flower. Praise the lord.

He is slow, his mouth sliding then sucking then licking. Then stopping, whether to pause for reflection or to pull me back from this rabbit hole of sensation that I sliding through, I don’t know. I have no thought, nothing but this, the feeling, the adoration, I don’t feel like I have to do anything. Just be, simply lay back and open my legs, Jesus take the wheel. He reaches underneath me, lifts my ass off the mattress, puts his mouth to me like a man drinking wine, slowly, lingering, rolling his tongue over me. He is savoring my pussy. Lord have mercy, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Slowly he feasts, then moves harder, faster, his fingers finding places in me I didn’t know existed. Then, back down to earth, slow, calm, each time I find myself returning to reality, floating lazily along this trip. Only to go through more rapids, hard and rough and heart pounding, my stomach drops with the rush of it.

Then, he doesn’t stop, and I see god, or whatever it is that I’m am thanking for making me a woman, with a pussy, so that this man can worship me, do this to me, it is everything I will ever feel. My pussy clenches, I hear myself call out, sob and gasp, I don’t even attempt to be quiet. He is worshipping, but I am shouting Hallelujah.  

I feel drained, I can imagine it is like that for a deity, being the receiver of such fierce and complete devotion is exhausting. He lays with me, his hand cupped between my legs, telling me a prayer of thanks. Are ya kidding me? I have seldom received such gifts, and never without strings attached. I drift away, his face near mine, his mouth whispering a rosary of sweet nothings. Amen



The best orgasm of my life began, oddly enough, not in a bed. Or a dance floor, doing the tango to Spanish guitars, our pelvises grinding as we stared soulfully  into each other eyes. The best orgasm of my life began when we, the man who brought me to this orgasm (because he did, it was not a ‘joint effort’ kind of thing, like mind blowing sex usually is, it was all him), he and I were not alone, but in public.

We wandered the music store, stopping here and there, he would touch a guitar, reverently, his fingers barely making contact with the strings, so that just a hint of sound would escape. His hand would trail over the keys of a piano, stopping to play a chord, two, a few notes, simply for the joy of making the sound.

As he found these instruments, he also found me, barely out of physical contact for a moment, one hand touching a drum or a horn, the other wrapping around my neck, pulling me in for a kiss, or between my legs for the briefest of moments, barely making contact, as light as his fingers on the guitar he was walking past, softly, but by no means without thought.

The best orgasm of my life began in earnest when he picked up a bass guitar. While he had been playing with guitars and keyboards and drums, when he picked up the bass, it was serious business. No fucking around, this instrument was going to do what he wanted, he would touch it just so, and it would love him in return, give him music.

His eyes closed, this man, and his fingers begin to dance, striking the strings, moving across the frets, so softly and quickly you wouldn’t think any sound could be produced. I couldn’t take my eyes from his hands, knowing those fingers had been in my panties moments before, in the car. Knowing they would be again, soon.

The thought began the journey, to that orgasm. I felt myself twitch, I knew I was getting wet, watching his fingers on that bass. After he put the instrument away, we walked around the store some more, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, his fingers on the guitar, I felt the air up my skirt, hitting the moisture on my panties.

In the car, he slides his hand up my skirt again, his fingers slipping into my panties for the briefest moment, somehow touching yet not touching my pussy. Then pulling my skirt back down, only to start the process again in 30 seconds. No talking about it, no looking at me, just reaching over now and again to touch me, feeling me getting more and more turned on.

I did not realize the best orgasm of my life was going to happen, but I did realize this man was in no hurry. He knew we were going to fuck, he knew I was going to come, he wanted this just as he wanted those notes from the bass.Yet, when we walked into the music store, the bass section was the last place he went. He played some six strings, he tinkled some ivories, he looked and listened and touched.

He wanted this, he wanted the best orgasm of my life, but seemed genuinely unconcerned about it. It was the journey, the discovery. All men get a hardon when a woman comes, he got hard actually making it happen, the act of it, watching my face as he pinched my nipple, listening to my breath as he kissed my neck. He was tuning me, playing a few exploratory notes, listening to the sound of it.

In bed, he does what he has wanted to do for weeks, months. After feeling the folds and slick smoothness of my pussy, he brings his fingers to his  mouth, then mine, showing me how sexy it is, my wetness. Then he puts his hand over mine, trails it down between my legs. His fingers intertwine with mine, my juices coat us. He slides a long finger into me, two, his thumb is feeling my fingers as I touch my clit, every so softly.

