("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- A Tale of Four Blowjobs - 4 by Kimmie Holland (address withheld) *** A sissy goes to sleep with a cock in her mouth--and wakes up with a cock in her mouth. (M/m-teen, oral, tv, sissy) *** 4. Cock-a-doodle-doo (and bacon too!) I kiss H on the forehead and slip out of bed. A girl needs to tidy herself up first thing in the morning and a girl like me needs even more tidying up than most. In front of the mirror, I survey the ravages. Not so bad. It could be worse, much worse, and don't I know it. A touch up here and there and I'm reasonably presentable. I pad into the kitchen, still in my fishnet stockings, get the coffee started, wash last night's dishes. From whence forth comes this instinct—so immediate and unalloyed that indeed I can only call it "instinct"—to take care of an alpha male, to satisfy his desires, to feed his appetites, all his appetites? I ponder this question while the coffee drips into the carafe and I tend to the bacon for H's breakfast sizzling in the pan. I've done another quick change into a pink babydoll and a pair of low-heeled open-toed mules, the kind with the superfluous little feather puff on the instep—a metaphor for my existence. I look like a complete pansy standing there in my pigtails but I feel so strangely content and complete: could it be that, ridiculous as it is, this is the role I was engendered to fulfill in the Great Movie of Oblivion? This pseudo-mothering instinct, so closely aligned in my psyche to the erotic, is something I'm unable to suppress even during the most casual or sordid sexual encounter. To serve a man a home-baked cupcake is, to my mind, simply an extension of the act of deep- throating his cock to orgasm. Is it inborn—inevitable all along, perhaps? Or is it the result of some sort of psychic compensation rooted in childhood and originating in my mother's abdication of her role as my father's source of pleasure and nurture? Did I, like certain simple-celled animals whose sex is determined by necessity, by this or that chemical in the water, adapt my gender potentiality to suit the need of an unbalanced home whose female energy was wanting? Most likely it's a little of both. Whatever distinctive—if latent—feminine traits I'd been born with were awakened in the vacuum of my mother's cold neurotic absence and the unbreathable atmosphere of tension and suppressed explosion—the latter the consequence of my father's frustrated rage and dead- ended libido. Am I still trying—pointlessly—on some level to correct the old family dysfunction? Then again, maybe that's what we're all doing to one degree or another throughout most of our lives—trying to correct the flawed Eden of our childhoods. Perhaps the difference between the normal and the abnormal, the insider and the outsider, is chiefly comprised in this: the distance we must traverse to correct the mistakes of our past from birth to age thirteen or so. Looking at myself now, fussing over my man's breakfast in my pretty lingerie, there are a few who might say I've created at last the simulacrum of a happy domesticity. There are, no doubt, many more who would assert that I sure have a long, long way to go to even get within satellite distance of normality! Soon H appears in the doorway, sleepy-eyed, looking pleased at the proceedings—"this is the life," I proudly imagine him thinking. The kitchen is redolent with the welcoming homey scent of coffee and bacon and H comes up behind me as I scramble his eggs, slips his arms around me, and tells me how great everything smells—including me. H nuzzles his wonderfully scratchy and bearded face against the back of my neck where last night's perfume lingers and grabs a warm handful of my ass. "Mmmmm," I sigh, leaning back in his arms and stirring his eggs. I feel his hard cock squeezed up against me. At these moments I have no doubt that this is what I was meant for. He slaps me playfully on the ass. "I'm going to wash up." "'kay," I murmur dreamily. "Breakfast will be ready by time you're done." Picking apart a scone, I watch H wolfing down his he- man breakfast with acute pleasure—even pride. It's the pride a natural submissive takes in any service well- done. I bask in the warmth of my master's satisfaction and approval. Somewhere between a child's urge to please its parents and a nun's devotion to God, there you'll find my all-encompassing sexually masochistic need to please a man: in this case, H. "More coffee, bacon, juice... anything?" I fetch whatever H wants while he sits there, lord and master. In me, sexual atavism is alive and strong; ironically, perhaps, in my psyche the poles of gender are as distinct as they were in the days of the cave and club. A man in his castle—or mine, for that matter— is always king, always the master of such as me. It's an attitude as powerful and immediate as sexual arousal itself, because, to me, it's an attitude virtually synonymous with sex itself—a sort of never-fail, psychobiologically encoded foreplay: my unquestioning obedience to the strong, willful man who's pulled me into his orbit. Later, as I clean up, H gets dressed and ready to leave. He doesn't need to tell me, nor do I take offense, knowing that for H this is one of the best parts of being with a girl like me: the always open option to leave without questions asked, to fuck-and- run if he wants, to simply get back to his life for any reason whatsoever without strings jerking him this way and that. How do you make a man happy? There's a joke that runs: if he doesn't have an erection, then make him a sandwich. Well, you might add that if he's done with both, neither hungry nor horny, then a girl has temporarily lost her ability to make him happy. So let him go. I won't be nagging H to plug up that drafty window he said he'd get to three weeks ago, or forcing him to drive me to the mall so we can spend all afternoon shopping for new curtain rods or end-tables. I won't be expecting him to shower, shave, put on a new shirt and take me out to dinner at a fru-fru French joint after a Julia Roberts movie at the multiplex. That he is spared all the agony of relationship tedium as the price to be paid for the ecstasy of shooting his load into me is one of my chief appeals. I know this. I welcome this. My submissive nature revels in this. And so it doesn't bother me at all that H wants a quickie for the road before he leaves. It's a blessing I never take