And the Lord said "Let this mouth suck cock", and it was up to me to find a way to make that happen...
Well if it didn't happen that way, the editor should have ordered an immediate rewrite along those lines.
The first time I met Denise, I hardly registered her name, or even noticed her tits (which were monuments of magnificence in their own right) – no, it was her mouth which held me enthralled.
You see I firmly believe that all women – except the unlucky few who really got beaten with the ugly stick – have 'something'. For one that something will be her legs, for another her hands, or breasts, or ass. For Denise it was her mouth, and from the moment I laid my eyes on those lips, I knew that the gates of heaven would be closed to me until the moment I found a way to experience the delight those lips promised.
Now before you scoff, allow me to enlighten you to the specifications of a perfect mouth:
Firstly, you want full lips, and the definition of full is between those of your older sisters best friend (the one your mother doesn't approve of, but you father is always ogling while sporting a goofy smile) and the models sported by the imitation miss Croft (whose lips are as real as her breasts).
Secondly, a cock sucking mouth is small – a mouth that could take two cocks at one time simply has no appeal.
Thirdly, cock sucking lips are naturally dark red – An accomplished fellatrix never leaves lipstick smears in her wake.
And the final element? The eyes above the perfect mouth: the difference between your average gotta-sit-down- cause-my-legs-can't-carry-me blowjob, and a now-I-am-ready-to-die- because-I-have-experienced-heaven experience, can be found in the eyes above the perfect mouth – eyes that will be looking into your very soul as they take you through the pearly gates – eyes that will be dancing with delight, knowing that their owner has delivered perfection.
(PS: Should you die at that moment, the smile on your face will be sure to send you straight to alternative accommodation, so lose it before you meet the gate keeper)
When I looked up from the impish smile playing around those perfect lips, I saw dark eyes already dancing with delight. It was over right then and there – on a scale from 1 to 10, she scored 12 – and I had not even reconnoitred the territory south of her chin.
Of course it is never that simple, and in this instance the obstacles to my conquest were obvious and immediate.
The first was my father – who was introducing me to the second – all 6 ft 7 inches of her husband. This bastard wasn't just big, he looked as if he could eat nails and spit bullets, and he almost instantly confirmed this impression by hefting a fully assembled V6 motor off the back of a delivery truck, and onto an assembly bench in the workshop my old man was running. (he also walked the twenty paces between the truck and bench as if he was carrying a six-pack)
But what is a man to do when destiny beckons him onward? A man makes a plan...
In the course of the months following our first meeting, I got to know Denise and her husband fairly well. Heinz turned out to be as mean as the proverbial junkyard dog, but once he accepted me as part of the scenery, he was cool with me. I guess the fact that he picked on the fact that I thought that his boss was an asshole helped, and the bitch-slapping I handed to a punk bothering his younger sister, certainly didn't harm my rep either. Not fucking her the very same night, even though everybody at the barbeque could see her practically begging for it, elevated me to the status of friend. Pretty damn ironical isn't it? But I can't claim all the credit for that move – ever heard of a city called Troy, and a certain gift left by the Greeks besieging that city?
But just in case you are still confused as to my true character, allow me to set you straight – bitch slapping that punk was a pleasure – being cooped up in a suit all day is tough for a guy like me, and the opportunity to anonymously let off some steam on some witless twit, is fun. Putting him in his place was easy as well – almost every wannabe tough guy I meet makes the mistake of thinking that suit equals soft – idiots! I paid my way through law school cage-fighting on Thursday nights – and even if I didn't need the money, I would still have done it, because I enjoyed it.
So dufus didn't read the signs, and ten minutes later his friends were on their way, with him on the back of their truck, while the big man was taking me and the rest of the awed crowd for a spin on his boat.
As for not fucking the girl – she would be available whenever I wanted her – but for now she was an investment earning me the trust of the gate keeper, and a glance or two from the treasure that sent blood rushing straight into my slightly smaller testosterone brain...
