Monday, January 25, 2016

The Social History of Fellatio

370 pages.  Illustrated throughout.
THE SOCIAL HISTORY OF FELLATIO – AN A-Z OF FAQs by Chrissie Bentley ( ISBN 978-1523313235)
Introduction—Great Expectations
1. A is For…
A Timeline
A Conundrum… Is Oral Sex?
2. B is For…
Beginner’s Pluck
Blowing (And How Hard Should You Blow?)
Boys Blow Too
3. C is For…
Cock. Of Course
Celebrity Sex Tapes
The Casting Couch
Cum In My Mouth
4. D is For…
Living Dangerously
Deep Throat
5. E is For…
Erectile Dysfunction
6. F is For…
Frenular Delta
7. G is For…
Glory Hole
8. H is For…
Home Movies
9. I is For…
Internet Fantasies (I)
Internet Fantasies (II)
10. J is For…
The Joy Of Sex
11. K is For…
Keeping Things Interesting
12. L is For…
The Law
13. M is For…
Magic and Ritual
Mouth Music And Tongue TV
14. N is For…
Name Calling
15. O is For…
One Night Stands
16. P is For…
Premature Ejaculation
Pearl Necklaces
17. Q is For…
18. R is For…
Rainbow Parties
Road Head (I)
Road Head (II)
19. S is For…
Some Girls Won’t
20. T is For…
21. U is For…
22. V is For…
(Further) Viewing
23. W is For…
Writing Erotica
24. X is For…
X: The Unknown
25. Y is For…
Yellow, Curiously
26. Z is For…
1. Saying It With Style—A Brief Lexicon of Slang
2. In Other Tongues—Blowjobs around the World
About The Author

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Just Thinking....

It takes a lot to leave me speechless, I think.  I usually have some kind of comeback ready to fling, on those occasions when such things are required, and they’ve got me out of some tight spots as well.

This time, though.  Nothing.  Still nothing.  It’s a week later and I still haven’t come up with the zinger I’d hope to have stung him with.

So this is what I’m doing to do....

I’m sorry, let me back up a little.  My friend Judy had asked to borrow a book, so I told her I’d drop it round her apartment on my way to work the next day.  She’d already have left, but we have one another’s keys and are always doing things like this.  So, no big deal.  I park, I climb the stairs, I unlock the front door, I walk into the living room...

...and Barry, her boyfriend, is sprawled with his pants down on the couch, masturbating.  Looks up as I walk in, his hand still a blur, and says “oh, hi Chrissie.  I was just thinking about you.”

Then he pulls up his pants and goes into the kitchen, asking if I want a coffee.  And I’m standing there, my mouth probably still wide open, searching desperately for whatever response is appropriate in a situation like this.

He was just thinking about me.

With his hard cock in his hand.

“No thanks, I need to get to work.”  I declined the coffee, ran down the stairs, then pedal to the metal (as much as that’s possible in a late nineties Volvo) and I will not  spend the rest of the day thinking about it.  I will not spend the rest of the day thinking about it.  I will not...

I spent the rest of the day thinking about it.

Friends’ boyfriends are funny.  You only know them through your friend... yet you know things aboutthem that even they may not be aware of.  Does he know, for example, that - at least according to Judy - he pulls “the cutest face” when he cums?  Does he know that his cock’s not the longest she’d had, but it’s certainly in the top three fattest?  Does he know... umm, this isn’t helping, is it?  

Of course he’s completely out of bounds.  That’s the other thing about friends’ boyfriends.  You can look, you can listen, but you cannot touch.

I was just thinking about you.

In what context?  In a “here I am, pounding you into the boxspring” kind of way?  Which was my first thought.  In a “here I am pounding you both into the boxspring” fashion?  Which is a surprisingly pleasant image that I may have to investigate further at some point.  When I know I’m alone.  

