Message-ID: <13373eli$9807252005@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
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From: felatricks@aol.com (Felatricks)
Subject: His Face (M/F oral casual)
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I remember there was something about his face.  It made me want to stare at
him, made me want to know him, made me lust for him.

I first saw him across the room, at a mind-numbing conference concerning my
profession.  Bored by the speaker, my eyes roamed the room, and discovered him.
 He had black hair, which he wore rather long in back.  I could see from my
vantage point that he had a broadish, muscular set of shoulders.  He was
obviously tall – even sitting his head rose several inches above that of the
man next to him.

But it was his face that got my attention.

I gazed at him, wondering about him.  What was his name?  Where was he from? 
What were his hobbies?  What was he like in bed?  Already I felt the first
stirring between my legs, as I looked at his face.

He turned, and caught me staring.  Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes down, and
looked at the tan pantyhose on my legs, and at the tiny little run I’d
developed just at the hem of my navy skirt, halfway up my thigh.  It was
visible with my legs crossed as they were.  If I were standing, it would have
been hidden.

And I knew that, underneath the tight, short skirt, underneath the layers of
nylon and silk, I was moistening a bit, and heating up.  Why did I want him so?
 What was it about that face?

I looked back up, and over at him.  On guard, now, I ran the fingers of my
right hair through my paige-boy-cut blonde hair.  I put a few stray strands
back into place near my ear, looking over at him, but he was looking away from
me now.

In profile, he was as striking as before, and again, I could not help staring. 
And as I looked, I imagined him in bed with me, and how he would be.  I
imagined the feeling as he entered me, the texture of his hands as he held my
shoulders while taking me.  There was something about his face that told me he
would take me, not make love to me.  And from him, I wanted that.

I uncrossed my legs, and then re-crossed them, left over right, hoping for at
least a little relief.  But no, not this time. All I succeeded in doing was
moving the hem of my skirt a bit up.  I left it there.  In my aroused state, it
felt right.  It made the run more visible.

I took a deep breath, feeling my chest rising against the lacey bra.  My
nipples pressed firmly against the fabric, and I was thankful for the blazer I
was wearing.  Without it, the impression they made through the silk of my bra
and the white cotton of my blouse would have been obvious.

Finally, he looked my way again, to see me staring.  I was prepared.  Across
the room, our eyes met, and I flashed my winningest smile.  It was good for
netting me a man when I wanted one, and in the burgundy shade of lipstick, I’d
been told it was irresistable.

He grinned once, nodding at me.  It was as if he were acknowledging my desire. 
"Yes, I know you want me," he said.  But his lips never moved except to raise
slightly at the corners when he smiled.

Then he looked away again, back at the keynote speaker.  He had to be faking
it.  There was no way he could actually be interested in the speech.  Somehow,
I knew he was quite intelligent, and this particular address was about the
dumbest I’d heard.

The hard, cheap seat of the hotel meeting room pressed against my rear as I
tried re-crossing my legs again.  The tension was unbearable.  I knew I was
more than just a little damp now.  I was full-fledged wet with wanting him. 
Were it not for the collection of colleagues seated on either side and around
me, I’d have had my hand between my legs.  I needed it, needed the release.

Momentarily, I toyed with the idea of leaving for the ladies room to take care
of it, but it would have been too difficult.  The rows of seats were too close
together, and I’d have had to stick my rump in someone’s face to worm my way
out.  In my current condition, I was afraid someone would actually smell my
arousal, if their face came too close to my crotch.

And as I thought that, still gazing at him, I longed for him to smell me.  But
I just knew that incredible face was unlikely to ever end up down there, even
if I landed him.

At last, a break!  The speaker concluded, the MC announced a fifteen minute
adjournment before the next address, and I stood eagerly, adjusting the hem of
my skirt as I did.  In the close quarters of the convention hall, it took
everybody a few moments to file out of our chairs.  I kept my eye on him the
whole time, locked like a radar on his face across the sea of bobbing heads.

Out of the meeting room, in the lobby, there was a table of refreshments.  But
he didn’t go there.  He walked away from the crowd, to a secluded corner, as if
to study the cheap hotel print hanging there.  But I knew.  I knew he stood
apart to give us a chance to talk alone.  Normally, I might have been more
decorous, more restrained.  I might have made him come to me.  But there was no
question, from his gaze and his grin, that he already knew how bad I wanted
him.  He knew he could have me, so why try to hide it?

I stepped up behind him, as he stared absently at the painting.  He heard my
approach, but he did not turn to greet me.

I stepped up as close to him as I could, touching my shoulder to his, and
standing next to him.  "A speech that boring requires one to look for other
entertainment," I said, grinning and turning to look at him.

Still not looking at me, he replied, "And what did you find for entertainment?"
 I could see the edge of his smile, even though he was looking away.

How direct to be?  My thoughts ranged from telling him that I imagined a
blooming rose – always a good sexual euphemism – to telling him I imagined
stripping for him.  What do say?  I was not normally so direct, but as I said,
he already knew what I wanted.  What I would give him.

"You," was the single word that escaped my lips.  The decision made, I blushed,
for it was not like me to say such a thing.  But I did not look away.  I made
myself wait to meet his eyes.

