A TALE OF FOUR BLOWJOBS

By Kimmie Holland

1. First Time (That Night) He Used My Face…

After pizza by candlelight, he calls me over to sit on his lap. I settle my pantied bottom across his thighs and put my arms around the back of his big neck. We talk and kiss, doing less and less of the former, until we’re doing almost exclusively the latter. Meanwhile his hands have found their way under my nightie, inside my nightie, down the back of my nightie. It feels as if he has seven or eight hands and they are all over my body.

He makes me admit what a slutty little girl I am. What a dirty, cocksucking mouth I have. He has me tell him how many men I’ve sucked off. I can feel his cock throb under my bottom when I give him an honest answer. Gosh, even I’m surprised: it’s a lot of cocks!

“And you swallowed every time didn’t you, you little cunt, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” I whisper into his ear—and that, too, I’m perversely proud to admit, is the truth.

His cock pulses again: picture the ring of muscle that passes through the body of one of those thick Amazonian rainforest snakes. That’s what it feels like, something predatory and feral and sexy that’s just woken up, hungry and looking for dinner. That’s me: what’s for dinner.

“You love it don’t you, you filthy bitch?”

“Yes I do.”

“You love to suck cock?”

“I love to suck cock.”

“You need it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I need it.”

“Show me.”

I slide off his lap and H stands up, undoing his belt, then the top button of his jeans. I take over with the zipper, getting it started with my fingers, and using my teeth to pull it down the rest of the way. My hands are occupied lowering H’s pants, which he steps out of one foot at a time. I press my face against H’s crotch and use my breath to warm his balls. Next I use my tongue, licking him through his underwear as his cock begins to make its way through the opening in the front, searching me out. That’s how I know it’s time to get down to serious business.

Kneeling on the floor at his feet, I slowly feed his cock between my painted lips. As I work slowly up and down the length of it, H. gets himself worked up verbally, his sexual glossolalia growing more heated, more aggressive, more “abusive.” Things are heating up to that semen-boiling point where desire and violence meet, the tipping point between tease and please, the endocrinal trigger, the synaptical jump that separates orgasm from everything else.

“That’s it bitch, take it, take it all.”

I open my mouth as wide as possible, take my hand away from the base of his cock, and use both hands to cradle and warm his balls in my palms. I might be a pornographic priestess consecrating the holy wafer as I look up from the floor to H-on-high, his cock planted in my face, my lips sealed around the shaft where it meets the curling hairs of his lower belly. This is my favorite moment, a man’s cock half-choking me, my big, made-up eyes looking upwards submissively, pleadingly, gratefully…adoringly?...and him looking down, all-powerful—as  every alpha male deserves to be at this moment—lord and master of me, this pale, weak, perfumed vessel of fluff and pleasure at his feet.

Something happens at this moment, something always magical, a transubstantiation as miraculous as any other. It manifests like this: H cups the back of my head in one of his big hands and jams my face into his crotch.

His cock, which seems to have swelled to unreal proportions to fill my entire mouth from tongue to roof, is literally jammed against the back of my throat. He’s begun to violently thrust his hips and the solid stream of obscene verbal abuse that pours forth is no longer playful, teasing, and cautious, but pure rape-talk. It’s at these moments of unrehearsed soliloquy that many men reveal themselves and one understands how thin the curtain is at a given moment between sex and violence even under the most consensual of circumstances. Thrillingly, even knowing H as well as I do, this voice he’s using now—it’s the voice of a stranger, a man capable of sudden violence…a killer? Maybe! Does he feel it, too? How much stronger, how much more powerful he is? How I couldn’t get away unless he let me go? How he has me totally at his mercy? How he has, quite literally, the power of life and death over me?

I hardly ever suck cock without it turning into an educational experience. And, indeed, I learn another lesson during this session—a practical cocksucking tip. As H’s cock beats relentlessly against the back of my throat, I suddenly realize that to keep from gagging and choking it’s only necessary to constrict my throat the way you would if you were preparing yourself to drink something very very cold. It stiffens the muscles back there and makes them ever-so-less sensitive to the insistent jabbing and stabbing of a man’s hard cock. It just goes to show you. Even with your nose buried in a man’s pubic hair, there’s always something new to learn if you’re paying attention!

