Men Seeking Men's Sex Stories

Read hot Gay and Bisexual Stories

Skip to: Content | Sidebar | Footer

Recent Comments
    Men Seeking Men's Hot Sex Videos click here


    A Tale of Four Blowjobs – 4

    9 June, 2018 (13:18) | Gay Sex Stories | By: admin

    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

    Write a comment