Guest blog: All desire – edged with his tongue

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I have to confess to not being a particularly spiritual person, which is why I’m delighted that guest bloggers can come fill that gap with their own intensely hot, something-more-than-pure-physical sex stories. Today’s guest blogger is Zoe, who has written a gorgeous piece before about talking very dirty, and writes a travel blog over at The Zoeverse (and who you can follow on TwitterInstaFacebook and Patreon too). Today she’s taking us with her to Zagreb, and a man she met there who gave her cause to consider ‘all desire’…

All desire

On the floor cross-legged. His voice has me in a trance. He is harmonizing with my host. She sits perpendicular to him as they do so. Their voices cross in the air. He has a hand drum occasionally, beating out rhythms that stroke me in all the places I want him to stroke me too.

They are singing songs of their Balkan foremothers, crafted for working the fields. They have rescued these to reanimate them through their own embodiment. Watching them connect and be so vulnerable and intimate with one another through a platonic relationship has me swoon for him.

He is deep. We’re sitting around the table at their house in Zagreb, smoking crap Albanian weed and drinking Rakija. We’re well into philosophy, and consent and morality are the subjects at hand.

“We can’t have discussions about consent until we undo suppression of female desire, else we are all consenting to a ‘no’ borne of the use of religion for domination,” I say, hoping to challenge him, impress him, get his attention. The opposite occurs.

“All desire,” he says.


“We have to undo the suppression of all desire, or else we are all consenting to the no borne of religion. The world needs to see the Divine Masculine just as badly,” he says, as though he’s thought a lot about it.

I sit back. Almost spill and have to put down the drink I’m holding. He’s expanded my thinking.

“You’re right.”

I see it in his eyes there and then. What he’ll do to me.

He’ll tie me to the bed.

He’ll tie me to the bed to keep me from stopping him from showing me his divinity. From eclipsing, waxing, or even rising to meet him.

He’ll tie me to the bed not to have his way with me, but to have his way my way. Give me everything I want to relentlessly make me feel what that’s like.

He’ll tie me to the bed to lick my pussy. He’ll tie me to the bed to suck my cunt.

My Croatian lover will taste me for hours. This divine masculine lover who has tied me to the bed will not hear ‘stop.’ I couldn’t say it – not with the sound of what I have always yearned for singing out from all the cells in my body. It’s louder than my voice, and it’s screaming: more. My divinely masculine lover can’t hear anything but my body begging him for more.

He will give me more. But first he’ll brush my clit with the tip of his tongue, tickling and teasing me for what feels like hours as I buck and writhe against the ties. Tastebuds fringe the space between my hood and bud and I shake and shake. He’ll give me the precision I yearn for, that pointillist stimulation on every single clitoral nerve ending, creating and drilling into my tension spots and releasing me in toe-curling, bed-shaking ecstasy.

He’ll tie me to the bed and at times I’ll wonder if he’s sane. If he’ll eat me. If he will be my destruction.

After I’m numb from his clit working, his stroke will get broad and he’ll give me more pressure and he’ll lap me. Rafting me to that state where there are no peaks and troughs anymore. Where it isn’t a distinct orgasm but just one, long, slithering coil of lightning energy circulating around my nervous system from clit to crown again. Edging me. Excruciatingly.

And I’ll know. I’ll know what I’ll need to scream to make it stop, to push it over the peak. To finally have him penetrate me into that bear-down I can’t slingshot into pleasure without. I’ll know why he would tie me to the bed, because I wouldn’t have gotten it before now. I wouldn’t have begged for it before now.

“ALL DESIRE!” I scream the secret safe words, as he mouths the meaning and power of the divine masculine into my cunt, punishing me for overlooking the ways that his desire has been suppressed by me. Out loud. In front of other people. By omitting him from the we.

And then whispers it back to me in that hot Croatian accent and singing-tuned voice – “All desire” – as he fills me with his cock just enough to send me over the edge, staring into my eyes as we infinitely reflect all desire.


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