“You love when I cum in your mouth, don’t you, you filthy slut?”

“Mmmnhnrghhh…”

That’s International Cocksucker for “oh god yes, I love when you cum in my mouth! I love when you use my face for your sexual pleasure!” and it’s understood all over the world. Just for emphasis, I nod my head, nod, that is, as enthusiastically as one can nod with a mouth full of cock and I let my eyes smile between thick lashes. Drool, warm and copious, spills from my mouth as I moan-mumble and forms a little puddle on the floor around my knees. How degrading! How humiliating! H grunts with satisfaction, a leering sneer of lust rearranging his features into those of a centaur, a satanic satyr, the great god Pan.

He cups the back of my head again; tired of looking at my face, no longer wanting eye-contact, requiring only my warm mouth, the sight of my kneeling, suppliant, submissive and defenseless body beneath his, enjoying my helplessness and surrender, he resumes battering the back of my throat with his cock ((how can he thrust so hard, I wonder, doesn’t it hurt him…no, the harder the better it seems to feel to him!)). No longer concerned at all about my comfort—indeed, he almost seems unconcerned if I literally choke to death or not at this point—he thrusts in and out, out and in, harder and harder, using my head like some sort of fuck-ball, my ribboned pigtails ((as per his request)) swinging, until he starts spurting, one after another, short, tight jets of thick cum so far down my throat I don’t even have to swallow—it’s already well on its way to my tummy.

With a touch of gallantry, H helps me back up atop my stilettos when he’s finished unloading and holds me tight, until my knees stop feeling all wibbly-wobbly. Then he guides me gently, with his finger thrust come-hither fashion inside my ass, back to his chair, and sits down with me once more sideways on his lap. Meantime, he feels me up, has me ask him to please, please kiss me on my filthy slutty cocksucking mouth, and then he thrusts his tongue into said filthy slutty cocksucking mouth, a.k.a. cum-bucket, piss-pot, etc. He breaks the kiss long enough to tell me that my face smells like I’ve been sucking cock. He wants to take me out with his musk all over my face, women can always tell, he says, they’ll look at you and know what a dirty little cocksucker you are.

“Would you like that?”

I nod, eyes closed, picturing it. “Yes,” I whimper, unnecessarily, since he’s pulled up my nightie to reveal incontrovertible proof of how much I’d like it. He touches the front of my panties.

“Oh look, you’ve wet yourself, baby. Are you excited?”

“Mmmm….yes,” I squeak.

He puts his finger in his mouth. “You taste good baby.”

I bury my face in his shoulder as he teases my swollen pink clittie free at last of its confinement behind the lace-and-rhinestone panel of my bikini-style panties.

“Feel good?”

I wiggle my ass in his lap and whimper some more. Oh god, does it feel good, whatever he’s doing to my clittie, it’s driving me crazy! His hand is like a warm, intelligent vibrator, automatically synchronizing its speed precisely to my level of arousal…set, purposely, just one setting lower than what it would take to take me over the edge.

“Do you want to cum, baby?”

Nodding…yes, yes, yes!!!

“Ask me to let you come, tell me what a dirty girl you are.”

Now it’s my turn to be filled with the holy spirit, to speak in tongues. “Please, please let me come. I’m such a dirty…cocksucking girl…such a slut…my face…like cock…smells of cock…I’m…a …cocksucking…cum-swallowing…sissygirl…oh…oh…oh…”

I lift my head from H’s shoulder. My nightie is hiked up over my pierced navel, my panties pulled down, and I’m sitting side-saddle across a man’s lap as he diddles my engorged clittie. My face smells like his crotch. My tummy is filled with his cum. The pale smooth flesh is exposed above my streetwalker-pink fishnet thigh-highs. My legs extend, trembling, and rigid as I approach orgasm, my feet arched inside the red platform sandals, my back arched, everything seems arched, if eyeballs could arch mine are arched…and then it happens.

“Are you going to wet your pretty nightie,” H asks, scarcely a moment before I start helplessly shaking and spurting.