I didn’t think about coming, I simply let myself go, slowly slowly, ever so slowly. I open my eyes, he is looking at my face, then down at our hands, both between my legs, which as spread as wide as they can go, as if I am putting myself on display and he is looking, seeing what his touch does to me, what I am doing to myself.

He begins fucking me, his fingers reaching into me, feeling the inside of my pussy, as I finger my clit, his hand lightly over top of my own. He doesn’t even seem to care if I am on my way, if the best orgasm of my life is imminent, or any orgasm will happen at all. We have all night, and he will have this, he will play my pussy, he will hear what he wants.

At first, I don’t think I can do this – make myself come while he is fingering me, looking at me, listening to me. So I just enjoy it, let myself float away, his hands playing me as smoothly as he played the bass, his mouth occasionally finding my breast, or my mouth.

Then I feel it, I realize it is building, behind my tummy, up my legs. There is no thought, just this sensation gathering in me, a storm building, as he fingers me, his rhythm as smooth as a bass line, my own fingers playing with my clit. I feel like I need to hurry up, come for him, he wants it so badly. I speed up, my fingertips rubbing harder and faster.

But he stops, stops my hand as well as his own. “Not yet,” he says. I am astonished, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Men want women to come, for the squeeze of the orgasm as well as the ego boost of knowing they can make a woman come. He doesn’t seem to realize this is how it works, that men make a woman come as fast as possible, then come themselves. It is what I know, my reality.

I open my eyes, asking wordlessly. He begins to move again, strong and soft, letting my fingers do what I want. He reaches high up into me, feels me squeeze his fingers as I slide my own over my clit, slowly, juices dripping down over his hand and mine own.

This happens two, three times. He and I bring me to the brink of orgasm, then he backs off. “Not yet.” But I am not frustrated, I luxuriate in the sensation, the freedom of not having to come, of no pressure. It is apparent this man will take his time, he will play every note, he will touch every spot, to play the song, to hear it, the best orgasm of my life.

Then, he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop. His fingers fuck me, he is feeling what I am doing, he can tell I am building, reaching, climbing, and he takes me there, telling me to come for him, let it go, come.

The best orgasm of my life stretches me very thin and high, a single note that becomes a crescendo, waves and waves of my pussy coming on his fingers, my body jerking. I hear myself shout, wordlessly, I cannot stop. I come and come and come, I cannot see the end of it, I can’t breathe, there is nothing my hand and his.

He plays, he writes the song.



“It’s gon’ be ah-ight.”

The gon’ rhymes with own, ah-ight is so smooth it is almost one syllable. He says it slowly, the drawl thick as the words ooze into my ear like syrup. “It’s gon’ be ah-ight,” an assumption at best, perhaps self-delusion.

But fuck me if that reassurance doesn’t feel good to hear, listening in the dark. It is whispered ever so softly, and I find myself as I almost always do when that voice joins me here in my bed, with my hand on my breast, between my legs, eyes closed so the real world no longer exists.

I can almost believe him, for a few hours, that it will indeed be ah-ight. That the obstacles between us are simply detritus that will be swept away like confetti, sucked up by sheer will. I know, when I wake in the light of day, that the odds of it actually being ah-ight are slim to none.

But, in the dark, in my bed, he tells me its okay, that we have no choice. That the foolish thing isn’t moving forward, its stopping, or even pausing to consider. So, I don’t.

He says the words he knows turn me on, what he will do when he is here. Not what he would do, but what he will do. He does not believe in if, but when. What it will be, when he sees me, when he pulls me to him, when he tastes my pussy, when he puts my legs over his shoulders, when he fucks me.

He says that will be ah-ight. And so I listen, and let him tell me, my fingers moving, matching the cadence of his words. I was wet from the moment my phone rang, by the time he describes the acts he sees as inevitable, I am beyond want – I need to come, I need release, I have to have this. I can’t sleep, hell I can’t be until I do.

“I want you so bad baby,” there is anguish in his voice. “I’m gon’ fuck you, then stay there while we sleep, inside you. I’m gon’ wake up makin’ love to you.”