Or in a “shit, I’d better hurry, she’ll be here in a moment” kind of way which, if I’m actually level-headed and calm about this, is the most likely.  He obviously stayed over last night, and she’d have told him I’d be in fairly early.  But she didn’t tell him exactly how early, so he was trying to hurry and....

I was wishing I’d walked in a few minutes later.  Just to see how cute that “cutest face” is.

I got through the day, and the weekend too.  We went out as a threesome... no, not that sort... Tuesday night, drinks and burgers to unwind after work, and if the other morning crossed his mind even once, he didn’t show it.

I figured it had to, right?  I mean... let’s say you’re a guy.  Unless, of course, you are one, in which case, yes; you’re a guy.  Sitting in your girlfriend’s apartment, happily beating your meat - which, to be honest, really didn’t seem to lack much in the length department, despite what Judy says.  In walks one of her closest friends, and gets a metaphorical eyeful... it doesn’t matter how calm you are in the moment, that sort of thing has to stick in your mind, doesn’t it?  Even if you’re simply embarrassed, or wondering if she’s told anyone else.  

But no, not a word, not a gesture, not a furtive glance.  Just the same old Barry being the same old Barry, chatting away with an arm around Judy, and we parted with the usual pecks on the cheek.  And now it’s been a week, and it’s driving me nuts.

I was just thinking about you.

He looks cute when he cums, she said.  He looks cute before he cums.  Someone once said that if a guy put half as much effort into having sex with his girlfriend as he does when he’s doing it alone, the world would be a much happier place.  

I don’t agree with that.  My feeling is, if he put half as much effort into telling her what he wants her to do, as he does into doing it for himself… a question for the girls here, but do you know even a fraction of the things that go through your man’s mind when he’s beating his meat on his own?  

All those memorable moments from past encounters that he’s filed away for future reference; all those online video clips that he’s watched and remembered… good sex is good whoever you’re with.  But the best is like a jigsaw puzzle, comprising snapshots of ecstasy with a myriad former lovers; the one who did this and the one who did that and let’s not forget the night you got drunk and you found yourself doing….

I was just thinking about you.

It’s enough to drive a person crazy.

It’s also Thursday.  Judy’s yoga night, which translates as Barry’s night out with his buddies.  Which, in turn, translates into poor Chrissie having another of those major computer malfunctions that only an IT geek can fix.  And who is my go-to IT geek on occasions like this?

I reached for my cell.

“Hey Barry?”

“Hey Chrissie.  That’s so funny, I was just thinking about you.”

What?  WHAT?  “You seem to be doing a lot of that just lately.”

He was silent for a moment, then an abrupt change of subject.  “So, what can I do for you?”

I’m sorry, did I say a change of subject?  “I updated my Mac… and the word processing thing has gone mad.”

“That would be Pages?”

“Yeah.  I can’t…” I reeled off the list of “improvements” to the program that I’d pulled off the forums earlier, all the features that past versions had apparently done, but which Apple, in their wisdom, have removed.  “I can’t even…” - quick!  Find something I might conceivably need to do at some point… “search for invisibles, or do an alphabetical sort any more!”

“Okay… do you want me to come look at it now?”

I put on my best little lost girl voice.  “Please…”  and then, “I’ve got beer!”

“I’m there.”  He hung up and, true to his word, I had only just finished creating the documents that I was supposedly having such problems with when the doorbell chimed.

“So what about me were you thinking about?” I teased as I collected our beers.

“Oh, you know,” he teased back, fully aware that I didn’t have a clue, and the next thirty minutes were spent with him standing behind me as I stared at the laptop, and tried to follow the instructions that he was offering me.  App store this, download that, type this, hyphenate that… and every time he brushed against me, or leaned close to look at what I was doing; every time his hand nudged mine out of the way so he could use the trackpad; every time I felt his breath in my hair….

The empty bottles were piling up - I had no idea computers were such thirsty work.  And he’d stopped brushing against me, too.  Now he was leaning into me, as he crouched beside me watching the screen, and the arm that rested on my knee told its own story too.  Or maybe it was me who was trembling, not him.

