The day I was bound to lick her BUTTHOLE

We had barely thrown our bags on the bed when the steam of the bathroom pulled us in. Water slid over her pale skin, soft curves shining as I pressed up behind her. My breath filled the crook of her neck while my hardness rubbed against her back, slow, deliberate. She laughed low, then melted when I kissed her throat, when my tongue trailed to the spot under her armpit—her shocked gasp turning into a guilty moan.

After smoking cannabis, our bodies were too agitated to quit. Now her groans bounced off tile, shameless. In a coarser voice than I had ever heard, I commanded her to get down on all fours. Playfully but curiously, she obliged, and when I urged her to spread wider, she did so, silently revealing everything to me.

She had a quite huge and slightly dark butthole that was hard to miss. I was more hungry than I realized, and my hands kept her steady. It wasn't prearranged. It was a pull, instinct. Leaning in, I tasted her hole in an unexpected way. She turned her head, her eyes wide, her cheeks red, then froze and shivered. We were becoming aware that the cannabies changed our level of pleasure and made us more untamed.

How does it taste?” she whispered, half-teasing, half-embarrassed. I only kissed her lips, still tasting her, and told her softly: “Now you know.”