His hand has picked up that scarcely perceptible quarter-speed necessary for me to achieve escape velocity. As I shudder and gasp on his lap, achieving a kind of feathered apotheosis, I’m lost, floating within moments of timeless bliss, wide-eyed, blinded to everything, I see it clearly: paradise as celestial orgasm, just these peeks (and peaks) of pleasure, no more, no less, and in those moments, all we could ever desire of angels and heaven.

In the hazy, candlelit aftermath of bliss, I feel H peel the soaked nightie from my belly with a tsk-tsk expression of mock-disapproval.

“Look what a mess you made.”

I gaze down over my exposed tummy and purr my contentment. He holds his palm, shining with my cum, in front of my face.

“Lick it clean, piggy-girl.”

I lie back in his muscled arms again, close my eyes, and softly lap the cream I’ve made, quiet little pussycat tongue-strokes across his work-hardened palm…I taste clean, almost sweet, it must be all the fruits and veggies, the nuts and oats, I think, absently. I’m like some passive creature raised for milk and meat, to fuck and eat, gentle, soft, and yielding, here’s my mouth my ass my throat master…it’s all for you. The thought pleases me.

2. Pillow Talk with a Mouthful

Having changed into a short black chemise, I tiptoe around the bed and slip under the blankets next to H. His big body radiates heat and has already warmed the sheets. This is my favorite part of the evening. I curl up, snuggle close, almost clinging to him, like a koala bear on a eucalyptus tree. He puts a heavily-muscled arm around my waist and pulls me even closer, his hand, burning like a brand, resting possessively on the bare cheek of my ass, a.k.a. his ass, as he occasionally likes to remind me.

“Whose ass is this?” he’ll ask, giving me a playful—if still stinging—slap on the bottom. Or sticking his finger inside me without preamble.

“Yours.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t.”

From where I lie nestled against his hairy chest, I stare up at the shadows of the roses that he brought me earlier in the evening; they’re dancing hypnotically on the ceiling in the scant light of a scented tea candle. H. begins to reminisce in the dark. He’s recalling the night he took me to an upscale restaurant along the shore. I was wearing an itsy-bitsy backless black mini-dress, silver heels, black thigh-highs. He tells me that as we walked up the stairs to the dining room he could see the exposed place between the tops of my stockings and my sheer panties.

“I swear,” H says, “every guy at the bar turned and probably caught the same view.”

“You think?”

“Oh yes baby. They caught a glimpse of that tight sweet ass of yours.”

“Do you think they’d want to fuck me?”

“Oh I know they’d want to fuck you. You’d like that, too, wouldn’t you?”

“Definitely.”

He lifts my hand off his shoulder and directs it under the sheets. His cock is stiffening.

“Next time we go away, I’m going to have you ask the desk clerk for the key and tell him you can’t wait to get to the room so you can give your boyfriend a blowjob. Let me hear you say it, baby.”

I do, in my best sissygirl voice, like a spoiled Lolita pouting for her cherry lollipop.

“Would you do that, baby? Next time we go away?”

I’m momentarily returned to my senses. Most probably, H is still only fantasizing, and is only looking for me to play along, but, then again, I’m not so sure. We’ve ended up actually doing many of the things that started out—and seemed to me at the time—only fantasies. For all I know, a week from now I could be standing in the shabby lobby of some David Lynchian motor lodge at two a.m. trying to force out these very words to an unamused homophobic clerk who’d like to see me at the end of a pitchfork.

“Well,” I say, with a balance and objective philosophical honesty not often found in pillow-talk (or any talk, for that matter), “I’d probably be too humiliated and nervous to get the words out. How about if you said something to the desk clerk like ‘she can’t wait to get upstairs to suck my cock’ and then you can turn to me and say ‘isn’t that right, baby’ and I’ll like lick my lips and purr, ‘oh yes…’”

“Hmm,” H says, “I like that. Maybe you can give the clerk a little sample of what you do best. I know you’d have no trouble with that, would you, you little slut?”

“Oh you know I wouldn’t,” I murmur teasingly into his ear. “I’d suck off anyone you told me to suck off if I knew it would get you hard.”

“I know you would baby. You’d do anything to please me, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yes…I would. Anything.”