I was just thinking about you.

“How’s Judy?”

“Judy’s Judy.”  He smiled, and shifted his weight a little.  The arm on my knee shifted up a little.  I leaned forward a shade, sandwiching it between my leg and my abdomen, and felt his eyes flicker down.  “And how are you?”

I shrugged, sat back, and he turned a little, looking up at me.  I suppressed an urge to just lean forward and kiss him.  “Well, there is one thing I was wondering…”

Deep breath.  I was just thinking about you.

Deeper breath.  “What is it about me that you keep thinking about?”

“You mean today?”


“You mean last week.”  

I nodded.

“Thanks for not saying anything to Judy.”

“Hardly!”  I laughed.  “Like you said, Judy’s Judy.  I tell her what I saw and neither of us would ever hear the end of it.”  Judy’s sweet, but if jealousy and possessiveness were rated on a scale, zero to armageddon, I know exactly where she’d land.

“Yeah, it’s hard,” he said quietly, and I couldn’t resist the pun.  “It wouldn’t be if she knew what happened.  I doubt it’d ever be hard again.”

His head was resting against my arm.  “I doubt she’d complain too much.”


“I… should I even be telling you this?”

“If you want,” I said.  “But let me grab us another drink first.  And maybe move into the other room?”  My home office is scarcely the most comfortable in the house, and I’m still paying off the La-Z Boy.  I should at least make it earn its keep.

The old story, the familiar story.  They met and fucked like adventurous rabbits, and for three months everything was mostly perfect.  Mostly?  We’ll get to that later.  But then things settled down, perhaps as they settled into their relationship, and… “I kinda wonder why she asks me to sleep over, if all we’re going to do is sleep?”

Which explains…

“Which is why I was … well, when you came over.”

“Which is why you were - what?” I asked.  “Doing what you were doing?  Or thinking what you were thinking?”  And I should add that now it was my head resting against Barry’s arm, my hand that was ever so lightly lying on his leg, and my heart ever so slightly pounding in my throat.  The picture of innocence, in other words.

“A bit of both, I guess,” he answered, and then, “I probably shouldn’t say any more.  She’s your friend too.”

I eyed my beer, my fourth.  I was glad I’d picked up a twelve-pack, and my finger traced down his six-pack.  “And so are you.”  In for a penny, in for a pound.  “Okay, I know what you were doing.  Now tell me what you were thinking.”

He sighed.  “I don’t know.  Just… things.”

“About me?”


“So tell me, what things?”


“Come on, spit it out.”

He looked at me and smirked.  “Why?  You didn’t.”

I sat bolt up right, mock indignation colliding with the urge to howl with laughter. “Barry Gordon.  I cannot believe you just said that!”

“Chrissie Bentley, I couldn’t believe you did it!”


“Judy wouldn’t.”


“She says the thought of it makes her sick.”

“You should surprise her one day.  Just to see if she changes her mind.”

“God, no… I don’t mean the thought of that makes her sick.  The thought of even doing it.”

I was silent, processing what he said, squeezing past his embarrassment to the words he didn’t say.  “She won’t go down on you?”


“Not even…” and this is what I was saying earlier, when I said things were “mostly” perfect.  “Mostly” meaning, so long as he didn’t try and move above her waist.  

Okay, so there’s two things that could happen now.  One, I’d bend and show him what he’s missing.  Which is probably what you’re expecting.  Or two, I’d remember that Judy is my friend, and find a way of extricating myself from this conversation.  Which is probably what I’m expecting.

Or three; Barry could slip to the floor, between my legs, and plant a series of very soft kisses on my thighs.  Because… oh I don’t know whether Judy lets him do that or not.  But this is Barry’s wank-fantasy that is playing out on my sofa, not mine.  Or yours.  And I was not going to do or say a single thing to derail it.

