The scent caught my nostrils. I breathed deep and drew it into my lungs, the familiar but uniquely exotic smell of woman. Cunt. I lost my head in sweet frenzy, burrowing into the depths, the slimy darkness, letting instinct dictate my movements, the elongated thrust of my tongue. And the gasp that sounded from above came as no great surprise, an expected response to the unexpected force and magnitude of my plunge, my unseen soul-kiss. A gasp and then an ecstatic shriek, the height of sincere flattery…

"Hey, is that your tongue? Impossible. How could a little kid like you have such a big one? I've been deep-tongued by lezzies before, but never like this. Is it for real?"

"Ummm…"

"Big as a stiff prick. Most of 'em, anyway. Oh shit, whatever it is, gimme more. Gimme, gimme. Yeah! Like you're fucking me, you know? Fucking my twat with a tongue-hard cock. Oh, do it, baby, fuck me, fuck the life out of me, fuck me into an early grave – this is one hooker who'll die happy. Talk about getting fucked!"

High praise indeed, and rightly so. I basked in it. Tongue aren't considered objects of beauty, subject to appraisal and measurement like a bouncy pair of tits. No bikini doll ever won any Miss Universe-America crown by sticking out her tongue. At least not up there on the open stage. (Judges are only human; who knows what goes on behind the scenes?) But I've always taken an understandable pride in mine, just the same, certain of its superiority in size and power if not in skill. The extra length, the extra thickness, the extra development that came from hours of dedicated stretch-practice – all worthy of commendation. And I was grateful as well as proud, of course, grateful to my heredity – hot genes and chromosomes! – for having given me such a fine natural advantage. So let her praise my most precious asset, let her praise me to the skies, let her show some appreciation for this soul-stirring performance of mine…