When he says my name its almost musical, so soft, while using hard, filthy words. How deep he’s gon’ fuck me, details of how he will eat me, how far up my pussy his fingers will go. He tells me what is happening there, in his bed, how hard his beautiful cock is and how it is just for me. He sends blurry dark video, mesmerizing.

I fuck myself without mercy, but I cannot tell him this, words don’t come. Just this, my fingers pushing into my cunt, so wet it drips down onto my new sheets, then out over my clit. I just listen to his voice, I tell him its for him, that it is him touching me, and there is nothing else there in the dark but his voice.

And then I come and I can feel him listening, I can feel him out there, feeling me. I share this, give this to him, it is his after all. I hold nothing back, I cry out, groan, growl, grip my phone so hard my hand is sore the next day.

The next day when there is light, and reality and issues and an entire world that tells me it is definitely not alright, not by any stretch of the imagination. All is not right with the world, the world will defeat us. What seems in the dark  like nothing more than a cloud of dark thoughts to be fanned away shows itself to be quite insurmountable in the daylight.

But then the night comes. Then he is there, in my ear. Then there is the relief, the confirmation that maybe things are not that bad. That we can do this.

That its gon’ be ah-ight.

And now for something completely differant


86758821He kissed her ankle. Slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Like velvet, soft, a wet trail from her toes to her thighs. But Adrienne was not known for her patience.

She ate instant rice, drove over the speed limit, opened all her gifts on Christmas Eve. When she met people, she decided within 30 seconds if she would be their friend.

She couldn’t stop herself from urging him. “Please,” she said as his hands traced a meandering path along her legs.

“No, baby, I want this to last,” was his reply, his raspy voice barely above a whisper.

“But, I want-”

“This isn’t about you.” Kiss. Lick, his beard combining with his tongue to drive her insane. “This is about me, I’ve tried to tell you this.”

And he had, Levi taken control since the first time they had sex. He held her down, fucking her so hard the air was forced out of her lungs. He bit her nipples, sucked her pussy as if it were his life’s blood, pulled her face to his by her hair.

But now, now he was not doing any of those things. And Adrienne was going insane. She wanted him, now, here, hard. She wanted to be fucked, really and truly fucked. Release.

“You know what I like?” Levi asked as he cupped her ass and turned her over. “The back of a woman’s knee. I have found it to be . . .”

She heard herself moan, wordless sounds coming from deep within her. Still, he did not heed her, he simply put his mouth to the back of her legs. It was the most sensual feeling, like being on an ocean of warmth.

“Don’t you like this my love?” She could not answer him, any more than with a “mm-hmm.” She realized he was again in control of her body, albeit in a completely different way. He had not taken her over by force this time.

Levi usually stormed Adrienne’s beaches, took her lust hostage, made demands of her. He had, moments ago, done just that: met her need with his own, fucking her hard and fast, cumming so hard she felt it fill her. But now he was playing with her, toying with her, drawing her out, making her slow down and relax. It occurred to her that he was, perhaps for the first time, making love to her.

But that was an abstract thought, floating on the edge of her mind. Front and center was his mouth, back down on her leg, kissing the arch of her foot before taking each toe, one by one, into his mouth. Adrienne’s mind, often the arch enemy of sexual enjoyment, gave up. She gave in, and simply felt, stopped wanting anything more than this – Levi, his mouth, his hands, his voice.

“Doesn’t this take you to your happy place?” he asked her.

“Baby, you are my happy place,” she answered, not even knowing if he could hear her, not caring. He was kissing his way back up her leg, a path along the inside of her thigh, oh my god.

Then after barely kissing her pussy, back down the other side, explaining that this was what he wanted, to do this to her, and when she was under him, it was always about what he wanted.

“God, I love this,” he told her. “Doing this to you, toying and playing with you, taking my time to enjoy you.”

His fingers opened her up, his tongue dancing ever so lightly across the folds of her, barely touching the surface of her pussy and he put a finger inside as if to memorize what she felt like. Then he was there, licking and sucking her, hard then soft, his fingers fucking her fucking her fuckingfuckingfucking . . . and she was gone.

Kissing him goodbye, she tasted herself on his mouth, lying in bed that night, she realized he went back to his life with her juices in his beard.

And that, again, he had dominated her, but a different conquest altogether. He had coaxed her and she slipped under, not a surrender so much as a yielding, a gentle thing, letting go.

