I can’t stress this enough, I love eating. Especially my girlfriend.
We have an unspoken rule in our relationship: if you shower once, it’s for hygiene. If you shower twice, it’s dinner time.
There’s nothing more enjoyable than seeing her lying naked on the table. Her delicate head lulled sideways and smiling, as if sunshine touched her face. Her legs angled, knees bumping at each other in anticipation opening and closing the gates of heaven.
I would lean over and give her a kiss on the mouth, pressing my body gently on hers. Like a snake I would wind my way down kissing her cheek, her neck and collarbone. That is the moment she would start taking in sharp breaths and try to control her giggles. I would feel her goose bumps like a soft whole-body-grater.
Then I grab her breasts and kiss them, circling them with my tongue, her belly. She hates when I stay there for too long, so she grabs my hair and pushes me down. Down, where all the wonders in the world happen.
With my head between her legs, I am in heaven and this is my kingdom. Here I feel at home and can relax. It’s an honest and delightful craft, pleasing a woman with your mouth without saying a single word.
But I take my time, tease her a little while longer. From left to right and back again I kiss her inner thighs. Her hands bury deeper in my hair, clenching them harder, steering me with purpose until my mouth finally lands on her vagina. I let go of my tongue, swirling the perimeter of her outer labia, gently as petting a kitten.
A long and relaxing outbreath would mark the moment she is ready for more. Like coming home from a busy work day, settling down on the couch and making oneself comfortable, she loosened up. With all the residual tension gone, I could set to work.
I place my left hand on her stomach, warming it by touch and pressing softly. My right hand would wander until it met her breast. I cup it and massage, while my tongue sets out in easy strokes, upwards and down her clitoris, again and again.
She would moan, “Oh, Honey. Oh. Ooooh. Oooh. Honey.”
The way she says it and cries for more is intoxicating. I could feel her body convulse under the patterns my mouth forms around, my tongue inside and my hands upon her. I would pinch her nipple so she squeaks, bear down on her breasts, hard to the point of violence until her abs tighten up. Then I let go, soothing her back into the land of true pleasure, sucking her in and kissing her from the inside out.
But every guilty pleasure has downfalls too. Once a month I am the first to know her period is coming. Sometimes, while I’m painting her inside walls in the colors of lust there’s a chance of period blood clumps to appear. It’s part of a perfectly natural cycle and I don’t want her to feel embarrassed so I just spit them out and continue the play.
One day I could feel her convulsing close to climax when a bigger clump came out. I was too distracted with her impending apex, too conscious about my effort and too surprised to act that I accidentally swallowed it.
I couldn’t just stop. I needed to finish what I started. And after her first orgasm, she wasn’t done and wanted more.
Eventually I forgot about the whole incident. It was buried underneath pleasure and lust, hormones and animal instinct. Like a dream that slipped your memory as soon as you wake up.
A week later she arrived home crying. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks smeared with eyeliner. She must have cried a long way.
“I went to the doctor,” she said and fell on the couch hugging herself. “I was two months pregnant but I lost the baby.” Her cries of anguish and loss hurt my heart.
“Honey, I don’t know when I lost it,” she said and wrapped herself around me.
It then came back to me and I knew. I ate my child.
I, Hannibal Lector, ate my own child.