Jerry’s like, “Wow!” and yeah she was a knockout

Another wispy exhale tickled my groin as he lowered his chin. In response, a long trail of goosebumps crawled up my inner thighs. Setting a hand on either, Wakuu urged my legs further apart. I accommodated without a second thought.

Breathless in reverence, he paused to admire, take in, appreciate while hovering just out of reach, teeth clamping onto his lower lip, with his lust-smoked gaze fixed on my nether regions. Drawing it out, leading me on, prolonging anticipation, the unbearably soft slide of the tips of his fingers trailed a fizzing path upwards, dancing along the expanse of my lower belly. His glistening lips grazed the skin of my groin with mind-melting tenderness, in a heedful search for the most sensitive spots where his caresses were making my abdominal muscles twitch and contract, as if they were palms recoiling from a zap of static electricity. He proceeded to administer the exquisite torment of the teasing flicks circling, yet never reaching where I wanted for his mouth to land, with each contact being more of a suggestion of touch than an actual touch — until, trembling against his tracing lips, I started pleading in a string of raw, breathless gasps. He blew a well-aimed stream of air over my quivering folds — a promise of how his arduous tongue would swirl along their creases. Taking pity on me as I cried out, he placed a series of kisses across my inner thighs, peppering them with an intoxicating combination of gentle warmth and controlled possessiveness, stealing the thoughts out of my head, prompting my body to squirm in anticipation of bliss. His delicate, melodic moans were spilling out of his sensuous mouth, accompanied by his dextrous tongue snaking out as if in slow motion while his long, elegant digits coaxed me open, exposing me to his eyes. The subtle, unhurried intimacy reigned over a gradual buildup as Wakuu was worshipfully committing my genitals to memor— PSYCH!

None of those, of course. Drunken revelry was a thing; ‘drunken reverence’ would have sounded like a malapropism.

Mouth falling open as if in a greedy fish-hook snatch, every finger latching onto my hips, Wakuu plunged his head into the gulf between them — and went to town like a rabid canine, snarling, humming, slurping, and stuffing his mouth with as much pussy as he could reach and fit in.

What? Starved meant starved, in every sense; I understood it all too well and would have been the last one to judge, even if I wasn’t feeling the same. Besides, we weren’t trapped in a paperback romance. And we were drunk, not high on mushroom tacos... Although I already wanted to repeat this when we’d be high on mushroom tacos.

And also when sober, definitely when sober. Many, many, many times when sober.

Please.

In an instant, as my heartbeat sped up, my mind short-circuited and erupted in sparks, or something in the vein of. Like it had become hyper-aware, hyper-energized, and hyper-dumbass, all at the same time. It felt... odd and not precisely congruent with being tipsy? What even was this feeling..? Eh, whatever.

Wakuu’s lips clamped around my labia, with bruising force and suction, and his nose smashed into my mound. I somehow managed to fit about half a dozen curse words into one second and one sentence. Or thought that I had? Maybe they all remained in my brain, and the only thing that ripped out of my mouth was a high-pitched shriek. Then, in an instinctive (and uncalled-for) effort to not be as loud, I almost bit through my own tongue, and that was not nice. Although that was the only not nice thing so far.

His right hand wandered higher, taking hold of my hip for leverage, while the other firmly grasped my right buttock. For better leverage. ‘This whole leverage stuff is about physics, and he knows physics really well, so he won’t let me fall, and by the way — physics, such a fascinating field of science!’ was a completely straightforward thought. No hint of comedy or sarcasm. A lot of drunken and absent confidence, however — right before Wakuu yanked my pelvis towards himself, in order to give his face more space. Which made my spine arch, and my hips to cant forward. Like a flimsy tower built upon sand, I teetered and swayed, and made a distressed noise, in a drawn-out struggle to stay upright and standing. In reflex, my hands shot out, clutching at air, fumbling around, trying to latch onto something, anything to keep me from coiling and plummeting down like a literal wet noodle into broth.

Nothing to steady myself against; nothing to help me keep my balance, nothing to dig my fingertips into. Nothing but him. There was absolutely nothing else for me to hold on to but him. I figured it was okay for me to hold on to him. He’d be okay with it.

