Hyper-Fellating

I’ve been thinking about blow jobs of late. In the giving and receiving yes, certainly. But more particularly on the politics and power dynamics surrounding them. And while that’s an area I intend to explore further, right now I am simply reflecting  on how I’ve gotten to where I am today…

I remember learning; or more accurately *figuring out* what a blow job was in grade 11 gym class. My first real boyfriend didn’t come along until that summer, so I suppose I should be grateful that the entire notion didn’t come as an utter shock once *he* introduced the idea to me. Looking back, I find it amusing that the entire concept of oral sex hadn’t crossed my consciousness before then. And slightly more amusing at how little it took to figure it out.

A girl I was acquainted with was talking in the change room about meeting “Cedric” at a party, and how he had driven her home. And how else was she supposed to thank him other than blowing him? Based on the shocked/disgusted/judgmental looks on the faces of my other friends, I realized she had said something fairly shocking. I was fairly quiet as we walked to our next class, trying to figure out what she could have done to result in such a reaction from my fairly open and kind friends.

I knew what sex was; I wasn’t that sheltered, so I tried to sort out another activity from the context. OK: driveway; car; “blow job;” gratitude; not sex…Then it hit me what she must have done. Like a moment of divine inspiration.

Oh! That’s a thing! Interesting.

I then took a moment to process the idea that saying “thank you” is also a way of thanking someone for something. And I considered the notion that perhaps she was pressured and was trying to play it cool. Or perhaps she just liked doing it. I didn’t know, and I was too fascinated with this new concept to sit in righteous indignation over the actions of someone I only sort of knew, and really didn’t even like that much.

My first boyfriend Dave really liked sex. Ya know, not unlike many teenage boys. (If you are interested in my actual diary entry from the first time we/I had sex, please see here) And I can’t remember if it was him that told me that getting blowjobs was one of his favourite things in the entire world. It seems like something he would have said, so he gets the credit. It was at that point that I realized what a big deal it was to ALL MEN (at age 17, of course there are only absolutes). So I shrugged, and resigned myself to swallowing when he told me that it was the thing to do.

You see I never thought I would *ever* have a boyfriend. And sex seemed like some exotic thing that only the pretty and popular got to have, and I certainly didn’t feel that I fit into that category. Sexuality seemed to me more like a gift, something that lucky girls had the opportunity to express. I never judged anyone for it, nor felt that it was something that should be regulated or deemed bad or immoral. And if swallowing and blow jobs and sex were the things to do, then I would work with that. Now of course Dave was an asshole and told me that if I didn’t have sex with him soon I would be “forcing him to break up with me” and so I can appreciate the notion that I was pressured into it. I recognized the fact that I had the right to say that I wasn’t ready, but I somehow thought that he also had the “right” to express the limits of his patience. Ya know, and then make out with Maria at a party even though I *did* give it up, and then get annoyed with me for making an issue of it. Ah youth.

Anyhow, next came Rob in early University. He had more experience and would talk about how enthusiastically this one girl serviced him over the summer. I certainly don’t remember her name now, but I nicknamed her “hyper chick,” ostensibly because I felt energetic fellatio was the result of some sort of disorder. Or something. Anyhow, I was somewhat competitive, and as he was going away for a couple weeks, I wanted to give him something to remember me by. What I lacked in technique, I made up for in creativity and effort I’m sure – he received a very thorough blowing, and laughingly assured me that I had certainly guaranteed his fidelity while away. And from that, I was felt I had a skill. Blow jobs were now my *thing.*

Gawain tells me I have a “good sense of cock.” And while I find this assessment to be delightful, I still have moments of wonder at how that came to be. It’s surely a result of insecurity and naïveté in many ways. I didn’t want to be different or less than the other girls that I assumed were more experienced or skilled than I was. I had heard about being a “dead fuck” in high school, and it seemed like the worst possible thing to be. And this was from conversations with my girlfriends – not boys. But upon reflection, it made sense to me – why would someone want to be with someone just lying there? And it translated to blowjobs – why would someone want a blowjob from someone who was miserable about it?

