("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
`6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
(_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
_..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
(((' (((-((('' ((((
K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
_________________________________________
WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
_________________________________________
Scroll down to view text
--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your
consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------
A Tale of Four Blowjobs - 4
by Kimmie Holland (address withheld)
***
A sissy goes to sleep with a cock in her mouth--and
wakes up with a cock in her mouth. (M/m-teen, oral, tv,
sissy)
***
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 whence forth 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 you 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, ecumenical—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.
END
For more stuff by us—pictures, art, vidclips, real-life
experiences & assorted nonsense, please visit:
http://thefreakbox.blogspot.com/
http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fStoreID=336055&fMode=
edit
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a
fellow convict in their local prison.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Kristen's collection - Directory 62