The flower opens to my touch. I spread wide the soft, pliable petals. Their fragrance blooms in the air, an earthy cloud that envelopes my senses. I touch each glistening petal in turn, slick and dewy, becoming dewier with even the lightest contact. I transfer the nectar to my tongue and enjoy the different notes, the salty-sweet tang. I scoop again, pressing harder, and the blossom opens further, inviting me inward.

The ground shifts with the rustle and movement of your hips. I hear your soft moan, feel the tensing and relaxing of your legs. I know you are raising your head, trying to get a better view. My fingers play with your folds, parting your labia and sliding inside: gently at first, then with more ardor. My tongue circles your clitoris, I lap up the juices coming more thickly now. My mouth surrounds the spot, sucking gently on your hood while my tongue glides back and forth and my three fingers, well-lubricated by you, move in counterpoint to the bucking of your hips. My fourth finger and thumb spread your juices further down; when you feel my touch your legs part even further, knees bent upward, shoulders pressed back, back arching, my hands invading all of your erogenous zones seemingly at once while I continue to suck, nibble, tongue you towards your climax.

I feel, hear, and see you come. I taste you, smell you, and make every effort to savor you, bring you down slowly before winding you back up, again and again. My face is covered in your scent, and I realize with delight that vanilla is not the only edible orchid after all.