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Two Views

by Frenulum

Copyright © 2002 Frenulum. All rights reserved.

Him Her
She’s so sensitive to my unspoken desires. As we kiss, I stroke her hair, and the familiar caress makes her think of other times, other postures, in which she has felt the same touch. She pulls away from my lips and glides with perfect grace to her knees. My erection is momentarily caught beneath her chin as she descends, then springs free to bob enthusiastically before her. He’s so coarse, so demanding. As we kiss, I feel his hand on top of my head, pushing me down. He doesn’t have the courtesy to ask, or even to insist — just shoves me where he wants me, like I’m not worth speaking to. I fall to my knees. On my way down, his cock smacks me in the face. He’s a huge man down there; I feel like I’ve been slapped.
She looks up at me, eyes full of love, then back at my fuck-pole. There is already a bead of clear juice oozing from the head. She wraps one small hand around the base of my shaft, tipping my cock down toward her mouth. Anticipation roars between my ears — and I know that the first contact will surprise me despite all the times I have enjoyed her body. I look up at him, searching for some release, some sign that I don’t really have to do this. His cock is already leaking some vile goop, a sign of the torrent of slime I will eventually have to deal with. It looks like some sort of awful primitive beast, an alien eel, with an oozing wound. I’m going to have to let this thing inside my head.
Her eyes meet mine once again. Very deliberately, she leans forward until the very center of her upper lip meets the bead of goo on my dickhead. Then, holding my cock perfectly still, she moves her head sideways, down, back, up, my cock playing across first her upper and then her lower lip like a tube of lipstick. Her lips are glistening with semen. I lean forward, slowly, with the utmost reluctance. There will be no reprieve — the governor does not call to stop a blow job. I try to wipe the slime off on the outside of my lips: every drop I don’t have to taste is a small victory. But I end up getting messy already.
She backs off an inch or two. Her eyes are locked on mine, watching my every reaction. Her lips come together and then part again; as they do, thin strands of sticky fluid form and break between them. I look up at him and think of pleading for something else — more petting, cuddling, regular sex — real sex — with his cock where it belongs. My lips begin to form the word “please” and with revulsion I feel them glue together. It’s no use — his mind is made up.
She opens wider, leans forward, exhales; the warm wind caresses my glans. Her tongue extends and, finally, makes contact. As her tongue sweeps two slow circles around my head, she takes me into her mouth. She still watches me as her head begins to bob slowly, taking just the head of my cock into her mouth and letting it out again, almost but not quite to the point of escape. Saliva begins to glisten on her chin as she sucks. I let out a frustrated sigh, knowing that I will have to go through with this. I fend him off with my tongue for a few seconds, but that only serves to delay the hated intrusion. Familiar words echo in my mind as his cock enters my mouth: he’s raping my head. That’s how I think of it. I like making love with him the right way, face to face, lovers watching each other: human intercourse in the literal sense. I look up at him, wondering how he can use my face like some kind of fuck-toy and still claim to love me. Oh my god, I’m drooling — yuck.
I reach out and caress the side of her head. Now she drops the hand that had been gripping my shaft, and begins to drive deeper and deeper on my cock. On every instroke, her tongue sweeps back and forth on the sensitive underside of my cock; on the outstroke, she stiffens her tongue and drags it firmly from shaft to tip. Her lips never slacken, always compressing around my withdrawing head, only to be spread apart again as the cycle repeats. As he always does, he grabs my head, working my face back and forth on his dick. He’s telling me, silently, that I’m no good at this disgusting act, that he has to take charge of my head for it to work for him. I try to keep as much pressure as I can on his invading shaft, knowing that more friction will hasten his end and my release.
I can’t be still any longer. I start to thrust gently in the rhythm she is setting. Her lips on the downstroke now reach more than half way down my pole. She is making some sort of sound — not a hum, not quite a moan — which combines with the liquid slurping in an erotic symphony. The sensations of her sucking are so intense that, though I can’t feel more cock cream oozing from me, I know from the slippery feel of her lips that she is starting to earn some. He rams into my face like I’m some kind of rubber toy, devoid of feelings, useless except as a slippery receptacle for his cock. A whimper escapes — I hope he doesn’t hear it. He’s leaking semen into my mouth, and I fight not to gag at the taste and texture of it. My lips are slimy; they make a liquid animal noise around his pole.
She pauses with just the head of my cock in her mouth. She swallows a mixture of lube and spit. Her eyes close. She descends, and my shaft disappears into her mouth, farther, deeper, deeper... gone. I am in her throat, her nose pressed against my abdomen, buried in pubic hair. She bobs rapidly, revealing only an inch of shaft, jacking my cockhead with her throat. Spit floods my balls. I can watch her throat muscles ripple from the outside as my cock probes where it was never meant to go. The taste is too much: I swallow, trying to clear it from my mouth. He takes advantage of the swallow to shove the beast all the way down my throat. My nose slams against his body, but that pain is nothing compared to the agony of having my face impaled, my airway cut off. How can he think it’s sexy or fun or erotic to choke off the very air I breathe? It would be attempted murder under any other circumstances. Every time he shoves into my throat I pull off him as quickly as I can, fighting not to gag, desperate to breathe, but he rams it back into me.
