Tom was in heaven. With her thighs on either side of his head acting as fleshy earmuffs and his nose nuzzling against the tiny pink nubbin of her clitoris, if Tom had a heart attack right here and now, he’d die happy.
Starting with the tip of his tongue, he would place it at her puckered rose hole and tease it, tickle it, probe at it gently before licking that small, sensitive stretch of skin between asshole and cunt hole. Here, Tom liked to lavish a series of rapid-fire licks giving what women described as feeling like the fluttering of butterfly wings.
He enjoyed that area so much, women started calling him Lickety Split, which was fine with him. He had no intention of them ever knowing his real name.
But he wasn’t the only one with a moniker. She came with a scream like a train whistle and a squirt like a geyser, living up to her street name: Old Faithful.
Tom stopped lapping with his tongue and began to suck, to gulp. He was a man dying of thirst and her juices were his oasis.
He wasn’t quite done when the alarm went off. She moved away, leaving Tom lapping at the air.
“Time’s up, honey.”