Which I never did.

"You would entertain me," he said, still not looking.

And the double meanings raced through my mind.  He could have been agreeing
with me, as in, "Yes, that would be entertaining."  He could have been adding,
as in, "You’d be entertaining to me, too."  But I knew.  I knew he was
correcting me.  What he actually said was, "I wouldn’t entertain you.  You
would entertain me."

I went for the gusto.  It was obvious what this conversation was about, so why
not just put it on the table?  I pressed closer, letting the supple rise of my
breast touch his arm, letting him feel the erect nipple through my blouse.  "I
would," I replied.

Finally, he turned to look at me.  "You’d get on your knees and blow me, and
swallow my cum."

I was shocked.  Stunned.  I wanted him, but to be talked to like that?  It was
disgusting.  I stepped back, removing my breast from his arm.  "My God," I
said.

He just looked at me.  He didn’t speak, but staring into my eyes, I knew he
said, "Yes.  You will."

I stammered, and couldn’t get any words out.  I was too shocked.  He finally
beat me, and I looked away, broke the eye contact, and gazed at the floor.  I
found myself thankful that the skirt hid that run in my pantyhose.

And then, the break was over.  People started to file back into the room.  He
touched my chin , and brought my eyes up to meet his again.  He smiled, nodded,
then walked away from me.

I followed him back in, wanting to catch up.  But the crowd came between us,
and I was left to return to my seat without the chance to tell him that I
wasn’t that type, that I wasn’t THAT easy.

In the hard, convention seat, with my rear resenting the return to discomfort,
I blushed furiously.  I’d acted like a whore, and he’d treated me like one. 
How could I have done that?  How could I have just pushed my breast against
him?  I’d never done anything that cheap in my life before.

I tried to tune in on the speech, but it was as boring as before.  And my mind
kept coming back to what he’d said to me.  I flushed again, imagining what he
must think of me to speak to me like that.

And I found myself, shockingly, amazingly, aroused again.

"You’d get on your knees and blow me, and swallow my cum."

The words bounced around and around in my head, and with each repetition, the
dampness between my legs grew.  He would take me, throw me down on the bed and
ravage me, leave me truly satisfied . . .

But he wouldn’t.  It was pure fantasy.  He’d told me what I would do for him. 
Why did I keep coming up with this fantasy about what the sex would be like?

I re-crossed my legs again, finally feeling a little stimulation as I watched
that silly imperfection in my nylons peek out from under my skirt again.

Unable to resist any longer, I looked up, and over to where he was sitting. 
The jet black hair was still there as he listened to the speech.  I indulged
myself in a long stare, once again returning to my fantasy of him taking me,
imagining laying on my back as he entered me.

And then, still staring at him, I forced myself to think about it
realistically.  I tried to imagine the sex as he said it would be  -- dropping
to my knees, letting him put his member in my mouth, and then . . .

No.

I’d performed fellatio a few times before, but never to climax.  It was always
foreplay, before the main event.  Swallowing his . . .. 

No.

But still, as I stared at him, I imagined it.  I imagined kneeling before him
as he undid his fly.  I imagined seeing it up close.  Every time before when
I’d had one in my mouth, the lights had been off.  This time, I knew, they
wouldn’t be.  I imagined what it would look like, all hard and long and with
the tip that bulged out.

And then he turned to look at me.  I tried to look away, but he had caught me
staring again, and I saw his knowing smile as I turned.

Damn it, what was it about him?  Why could I not take my eyes off him?  Why
could I not just settle down?

But I couldn’t.  I wanted him.  I wanted him bad enough to rub my breast
against his arm while talking to him.  I wanted him bad enough to just tell him
I’d been fantasizing about him.  With a shock, I realized it.

I wanted him bad enough to do as he asked.

But of course, he hadn’t asked.  He had told me.

I continued to stare at him openly.  As I look back now, I wonder whether
anyone sitting next to me noticed that I was entranced by someone other than
the keynote speaker.

Once again, he turned to meet my gaze.  He moved his head slowly, as if he knew
I’d be looking, and wanted to make me wait to meet his eyes.  But eventually,
we made eye contact over the heads of the rest of the convention-goers.  He
just looked, didn’t smile, didn’t wink – nothing.

I smiled at him, and nodded.  I sent him my surrender in semaphore code across
the room.  "Yes, I’ll do it."  All with the nod of a head.

I could not take my eyes off him throughout the entire speech.  The tension
between my legs was unbearable.  Once I’d made the decision in my mind, my body
responded with uncontrolled arousal.  I found myself shifting and fidgeting in
my seat, imagining how it was going to be.  How I was just going to get on my
knees and service him.

When the lunch break finally came, I filed out of the room with my seat mates,
most of whom were making plans about which restaurant to visit.  But not me.  I
knew what I’d be eating for lunch.

Again, I kept my eyes on him as the herd flowed out into the hallway.  Once
passed the doors, I looked around quickly, until I spotted him heading away
down the hallway.  I moved to follow him.

