Going Down
I’ve always loved going down on you.
Not as a chore or favour. Not in exchange for reciprocation. Not as foreplay to the “real” thing.
No, for me, it is the thing.
It’s overwhelming to taste your pleasure on my tongue.
To feel you soften, surrender, unfold under me—not in submission, but in trust.
And now, I can say without doubt: my love for this act for you has only grown deeper, more sensual, more delightful.
What once felt like hunger now feels like adoration. What once was play is now like nourishment for my soul.
I don’t just love giving you oral sex.
I crave it.
I long for it.
I am never more alive, more present, or more at peace than when I am between your thighs, immersed in your scent, your softness, your sweetness, your wonderful storm.
There is something sacred about giving you that kind of pleasure. About loving you with my mouth, with my breath, with my patience.
It’s not about performance.
It’s about presence.
It’s about reverence.
It’s about showing you, with every kiss and every flick of my tongue, that you are adored—utterly and completely. That you are safe, seen, savoured.
I believe too many men underestimate the profound intimacy that lives in the act of going down. It’s not just about sex. It’s about saying: I want to taste all of you, and I want nothing in return.
It’s about giving, not taking. Listening, not leading. Following her rhythms. Slowing time. Breathing her in.
In a world that constantly tells women to be smaller, quieter, more contained—this act is a radical reversal. It’s saying: No, love. Be wild. Be loud. Be free. Indulge yourself. Take your time. Take your pleasure. You deserve this.
And when she does—when her body trembles and her fingers claw and her breath catches and she moans so beautifully she forgets her name—something in me opens wider than I knew it could.
This is what real intimacy tastes like.
When the house is quiet and the lights are low, I kneel between your thighs. I peel away your soft organic clothing slowly, like unwrapping something too precious to rush. Your scent is calling me home.
And when I bury my face into your perfect folds—my hands gripping your hips, your thighs quivering around my ears—I feel like I’ve entered another realm. There is no time here. No ego. Only instinct. Only awe.
I lick, I kiss, I explore, I pause. I extend my tongue as far inside you as I can, again and again, drinking you in, losing myself in your delicious, wet heat. I trace your edges. I circle, flutter, hold. I listen to every gasp like it's delightful music.
Sometimes I stay down there for so long I forget the rest of the world exists.
Because there is no prize greater than the sound of your moans of ecstasy and your climactic contractions squeezing on my tongue. No reward richer than the trembles of your orgasm washing over her in waves that I coaxed from her.
I don’t need a thank-you. Her joy is my joy. Her pleasure is my fulfilment.
When I honour her this way, our love deepens every time I lose myself between her thighs.
She trusts me. She lets me in. And in those moments, when I’m utterly lost in her body, I find something of my own soul I didn’t know was missing.
She has no idea how much power she holds. How beautiful she is to me when she’s stripped bare of everything but desire. But I see it. I feel it. I worship it.