#eaters

1

Dex eats you out like a starving man who hasn't been eating a proper meal in weeks.

He gets on his knees before you, eager and trembling, like he’s made just to worship you because Dex doesn't just like it—he needs it. Before being inside you or just about to do anything related to intimacy he needs your flavor on his mouth.

Tongue slick and practiced, eyes fluttering every time you sigh, every time your fingers tug his hair and he tastes how much you want him. He whines into you like he’s thirsty for it, needy and grateful with every small lick, every soft suck on your clit. There’s something desperate in the way he obeys—like being used this way makes him feel whole.

And when it’s your turn to push him down, to feed him what he’s been begging for, he opens up without hesitation. You don’t even have to ask. The mess you leave on him doesn’t matter—he wants it there, dripping down his neck when you're soaked in your own pleasure and his saliva, that mess going down his chest, catching between those pretty muscles. He looks down at himself, flushed and glistening, ruined and panting like a good toy who knows his place.

His favorite position is when you sit on his face, because he can squeeze your legs, caress your hips, touch your sides to give you extra sensations, his nose rubs against your swollen clit every time you thrust your hips forward.

It makes him feel useful, as if you need him as much as he needs you, every inch of your body being touched by strongly dangerous hands, treating you with delicacy, like something fragile in his hands, his fingerprints on every part, feeling your tremors, warm skin, every curve, every tiny mark imprinted on your skin. His face is your throne.

He sucks on everything he can reach, inserting his tongue to taste you better, rubbing your walls from the inside as you writhe on him and drop your weight into his mouth when it becomes too much to take, squeezing the muscle, a sensation he's addicted to when he's drunk on your taste. He gives you quick little kisses followed by desperate sucks. He won't be satisfied until you soak his face and he begs you for one more.

He's needy, he makes it filthy, even romantic, and too loud making your cheeks flush, the sounds of his moans mixing with those caused by his mouth on sensitive flesh, just making it worse, and sometimes you want to turn your gaze to watch him thrust into nothing, seeking friction that is not there, only you causing that in him.

Another of his favorite positions is when you're on your back, with one leg over his shoulder while he grips your thigh with the other so you can't close them. He likes complete access, just so he can press on your lower belly right over your bladder to double the intensity, knowing that by pressing there you will drip a little more into his mouth, knowing that your temperature will rise to the point of burning him.

Making you gasp while he babbles against your core... Always seeking validation, asking if it is good, if he can continue, if he's doing it right, even if he sees you're overwhelmed and about to finish again in his mouth, he needs that praise that will make him close his eyes in an attempt to not hump the mattress underneath like a dog, sometimes the situation being so dire that he has to grip himself so as not to get a sticky problem inside his clothes like an out-of-control idiot.

He's greedy, sucking as if he wants to bite—never actually doing so—licking a long line with his flattened tongue from your hole to the tip of your clit, only to then place a small kiss right there and flick his tongue around, soaking you with his saliva until it runs down your skin to stain the fabric of his bed.

Then he gets desperate, because he feels it's not enough and he moves his hand towards your core, stimulating with his thumb while he takes his time to play with you, and when he has the idea of making eye contact, to confirm that you enjoy it, he whines because he sees you broken thanks to his mouth, and it is enough to make him leak, to get him wet enough to be uncomfortable.

When your flesh is already numb with his tongue, he loves to place his thumbs on either side of your cunt to then open it and stare, something he loves to do. You don't quite understand why he does it, sometimes it can be overwhelming, too intense it makes your cheeks burn in shame for how intimate it becomes, but you just want him to keep going.

He does his thing to observe how you throb, how soaked and raw you are from something he did, he likes the color, it makes him hungry, how it shines from the wetness, how ruined it looks, and then he'll lean in again to continue, but this time with his thumbs keeping you open, devouring you with nothing but need, little licks to feel the twitch of your hips.

He's obsessed with your taste, your smell, the sounds, you. He loves to put his nose on your mound and inhale while his tongue works. He adores to put his nose on you before you've even finished removing your underwear, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on the soft and soaked fabric, tasting you through the material.