Or to speed it up.  A lot of guys, they get one whiff of a pussy and their face is buried inside it.  Not Barry.  I wasn’t timing him, believe me.  But I don’t think any man has ever spent so long on my thighs, in my groin, or raising my leg to nuzzle behind the knee, and reduce me to a giggling heap.  He didn’t even remove my panties, although he’d certainly bunched my skirt up high.  

Occasionally his face would brush my pussy; once or twice I’d feel his lips against it, kissing the dampness that was soaking through the fabric.  Once, I’d swear, his tongue traced the outline of my slit.  But whatever he was doing, whatever he was planning, it was almost as if his own urges had taken a distant back seat, and this was all about me… all about taking me so far and so high that I couldn’t even focus any more; just stretch myself back as far as I could, my legs spread wide as far as they’d go, while he rained fresh sensations on every nerve end i  turn.

So that when he did finally pull my dripping panties down, and his tongue slipped inside for me the very first time, I’d already stopped counting how many times I had cum.  And the best one, the biggest one, was still barreling down on us.

I wonder if Judy squirts?  I wonder if Judy knows what it’s like to feel something building so deep, so far down within you, then the rush as the sensations come closer and closer, and suddenly a sense of release so massive it’s like you’ve given birth to a monster, a streaming, screaming, soaking monster that would have soared across the room if Barry’s face, and mouth, were not directly in its path.

Somehow I doubted it. Not if his reaction was anything to go by, anyway.  A cry of “my God,” a breathless “You did it,” and a greedy, glorious plunge back into my pink, as if searching for the secret of what he just made happen.  

I kissed him and tasted myself… my deepest, most secret self… on his mouth, on his face, and I thought for a moment of offering him something, a towel or whatever, to wipe off with.  But no.  He could ask if he wanted, and I didn’t want.  I loved the scent, I loved the flavor.  I kissed him again and his tongue embraced mine, pulling us together as a deep whole which didn’t break even as his arms slipped from around me and I sensed his hands tugging at his belt.

MIne dropped to join them, our tongues still locked as our fingers fidgeted, and I touched hard flesh, hot flesh… my flesh.  

My pussy cried out for it; I wriggled and shifted, pulling myself onto his lap and slowly sinking down on a shaft that filled me forever.  You read stories where the lovers fuck, and that’s all it ever says.  “He fucked me….”  Hardly anyone ever writes about what that really means, what it really feels like, heat even hotter than your own body feels, strength even harder than you have ever imagined, splitting you in two in the most amazing way; every nerve end in the flesh between your pussy lips and cervix scrambling to gets its own bead on the intruder, and that’s before you start to move, rising up for that feeling of sudden, odd emptiness, then down again to stuff yourself full of magic meat.

Up… down.  Hollow… whole.    

Time stops.  Time ends.  There is only this.

He moves against you, faster and harder.  You know what he’ll say, even before he forms the words.  “I’m gonna cum…”

“You’re not.  Not yet.”

And you raise yourself and hear that angry plop as your pussy releases its prize, and now you’re on your knees as he rises above you, and his cunt-soaking cock is at your lips, stretching them wider than he’d stretched you before, and you can taste his joy as it builds in his balls.  You try to suck but he’s too thick, too firm, and so you milk him instead, jerking his shaft, jacking him off into your warm, loving mouth…

His hands were in my hair, caressing my scalp, and exerting just enough pressure that I knew he wanted my lips to slip lower, to take him deeper into my mouth.  I did so, feeling a tingling in my belly as his flavors swirled on my tongue, and my jaw opened wider to accommodate him.

His breathing remained gentle, belying the strength of his cock as it strained against my mouth.  I shifted my weight a little, tightening my lips around him as I raised him up, alternating smooth bobs of my head with the sucking motion that I knew drove him crazy.  My fingers were on his balls, swirling in time to my tongue, and drifting closer and closer to his arsehole.  And then that familiar twitch, that unmistakable tensing of every muscle in his body… my finger jammed hard into his anus…

I knew he was coming long before he said anything.  I could feel it building in the balls that tightened in my hand, in the sudden tensing of his cock as it strained against my jaw, and in the barely perceptible sensation that he’d grown an extra half-an-inch, as though preparing to leap down my throat.