My opportunity to make my move came a year after our first meeting. It was Heinz's birthday bash, and by now I knew the routine. Since the weather was lousy, this would not be a lake outing – we would all gather at his place, and just hang around drinking and partying the whole day.
Etiquette required that the inner circle of friends, as well as the hangers-on, and the business acquaintances be invited. I was firmly entrenched in the first category, while my father was in the last (and he only just made it into that class as he no longer managed the workshop – it was now sublet to Heinz by the owner of the garage, thanks to some behind-the-scene suggestions, and a contract drawn up by you-know-who – isn't it fun being a real SOB?)
I spent my day in the usual way – quietly sussing out the company from a corner, or exchanging a few polite words here and there with the regulars, or the odd day visitor stupid enough to think that I would give a shit about anything that came out of their mouths.
But most of the time I was waiting for opportunity to present itself.
Life, as war, is all about rhythm. There is an ebb and flow to all things, and once you attune yourself to that, you know you will get your chance. This was no different, and today I could feel the current was with me.
Watching Heinz, I could see the faraway look in his eyes as he tuned out the animated conversations swirling around him. The big guy was almost as interested in their shit as I was, but I had the advantage of not having to pretend. Raising my glass to him as he caught my eye, he mouthed a silent 'fuck you' at my grin. If only he knew...
Denise sought me out towards the late evening, mock reproval etched all over her face.
"That was now the second woman that I had to take for a cold shower before I could reintroduce her to her husband and quietly send them packing – have you no heart?"
"Its not my heart she was interested in – besides her hubby should thank me – tonight the missus is going to be all hot and bothered."
"You are absolutely shameless!" Denise laughed, plopping down on the ground next to my chair.
"Of course I am" I replied, " but I didn't do a damn thing as far as those bitches were concerned. I was parking here, minding my own business – they invited themselves over here, they started making conversation, and they got themselves wet."
"And that is all you ever do, isn't it?" Denise joked – but the was something more...
"Have I not always behaved myself around your guests?" I asked.
"You don't have to do anything, and you know that!"
I smiled quietly. She was right.
You guys think that women go for men based on love? You are as stupid as you look. In essence women are prostitutes. Now please don't get riled up ladies – I don't mean that as an insult. The fact is that women are pragmatic – when they pick a male to mate with, they pick him on the basis of his ability to provide for mommy and the next generation she intends to spawn. It is a subconscious thing, and if the majority of females were not programmed that way, our natural resources wouldn't be so overtaxed thanks to the population boom.
The fluff you pick up in clubs is usually a mixture of desperate shelf stock with overdue expiry dates, and girlies with IQ's as low as their self images, and a desperate need to believe that sex equals love. They serve as biological alternatives to masturbation, and sometimes pay us back with a nasty disease or the occasional paternity suit.
But why does your wife want to fuck me? Simple really – you are a good guy, a considerate lover, and a good provider. You satisfy her genetic programming. But if your wife is a real woman, and she looks into my eyes, she sees all of those things you can never be – she sees danger, she sees a touch of craziness and she sees that indefinable something that promises that while you and a thousand others are falling to flaming arrow and flailing sword, protecting her undisputed virtue, I will be fucking her in the ass while she screams for more.
She knows that I have that power over her, and that is enough to send her scurrying to the toilet and frigging herself into a coma.
"And do I do that for you Denise?" I asked quietly, looking deep into her eyes.
"You know I am immune to your charms sir!" she laughed, "besides, you know better than to try your luck while Heinz is around!"
The hell you are immune! I smiled to myself, but if she wanted to believe that...
"So is your immunity to charm the only reason why he beats you up, or does he sometimes do it for the sheer hell of it?"
Denise stared at me for a full three seconds before she responded:
"Fuck you!" she spat, her cheeks flushed with anger, before jumping up and storming to the kitchen.