So I clung to his head between my legs, doing my best not to cling too hard. Wakuu would surely not have welcomed any additional pressure on his hair, I decided; not because he wasn’t into hair-pulling (I had no idea what he was into... I hoped to find out), but because he was already bleaching and dyeing it on the regular, mainly due to some cuckoo billionaire paying more attention to how his employees looked rather than to the knowledge and qualifications they possessed, and if I pulled Wakuu’s weakened hair out, there’d be no cable cars in the near future, because said billionaire would consider pulling funds in retaliation... How absurd was this whole notion. How absurd and stupid and tragic was the whole modern world, for crying out loud! How the heck was it still functioning and not snuffing itself out?! HOW?!... Mmmmm, tongue on pussy feel nice have orgasm much soon very probably... Must not fall because very want orgasm...

Ultimately, I compromised by threading my fingers through the strands, twisting them around my knuckles, and digging my pads into Wakuu’s scalp, cradling it without too much tugging. I also remembered how, back in the city, if you had nothing and no one to hold on to on a moving train, a good idea was to slightly bend your knees and open your legs. Elated at the manifestation of my own ingenuity and adroitness (‘Hmmm I kinda much smart, it feel nice’), I did that, too, since the world around me indeed resembled a moving train. Some balance was restored, but it remained fragile. So, yes, I would have to rely on him, to trust that he’d manage to hold me upright, hold us both upright.

Somehow, I had no doubt that he would. Not even because he knew physics.

Meanwhile, below, as if oblivious to everything that was happening above and around, Wakuu took advantage of the slightly better angle, and smushed and buried half of his face deeper into my crotch, groaning, tongue like a motor; no pomp, no ceremony. My skin prickled from the enforced contact with the short stubble on his jaw, and I squeaked like a terrified rodent, and then squeaked some more.

This entire thing had happened in— Uh, time seemed even more cumbersome to navigate than logic. Very fast. It happened very-very fast.

Unexpectedly, Wakuu did something else that might have knocked me down into water, if I wasn’t being held up. He moaned — no, whimpered with longing — into my pussy as if it were my mouth. Even with his lips fastened to me, I still managed to hear, and not only feel, that sound pouring out of him and— It was really sweet. Just this. Sweet. When had anyone kissed me this hard before, with so much dedication? Maybe never. No one. No reticence, no bashfulness, no hesitation, no brakes. No direction either. His tongue dragged up and down and from side to side wildly, swirling and twisting in— Screw it, in something that could best be described as ‘voracious sweeps’. Accompanied by loud slurping noises.

Alcohol was supposed to be numbing; I had enough presence of mind to remember that. But everything Wakuu was doing felt downright visceral. Although never even hinting at painful, the intensity and its effect was bordering on raw. So was I recoiling? Nope, I pressed my groin right into the assault that much harder. He welcomed my enthusiasm (not sure about the rodent-like squeaking sounds, though); his nails dug into me with more force, carving another line or two for sure, his tongue speared me harder, and an approving growl rumbled from deep within his throat, traveling up through my pelvis like a shockwave. According to paperback romances and the like, shockwaves of this type, when deposited directly into pussies, were supposed to resonate inside the spine and send a violent shudder through the whole body. But my spine just didn’t feel like participating, and shudders — both violent and arrested merely for wire fraud — had all been locked up, maybe. It kinda just felt nice and pleasant. And— and I was on the verge of realizing something important, but this Something Important slipped away from me.

A gurgling snicker erupted from the maelstrom between my legs as Wakuu tore his lips away — before sucking in a sharp breath to renew his efforts with zeal. Literally digging back in.

His hunger turned even more focused; his vigor and drive were now unrestrained, and Wakuu’s erudition was worthy of academic praise, because he was adept at human biology and anatomy. As in, he knew where the clitoris was situated. And because he focused primarily on it, the sensations were overwhelming. So, another thing that I was on the verge of: coming. Already. Getting winded up tighter and tighter, writhing and grinding down into his tongue.

The physical reaction was abnormal for more than one reason; I couldn’t place it. My entire body felt heavy and cumbersome, every single muscle contracting, and everything inside of me clenched, and not in a good way, either. With my senses sharpening and growing fuzzy at the same time, and my pulse beating in the middle of my tongue. Not nauseated, not pre-orgasmic, but sort of feverish. The tension had coiled so hard that it was scaring me. My knees locked like hinges, my vision tunneled, the heat in my cheeks threatened to boil my eyeballs. I saw my own silhouette shift and warp, reflected in the opaque surface; a tenebrous figure suspended in midair, hovering over the expanse of water, as if among formless, empty darkness. I felt like I was wrapped in clingfilm and suffocating, what in the everliving f— Oh. Right. I’d forgotten to breathe. It was hypoxia. I actually was suffocating.

