“Do British girls like having their assholes licked?”

“Do British girls like having their assholes licked?”

These, perhaps unsurprisingly, were not the words I was expecting to hear from Christopher as he positioned all 6ft 5inches of his sprawling American Football enthusiast body squarely between my parted legs.

Mere moments earlier I had delivered what I felt had been an A-grade blowjob - the near ‘double gulp’ finish suggesting I wasn’t merely being self congratulatory - and was still very much delighting in the taste of victory lingering prominently in my mouth. You can read about it in full HERE, though it’s not at all essential for what is to follow.

Christopher was a Mid-Western man of few words but had loosely indicated his intention was to prove that he too could be a cunning linguist while he recharged his stamina, before we would proceed to the actual business of fucking each other’s brains out.

So, as I lay naked on my back, my nipples slick with his saliva and my legs already positioned over his shoulders, I felt I had a reasonable understanding of how the rest of the evening was to play out.

How wrong I was.

He lowered himself toward me at roughly the same speed as a glacial ice-cap melting and, as his face approached the outermost orbit of an intimate area, he asked the question;

“Do British girls like having their assholes licked?”

I can’t deny It caught me entirely off guard. There was I imminently readying myself for Christopher’s tongue to dance some mediocre clitography and, instead I found myself being asked to speak for the nation.

When caught off guard and entirely lost for words my brain immediately jumps to a failsafe state, which is invariably to make a stupid joke. I swear this can happen entirely independently of my conscious thought.

“Are we including Northern Ireland here, or are we sticking only to the women of the mainland?”

An objectively insane thing to say to a man whose face was between my legs and perhaps six inches away from being inside me.

Christopher looked as dumbfounded as if i’d chosen that moment to ask him whether he felt it was a win for feminism that television advertisements for sanitary towels now feature more representative red liquids being poured onto the pads to display their absorbency rather than the traditionally less overt but more mysterious ‘blue fluid’.

(The answer is a resounding ‘Yes’ for anyone wondering, but now, like then, probably isn’t the time for that particular discussion)

Christopher blinked away the confusion like he’d briefly short-circuited and said in a tone so clear and concise I couldn’t decide whether it was patronising or endearing;

“I just meant, do *you* enjoy it?”

“Phew! Delighted to no longer shoulder the burden of 35 million of us!” I said, an enormous forced grin on my face.

Now I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. ‘Alice, you’ve had time to get over the surprise and you’ve been able to show of your skills as a pedant. Why not just answer the tall man and proceed with the sex, arsehole tonguing or otherwise?’

And that’s a perfectly fair question.

I was buying myself time to think. Because I really wasn’t sure myself.

Rimming simply isn’t a casual act. No matter how eager one (or both) parties may be to indulge, it’s always something that’s going to require a degree of preparation first. Without wanting to dwell on what is without doubt the least sexy aspect of it, more so than any other sexual act it requires a degree of cleanliness that far eclipses even the most thorough of standard practices.

Which is a longwinded way of saying I’d have ideally wanted to stick a shower-head squarely in the direction of where he wanted his tongue to be going, and this moment didn’t feel like the ideal opportunity to pause to undertake such measures.

But perhaps I wasn’t giving Christopher enough credit. Clearly he too would be aware of these factors and so in asking he was either prepared to halt proceedings until judicious showering had been involved - perhaps even anticipating joining me there to embark on some wet and wild action - or was himself happy to continue regardless, confident my hygiene levels were sufficient to prevent something awful occurring.

But, crucially, that wasn’t he only consideration I was weighing up. Because including the anus as a buffet option on the sexual banquet tends to also invite the other spectre at the feast; anal. And, to put not too fine a point on it, I wasn’t overly keen to offer the 6ft5 American Footballer an unlimited hall-pass to my arse.

Despite the fact it literally includes the word ‘ass’ in it.

Which also brings me neatly to the third consideration: the language itself. ‘Asshole’ just sounded wrong to my sensibilities. I was lucky enough to be born in the land of Austen, the Bronte Sisters and the Bard, and they’d all agree that if this American was to be licking anything, it’d be my arsehole, thank you very much!

Christopher remained looking at me, confused. He made as if to speak again but, my own decision now made, I got in first.

“You can lick my *arsehole* if you’d like, but let me make it clear right now that’s the only engagement my arse will participate in this evening.”

Just as Elizabeth Bennet would have told Mr Darcy, i’m sure you’d agree.

Seemingly delighted with these terms, Christopher happily lowered himself further between my legs, eager to set to work.

And he made his first, all too predictable, mistake.

For Christopher’s tongue passed merrily on by my clit that was, by now, aching for some attention. His entire face indeed continued past my vagina in its entirety as he pushed my legs gently upwards to bring something else entirely into full view.