Under the sheets, his cock now fills my hand. I can feel it sliding, hot and hard, along my creased palm, the smooth already-slick viper head of it nestled against my inner wrist. No way is he going to be able to get to sleep with this between his legs.

“Look what you did, you naughty girl.”

“What I did?” I nibble playfully at his neck.

Under the sheets, both hands go to work. I tease the underside of his cock with my fingertips, gently manipulate the foreskin up and down around the glans. I cup his balls, lightly run my fingernails over them.

“I think you’re going to have to use that filthy mouth of yours again. What do you think?”

I smile and nod. “I think so too.”

“Better get to it then, baby. Show me what that dirty mouth is good for. Show me what a sissy cocksucker you are.”

And so I scoot down beneath the sheets and slowly feed H’s erection between my lips. Lying on his back, hands behind his head on the pillow, he groans his satisfaction.

“That’s it baby,” he says softly, contentedly. “Take it all.”

My hair hangs over my head as I bend over his crotch. The room is quiet except for the sound of my diligent slurping. H is in no hurry; he’s taking his time. This is the way he’d like to fall asleep every night, I’d bet, slowly sucked to complete relaxation, his last few ounces of tension squirted out into the warm and willing mouth of his girl-slave-wife-whore-geisha-bitch-sissy.

After a bit, I lay my head lightly on the warm pillow of H’s stomach and continue to suck, changing the angle and facilitating the ejaculation I can tell is nearing. There is a thin rod of buzzing—is it muscle, seminal fluid?—it’s hard to tell exactly what it is but I feel it between my lips whenever H is getting ready to cum. It reminds me of the glowing filament in an electric bulb. When I sense it, that is my cue to lock in on the rhythm of my hand and mouth, coordinating them to his thrusts, letting him take over and dictate the pace as he begins bucking his hips off the mattress and pushing his now fully engorged—and engaged—cock in and out of my mouth.

Soon I’m rewarded with a spill of precum spreading across my tongue. I tighten my lips, forming a wet seal around his slippery shaft, tighten the ring of my fingers; my mouth, he says, feels like a hot wet pussy. I feel a rush of pride. The strangest things can make you happy.

Within a matter of seconds, H lets out a loud groan, then another even louder, and a third loudest of all. A far-off part of me wonders what the couple downstairs must be thinking—all night long my heels click-clock-clocking across the uncarpeted wood floors, then the occasional “cocksucker” “slut” “bitch” escaping, still audible, from H’s erotic chitchat, and finally the rumbling roaring-groan of the male primate giving triumphant voice to its full sexual satisfaction at the moment of conquest. They know there isn’t a woman living here and they’ve no doubt seen H coming—and seen him leaving—often in the morning. Just from the look of him it would be obvious that H wasn’t the “slut” and “bitch” they hear being ordered to her knees. That it’s not me groaning with animal pleasure as I release the contents of my genitals into a compliant mouth. They might, by now, even be rolling their eyes as they lie in the bedroom under mine, and saying to each other “that fairy upstairs is at it again.”

It almost seems odd to me, not that it doesn’t make a difference anymore what the neighbors think, but that it ever made a difference to begin with. If I reserve any of my former shame at all, it’s hardly more than an old reflex, a vestigial remnant of an instinctual defensiveness to hide myself behind a flimsy façade of “manhood” that has long outlived its utility. I’m talking about the terror of being caught, found out, and named: sissy, fairy, faggot, pansy.  Just the opposite—I now take a kind of perverse pride, a humiliated distinction in being a sissy who is so obviously good at pleasing my man.

I imagine the people downstairs must be wondering at my cocksucking skills as they overhear H’s orgasmic vocalizations—not the first and not the last of the night. Speaking of which it now feels like an adam’s-apple is moving up and down inside H’s cock; at the apex of this muscular knot’s rise to the crown of his cock another burst of semen squirts into my mouth, which I dutifully swallow before the next is delivered. With a slow, gentle, rhythmic  squeezing of my hand, I milk out every last drop.