Time began anew as I inhaled, and so did pleasure, and I staggered, but Wakuu moved with me, his somehow-steady and dextrous arms supporting me with absent attention, the rest of him concentrating on the task at hand. At mouth. At face?

Speaking of face.

Although I was busy gulping down air, I still lurked dangerously close to the edge. In an attempt to hold back from coming after such a pathetically short amount of time, I forced my pelvis muscles to unclench, heaved my cast-iron eyelids up, dropped my chin, and looked at Wakuu. And was unable to tear my eyes away from the sight. The sharp, unguarded urgency in his face was now replaced by sheer bliss and abandon. His pun-worthy neck strained in sync with his jaw moving. His ears, almost crimson. The broad swipes of his tongue, his head bobbing along with the motions of his mouth, eyes shut, eyebrows arched high, forehead creased, his cheeks flexing and working with powerful movements that were causing his temples to jump... It was mesmerizing to see him act so primal. Yet then, after watching some more — still holding back as hard as I could, with my mouth slack, gasping for air all the while — I was reminded of those ridiculous lip trainer contraptions made of silicone, ones you needed to shove into your maw, securing it open, and then do exaggerated lip-bending exercises via mooing and groaning various vowels... For a second or two, he kinda looked like a person in the middle of diligently using that shoddy, silicone face-tightening thingie. All of the vowels, one by one. And there was even a muffled ‘om-nom’ tucked away somewhere, I was sure of it. And I giggled — with ease and sincerity, unencumbered.

I utterly enjoyed and appreciated every second of what was happening, and it felt good, but it also felt and looked — and was — ridiculous. I thought, ‘Sex is so ridiculous and funny.’ And then I thought, ‘Hmm, loving ridiculous things and being open about loving them, is considered stupid and shameful, so maybe that’s why.’ And then I thought, ‘It’s widely acceptable to love something that’s funny. And yet a lot more people are open about loving comedy than about loving sex. Seems hypocritical!’... And then I thought: ‘So many humans are obsessed with trying to poeticize, exalt, and aggrandize the sex that they have, especially the sex they have with the humans they like a lot, and to present it as something it is not, to rearrange it into something it is not. Why not accept sex for what it is — a really funny joke.’ And so on. In short: hello, a-bit-more-coherent yet-still-drunk brain.

Yes, this was funny and ridiculous. But also comforting. This was a very comforting, heartfelt joke.

Ehem. Observational humor, check.

To say that Wakuu appeared to be enjoying himself would have been an understatement. He was having a blast; the satisfied growls that traveled through his throat and rolled out of his mouth, weren’t stopping for even a second. Thoroughly engrossed. To an almost alarming degree. I even experienced a fleeting urge to grab him by the top of his head, yank him off my nearly-overstimulated clit, and ask if he needed a breather.

I had to remind myself that not everything was my responsibility.

My tongue felt too thick and heavy to articulate any sounds beyond a babble of whimpering nonsense; words would have been too hard. So I didn’t get a chance to traditionally plead him not to stop. Which would have been superfluous, anyway; he wasn’t showing any signs of stopping. So no biggie.

As for his tongue, it felt firmer, slicker, and more resolute than in the beginning, with these hard, insistent strokes, up and down, hitting every single nerve-ending cluster within range. Wakuu was giving it his all — one hundred percent committed to his own personal mission of making me come as hard as I possibly could in less than, uhm, maybe five? Three..? Very few minutes, because I could feel pleasure gathering low in my belly, corkscrewing through it, and I was getting closer and— So, the torrential tide metaphor? Or the electricity discharge metaphor? Eh, equally hackneyed, both of them. The climbing-a-peak metaphor? Alas, already using the Climb for something else.

Or how about: closer and closer, almost there, yes, please, almost, almost there, almost, right there, right, just one more sweep, one more suckle, ohhh, just like that, just like that, like that, like thngggghfffff— Anyway, I came really hard on his tongue, and it felt really good. Alas and alack, I wasn’t seeing any stars in the process, but that was okay and something I could cope with, as I lived in a town with a state-of-the-art observatory.