My fingers clenched around his buttocks, holding him tighter, drawing him closer and, as he called, first my name, and then a sharp word of warning, my throat opened up to accept the coming flood. 

… and when he came, it was like a dam had burst, and all those months of waiting, wanting and dreaming suddenly gushed from that tiny slit in the tip to fill me so full that I couldn’t help but swallow, and I couldn’t help but want to either.   And as he slowly softened, and my jaw starts to relax, that’s when I sucked him, draining him dry, squeezing balls that were already loosening inside their sack, and coming up only when I needed a deep breath.  And he flopped down besideme, his eyes full of wonder, as though all of his fantasies had just merged into one…

…like he’d completed the jigsaw puzzle.

So I laughed as he held me close to his body, and waited till I felt I was able to speak.

“Is that what you were thinking about?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, and I punched his arm.  “That’s all you have to say for yourself?” and I was just about to push him for more when my phone rang.  I crossed the room, wiping the last drops of cum from my face, and glanced at the caller ID.  “It’s Judy.”

Behind me, Barry swore.  “Shit, I said I’d see her when she got home.  I’d better run, Chrissie.”

I nodded and picked up the phone.  “Hey sweetie.”

“I need to talk to you.” She sounded giggly, but shocked as well.  Not shocked.  Shy.  Bashful.  As if… “Chrissie, I met someone tonight.  A guy.”

I watched as Barry threw his clothes on, then stepped forward to kiss me on the cheek.  I gestured for him to wash his face, to remove the most obvious traces of our lovemaking, and his face as he realized was a picture. 

I returned my attention to Judy.  “Okay….”

“He’s one of the instructors.  He usually takes one of the other classes, but…”  She was about to launch into one of her endless explanations, and I hurried her along.  

“Background later, details now.  You met a guy…”

Barry had re-emerged.  I flapped my hand at him, ushering him out, and blew a kiss as he turned at the door.  Judy was still talking.

“He walked me out to the car after class, and we were talking so I had him come in and sit….”


“And we were talking and the parking lot was emptying out, and suddenly we were the only people still there.  And I parked in the back corner, you know beside the antique store… so it was dark and there was no-one around…”

“Again.  “And?”

“Chrissie.  I sucked him off.  We were talking, and then we were kissing, and I was like… I wanted to do something, and you know there’s no room in the car and the studio would have been locked.  So I did that.”

I was silent.  Shocked silent.  Speechless silent.  Again.  And I guess she took it as a sign of disapproval because she started talking again.  “I’ve never… not even with Barry.  But it just felt….”

“Right?”  I had to say something.

“Oh God yes.  It was so right.  The thing is, I don’t know what I’m going to say to Barry.”

“Judy, you are not going to say anything to Barry.  What you are going to do is, next time he stays over…”

“Tonight.  He’s coming over tonight.”

“Well, when he comes over tonight, you’re going to do the same thing to him that you did to…”

“Jan.  He’s Dutch.”

“The same thing you did to Jan.”  And then, because I had to ask, “so did you swallow?”

She made a little noise in the back of her throat. “No.  I had him cum on his stomach.”

“Well, you’re going to let Barry cum in your mouth.  Okay?”

I could hear her brain processing my words; hear her head and her heart wrestling with them.

“I’ll try.”  And then, “okay, gotta run.  He’s here.”

“Call me tomorrow.  Let me know how it goes.”

“Thanks.  Goodnight…” and then, “so you don’t think I’m the worst girlfriend ever?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.  What’s done is done.  But you do that for him, and so far as he’s concerned, you’ll be the best.”

She giggled.  “I can live with that.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”  I hung up and walked to the bathroom, set the shower running on hot.  Poor Barry.  Or lucky Barry.  I just hoped he had a few drops left.  Judy deserved them.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

If You Love Me...