Sometimes he can't wait and ends up pushing the fabric to the side, occasionally lapping on the material too because he gets dizzy as if it were a vice.

He likes it when it gets messy, when his hands grips your inner thighs leaving dark marks and your feet almost on his shoulders, while he hollows his cheeks where you keep dripping.

He doesn't stop until you're exhausted and satisfied, so swollen and throbbing, relaxed from finishing many times. And when it's all over, he stays there for a while, cheek pressed against your thigh, smiling slightly like a fool. He'll never tell you that he stays there to obsessively smell you one last time.

There are no limits with him; you set those. You decide when to give it to him and when it's too much.

But he never has a problem with it, he never says no to it. He loves to eat you out in every way, in any situation.

One of his favorites is when you're on your period and want him to do it, he'll be more than happy to use his mouth, aching for the taste of iron exploding in his mouth, staining his nose, dripping down his chin.

With watery eyes and salivating for your flesh, he feels good when he swallows, drinking the last drop out of your body. He gives you a smile just so you can see that red color filling his mouth as a silly little joke, making you want to slap him.

Dex is a needy, obedient thing—submissive in all the ways that count, especially with his mouth. He needs to be used, needs to be told he did good, and when you grab his chin to look at your lovely work of art on his face.

He smiles.

Because that’s exactly where he wants to be.

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2

At first, he finds hard to swallow everything as much as he likes, but later he is able to suck as if it were an act of devotion.

Urgency always eats at him first. He trails kisses from your neck down your torso before kneeling fully in front of you. When he does, it's with his mouth half open, lips wet from licking, begging without a word. He doesn't just want to please you—you can see it in his eyes—he wants to be possessed. As if your pleasure were something sacred and he were lucky enough to taste it, as if he himself could feel what you feel when you're inside his mouth.

He holds your thighs as if they were his only link to reality, moaning before he's even put his mouth on you, smelling you through your clothes, rubbing his face against the bulge he wants to eat.

The first lick, the first intense brush of his tongue along the base, makes him gasp. He tastes you. He snuggles your weight against his face, closing his eyes as if he's settling into a familiar place. His tongue is soft, then firm, grazing the tip as if he knows you by touch. As if he's memorizing what makes you shudder.

Once he wraps his lips around you, it's over. Wet heat, perfect suction, that pressure that makes you forget where you are. He drools all over you, saliva running down his chin, dripping from his chest, and he loves it. He loves the mess, the noise, how you can't help but sink deeper.

His throat flexes as he swallows around you, and even when he gags—when his eyelashes moisten and his nose presses against your pelvis, invading his senses—he doesn't hold back. He moans with it. He hums as if it's doing him good too. The sounds he makes are desperate, shattered, high-pitched moans that vibrate around you, and it's clear he's hard just from the act of serving.

He loves it when you fuck his face, pulling his hair until it hurts his scalp, until his lips are ravaged and his throat is raw from the work.

And when you finish—whether it’s in his mouth, across his face, his chest—he doesn’t flinch. Lets it happen. Lets it mark him. You don’t even have to warn him anymore—he craves it. Gets greedy for it. Looks up with glassy eyes, lips swollen and red, chest rising fast with every panting breath, painted in your release and still wanting more.

You’ve seen him ruin his own boxers from this alone. Just from the act of giving.

Sometimes you catch him holding himself after, breathing hard, eyes glazed while he stares at you like you’ve broken him in the best possible way. Like you gave him something he never thought he deserved.

His favorite part will always be the tip, because he closes his lips around it and sucks until you drip directly onto his tongue, cleaning the remains with it, he plays with you as he wants until you have no choice but to get inside him completely, being extremely careful with his teeth but if one day it happens, he wouldn't care so much because he knows that a slap will make him control himself.

He licks everywhere, kisses the sensitive flesh with wet sounds that make it throb, like a lollipop he can't stop tasting.