She backs off, repeats the whole cycle, backs off again. Her eyes are on me again, questioning. The question is not “are you close?” — for she can sense infalibly that I am. My dick is throbbing, on the very edge of explosion. No, the question is “where?” Where will I cum? She loves the taste of sperm dumped in great gobs right in her mouth; she loves the raw unbridled eroticism of feeling me fire off deep in her throat; she loves the wanton fun of taking a facial like a goddess receiving an offering. But her eyes hold only wonder, not suggestion, leaving the matter up to me. He’s going to cum, I just know it. Can’t head be foreplay? Can’t it be a prelude to real sex, that we both enjoy? No. He’ll just keep going until he’s happy. The only question is where he’s going to put the disgusting stuff. My best hope is that he cums while I’m choking on his cock — at least that way I’ll only have to taste what’s left when he pulls out. But more likely he’ll back off and fill my mouth with cum: salty, bitter, viscous, reeking of — what? chlorine? amonia? something acrid. And, oh my god, full of things that are alive and squirming. He’ll expect me to smile, and swallow, and smile some more, and show him my empty mouth like I’m proud of myself. Or, worst of all, he’ll shoot it on my face, treating me like some sort of cross between a porn slut and a toilet.
I’m in a playful mood — I’ll paint her face for her. I take one two three four five oh my god six short strokes between her lips here I cum seven eight now now I’m cumming! I pull back as the first jet of sperm sprays the roof of her mouth, just in time for the second spurt — usually the biggest — to arc over her upper lip, race up her cheek, and explode like fireworks on the edge of her left upper eyelid. The thick line of jizz begins to trickle as another gob lands on her lip. I feel another strong burst escape me, coating her teeth, lower lip, and chin. I press my cockhead against her right cheek, and squeeze the shaft as the last few ropes squirt over her lovely skin. He’s finished. A glob of slime coats my mouth and it’s only with supreme control that I don’t throw up. To swallow will be an effort, to leave it sitting in my mouth a bigger one. While I try to force it down, he pulls out and starts spraying my face. Wonderful, the worst of both worlds. A gob of grume smacks me in the eye. I squeeze my eyes shut in self-defense, but it’s too late: one eye is already stinging with the acrid slime. There seems to be no end to the awful stuff: I feel jolt after jolt of it slapping into my face.
Her eyes closed reflexively with the impact of the early burst, but she has opened them again to enjoy my pleasure — her gift to me. Her face is coated: it looks like two men or three have dumped their loads all over her. I love how sexy she looks at this moment, decorated with the evidence of my love for her. I look at his face: flushed, as if he’s the one that went through the ordeal. My face is a wreck. I feel like I’ve been vandalized, like he’s smeared his ill-bred illiterate graffiti over my most precious treasures, ruining them forever. Soiled, used, degraded, I wait, knowing that to run and rinse my mouth, wash my face, brush my teeth as I long to do would upset him — make him feel unappreciated. The insensitive goddam bastard.
My cock is still hard and her lips are still parted, so I press back into her mouth. My cock becomes coated with jizz as she begins to suck again, and her lips and chin are soon flooded even more with spit and spooge. He uses my face again to satisfy his last few urges. More slime gets wiped into my mouth. I let it drool out so I don’t have to taste it, don’t have to bear its sickening presence in my stomach for the rest of the day. Finally, he’s finished.
It was wonderful. Truth be told, I have known one or two women who give better head, from a purely mechanical point of view. But never anyone who loves it as much as she does — and her evident desire makes her so sexy when she eats cock. I almost wish we could just fuck a little more often, but she’s always so eager to blow me I just can’t bear to disappoint her. My little cum junkie. How I love her. In my mind I measure the space until next June 12th. Our wedding day. The day I become Mrs. Half-a-billion-dollars. The day I’ve given my last blow job ever. What’s he going to do, divorce me? I’d still get a few tens of millions out of the deal, enough to relax for the rest of my life. And never, ever, kneel for a man again.

Author’s notes on Two Views

I have been fortunate in that every woman I’ve been intimate with has been an enthusiastic fellatrix with no aversion to a mouthful of spooge (although not all shared my fondness for facials). Nevertheless, I know there are plenty of ladies out there for whom it’s an ordeal. I ran across the phrase “it feels like he’s raping my head” in the advice column of a popular women’s magazine. And I’ve read many internet postings expressing everything from reluctance to disgust.

So, I thought I’d write a happy little blow job scene from a man’s view, and then see if I could construct the parallel point of view from a woman who does not view cocksucking as one of life’s ultimate pleasures.

Did it work for you? Did you like the down-or-across ambiguity? Was she believable? Was he? Let me hear your thoughts.

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