for granted, a bit of magic that never stops amazing me, nor that I can ever quite figure out, no matter how many times I see the trick performed, no matter how up-close: that the mere visual impression my body—such as it is—makes on a man's endocrinal system can be the cause of the stiffening, the miraculous levitation of half-a-foot or so of meat, and draw upward from his tightened testicles the elixir of life itself, the nectar of survival, the seed of the species, mixed inside the juice whose emission is the summit of the most exquisite physical ecstasy of which flesh is capable. It's only a blowjob, for crissakes, you'll object—only an erection, just a hard cock. But why deny a miracle when it's right before your very nose? Is it any less a miracle because it happens twice, ten times, a bazillion? Perhaps life itself is a miracle? Consider this before you dismiss altogether my amazement: it's not only a matter of being the cause of a man's erection, which, in its way, let us not forget, defies the laws of physics, but also of not being such as prevents him from having one in the first place! In other words, it's not so much a case of what goes up must come down as a case of what goes up might never get off the ground. When you consider all that can go wrong and all that's wrong with me from the point of view of what is right and natural how can I help but feel as if every hard cock pointed in my direction singles me out as one of the chosen, how can I not feel as if every erection I inspire is Mardi Gras, Holy Communion, and a thousand Christmas mornings all at once? With tongue only partly in cheek, and not then only because at the time his cock wasn't, I've jokingly told H that, when blowing him, his balls were my sun and moon and that I was praying to the cosmos by sucking the dark void through his cock in the hopes of swallowing the Milky Way. And so here I am on the sun-dappled kitchen floor, like a high-heeled Saint Teresa, worshipping at the origin of all divinity, unzipping H's jeans a final time before he leaves. He instructs me to rub his cock and balls all over my face, where I'll make sure it remains, so that his musky scent marks me as his for the rest of the day. It's the practical application of last night's fictional sex scenario. "Wherever you go today, people will know what a shameless little cocksucker you are. At the grocery store the young check-out girls will roll their eyes and grin at each other knowingly realizing you're a slutty sissy. They'll be disgusted of course..." "Ohhh, yes," I coo, the deliciously humiliating scene playing itself out on the stage of my mind's x-rated theater of the absurd. "Men will want to beat the shit out of you or they'll want to rape your ass and mouth—or all three." I promise not to wash my face all day, to tell him the reactions I get—or imagine I'm getting. And I will, even if there is no reaction at all. It's all part of the game, the prayer, if you will. Squatting there on my high-heels, his cock between my lips, heading bobbing vigorously up and down the shaft, H now tells me how, when the weather warms, he'll bring me to the woods near the beach. There, I'll squat just as I'm doing now, but he'll have me pee myself, wetting through my panties, until I'm kneeling in a little puddle of piss with his cock in my mouth. "Imagine a couple of fishermen coming along, seeing you like that, you little sissy. I might invite them to use your dirty mouth." This is the incantation to whatever orgasmic god H is worshipping this morning—and make no mistake, god is orgasmic or not at all. As for myself, my own faith, well, I'm radically unorthodox, non-denominational, ecumenical—I worship at all altars. I drop a momentarily unoccupied hand and slip it into my panties to play with my happily stiffening post-penile sissy clit. H, nearing the climax of his coital glossolalia, the ecstatic climax of his magical incantation spurts—a seminal pressure valve release—and then resumes—and intensifies—his thrusting in and out of my upturned face. My elbow drips a holy mixture of spittle and precum in my lap, soaking my panties. At the moment of truth, the pinnacle of the ritual, when god becomes flesh—or the concentrated stuff of flesh—I hold still, readying myself to swallow the blessing. Only now do H's monumental thighs tremble, his mighty knees threaten to buckle, only now does this man who could break me in threes like a cheap pencil reveal any vulnerability whatsoever, only now, during these scant handfuls of blessed seconds, does he pass into my power—when he's discharging the hot contents of his balls into my mouth. "Oh baby look at the time," H says, glancing over my head, which now rests on his shoulder, to the clock on the wall. He's helped me back to my feet and holds me in his arms in an embrace as treasured to me as it is transitional for him. But none of this, we both know, can survive forever; it can't even last the rest of the day. It's got to end to continue. Holding me, he feels held back—it's time to let me go. "I'm missing you already," he says, while I'm quite sure neither of us believes this post-coital version of the "have a nice day" variety, by which we take our leave of the bagel slicers, gas pumpers, and bank tellers who fill our days—and yet, it's still nicer to hear such banal and empty niceties than not. At some point, however, perhaps even in as little as a week, his words will prove prophetic, they really will become true. At the foot of the stairs, at the door leading to the rest of—and the real part—of his life, hidden to me I suspect forever, H turns, blows me a kiss and, in a blaze of winter sunlight, he's gone. Yet the taste of him still lingers on my tongue and my tummy is full of his cum and the bruises his teeth left on my lips and throat will linger, will not fade completely, not even by the time he returns, hungry and horny, to refresh them once again. END For more stuff by us—pictures, art, vidclips, real-life experiences & assorted nonsense, please visit: http://thefreakbox.blogspot.com/ http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fStoreID=336055&fMode= edit *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* The author does not condone child abuse, this story is meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a fellow convict in their local prison. *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* Kristen's collection - Directory 62