For a while afterwards, I lay there with my head on H’s groin, his cock still in my mouth, still semi-hard, the crown still so sensitive and enlarged that it’s only with difficulty and considerable care that I can open my mouth wide enough to take it out. I gently lick his penis clean, avoiding the super-sensitive glans, and, finally, gently wipe everything dry with a soft cloth beside the bed. H gathers me up in his arms, kisses me, plays with my nipple rings, tells me how good it felt, but he’s already losing the battle to sleep. I listen to his breathing growing deeper and deeper, his conversation lapsing into longer and longer silences, and then ceasing altogether.

He’s asleep; this great big man in my bed is asleep, his cum in my belly, his heavy arms encircling me. It’s a wonderful feeling, being protected and possessed—the sensuality of it something most men never experience and, after all, being men, why would they want to? I wriggle around a bit until H is spooning me in a comfy position. I work my practically bare ass into his lap; and dammit, if he isn’t getting hard again, even now that he is sound asleep and dreaming!

3. Isn't It Good, Morning Wood

Next morning, fittingly, it’s his cock that wakes me, insistently pressing against the crack of my ass; it’s sometime well before dawn, the room dark and soft as blue chenille, and though his penis is up and strutting about, cock-a-doodle-doo, H is still sound asleep with his arm around my waist. Nevertheless he’s unconsciously thrusting his pelvis against me, his erection instinctively seeking entrance into my warm, soft body. It’s endearing, I think, this blind drive to hump me. I’d like to encourage it at every opportunity. Yes, that’s it, the idea I want to get across: I am a thing-for-fucking.

I reach behind me and take hold of H’s cock and guide it between the cheeks of my ass, which is already sticky with the precum of his earlier somnolent efforts to penetrate me. The head of his cock feels so smooth, so sleek, so hot…and so very big against my tight little hole. Alas, I can’t wait for the day when H can simply roll over and sleepily fuck me at will, bend me over anywhere and everywhere, whenever the mood strikes him, to deposit an urgent load of cum in my ass.

And why stop there? Mouth, ass, even if they hollow me out a cunt…it hardly seems as if the body’s potential to give pleasure has been even close to fully utilized. For instance, I can imagine “designer orifices” being opened all over my body, warm wet pockets at various fetishized places where a man might want to fuck me. With a cunt cored out of my sole, for instance, a man could screw me in the foot as I wiggled my toes to intensify his orgasm; with other strategically placed cunts, I could be fucked in the chest, between my tits, under my arm, between the shoulder-blades, or even in the back of my head, where perhaps a man might shoot his cum directly into my brain—imagine that, a braingasm!

The liquidity of my sexuality, pouring as it does from one gender into another, respecting no boundaries, causes me to question the very notion of erogenous fixities—i.e. whether such libidinal localities do or even should exist—and to consider my desire for the impossible as something perfectly natural…a logical extension of my irrationality, something not unlike what was once mankind’s desire to travel to the moon. As it is, I am already something of a sexual proteus, an ever-changing, unnatural object of male fantasy. Why shouldn’t I then have at the very least seven or eight different cunts for a man to fuck me in?

For now, in lieu of orifices not yet ready, or still imaginary, I’m just going to have to make due with the one hole I have at my disposal, trying to make up in versatility and availability what it lacks in novelty and variety. An asshole, after all, hasn’t the mobility and responsiveness—the loquaciousness, let’s say—of a mouth, nor can a cunt boast a muscle inside as possessive of wily intelligence and as subject to voluntary control as the tongue. There will always be something uniquely transgressive about fucking a mouth. No other bodily orifice whether used for sex or not has the power to communicate with the subtlety and complexity of language. One can’t help but feel this is significant, even without thinking the matter all the way through to its logical and metaphorical conclusions.

And then, of course, there is the whole matter of fucking me in the face—the most distinctly unique and individual part of my body—the thing that makes me “me.” An ass is faceless—it can be any one of a thousand, ten thousand asses. A cunt is every bit as masked and anonymous. To stick a cock into either of those places, ass or cunt, is to defile nothing, it’s a zero-sum game, a sexual draw. Ass, cock, cunt—it’s a horizontal progression, equal backwards and forwards, an erotic palindrome. No hierarchy is disturbed, no idol pulled down, here we have neither revolution, nor vandalism. But to fuck a face is to turn the ladder upside down.