I occasionally would like to speak with my 17 year-old self and have a calm discussion about proclivities and pleasure and manipulation and objectification. But the fact remains, a lot of this has been ingrained in me. And I also still have some sort of belief somewhere in there that sex is more for men. *Sexuality* is for women, but *sex* is for men. Ugh, so wrong and complicated and a little bit sad. But there it is. Something I am working to conquer. And I am so lucky to have a man like Gawain to work through this with.

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I wanted rougher. I wanted rougher to feel like he *wanted* me. To feel like I caused him to lose control and couldn’t help himself. A combination rape/D/s fantasy. What he gave me was so utterly different that what I anticipated. I realize now that I hadn’t fully formulated what I wanted. My fantasy was a mere snippet. A moment within an encounter without any context or aftermath.

The evening started the same way as many – some talking on the futon with some touching and caressing. He likes to hear me talk, it’s a form of foreplay for him; to feel a connection, intimacy, trust. I asked him once if he would like me to greet him at the door on my knees; take him in my mouth before he’s even fully entered the room. He said no (kindly of course). He prefers talking first, that’s what turns him on. Particularly if we haven’t seen each other in a while, as is often the case.

He had some pain and asked me to massage him, his leg, thigh, groin area. I was happy to oblige as any excuse to touch him is a good one. And the request fires up some faint nurturing instinct within me. When he has pain, I tend to assume that means that sex is off the table for the evening. Well, you know what they say about assumptions…and he’s surprised me more than once in that arena.

And last night was certainly a surprise.

I used to be indifferent to sucking cock. Which is odd, since apparently I have an aptitude for it. (And I know what you’re thinking: *everyone* believes they’re good at it, because men continually give positive feedback in order to continue being serviced. Doubtless a mediocre blow job is better than no blow job at all. But for some reason I trust the men who have expressed surprise-gratitude-compliments on my skill. I get the sense that it is not just empty flattery. But I digress…)  With Gawain I actually enjoy fellatio – and will often find myself aroused by the act. Generally not in a really obvious wet, hot and throbbing kind of a way – but enough to make me ready to fuck without much more preparation required – though of course he would be happy to oblige – or watch me…

Predictably, massaging led to fondling, which led to sucking his cock, which led to the bedroom. (Note: I really must make the guest room a bit more hospitable, I have yet to have sex in there with anyone. Ridiculous after 8.5 years of living in this place). The continued cock sucking didn’t actually last that long before things changed. Suddenly he was telling me how he was going to be using me. Hard. I was somewhat taken aback as we established a safety word and how I would communicate dissent if my mouth was otherwise occupied; and then we began. I adjusted quickly, excited and curious to see where this would go.

He ordered me onto my knees with my hands behind my head. I was to hold onto my pony tail and not let go. And he slapped me. And again. Harder. He yanked down my panties with his foot and I struggled out of them without moving my hands, shocked and delighted as I heard them ripping. The conflicting thoughts and emotions that went through me even in those first few moments are almost indescribable. I strained to maintain an upright stance as he plunged into me from behind, trying to compensate for the lack of balance normally offered by my hands as I tilted forward towards the bed.

“Are you a little slut?” “Are you a fucking whore?”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“Yes what?” “What do you call me?” He barked this at me, yanking back my hair. I had never experienced that kind of authoritarian look and tone from him before.
Yes Sir.
“You’ll say that before or after everything, understand?”
Yes Sir.

He would kiss me with gentleness and intimacy, and check in often. He had put a lot of thought into how this scenario would play out. He had to establish trust – for both of us. He had to know that I wasn’t scared, or hurt or damaged by any of this.

He fucked me hard. Moving my body around with more ferocity and speed than I was accustomed to.

“Do you like this?” “Do you want me to fuck your mouth?” “Do you like it when I slap your face with my cock?”
Yes Sir.
“Say no.”
No Sir. (Your mouth says “no” but your body says “yes.”)
But it was intoxicating. Impossible to think or focus on anything other than what my body was experiencing  – utterly captivated by the game we were playing.

I’ve always liked having my hair pulled, but I recognize now that what I had experienced before was merely a gentle-to-moderate tugging. Last night? It was pulled. Often. And the pain was surprising and stimulating.