“So yeah, we were making out, and it was getting steamy - Brad’s hand was between my legs, you know, and I don’t think either of us had thought about breathing in about an hour; his tongue was down my throat, and he’d got my top half off as well…

“… then suddenly his hand’s on the back of my head, like he’s pushing my head down, and he goes ‘if you love me, you’ll….’”

Mark sighed and looked embarrassed.  I mean really embarrassed.  Like”I wish I was one hundred miles from here, listening to anyone talk about anything” embarrassed.  But I didn’t care.  This was my story, my outrage.  Plus, he was the one who asked what happened to make me so upset.  So I told him.  “I just lost it.  It’s like, ‘if I love you, I’ll suck your cock?’   How about, if you love me, you’d wait till I wanted to?’”

“Then what?”  He could barely get the words out.   

“Of course he got all sulky… I got dressed, he started the car and practically threw me out when we got back to my place.  And I’ve not heard from him since.”

“Would you want to?”

“I dunno.  I texted him yesterday just to say hello, but he didn’t respond. I like him well enough and maybe at some point…” I felt my voice trail off, only to be strengthened by a fresh wave of indignation.  “Why did he have to be such an ass?”

Mark laughed.  “Because he’s a teenaged boy.  I don’t care what Brad’s majoring in, or where’s he’s got an internship, the fact is, he’s still a teenager, which means no matter whatever else is going on in his head, ninety percent of his waking thoughts are devoted to getting you into bed.  Or thereabouts.”

Now it was my turn to sigh, as he continued talking.  “The important thing is, as you have just discovered, if you can’t match that ninety with one hundred percent of your own, then it ain’t going to happen.  Or, if it does, it’ll just lead to more problems down the road.”

I like to imagine that my eyes flashed mischievously  “So were you like that?”

“What a teen?  Or permanently horny?”


“Well, I was a teen.  Once.  And while I like to think I was a model of patience and politeness, I probably had my moments of ninety percent-ish-ness.  Which isn’t a proper word, by the way.”

“Damn.  I was going to use it in my next essay,” I smirked, then leaned into him as we sat there on the couch together, mugs of coffee steaming in our hands.  “Thanks.”


If I’d known that things were going to happen the way they eventually did… I’d have made sure they started a long time before.  And if I’d known it would be so easy, ditto.  Mark had been my professor through my freshman year, and he must have noticed that I’d always find a reason to hang around after class, to discuss the finer points of this-and-that.  

Yeah, he was old, but it didn’t show.  Did he look his age?  Maybe.  Probably.  But he looked good, too, like an old time Hollywood movie star, sharply rewrapped in more contemporary clothing, with a permanent twinkle in his gray eyes and a laugh that the entire class loved to hear.

So when he left the faculty to take up a consultancy post with one of the big academic publishers, we’d kept in touch because I wouldn’t let him walk out on his last day without leaving me with his phone number.  Which, a few conversations later, I supplemented with his address,  Which, a few afternoon visits on from there, we both acknowledged had become a friendship that neither of us was likely to tire of.

I knew, even as I sometimes hoped otherwise, that it wasn’t going to go any further.  His wife Stella was a friend, too, and because she also worked from home, there were never occasions when she wasn’t around.   Even the night I got into an auto accident, and he was the only person I could think of to call for help, she was in the car alongside him when he came to pick me up from the emergency room, and she took me up to my dorm room as well, and made sure I was okay.

So where was she today?  Visiting family in Arkansas for a few days, leaving Mark at home only because there were a couple of meetings that he couldn’t get out of.  And the fact that Brad chose those same few days to act like an absolute ass-wipe was nothing to do with either of us.  I’d called Mark that night and we talked a little, except I realized that I didn’t feel like elaborating.  We spoke again the next day, and I’d calmed down a little, but still wasn’t into pouring my heart out down the phone.  So he asked me over - not suspecting, I don’t believe, the full extent of my hurt and confusion.

Or, as we sat, and his body against mine just felt so right, that my mind would suddenly start whirling in other directions and dimensions altogether.