Taken under.




“You like that?” Like there was any doubt, like she wasn’t grunting and moaning, baring her teeth, she realized now and again. “You like me fucking you?”

He wanted to hear the words, she understood that. Words were, at times, the only thing they had, they had spent hours, days, weeks, lifetimes with only words. Vivid, sexy, filthy, but just words. Now, now they had the real thing, flesh. Skin and tongue and hair and smell and fingers   and cock and pussy, hallelujah.

He was balls deep, her legs wrapped around him like a vise, pulling him deeper still, as hard as possible. Her hair wrapped in his fist, he brought her throat to his mouth. She felt his teeth for the briefest moment, then just his tongue and lips leaving marks for her to hide tomorrow. She heard herself gasp as she sunk her fingers into his hair, thick and slick, she could smell the fucksweat as it dripped down onto her

“Tell me,” he said, biting her nipple. “Tell me you like getting fucked, cause you’re a dirty whore. You are my filthy whore, aren’t you?”

The question was unexpected, and it unexpectedly excited her. Was it the word, the context of it, called a whore while fucking a man she had no business fucking? Did she feel like a whore? Did she want to?

“Right . . . there,” she said as he put her ankles up over his shoulders, deeper and deeper he slammed into her, she could feel his balls slapping her ass. He pulled her hands above her head, pinned her wrists to the bed. “Oh god yea, hard like that, fuck me fuck me fuck me.”

“My whore,” he was two inches from her face now, making sure her eyes were open. “Are you? Are you my filthy whore?”

The rhythm slowed, she narrowed her eyes. “Fuck you,” she said, without ever stopping, fucking as hard as she was being fucked.

“Listen to me, motherfucker,” her hands reached down to feel his ass, the muscles hardening as he stroked, in, out. She grabbed both hands full, nails biting into the skin. “I am not a whore, yours or any fucking body else’s.”

He was surprised, but not taken aback, his stroke was hard and steady, out out out, the barest of pauses, then slam back into her, his cock filling her so that is almost hurt. Almost.

“Do I like this? Do I like you fucking me? Oh hell yea,” she told him, never blinking. “Harder, c’mon baby, give it to me.”

He grinded on top of her, his dick moving around, touching her pussy in places she didn’t know existed.

“Yea, I like this, no goddam doubt,” the last word came out as much a moan as anything. “But I am not a whore, I just like this, I just want to fuck you. Doesn’t make me a whore, fuck you.”

Her eyes challenging him, he fucked her as hard as he had ever done anything, as if to make her his whore simply by willing it, by fucking it into her .

He kissed her, sucking her tongue into his mouth, she could feel he wanted to bite it, she simply dug her heels into the small of his back, dare you.

He lowered his mouth to his ear, “So, you won’t be my whore?”

“Never. if I am a whore, I am my own whore, I do this for me, not you. I am here to cum, to lick and fuck and suck and to cum. I am filthy, I am fucking yes. But I am not a whore, and I certainly don’t belong to you.”

His hand moved to her throat, never taking his eyes off hers. Squeezed, not hard enough to stop her breath. Still, he fucked her, her hips moving up to match his strokes, her heels grinding into his back.

“Oh you’re mine,” he told her, a predator toying with his prey. “Whore or not, right now, these moments, you belong to me. I call the shots here, I dominate you, I own you, for just this time.”

It made her furious, the thought of it, that he thought she would allow this, submit to it, get off on it.

“Fuck you,” she said, using her legs to pull him in deeper still. “I belong to no one.”
His hand moved from her throat down between their bodies, to where his cock was shoving into her.

“Here, baby, this,” he said, loud. “This pussy, this cunt, this is mine. You know how I know it’s mine?”
“No, tell me, fucker. Tell me,what makes it yours. What makes you think that’s your pussy and not mine?”

“Because you can’t stop fucking me.”

And she didn’t; she fucked him harder, her pussy clutching at his dick, squeezing it with the orgasm his words brought to her. He pulled his hair, screamed like a banshee, fucking and cumming and fucking, out of control.

Later, recovered, composed, she called him. “Not yours.”

“Not now, my love. Only when I make it mine, only when I fuck you. Then there is no yours, it is all mine. Then you are mine. My pussy, my whore.”