Having merrily tongue-plowed all the way through my orgasm, Wakuu was neither stopping nor even slowing down. By all indications, he aimed for another round. Going at the same pace, with the same pressure and intensity. Yet now the contact was bordering on pain-inducing. Too raw. Yelping, I jerked up higher on tiptoes, simultaneously flattening my palms over his forehead, in order to pry myself off his overzealous mouth. Then I attempted to wriggle out of his grasp, and to stagger back. Wakuu gave a soused, petulant whine as he slumped forward, mouth still open and straining towards the escaped mark, hands grabbing at me like pincers, eyes snapping open as if he had awoken from a deep trance.

Maybe ‘drunken reverence’ existed, after all?

With the loss of direct contact, the overstimulation morphed into pleasant, tingly throbbing. In all honesty, I would have loved for him to continue, albeit after a short break, but my ears rang, and my legs felt like they were made of alien goo and would dissolve and spill into the water any second now, and the starry sky was spinning around me in circles.

And I was losing other stuff. Luckily, not my consciousness or wits. Only my sense of direction and a fight with violent vertigo. In place of those — having hopped away from him, unsupported — I had gained the freedom to move, and that was a bad trade-off. Dizzy from the orgasm, the alcohol, the hot water, the steam, the lack of air and lack of quality sleep, and from the sheer realization that Wakuu had just gone down on me in the pool at night while we were both tipsy... Yeah, I was about to keel over, and there was no stopping it this time.

With the only other stable points being my toes on the bottom, my knees buckled, and the world wobbled and tilted on its axis. I would have flailed my arms like a windmill in one last desperate attempt to remain upright, but my arms were too weak to flail, or thresh, or even to flap; all they were capable of doing was to grab onto Wakuu’s damp shoulders. Right as I folded in on myself like a rusty deck chair and sagged into him, in slow motion.

Rising higher, he caught me mid-fall and reeled me in, following my movements, cushioning and adjusting them so that I would not sink like a stone. Our chests bumped together, my breasts squashed flat against his ribcage. I thought I heard our heads clatter with a muted bonk; my face ended up mashing into his cheek, then his neck. Wakuu gathered me into his arms, pulled me close, tilted me sideways, and cradled me against himself. Clasping me around the waist and upper back, so that I was almost across his lap. He was making shushing noises. One of his hands ran up my spine, between my shoulder blades, up to my nape. Still dextrous and steady. And soothing.

All of it, without a single hitch in his own movements, with no trace of stupor; almost like he was sober. He’d seemed plastered upon arrival, yet now I had trouble deciding which one of us was the drunker one; the fluctuations in the symptoms varied every other minute.

My own arms closed and locked around his neck. I pressed my temple to his. He tightened his grip — as if afraid that I’d fall if he let go even for a fraction of a second. And that’s when I figured that right now, unlike me, Wakuu had a lot of trouble remembering that not everything was his responsibility, and acted in pure acquired reflex.

So yes, he still was the drunker one.

The world continued its dizzying rotation in an irregular orbit, while I rode out the final tremors, feeling weightless and heavy at the same time. Acting only heavy, though. Because, gravity.

I had no idea if it was an illusion, but his torso felt warmer than the water surrounding us. Humming, I snuggled into Wakuu’s lean frame. The only sounds I was hearing for the next several long moments were that of our breathing. His — measured, slow and rhythmical, no traces of strain; and mine — coming fast, shallow, with occasional wheezes. For a time, my lungs felt too small, refusing to accommodate any more air. I felt small, too, in a weird kind of way — like a mote of dust held aloft by a breeze. A speck of a speck of a speck.

But, gradually, my head stopped spinning in an eddy, my heart slowed its frantic pounding, the convulsive shivers disappeared, the world stilled. He continued holding me in a secure grip. I didn’t want to let go. Or to move. Or to think. It felt like I was falling asleep. I felt safe. I actually felt like falling asleep. I might have. For a moment. I was jolted back into awareness when his lips grazed along my cheek, ending up at my earlobe.

Wakuu wasn’t asking me ‘did it feel good?’ or ‘did you like it?’. Which checked out; why would a man of science, drunk or not, ever ask redundant questions with obvious answers?

“You okay? Hit anything?” he muttered hoarsely into my ear.

Yeah, that was more like it.

“I’m super. Thanks, professor.”

“Nah’until nexx year,” Wakuu reminded me. His hand moved from the curve of my neck to my shoulder blade. The pads of his fingertips pressed down on it in small, soothing circular movements. “Iff I don’t ffff’it up.”