So thrilled was he that I had acquiesced to his arse-tonguing demands that he’d neglected the usual niceties of fornication. Declining to use his fingers and tongue to stimulate the part of me that is designed to dispense pleasure when pleasingly licked, caressed and stroked in favour of his own personal preference.

It’s the equivalent of me embarking on a sexual escapade by ignoring the cock and only tonguing the balls until I felt the poor unfortunate was ripe for fucking. A fact I explained to Christopher at remarkable length later.

Having finally drawn his face level with the arse end of me, he began to kiss and, unless I’m very much mistaken, gently bite my buttocks. This, I fear, had more of a tickling sensation than he was expecting as my legs involuntarily kicked out and he took a hefty heel to the back of the shoulder.

Unperturbed, he placed his tongue at the tip of my arse-crack, and slowly ran it along the seam of my bum-cheeks.

I’d been expecting him to part my cheeks in order to reach his presumed destination, but instead he’d actively pushed them together so as to, for now, only be tonguing the crack.

The sensation was, frankly, bizarre. Despite the relative nearness to potential pleasure centres, it was about as stimulating as if he’d been tonguing the crease in my elbow.

He made four of five passes of this motion, running his tongue along my crack from the back of my arse towards the region I’d much rather he’d been spending his time.

It was almost cruel.

During the final pass, he switched from pushing my cheeks together to gently parting them like Moses and the Red Sea.

His tongue finally slid between my cheeks and reached what I can only describe the outskirts of my arsehole.

Here, he paused. I wondered briefly if he was assessing he view.

It transpired he was just taking a deep breath.

Christopher suddenly leant forward into me, his nose jabbing firmly into my perineum. This initial motion was seemingly to get his lips against my arsehole to kiss it, but no sooner had lips met sphincter was his tongue unleashed.

Given the care in which he’d slowly licked along my buttocks, I’d been expecting some equally gentle tongue-on-arsehole teasing. This was not what he delivered.

His tongue smacked against my arsehole like a whale’s tail impacting upon the surface of the ocean. It begin to thrash and writhe like it was possessed, coating my arse in saliva and striking repeatedly against the constricted sphincter as if trying to find a weakness to breach.

The sensation was a confusing one. I believe I let out an audible “FUCK!” as he began which he took as a sign to push himself deeper into me. The feeling was far from unpleasant, but neither was it providing the thrill I’d have enjoyed had his attentions been focused elsewhere.

To help things along I started to play with my clit, and was surprised to see him shake his head and lightly smack my hand away.

This, I can’t deny, annoyed me.

I’d been perfectly happy to let him indulge in whatever arse-licking agenda he’d embarked upon, but the very least he could do was allow me to maximise my pleasure from it.

I rolled forward slightly, my arse slide down away from him and brining his face level instead with my cunt. Before he had time to react, I gripped my thighs tightly around his head, locking him in this new position. I was under no illusion that I had him held, knowing he could throw me off in a moment without breaking a sweat. But I didn’t much care. I was keen to make a point.

Christopher, to give him his due, seemed to grasp the point I was making and, rather than wrestle me back to our original position, renewed his oral assault, this time against my cunt.

His tongue thrashed and battered against my lips and swirled in a maelstrom across my clit. It lacked any sense of nuance or precision, but at least now he was tonguing things that could provoke the more sensual pleasure I was hoping for.

I held him there for a few minutes, but it soon became clear his mouth only possessed one setting. I disengaged my thighs from around his head and couldn’t help but note that, before he pulled away, he couldn’t resist once again sliding his tongue between the cheeks of my arse, despite being far from the tightening arsehole.

“I’m ready if you are.” He said with his trademark brevity, indicating his fully engorged cock that was either still wet with my saliva from earlier, or already slightly leaking with pre-cum.

“Fuck yes!” Was my uncharacteristically succinct reply, fearing any attempt to launch into multiple syllables may throw him off course again.

You’d forgive me for thinking that as I was already laying on my back, fully presenting with my legs parted in the air, Christopher might take the opportunity to immediately slide inside me.

Reader, he did not.

Christopher leant forward and wrapped his arms around my waist. In one motion which, I can’t deny, excited me enormously, he lifted me up and onto his shoulder in the style of a fireman’s lift.

If both the fireman and the person he was saving were both stark naked and primed to fuck.

Excitement of how easily he’d picked me up aside, I had to wonder what the hell he was doing. We were in a hotel room; there was nowhere to carry me *to*.

The answer soon became clear when he clicked on the light, illuminating the small, stark white bathroom. He gently put me down beside the toilet. Sensing my confusion, he turned me away from him to face the sink.

And the sizeable mirror that occupied the majority of the wall behind it.

“I want to see all of you when we do this.” said Christopher as he grabbed my hips and bent me forward.

To be continued…

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