A cock plunging in and out of a face is to deface—a graffiti of semen sprayed across the Mona Lisa. A pair of hairy black balls bouncing against a chin is the Dali-esque metaphoric equivalent of the bristling and swollen bellies of two large spiders assaulting the angelically golden visage of a sunflower. It inspires in us a perverse frisson of irresistible repugnance and shuddering fascination. I suggest, as Bataille might, that this is nothing less than a vision of God.

I manage to extricate myself from H’s embrace just enough to turn around without quite waking him. He murmurs, stirs, grabs at me blindly. I slip under the sheets where his cock is jutting up from beneath his warm and furry belly. Did I say a vision of God? Perhaps it is the Goat of Mendes. But is there really a difference? I slowly lick the shaft, watching how the light touch of my tongue-tip makes his cock leap and lunge. I wonder if he’s having a sex dream; if so, I wonder if sucking his cock will make it glow more intensely. If H isn’t having a sex dream, maybe sucking him off will inspire one. I’m his suckubus, his cum angel, his cock-a-doodle-do, and my entire raison d’etre is to facilitate his early-morning R.E.M. orgasm.

At some point before he deposits his load into my mouth, H is more awake than asleep and, accordingly, his thrusts grow longer and stronger, until, at last, he grows still and stiff to prolong the penultimate moment. Then it’s sliding over my tongue, slippery as egg yolk, my breakfast, a surprisingly copious amount of semen. I swallow, like Rocky Balboa in training for the World Cocksucking Champion of the World. I come up from the tangle of sheets and H motions me into his arms.

“Good morning,” I whisper, licking my cum-slicked lips. “Sorry if I woke you. But you were so hard.”

“Oh baby. I’m not complaining. What a way to wake up.”

“It’s still early,” I purr, pleased as punch that I’ve started the day off right doing something right. And I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet! There’s hope for me yet. “Go back to sleep. I’ll start the coffee.”

4. Cock-a-doodle-doo (and bacon too!)

I kiss H on the forehead and slip out of bed. A girl needs to tidy herself up first thing in the morning and a girl like me needs even more tidying up than most. In front of the mirror, I survey the ravages. Not so bad. It could be worse, much worse, and don’t I know it. A touch up here and there and I’m reasonably presentable. I pad into the kitchen, still in my fishnet stockings, get the coffee started, wash last night’s dishes.

From whenceforth comes this instinct—so immediate and unalloyed that indeed I can only call it “instinct”—to take care of an alpha male, to satisfy his desires, to feed his appetites, all his appetites? I ponder this question while the coffee drips into the carafe and I tend to the bacon for H’s breakfast sizzling in the pan. I’ve done another quick change into a pink babydoll and a pair of low-heeled open-toed mules, the kind with the superfluous little feather puff on the instep—a metaphor for my existence. I look like a complete pansy standing there in my pigtails but I feel so strangely content and complete: could it be that, ridiculous as it is, this is the role I was engendered to fulfill in the Great Movie of Oblivion?

This pseudo-mothering instinct, so closely aligned in my psyche to the erotic, is something I’m unable to suppress even during the most casual or sordid sexual encounter. To serve a man a home-baked cupcake is, to my mind, simply an extension of the act of deep-throating his cock to orgasm. Is it inborn—inevitable all along, perhaps? Or is it the result of some sort of psychic compensation rooted in childhood and originating in my mother’s abdication of her role as my father’s source of pleasure and nurture? Did I, like certain simple-celled animals whose sex is determined by necessity, by this or that chemical in the water, adapt my gender potentiality to suit the need of an unbalanced home whose female energy was wanting? Most likely it’s a little of both. Whatever distinctive—if latent—feminine traits I’d been born with were awakened in the vacuum of my mother’s cold neurotic absence and the unbreathable atmosphere of tension and suppressed explosion—the latter the consequence of my father’s frustrated rage and dead-ended libido. Am I still trying—pointlessly—on some level to correct the old family dysfunction?

