Sex In Black And White Story 05

Sex in Black and White -- Part 5

SUCKING

Dreams are necessary to life—Anais Nin

I never meant it to be that big a deal, so keeping my search simple was important. I wanted two things: temporary affection—and anal sex.

As often happens with planning, it did not work out that way. Instead, topless, in a strange city, in a stranger's house, and nervous beyond belief, I was up close and personal with a stranger's cock, even catching a pungent whiff of sperm—my first. I looked up at him. My eyes said it is not supposed to be like this.

Upon arriving at his house, we had kissed. That was downstairs. I liked kissing—not kissing him, just kissing. The act hinted at affection and satisfied my first want. Now, upstairs, I had an urge to go back down, to re-sample kissing's sensual fruit. Later, as our coupling grew more complex, he admitted to feeling the same, at one point, saying, "what we did downstairs was very nice, indeed."

I had choreographed the visuals and arrived looking the part—whorish. Wearing a garter belt, sheer stockings, and black strappy heels, I yearned for a real girlfriend kiss—the kind a girl sees in movies.

I bared my breasts for him, a woman's invitation to be touched—and he touched, but he did it distractedly as if to say, 'This is nice, but I want something else.' Given the circumstances, guessing what he wanted, a blowjob—was not rocket science. Moreover, I was willing to give him one, but not just yet. Men, I was learning, pick and choose which reluctances they opt to notice; this one did not make the cut.

Want of a blowjob preoccupied him, and instead of caressing me more, he moved his hands to my shoulders, his message clear. I wondered if he might press me, disregard my standoffishness and power his erection down my throat. The idea of being forced interested me, and I grabbed hold of his cock, hoping he would make me suck him.

Men showing resolve, toughness, if you will, draws me; it's my major weakness as a woman. Women respect strength, and if he took me by the hair and gave it to me in the mouth, hard—well, that would be OK. Here is where things went wrong because, instead, he did what I did not want. Instead of toughness and resolve, with his pants around his knees, he stood there grinning as if to say, 'Suck it, it's what women do.'

That unspoken yet deafening ultimatum disappointed me; no, it annoyed me. I was torn between two desires; to have my way—meaning to kiss more—and to be driven by this stranger to perform.

With cock in hand, I did what every girl wants to do at some point; I studied it. It was as beautiful as the photo he displayed on the website. What would it be like to have one, to play with it when it is soft? If he got hard, however, I would take credit for it. A hard cock is aggressive, and though I like that too, I wanted to acquaint myself with it first, to get used to its taste, to warm my senses before its intimidating fluids emptied into me.

Another thing I learned is that hard cocks are not friendly; they are aggression's self-portrait. I froze, my lips turning dry at just the wrong moment.

According to some unwritten rule, a drop at its tip told me his testicles were up to something whose end product women are required to suffer happily. Faintly, but noticeably, he pressured me. Nursing the stranger's cock was next on the menu.

I looked up pleadingly and said, "I've never done this before." His instant smile was equal parts sympathy and amusement.

"That's all right, love." With a firm hand at the back of my head, he thrust himself into my mouth.

Later, after I thought about it, it was laughable, so stereotypically inexperienced female. Maybe all girls default to it with all guys—all first times. The thing is, it was very true, I had never sucked a cock, and he knew it. He still expected a blowjob. Men, I concluded, have no interest in truth where sex is concerned. I had sought him out; he provided the cock, I, the mouth to put it in.

It had taken me all this time to grasp that women hold few cards in the big poker game of sex. Not an hour earlier, I folded. After enduring some light conversation over a glass of wine at the restaurant where we met, power between us shifted from me to him. He helped me with my coat. He smiled when I said 'yes' to his central question: "We've gotten a look at each other, so will you come to my place?"

The sex was implied. Yes, I would go to his place; yes, he could fuck me. A single word, 'yes,' contained everything. After I said 'yes,' he owned me. Once there, the rest was folly. I kissed him affectionately. Doing so stripped away this girl's meager feminine defenses. Knowing it would bring me nothing but trouble, I followed him up the stairs to his bedroom.

Halfway through the climb, I stood on ceremony, and like an innocent Japanese bride, it struck me that Anya was right; sex is about power. It took a cock in my throat to get it. I was that naïve. It had not occurred to me, for instance, that my perception of sex might not be its reality. When I went with him to his house, I gave up everything. He was smart and detected it; a telling smile crossed his face, the deferential treatment lavished on me back at the restaurant melted, replaced by a winter chill.

A girl should never show a man she wants sex more than she wants to be treated as a human being, let alone an equal. If she does, she puts herself in the position of bartering her body on the cheap. Like everyone, I had grown up hearing sad stories of girls who did just that, yet, there I was.

I approached sex impractically. Sex is currency; something a girl trades in dribs and drabs, as she wants this or that. Anya was right.

By then, things were past questioning. I sucked, petrified he might come. I tasted him and hated it, not because I hated cum; the thought and its taste, made me wet. The problem was him; I felt nothing for him, his seed amounting to a nuisance.

With my mouth stretched to its limits, I looked up a final time, my expression pleading my case to go slowly. His smile, the one from the restaurant, recurred, making the same statement as before: you're a woman—suck.

***

High tide, the sticky muskiness well known to women who suck cocks, swamped me. Instinct said to push him away, but I was too polite. In less than a heartbeat, my mouth filled with fluids—his, mine; God knew who else's. It left me with an option I did not want—to swallow. It was the predicament of predicaments—having to gulp precum to get rid of it. Feebly, I gulped. It accomplished nothing as my mouth filled again.

I discovered an additional consequence to swallowing; our bodies merged in a way I did not expect—and did not want. Tears spilled from my eyes, and black mascara trickled down my cheeks. To steady myself and, yes, to feel engaged, I held onto the backs of his thighs. Nevertheless, the emptiness of the little scene lingered.

He was well-practiced, and at first, he slipped in and out of my mouth with exactness. But with the passing moments, the façade fell away, replaced by urgency—his pace, quickening. Men need to ejaculate, and the thought messed with my head. I did not go through all this to leave with a tummy full of sperm! Though only my first time, my tongue sensed his exasperation—it coursed into me through his erection, and I appreciated how much men and women feel one another's emotions.

Digging my nails into his muscular thighs, I forced him back. He popped from my mouth, saliva combined with what passes for early-onset semen gushed from my lips, cascading past my chin and spilling onto my naked breasts. I rubbed it into my skin and looked up, hoping he was not pissed at me.

To my surprise, through heavy breathing, I got what sounded like a compliment. "You sure you haven't done this before?" he asked, a little too flippantly.

Meekly, I smiled but did not reply. It was time to fuck.

End Part 5 -- Sucking

To be continued...