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Note: User-submitted post with erotic content on the topic of rimming
The following story was submitted by a user and contains erotic content. It is a personal fantasy or an account of the author’s experience. Tom Rocket’s expressly distances itself from the content of this story and does not endorse the actions or opinions depicted. This publication is intended to promote free speech and entertainment within the framework of our community guidelines.
I met Jonas on a Friday night in one of those small bars where the light is so warm that everyone looks good. He was standing at the counter, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. I still remember thinking: I want to get to know him better. Not necessarily for one night, just – closer.
We talked for two hours about everything under the sun. About his work as a physiotherapist, about my recent move, about the question of whether you have to love or hate coriander. At some point his hand was resting on my knee, completely naturally, and I noticed my pulse quicken. When he asked if I wanted to come back to his place, I said yes before he’d even finished the sentence.
His flat was tidier than mine, with plants on the windowsill and a record playing quietly in the background. We were barely kissing by the time the door closed. He tasted of the gin we’d been drinking and a little of cinnamon. His hands slid under my shirt, and I felt how warm his fingers were, how sure.
I like it when things don’t rush straight toward a goal. Jonas apparently did too. We took our time, undressed slowly, laughed when my belt got stuck. He laid me down on the bed and let his lips wander over my neck, over my chest, my stomach, lower. Every kiss was a small question, and I answered with my breath.
When He Turned Me Over
At some point he gently turned me onto my stomach. I heard him pause behind me for a moment, felt his hands on my hips, sliding them slowly upward. “Is this okay for you?” he asked quietly. I nodded into the pillow, then said it out loud, because I knew he wanted to hear it. “Yes. Very.”
I’d experienced rimming before, but rarely so attentively. Jonas was in no hurry. He first kissed the insides of my thighs, bit ever so lightly into the soft skin above them, and I felt a shiver run across my whole back. His hands opened me carefully, and then I felt his breath, warm and close, before anything else even happened.
The first contact of his tongue made me flinch. Not from shock – from intensity. It was a feeling I find hard to put into words: incredibly direct, almost too much and exactly right at the same time. He started slowly, with broad, soft movements, as if he wanted to give me time to get used to it. I buried my face in the pillow and let out a sound I didn’t even know I had in me.
What Control Feels Like When You Give It Away
What surprised me most in that moment was the feeling of letting go. Rimming has always been a question of trust for me. You make yourself vulnerable, you open up literally, and that only works when you feel safe. With Jonas I felt safe, even though I’d only known him for a few hours. Maybe precisely because of that.
He changed the pace, played with pressure and rhythm. Sometimes his movements circled slowly, sometimes his tongue pressed harder, then gently again, almost teasing. Now and then he paused, blew softly over the wet skin, and the coolness afterwards sent a shudder down my spine. I felt everything in me tense and release at the same time, a contradiction only the body understands.
I reached back, wanting to feel him, his hair, the nape of his neck. He let me, hummed quietly against me, and that vibration travelled through my whole lower body. “You’re driving me crazy,” I murmured, half laughing, half moaning. He didn’t answer with words but grew more intense, and I lost all sense of time.
More Than Just Technique
At some point I turned halfway toward him, because I wanted to see his face. His eyes were dark, his mouth glistened, and he flashed that crooked grin that had already caught me back in the bar. “All good?” he asked again, and I liked that he didn’t assume silence automatically meant consent.
“More than good,” I said. “Come here.”
We kissed, and I tasted myself on his lips, which in that moment didn’t bother me but turned me on. It felt honest, unpolished, close. Afterwards he let his fingers glide to where his tongue had just been, with plenty of lube he’d almost casually fished out of the nightstand drawer. He kept taking his time, and I slowly understood that time, for him, wasn’t a test of patience but a pleasure in itself.
What impressed me was how closely he paid attention to every one of my reactions. A twitch, a deeper breath, a word – he registered everything and adjusted. That’s something I’d underestimated before: that good rimming has less to do with a particular technique than with attention. With the willingness to truly feel what’s good for the other person.
Afterwards
When we lay next to each other later, sweaty and a little breathless, he pulled the blanket over us both. We said nothing for a while. Outside a car drove past, the record had long since ended, and I heard only our breathing slowly settling.
“I rarely have something like this with someone I’ve only just met,” I said finally. He turned his head toward me. “Neither do I.” It didn’t sound like a line. I believed him.
We did end up talking after all, for over an hour, about things that had nothing to do with sex. About fear and courage, about past relationships, about the strange feeling of getting naked in front of a stranger – physically and otherwise. At some point I fell asleep against his shoulder, and when I woke up in the morning, it smelled of coffee.
I’m not telling this because it was the wildest night of my life. There have been more exciting, louder, crazier ones. I’m telling it because it was one of the most honest. Because I learned that the most intimate experiences aren’t the ones where you perform the most, but the ones where you dare the most to let yourself fall.
Jonas and I still see each other, by the way. Not as some grand love story, more as something that doesn’t need a name. But every time I see that little bar with the warm light, I can’t help smiling. And thinking about how much closeness can sometimes live in a single touch – and how much trust lives in the courage to allow it.