But the part that resonates with me now? What I’ll remember the most about the evening?
His hands on my throat. A gesture I had never considered before meeting him, and it’s always been arousing. Something to do with the slight limitation of oxygen, making everything else feel more intense. As he put his hands on my throat last night, I tensed with anticipation of the familiar pleasure, but with my hands around his wrist, he picked me up and threw me to the other side of the bed.

Holding tighter to my throat than before, he did it again. And again. I was shocked at how much I liked it. I’m not one to place value judgments on anyone’s sexual proclivities; but that temporarily gave me pause. He checked in with me again, perhaps not sure how to gauge whatever look I may have had on my face, but I barely had time to process it, all I knew was that I enjoyed it, and was happy to continue.

I’m still processing. And sore.  Sore in a delicious way that just serves to remind me of the night I’d had. Sore in my hips, my chest/clavicle, and miscellaneous other places. And I was pulling out strands of hair for the rest of the night. Good thing I have enough for 3 people plus a puppy.

Last night was our first go at this. I can only imagine that each subsequent encounter like this will only prove to be more intricate and arousing. I am supremely grateful to him for surprising me with this kind of play.

Exploration

She had very specific ideas on what her fantasy sex partner would comprise of – ideas she was more than happy to share with the rest of the world through her writing. However in retrospect, this man, this fantasy partner, this ideal, was more of an amalgam of body parts, crafted more as a concept in functionality than as an actual person. This fantasy had no face, no form, and no personality. It had hands, a tongue and lips, a cock and an unquestioning will to please her. No man she’d met had ever come close to approaching what she was looking for, so no trace of past lover touched this fictional amalgam. An amalgam of body parts, vignettes and unfulfilled wishes.

Then she met him. A man truly surreal in his seeming perfection. She was shocked at how precisely he satisfied her unspoken desires. Without prompting he demanded what he wanted from her – he verbally wooed her with his lust and fantasies for her and she was intoxicated by the promise of such an ideal match. Yet, she was also relieved when she found that he had some proclivities, some lusts that she didn’t share, or had never considered. For him to match her too perfectly would have been unnerving – like he was indeed an unreal fancy – ephemeral, illusory…untouchable.
Suddenly her fantasy had a face, a body and its own demands. Unexpectedly, this didn’t take away from its appeal. It simply added nuance and more complex dimension to her imaginings. It pushed her to consider scenarios she’d never encountered. Scenarios both frightening and alluring. Scenarios which forced her to explore her own liberality and comfort zones.

And the reality of being with him – of having him use her in any way he pleased, and being open to hearing what she wanted in return without shock or judgement. To be confronted with the reality of what one had previously only fantasized about is more disconcerting than one might expect. How often in life do we ever really get what we want?

She had occasionally doubted herself – that her own, seeming open-mindedness and adventurousness might actually be a façade. An identity that she wanted to play at, but could never actually adopt with any seriousness or ease. However her appetite has now been whetted, and she found myself craving more. She wanted to explore her sexual identity with more depth and urgency now than she had before. To indulge in both his requests and her own fantasies with more eagerness than she would have thought.

She wanted to taste a woman’s tongue again, suck on her breasts, explore each other’s bodies and feel each other’s heat, wetness and involuntary pressing and writhing against each other. She wanted to suck on a man`s cock while he watched – to perform for him, make him hard and have him fuck her while she still had the other man in her mouth. She wanted to bring him to the sex club that she had explored – she couldn’t get the thought of fucking him for an audience out of her head; nothing even elaborate or particularly kinky, the exhibitionism of it was enough.

She was distracted by this complex sexual “awakening.” This new partner and these preliminary new experiences didn’t scare her – they tempted her. They teased her to do more, explore more, imagine more. She wanted to do this beside him, with him. Some experiences were best shared – for and with each other. Others were for her or him alone. She didn’t want to limit him in his own explorations or curiosities. Surely they couldn’t fulfill each other’s every kink or wish – but to guide and experience and learn with each other – the intimacy and decadent indulgence of it was delirium-creating in and of itself….

Insignificant

More than one ex-boyfriend has called me an ice princess. I can’t stand completely immersing myself in someone else’s life, nor can I handle someone constantly calling me and wanting to see me every single day.

