Ice Cream for adults
The melted ice cream has made its way down to the nether tip of the waffle cone. I touch my tongue to the cone, tasting the moisture, and follow its path back up to the waiting sweet treat, using the flat of my tongue to sop up the escaped fluid.
On top, the tip of my tongue encounters the peak of the ice cream, curls, takes with it the memory, and follows the swirls of the confection around, around, around, slowly, gently, exploring, going around the cone itself, tracing the circumference once, twice, then retracing the route, more slowly than before, savoring the journey.
Lips briefly brush the tip of the cone, the mouth engulfs briefly the surrounding area, lingering to plant a kiss, then retreating. The tongue comes out again and explores the white mountain, the flat of the tongue this time, long, the tip curling to remove a small portion of the treat at the end of each stroke, down, up, down again, the tip slipping briefly under the skirt of the cone, the tip of the nose encountering the peak of the ice cream.
Licking the residue from the tip of the nose before following the cone down to the bottom, the sharp little nubbin. Nibbling gently at the nubbin, letting the moisture gathered there out, to drop onto the waiting tongue, the tip of the tongue back and forth, back and forth, the lips pursing and closing around the orifice, encouraging the moisture, sucking softly on the flow as it comes.
Both hands sloppy with the melt, back to the top, repeating the process, top, bottom, top, the cone slippery and hard to hold, trying to get away, but held gently, firmly, until the entire cone splits and my entire face is plunged in to slurp, hands spreading the sides of the cone to get at the treat within.
My face coming away wet.
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