We weren’t in completely unknown territory.  A few times when I’d visited, and he and I hugged goodbye - more than a few times, in fact - we’d been so close to a kiss that I wondered how Stella didn’t notice.  Or maybe she had and didn’t care.   They’d been together a long time; over fifteen years, he told me once.  And I wondered, in all that time, if he’d ever….

He shifted awkwardly - not so much that he moved away, but enough, I think, to reassure himself that I was the one leaning into him, and not the other way round.  So I shifted with him and when he turned his head slightly to look at me, I raised my face just a little, and we did kiss.  A long kiss, warm, gentle.  

He backed away.  “No wonder Brad got so hot and bothered,” he joked, and all I could do was deliver a partial echo, “no wonder…,” as I took his hand and held it in mine.  I wondered if I needed to say anything more, but my mouth was dry.  Too dry to form a cohesive sentence.  I kissed him again, and this time there was no resistance; this time, he kissed me as though we were lovers, as though we were teenagers, as though….

Later, he told me that mine were the first strange lips he’d kissed since he and Stella first dated, and simply tasting my youth, my enthusiasm, my longing, was an experience he’d never forget.

Told me that mine was the first strange hand that had touched his cock, since he and Stella first ran through the bases, in his studio apartment off campus in Wisconsin.

That mine was the first breath he had felt on his flesh, as I slipped from my seat and knelt on the carpet, unfastening his pants as his eyes closed above me, and his last words… “I’m not sure we should be doing this”… still reeled before the passion with which I replied.  “I am.”

See, Brad blew it, in the way that teenage boys often blow it.  Too impatient, too demanding.  Forgetting that sex isn’t simply about what he wants her to do, it’s also about what she wants to do.  And until he opened his mouth and all that stupidity came pouring out… well, let’s just say that if he’d kept his mouth shut, then I’d have been opening mine.  Wide.  And the only thing that would have come pouring out of mine would have been his cum.

I wanted to suck him.  I’d dreamed of sucking him. And tonight was going to be the night.  Until he delivered his ultimatum and my need (because yes, it was a need) switched off just like that.

And now it had switched on again.

Mark knew every pore in his wife’s body, he told me.  No matter what they did, or where they did it (and they did still do it, although not quite as often), he knew what to expect.  They both did.  Which wasn’t a complaint, because she did everything right.  But still he knew, mapping out their lovemaking in his mind as easily as he could map out her flesh.

I was a mystery.  I was unexplored.  And I was running my tongue across the head of his cock, lapping his precum, tasting his flesh, feeling the incredible hardness of a man who might not have the testosterone driven impatience of a boy my age… but had something else, some indefinable strength, and I would never use a word like “gratitude,” because that just sounds so wrong.  But as I licked his prick I could feel the years just flowing away from his body and, if I closed my eyes… I could have been Stella in nineteen-ninety-something, on her knees for the first time for her handsome, gorgeous man, and wondering - as I now wondered….

I hope it fits in my mouth.

It’s one thing to dream, as I’d so often done, of the things I could do if a man just relaxed, and let events take their natural course… like they would have two nights before, if Brad had not been such an impatient, crude, brat. 

It’s another thing entirely to suddenly find that the natural course has floated you further than you ever dreamed it could.  And a cock in the hand is always smaller than a cock just a few inches away from your face.  Smaller, and somehow more manageable.

But not even half as beautiful.

Brad’s cock… You know what?  I never even saw it.  It was never more than an impatient presence inside his pants, that I’d rub and squeeze through the fabric until the damp patch appeared.  The other night in the car, I would have gone further because I wanted to see it.  To feel it.  And yeah.  To suck it.  

To find out how it really felt to have a man moving inside my mouth, and not just watch the occasional cellphone clip of someone else moving inside one of my friends’.  Then we’d all laugh together and critique her style, while making disparaging remarks about the lucky boy’s cock… “are they really meant to bend like that?  Is that color even natural?  Wow, you deep throated a toothpick”… things like that.  As though all of us did it all of the time.  