Then again, maybe that’s what we’re all doing to one degree or another throughout most of our lives—trying to correct the flawed Eden of our childhoods. Perhaps the difference between the normal and the abnormal, the insider and the outsider, is chiefly comprised in this: the distance we must traverse to correct the mistakes of our past from birth to age thirteen or so. Looking at myself now, fussing over my man’s breakfast in my pretty lingerie, there are a few who might say I’ve created at last the simulacrum of a happy domesticity. There are, no doubt, many more who would assert that I sure have a long long way to go to even get within satellite distance of normality!

Soon H appears in the doorway, sleepy-eyed, looking pleased at the proceedings—“this is the life,” I proudly imagine him thinking. The kitchen is redolent with the welcoming homey scent of coffee and bacon and H comes up behind me as I scramble his eggs, slips his arms around me, and tells me how great everything smells—including me. H nuzzles his wonderfully scratchy and bearded face against the back of my neck where last night’s perfume lingers and grabs a warm handful of my ass.

“Mmmmm,” I sigh, leaning back in his arms and stirring his eggs. I feel his hard cock squeezed up against me. At these moments I have no doubt that this is what I was meant for.

He slaps me playfully on the ass. “I’m going to wash up.”

“’kay,” I murmur dreamily. “Breakfast will be ready by time you’re done.”

Picking apart a scone, I watch H wolfing down his he-man breakfast with acute pleasure—even pride. It’s the pride a natural submissive takes in any service well-done. I bask in the warmth of my master’s satisfaction and approval. Somewhere between a child’s urge to please its parents and a nun’s devotion to God, there you’ll find my all-encompassing sexually masochistic need to please a man: in this case, H.

“More coffee, bacon, juice…anything?”

I fetch whatever H wants while he sits there, lord and master. In me, sexual atavism is alive and strong; ironically, perhaps, in my psyche the poles of gender are as distinct as they were in the days of the cave and club. A man in his castle—or mine, for that matter—is always king, always the master of such as me. It’s an attitude as powerful and immediate as sexual arousal itself, because, to me, it’s an attitude virtually synonymous with sex itself—a sort of never-fail, psychobiologically encoded foreplay: my unquestioning obedience to the strong, willful man who’s pulled me into his orbit.

Later, as I clean up, H gets dressed and ready to leave. He doesn’t need to tell me, nor do I take offense, knowing that for H this is one of the best parts of being with a girl like me: the always open option to leave without questions asked, to fuck-and-run if he wants, to simply get back to his life for any reason whatsoever without strings jerking him this way and that.

How do you make a man happy? There’s a joke that runs: if he doesn’t have an erection, then make him a sandwich. Well, you might add that if he’s done with both, neither hungry nor horny, then a girl has temporarily lost her ability to make him happy. So let him go. I won’t be nagging H to plug up that drafty window he said he’d get to three weeks ago, or forcing him to drive me to the mall so we can spend all afternoon shopping for new curtain rods or end-tables. I won’t be expecting him to shower, shave, put on a new shirt and take me out to dinner at a fru-fru French joint after a Julia Roberts movie at the multiplex. That he is spared all the agony of relationship tedium as the price to be paid for the ecstasy of shooting his load into me is one of my chief appeals. I know this. I welcome this. My submissive nature revels in this.

And so it doesn’t bother me at all that H wants a quickie for the road before he leaves.

It’s a blessing I never take for granted, a bit of magic that never stops amazing me, nor that I can ever quite figure out, no matter how many times I see the trick performed, no matter how up-close: that the mere visual impression my body—such as it is—makes on a man’s endocrinal system can be the cause of the stiffening, the miraculous levitation of half-a-foot or so of meat, and draw upward from his tightened testicles the elixir of life itself, the nectar of survival, the seed of the species, mixed inside the juice whose emission is the summit of the most exquisite physical ecstasy of which flesh is capable.

It’s only a blowjob, for crissakes, you’ll object—only an erection, just a hard cock. But why deny a miracle when it’s right before your very nose? Is it any less a miracle because it happens twice, ten times, a bazillion? Perhaps life itself is a miracle? Consider this before you dismiss altogether my amazement: it’s not only a matter of being the cause of a man’s erection, which, in its way, let us not forget, defies the laws of physics, but also of not being such as prevents him from having one in the first place! In other words, it’s not so much a case of what goes up must come down as a case of what goes up might never get off the ground. When you consider all that can go wrong and all that’s wrong with me from the point of view of what is right and natural how can I help but feel as if every hard cock pointed in my direction singles me out as one of the chosen, how can I not feel as if every erection I inspire is Mardi Gras, Holy Communion, and a thousand Christmas mornings all at once?