I considered myself an intelligent independent woman. The ad I posted online indicated that I wanted a life that was separate, but compatible. However, I made it clear: I didn’t want to be neglected, and this wasn’t an invitation for us to take each other for granted. I just didn’t want to be smothered yo.

He was perfect on screen. Witty. Intelligent. Quirky. Sexually open.

He came over early on, took control, did things to my body I had never imagined, and had me constantly distracted with the thought of being with him. Riding him. Having him take me. Being his slave. Anything he wanted. I told him I was his toy to do with as he chose.

I brought him to my office – greeted him outside in a little dress and no panties as instructed. He fucked me a few different ways, and made us late to pick up my bff’s husband while he took me one more time.

Even now? I want him. I want him at my door, not talking. Just naked. I want him to jerk my head back, slip his fingers in my panties and rub my clit. To want to rape him – to rip off his clothes, damage them as he’s done to mine. To ride him until his eyes roll back and he’s incoherent.

But the neglect? It was there. Oh it was there. To end up in this impossible situation where I can’t ask him for time, or communication or sex. To be in some sort of undefined thing where I get absolutely nothing, but to feel like a burdensome pet that he offers a few scraps to when it’s somewhat convenient for him.

Humiliating. The core of that word? Humility. I have learned to be humble. To know what it is to be absolutely nothing to someone. To have so little of their regard that they can’t even be bothered to fuck me, when they know I’m perfectly willing.

And even worse? To know that I’m still willing. To be still wet and throbbing for him. To have the memory of what he’s done to me. To imagine the potential of what we could have done. What we said we would do.

Nothing in life comes with a guarantee. But I feel cheated. Like I had this sensual gift dangled in front of me. Taunting me. Teasing me with it’s tantalizing closeness. And then to have it taken away with no explanation, and such coldness.

To feel cheap and used voluntarily? Can be delicious. But this? To feel so utterly insignificant?

Now, I just feel thoroughly ashamed for allowing myself to feel this way.

This and That and the Duchess’s Voice


“Would you like a pillow?” I shook my head no, not thinking that my knees would be screaming in agony after about 5 minutes of kneeling in front of him on the hardwood floor.

I’ve mentioned before that I once upon a time I had a boyfriend compare me to another girl in the blowjob department, setting me on a quest to provide the ultimate experience in oral sexuality, hopefully preventing this recipient’s mind from straying to other women.

I’m not often competitive, as I find it often leads to negativity and obsession, but in this case, I think it’s a good thing. I’m performing a service after all.

As a result, I’ve been told that I give decent head. Occasionally it’s even been assumed that I really enjoy doing it – which must be why I excel. Enjoy it? Maybe. It’s gratifying to feel that kind of power in my hands/mouth. Especially when the man is vocal with his appreciation. Silence my dears? Is not golden in these scenarios.

But I don’t love it and crave it the way some other women do. As previously mentioned, I sometimes view it as a gift that I’m oh-so-generously bestowing on the man in question. Often it’s because sex is not on the table that night/day/lunch hour – why should the man suffer because I’m crampy/having a fat day/too sore from the night before?

I’ve noticed that men rarely have such compunctions. They will cheerfully drop their pants when asked – especially for head. Why should they hesitate – they don’t have to do any work, and we (the women) are not asking to be gratified in any way?

I’m also neutral on receiving oral sex. I tend to be somewhat fussy, and if I don’t feel 100% fresh/trimmed/comfortable it can just be distracting and I feel like I have to perform. It defeats the purpose of the man’s efforts. Now that being said, I also receive the best, and frequently the fastest, orgasms from it. It’s a dilemma to be sure.

Now this new man? He’s been quite appreciative of my efforts- as mentioned in my last post, he’s quite creative and open-minded. Although I’m sometimes concerned that our kinks don’t entirely mesh, it’s a challenge I’m cheerfully willing to work on though, as I suspect once we’ve ironed out the wrinkles, the results will be truly mind-blowing.

