Erotica

December

I concentrate on your eyes searching my gaze in awe, forcing me to look at you and your tongue examining my inner walls before gliding up and circling my clit.

By Anne Lomberg on December 10, 2023

Also available in German
Dezember

I am glad that I have such a fertile fantasy. It sustains me in times of solitude. In times when no man can ignite my body, let alone my soul. Maybe it’s a curse because I know that few can trigger and maintain my desire. Maybe I’m too demanding. Or maybe I crave incompleteness, multiple ex-lovers I put together randomly, who finger me, lick me, fuck me, and blossom into the ultimate imagination.

December melancholy catches up with me, as it does every year, only it feels completely different with sunshine and humid temperatures. Instead of a heartfelt embrace, I want nothing more than a tongue that explores all my openings while I let my vibrator dive into tireless territories. It doesn’t take much, apart from a few words that I repeat in my mind, like a stimulus that fits and coaxes out my first orgasm.

“That’s it, that’s it. Cum for me!”

Prostate Feminina, the origin of the squirting orgasm.

Between wet sheets, swollen labia, the warm secretion at my fingertips, I rub the vibrator like a magnificent cock and imagine you appearing at the end of the bed, stroking yourself with the same intensity I finger the vibrator with and let it disappear into my pussy. It’s the distance that makes me weak, the sight of you rubbing up and down your boner with your manly hands, moving back and forth between my face and my sex with a feral snort, changing the pace and squeezing your glans tightly. This image is one of my favorite fantasies. I wish I could taste you, take you deep inside me, unite my saliva with your secretion, kiss your veined shaft up to the glans, caress and tease you until you have enough, push me back, and penetrate my opening with a long, slow thrust. Nothing like that happens; you remain persistent, moving your hands up and down your length.

You say: “Do you like that?”
And I say: “I’d like it even more if you come to me and touch me.”
You say: “Unfortunately, I can’t do that.”
And I say: “That’s a shame.”

I reveal myself to you completely, showing you my appetite by pushing the vibrator deep inside me, maintaining the rhythm, and waiting to be filled. Redemption comes quickly; it rises like a phoenix from the ashes, a triple-split tongue going wild on my sex as my thoughts revolve around those words. “That’s a shame!”

Sighing, I curl up, my fingers clawing into dark curls; I know you well enough. You have the most skillful and eager tongue I’ve ever felt. I see it right in front of me, your head buried between my spread thighs before I push you down, staring at my resigned vision, still sitting stoically at the end of the bed, masturbating violently. The image fades; I concentrate fully on you, on your eyes searching my gaze in awe, forcing me to look at you and your tongue examining my inner walls before gliding up and circling my clit.

I say: “I love your tongue as much as your hands. Please finger me.”
You say: “Anything you want.”
I say: “When has it ever not been about me.”
And you say: “Never.”

In the interplay between fingers and tongue, between anus and pussy, you bring me to the highest ecstasy. The vibrator trembles on my clit as I give you my most sacred juices. You drink me dry, no drop wasted, and I begin to drift off completely.

The most wonderful scenarios unfold before my mind’s eye, minutes that would only be half as beautiful in real life. I see it all: the rejection, the worship, lovers coming and going, satisfying me, more or less. When have we ever been as sincere as in those moments when pleasure overwhelmed us and we approached one orgasm after another with gratitude? When did I stop looking? Wistfully, I feed on the memories, the fantasies. December strives for closeness, December questions … always. The longing and all the desires are anchored in the glorious wetness of my fingers, on which I suck as if they were the only proof of my existence. An existence that is independent of others that feels and perceives itself for the first time; that is true love.

December melancholy catches up with me, as it does every year, only it feels completely different with sunshine and humid temperatures. The wetness never goes away, though; it just gets stronger with each month that passes untouched.

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