“You won’t. You’re going to ace your defense,” I said; couldn’t help but say — although this was neither the best time nor the best space for this sort of conversation; the last thing that I wanted was for him to get into a spiral of self-doubt, and back into mundane worries. He needed a break from those. We both did. “What about you? Are you okay? I think I hit your head with mine.”

“Uhm’fine, thanks. Didn’t notice,” Wakuu whispered into my temple, with a slight chuckle. I felt his fingers lifting the strands off the base of my neck, and tucking them over my shoulder, leaving my nape bare. His nose slid down and poked into the hollow under my ear. “You smell like cucumburz.”

“Smashed cucumbers?” I quipped half-assedly. “Or pickled?”

“Noooo.” Wakuu inhaled again, and I felt his nostrils fluttering against my skin. A shaky exhale followed suit, fanning under my hairline. Ticklish. “Freshhh cucumburz. Jusss the smell of your skin. It’s nice.” Then he rubbed his stubbly chin along the base of my neck. That wasn’t ticklish. That was something else entirely.

I buried my face in his shoulder.

“Yours smells like lily of the valley,” I realized aloud and continued to mumble into his neck, “I’ve been trying to recall earlier. Was thinking, like, it’s so familiar. But I’m so bad at plants n’stuff and. I know almost nothing ‘bout plants. Except asters. Maybe ‘cause I’m self-obsessed. But I couldn’t recall. Now I have. Just now, whoah...”

Ninety-nine point five percent sure that the shared fit of giggles that followed, was caused by both of us thinking and yet not voicing: ‘khhhhhhh post-nut clarity’. Neither of us was a telepath and able to read thoughts. But we were decent judges of character, and also sad clowns. So, perhaps, ninety-nine point nine.

“You’re nah self-obsessed. You’re just—” His left hand cupped the back of my head, long fingers splayed through my hair, bringing our faces closer. “I dunno, some meaning? Looking for meaning. To belong.”

“To belong,” I echoed and made a murmuring sound of agreement in my throat.

My fingers twitched on his back and migrated down, seeking new spots to touch, explore, learn, and settle in. I felt goosebumps blooming wherever I trailed my hand. Wakuu tilted his head sideways, in invitation. With disproportionate excitement, I noticed a tiny freckle on his pale shoulder, and pressed a wet kiss over it, drawing a shiver out of him.

I was sure he wouldn’t be opposed to reciprocation, yet he would never ask for it outright. Even when drunk. Pretending like I couldn’t feel his cock pressing into me. Politely ignoring how hard it was.

Meanwhile, I decided that this kind of a favor could not remain unanswered. It wasn’t an interstellar radio message sent towards a random globular cluster, and I wasn’t the great emptiness, after all.

Also, I really wanted to.

So I finally found it in me to pull away a few centimeters, and asked, with as much solemnity as I could muster in my face and tone of voice, “Good sir, would you be so kind and gracious as to allow me to stuff my face with your cock?”

Blue comedy, check. Deadpan, check. Two for one.

For a beat, Wakuu froze. Then his shoulders began trembling under my palms, and a solitary snort burst from him, before the near-maniacal laughter erupted in earnest, loud enough for it to reverberate around us, bouncing across the stone, rippling across the water.

Yes, on purpose. Yes, to make it easier for him. For us both. Yes, I knew that somewhere among the laughter would be a breathless ‘yeah, sure’ or that—

“Yisss, most certainly you may,” he squeaked through cackles. “I shhhhh— I shall allow it.”

—that my question would be receiving an equally solemn, equally comedic answer. An affirmative answer.

As we struggled to disentangle our bodies and to stand up, laughing like... well, like drunk clowns... I recalled that strange feeling that had gripped me, one I found odd and peculiar, one I had not recognized in my state.

Joy, it was joy. Brought on by the situation itself, and by the discovery that I was still making jokes when I was happy, too, when I felt good. Yes, comedy was a defense mechanism, and yes, the things that had put this defense mechanism into place were tragic and heavy, but comedy and laughter weren’t supposed to be associated with tragic and heavy. They were supposed to be about joy and levity, as well. No, mainly about them.

Once more, I felt like I was reclaiming something important. Something really, really important. My only worry — that I would forget this thrilling discovery. But I trusted that even if I forgot, he would remind me.