I was going to do it now.

My lips folded over the head of Mark’s cock, shocked at the sheer intensity of flavor, but thrilling too to the soul-devouring intimacy of it.  Heart racing to the moan he gave as I sank down, feeling him sinking between my jaws… careful not to let him push too far, too quickly, but curious as to how it would feel if he was just to grab my head, pull my hair, and fuck my face like he fucked his wife’s cunt.  A thought which pushed me deeper still, until suddenly it felt as though I’d taken all I ever could, and my nose was brushing the fingers I clenched round his root… and I came up for air, but I didn’t let him fall, because that single image was cemented to my mind now, and - I knew he wouldn’t do it, because he was far too much of a gentleman.

But what if I did it for him?

I started slowly, finding my rhythm and then picking it up; finding my limits (gag reflex… hello!) and staying just within them.  And he was moving too, thrusting into my mouth as my head bobbed back, slipping up that miraculous shaft that could not bear to lose a fraction of the warmth, the wet, and wonderful darkness in which I was bathing it.

I wondered if I should be tugging him, using my hand to hasten his orgasm.  I’d seen that on the cellphones, too.  But you know what?  That always seemed so wrong, though; as if my mouth was simply an impassive hole, something to jerk him off into.  No.  I wanted to make him cum with my mouth, and I pulled my hand away… surprised, for a moment, at the sheer strength and weight of his now unsupported dick in my mouth, but thrilling at that as well.

Plus, now I could take even more of him inside.

His moans were groans, his thrusts almost melodic.  My hands were on his hips, my fingers clenching his flesh.  I wondered if they might leave bruises… I hoped they would fade before Stella came home, and reclaimed her territory with a blowjob of her own.  And again, that thought - Mark fucking his wife, being sucked by his wife - were those images that should even begin turning me on?  Let alone send me careening towards an orgasm when I wasn’t even touching myself!  Fuck!  This is the best feeling ever!

He froze.  He cock tautened, and it was as though it grew even bigger.  A momentary sensation, a mere flash in my mind, but Mark was crying “Chrissie, I’m coming…” and I filed away that fleeting awareness for future reference… so that’s how you know!  Then I pulled away just as the first jet sprayed out, lashing my face, splashing down on his flesh, and I wasn’t even thinking when I dipped my head and licked at it… liked the flavor, and went in search for more.  

Suckled him as that incredible erection subsided to softness in my mouth, and it was only when I let him go, and kissed his mouth with my cum-soaked tongue that I realized that I’d just gone further than even my wettest dreams ever let me.  In my fantasies, I never dealt with the issue of his orgasm… would I swallow, would I spit, would I aim it back up his chest?

Now I knew, and it felt as natural as everything else we’d done.

Then his phone rang and we disentangled ourselves, while he exchanged a few pleasantries with Stella … laughed.  “She sends her love, and says I need to hug you for her”; then, turning his attention back to the phone, “that’s exactly what I was doing when you called.”  He laughed, I stared, and I saw his cock twitch on the first step back to full strength.  

“She wants all the details when she gets back,” he said, then they said soft goodbyes, and he was hard again.  Hard enough to fuck me like I’d never been fucked before (which wasn’t that difficult - that night was my first time.  But I think you know what I mean); and hard enough for me to fuck him, like he said he’d never been ridden before, that “reverse cowgirl” stance that I saw on the Internet, and thought looked amazing from whichever angle you chose.  

I think he enjoyed the view, as well.

As for giving Stella “all the details”… I don’t know if he did. Or what details she wanted.  But I had a feeling I was going to be finding out soon.  There was a message on my cell when I switched it back on between classes, a day or two after Stella arrived home.  Did I want to stop by for coffee later?  Stella had brought back gifts from her trip, and she wanted to give me mine.

I bathed, and then sat down to try and paint my nails.  In the end, though, I had to give up.  My hands were shaking too much….