With tongue only partly in cheek, and not then only because at the time his cock wasn’t, I’ve jokingly told H that, when blowing him, his balls were my sun and moon and that I was praying to the cosmos by sucking the dark void through his cock in the hopes of swallowing the Milky Way.

And so here I am on the sun-dappled kitchen floor, like a high-heeled Saint Teresa, worshipping at the origin of all divinity, unzipping H’s jeans a final time before he leaves. He instructs me to rub his cock and balls all over my face, where I’ll make sure it remains, so that his musky scent marks me as his for the rest of the day.

It’s the practical application of last night’s fictional sex scenario.

“Wherever you go today, people will know what a shameless little cocksucker your are. At the grocery store the young check-out girls will roll their eyes and grin at each other knowingly realizing you’re a slutty sissy. They’ll be disgusted of course…”

“Ohhh, yes,” I coo, the deliciously humiliating scene playing itself out on the stage of my mind’s x-rated theater of the absurd.

“Men will want to beat the shit out of you or they’ll want to rape your ass and mouth—or all three.”

I promise not to wash my face all day, to tell him the reactions I get—or imagine I’m getting. And I will, even if there is no reaction at all. It’s all part of the game, the prayer, if you will.

Squatting there on my high-heels, his cock between my lips, heading bobbing vigorously up and down the shaft, H now tells me how, when the weather warms, he’ll bring me to the woods near the beach. There, I’ll squat just as I’m doing now, but he’ll have me pee myself, wetting through my panties, until I’m kneeling in a little puddle of piss with his cock in my mouth.

“Imagine a couple of fishermen coming along, seeing you like that, you little sissy. I might invite them to use your dirty mouth.”

This is the incantation to whatever orgasmic god H is worshipping this morning—and make no mistake, god is orgasmic or not at all.

As for myself, my own faith, well, I’m radically unorthodox, non-denominational, ecumencial—I worship at all altars. I drop a momentarily unoccupied hand and slip it into my panties to play with my happily stiffening post-penile sissy clit. H, nearing the climax of his coital glossolalia, the ecstatic climax of his magical incantation spurts—a seminal pressure valve release—and then resumes—and intensifies—his thrusting in and out of my upturned face. My elbow drips a holy mixture of spittle and precum in my lap, soaking my panties.

At the moment of truth, the pinnacle of the ritual, when god becomes flesh—or the concentrated stuff of flesh—I hold still, readying myself to swallow the blessing. Only now do H’s monumental thighs tremble, his mighty knees threaten to buckle, only now does this man who could break me in threes like a cheap pencil reveal any vulnerability whatsoever, only now, during these scant handfuls of blessed seconds, does he pass into my power—when he’s discharging the hot contents of his balls into my mouth.

“Oh baby look at the time,” H says, glancing over my head, which now rests on his shoulder, to the clock on the wall. He’s helped me back to my feet and holds me in his arms in an embrace as treasured to me as it is transitional for him. But none of this, we both know, can survive forever; it can’t even last the rest of the day. It’s got to end to continue. Holding me, he feels held back—it’s time to let me go.

“I’m missing you already,” he says, while I’m quite sure neither of us believes this post-coital version of the “have a nice day” variety, by which we take our leave of the bagel slicers, gas pumpers, and bank tellers who fill our days—and yet, it’s still nicer to hear such banal and empty niceties than not.

At some point, however, perhaps even in as little as a week, his words will prove prophetic, they really will become true.

At the foot of the stairs, at the door leading to the rest of—and the real part—of his life, hidden to me I suspect forever, H turns, blows me a kiss and, in a blaze of winter sunlight, he’s gone. Yet the taste of him still lingers on my tongue and my tummy is full of his cum and the bruises his teeth left on my lips and throat will linger, will not fade completely, not even by the time he returns, hungry and horny, to refresh them once again.

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