He did not stop once to look back, but I knew that he knew I was following him.
He passed the first bank of restrooms, where many of our fellows had stopped to
relieve themselves before lunch.  He kept walking, and at a discreet distance,
I followed.

Eventually, he turned, and passed through a door.  When I caught up, I saw that
he had gone into another men’s restroom, far enough down the hall that no one
else from the convention had come all the way down here.

I stopped at the door, given pause one last time by my upbringing and my
caution.  If I walked through that door – into the men’s restroom, for God’s
sake – I would be sacrificing everything that I had once been, everything I
believed about myself, for the chance to satisfy a man whose name I didn’t even
know.

I opened the door.

He was waiting inside, leaning up against the wall.  I remember letting my eyes
drink him in: the tall, muscular build, the sexy hair, and most of all that
face.  He started to undo his fly as soon as I entered, bringing home with a
kind of unpleasant start exactly what I was here for.

Someone else could walk in.  I could be arrested for public lewdness.  A
thousand objections danced in my head, but in the end, none of them could
overcome his magnetism.

When he pulled his penis out of his pants, I saw that he was already quite
ready.  His hardness was unmitigated; he was fully erect.

I had not often looked at a penis up close, and took a second to stare.  But of
course, he was waiting for me to look at it a lot closer.

Following a script he had written and I had accepted, I stepped up closer to
him, and knelt down.  First squatting, and then on both knees in front of him.

And now I looked closely, at the way the head bulged out from his shaft, at the
way his penis bent slightly to the right, at the tangled mass of pubic hair at
the base, covering his sack.

I swallowed once, licked my lips, and then wrapped them around the head of his
penis.

It was . . . . unique.  The texture of his skin gave a little at the touch of
my tongue but was backed up by firmness just beneath the surface.  The taste of
him was odd – almost neutral, but with just a hint of salt.  He did not even
speak as he entered my mouth.

Gingerly, I accepted him further, taking a bit more than just the head.  I let
my tongue play across the underside of it, feeling the strange way that his
skin seemed to slide with my caresses, and yet was pulled so tightly.  I licked
back and forth like that, and sucked ever so slightly.

My mouth on his member was our only point of contact.  My hands were resting on
my thighs, feeling the smoothness of my pantyhose.  He had one arm draped over
the air dryer on the wall, and the other hitched into the waistband of his
displaced briefs.

I moved my head back and forth a bit, varying the length of him that I took
into my mouth.  My tongue never interrupted its rhythm, caressing firmly near
the head of his penis.  As I performed the act, I found my focus narrowing. 
The entire world was reduced to him and me.  Less than that, actually.  His
penis and my mouth.  The only thing I felt was the contact there.  The only
thing I smelled was the sweat of his crotch.  The only thing I could think of
was continuing the act until he was satisfied.

Which was not long in coming.

I saw the way his sack tightened up against his skin.  I felt his penis begin
to shake and quiver in my mouth.  I observed the muscles in his thighs tense
up.

And then I tasted the first flow of his semen on my tongue.

The taste was new to me.  It had a sharpness, a bitterness that stung a bit. 
There was an almost bleach-like quality to the taste.  And yet, it wasn’t
wholly unpleasant.

The texture was another matter.  Slimy, like mucus, I thought I would gag as I
felt more of his semen flowing on my tongue, oozing back toward my throat.

And then it was over.  He was pulling out of my mouth.  When he withdrew
completely, I shut my lips, with the gooey liquid still in my mouth.  And then,
to add to the disgrace of the experience, he wiped his moist penis on my hair,
before tucking it back into his pants and walking out of the bathroom.

I was left there, alone, still on my knees, and I realized I hadn’t swallowed
yet.  Now, there was nothing to stop me from spitting his semen out in the
sink.  But swallowing was part of the script I had agreed to play by.  I didn’t
want to disappoint him, even though he would never know.

I opened my throat, and drank it.  The urge to gag was stronger as it went
down, but I made it.  And even when it was completely over, the aftertaste
clung to my tongue and my teeth, reminding me of what I had done.  As if the
sticky clot I could feel drying in my hair wasn’t enough.

I got up, and walked out of the bathroom.  Strangely, I felt no need to
masturbate now.  It was not that my arousal had died with the act.  Rather, I
realized, I was satisfied.

When I made it out into the hall, after cautiously checking from the door to
make sure no one would see me leaving the men’s room, he was gone.  I did not
see him during the rest of the lunch break.  I had already used up too much of
the allotted hour to find a decent restaurant to eat in, so I tried to content
myself with a lot of water from the drinking fountain.  But no matter how much
I drank, the taste of his semen would not go away.

When our meeting re-convened, I saw him again.  I tried to stare, as I had
before, but my lust was sated now, and I could not sink into his aura as I had
before.  And never once, during the entire rest of the afternoon, did he look
at me.  That face, which had once entranced me, never turned my way again. 
Even during the breaks, I went completely ignored.  When once, during such an
intermission, I tried to work my way into the conversation circle he had
joined, he acted as if he had no idea who I was.

I never knew his name, of course.  But what really drives me to distraction
now, as I deal with what I did that day, is this: I cannot, for the life of me,
remember what it was about that face.


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