It’s rare to meet someone so completely aware of their sexual needs and wants, yet not so selfish about them that they ignore what’s going on with their partner. I tend to kind of zone out sometimes- not in a negative way, but in a losing-myself-in-the-sensations-of-my-body kind of way. I find it challenging to maintain focus and eye contact with my partner as I’m in the mist of coital bliss. This won’t do with him however – he wants me to be with him the entire time. Focused eye contact, knowing that I’m sharing an experience with him. It’s occasionally disconcerting, but gratifying and alluring as well. It forces me to be more present and aware of my partner. I hadn’t thought of myself as a selfish lover before – I would cheerfully give up my orgasm for the sake of theirs – but this has given me a new perspective on the matter.

And the dirty talk and fantasizing? Oh my darlings – for someone who delights in writing dirty, it’s an entirely different thing to walk the talk. (Talk the talk? Walk the walk? Talk the walk? What is the proper expression anyhow?). You’d think that the words would just flow out of me like the juices down my legs. That my needs and desires have just been begging to be heard – just waiting for a live audience to pay homage to my erotic expression.

Not so much. I occasionally find myself wondering how he’d react to a dirty email. I imagine he might enjoy it – however not as a replacement for the eroticism of the moment. He wants to hear my fantasies. He wants them described in delicious detail. He wants to know what I’ve done, what I’ve wished done to me, and what I plan to do with/to him and with others. It’s intoxicating and terrifying.

Maybe I should practice in front of a mirror…

Surreal


He yanked my hair back, forcing me to look into his eyes – a move that I will forever find arousing no matter what the circumstances – the harder and more abrupt the better. “Tell me you’re my plaything. Tell me I can do whatever I want to you.” As his hands explored my body, I found myself wanting exactly that – to give myself to him completely. To offer myself as a gift to be unwrapped, begging to be used and enjoyed. Used until I was spent. Used until there was nothing left of me to give.

He was like something I had created – occasionally disconcerting me with his words and actions. How could he so completely know what was in my head – was I that dull and predictable? Were my fantasies more prosaic than I thought? Or had I actually found someone so utterly in tune with my body and desires that he just seemed surreal?

I straddled him on my couch – he bit my neck and ground his straining cock against my increasingly wet pussy. Is there anything more intoxicating than to know you’re responsible for that growing heat and hardness? I could feel him through the thin wisp of fabric – so many sensations at once made it a challenge to concentrate. His hands running down my ribs and back, his tongue in my mouth, then teeth on my nipples, all while he slowly rubbed his cock against me…

“Tell me your fantasies – what do you really want that you’ve never told anyone? That you never dreamed would actually be fulfilled?” I told him about my plush carpeted orgy fantasy, assuming that he would simply purr in my ear that it sounded hot, and resume his ministrations. This was a mildly risqué fantasy to share, but not so shocking that it couldn’t be forgiven if he wasn’t into it.

I underestimated him.

He wanted to join me in the fantasy. He wanted the lights kept on, with me blindfolded if I wished. He embellished and elaborated it a bit- making me less selfish, and the entire scenario more consuming. He wanted to watch as I sucked on one cock while being fucked by another. He wants to join in while I get used and taken by a variety of men. I could feel him get harder as we talked about it – his hands all over me as he described what would happen.

I realized that he was serious – he wasn’t just role-playing or humoring me. My lusts made him as hot as they did me. It was a fine line we were walking, neither of us wanting to be a submissive, yet one of us had to give a little. My wish for a slave might be an indulgence that he would play at occasionally, but he was not one to be dominated. This was a man that I could tell my darkest carnal desires to. A man that wouldn’t be shocked or turned off – indeed, the more I shared, the more he would give in return.

This was a man who knew what he wanted, and was more than happy to take me along on a sensual wanton ride. A man who would take me to the riverbank beside my condo and fuck me on the picnic table there. A man who would take me to a park, pin me against a tree and slam into me. A man who would come to my office after work, bend me over my desk and take me from behind. A man who would take me to the ballet, insisting I wear a dress with no panties, then fuck me in the car in the parking lot before going home. A man who will take me to a party, then pull me into a bedroom or even a corner and fuck me regardless of who might see us.

Is he for real? Sometimes I can’t believe that I might actually be able to keep him long enough to have these fantasies and plans fulfilled. Men like this don’t actually exist. Intelligent, creative, strong, sexy men with bodies that beg to be worshiped? I’m convinced that one day soon I’m going to wake up and realize that this all was, in fact, in my head. But in the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the ride…