Blowjob Queen by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--from Sex in San Francisco

 

Blowjob Queen 

by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--

from Sex in San Francisco

edited by M. Christian

I knew that Henry and Billy were inseparable as friends but when I started going out with Henry, to the movies, to the park, I didn't think Billy would tag along, sitting beside us in the movie-house row or on the park bench as Henry's hands went around my tits or up my skirt, but hell, once a guy's hands were on me I couldn't care less who was watching as long as the hands did what they were supposed to, satisfy me ... and Henry's always did...

But I've always melted under a guy's hand, any guy; hell, even a guy's horny look could get my off me off: walking down the street, riding a subway, I'd sometimes be hot enough to go and spread my legs with the first guy who wanted it, but most guys simply look and stare: they see a girl like me, young, pretty, sexy, available, and all they do is act like gentleman, pretend I'm too young, make small talk about the weather, the subway ride, anything but what we really want from each other, fucking sex! Henry treated me like his personal slut and whore and showed me off as one ... to Billy ... and I loved it!

"How'd you like that?" Henry would often smirk at Billy, as I'd bustle to stash back a breast into a bra, spring a panty back over my snatch, pull up my sagging hose and garters, or anything that came undone or loosened under Henry's touch. And of course, Billy would sit there red-faced, angry, probably cursing us under his breath for his frustration as we'd relax beside him freed in our release of each other. 

It seemed cruel at first, but then I too began to enjoy an audience, moaning and groaning as if on cue not to what was being done to me but what my display of myself was doing to Billy, an onlooker. 

For weeks I'd been showing it off to him, and his constant state of erection, so evident in his pants each time we sat in the park, drew me closer to him in curiosity and desire to explore him as I wondered what his exploration of me would be like. Even playing with myself at night I'd imagine Billy watching, his eyes widening, his crotch bloating, and when I'd orgasm to the memory of Henry's touch it was the image of Billy atop and inside me who elicited the frenzy of satisfaction and peace. 

For who makes love to one person when making or imagining love? The penis ramming in me may be one guy, but I always recall the penises of other guys, the short fat cocks that would fill my sides, the thick long ones that reached so deep, and I'd imagine penises of guys I'd pass on the street, of guys cocks I'd like to take from other girls, and most of all of Billy who'd already seen my tits and cunt yet still not shown me what I longed to see on him, a cock all stiff and ripe for fucking, fucking me!

And though Henry kept me satisfied day after day, with Billy so near I only dreamed what it would be like to be satisfied by him and what euphoria I'd see on his contented face and contorting body. 

"Wanna touch it?" Henry once asked; I was splayed across his lap, my legs outspread, one on the backrest near Billy's shoulder, the other over his knee, my cunt desperate for a touch, a hand, a finger, anyone's finger...

Yet the realization of what was about to happen, the pimping/whoring aspect of it, jolted my desperate lust and I almost said "No!" and put a stop to it right there and then. Yet Henry's pimping offer to his best friend suddenly gripped and thrilled me even more as I relaxed and spread my legs still wider in anticipation of Billy's hand on me, my torso even rising upwards to welcome and greet the avid explorer.

"But use only the back of your hand," Henry leered. He winked, an instant before Billy's disbelieving fingers and palm gripped my cunt. I think the look of frustration on his face was as poignant as the disappointed look on mine; I, from the anticipation of a new hand on my pussy, and Billy, from the frustration of probably feeling the first cunt of his life and now being able to grip and squeeze and claw like it I suppose he did in his jerk-off fantasies of me. 

And I think at that moment, as the back of his hand stroked my damp pussy hairs, I loved Billy even more than I ever loved anyone, including Henry, yet I know knew I only felt sorry, and that pity is no basis of love or respect on anything. Least of all sex...

"That's enough of that!" Henry suddenly snapped, straightening one leg which almost sent me sprawling off his lap. Billy's hand shivered in the frustrating loss of what it had been feeling and he clamped his thighs together and looked tearfully at me as I struggled to sit up and pull down my skirt before Henry gripped the back of my neck and forced my down to his crotch. I didn't need to be told, and swallowed his dick...

Ever since 6th grade guys said I had a perfect blowjob mouth: my lips fat and thick and pouty, and when I started on lipstick in the 7th grade, the various tints and hues, lip-liners and glosses, my lips only grew in the accentuated sucking possibilities of my mouth. So, guys get a blowjob before anything else. Because it was always my mouth guys focused on; I didn't have very big breasts, round and small, but my ass curves were too thin for my compact body shape - even in tight jeans there was always an inevitable loosening around my hips and thighs - but my mouth, which I always keep wet in various lip-moisteners, looks like I just sucked off a platoon of cocks and was ready to service the rest of the corps. That's why they started calling me the Blowjob Queen.

I've always liked the feel of an erect cock in my mouth; it may sound stupid and corny, but it fills me up, even more than getting fucked. I especially like forced face-fucking, the I'm-not-that-kind-of-girl crap where I pretend to resist and clamp my lips shut until the guy grabs my head and ears and breaks me open so deep the dry-heaved tears fill my eyes to cover the true pleasure I get from having his torso pound and beat my face until he floods my throat and soul in semen and peace.

But Henry wanted me to do all the work; sure, he'd force my head to his cock, but I had to do the sucking, the head-bobbing, the face smearing/lathering. I don't know what kind of pleasure he got from shooting in my face - but he was the only guy I ever sucked off who pulled out of my mouth before he came - but it seemed such a waste to have gone through all the work of arousal and sucking only to have my head snapped back for a faceful of hot scum. I wanted it down my throat and not on my face and forehead and sticking to my bangs; I wanted as much pleasure as I knew I was giving, but Henry was one of those who always came fast, no matter how far I still had to go, who would shoot his wad before we even settled into a nice comfortable pace that could please us both, as if his satisfaction was all that mattered. And I'm sure it did. 

"Wanna make out with her?" I heard Henry say, his hand still gripping my neck. I didn't even glance at Billy, certain his face was a grimace of embarrassed longing and frustration, and just kept sliding my mouth up and down Henry's cock.

What could Billy have gone through all these weeks, watching us have sex and participating only in the solitary recall of his later masturbations? It was hardcore pornography, the images there but the physicality unattainable. And I sometimes even wondered, if Billy hadn't been there to play his part as voyeur, would I really have acted all this out with Henry?

Probably, some things never change, but I bobbed my head more rapidly, hoping he'd come as fast as he usually did. Henry pushed my head off; I thought he was coming and waited for his scum-sprinkles on my face. I looked up: he had moved his other hand around Billy's neck and was also drawing him down to his lap, holding it an inch or two from his hard pulsing dick.

"Kiss her," Henry simply said, pressing our faces and mouths together.

I wonder what Billy must have felt sucking-in the taste of his friend's cock and pubic hairs from my mouth, but I knew his kiss was a desperate longing kiss, his tongue circling inside my mouth, her teeth clicking against mine, his mouth greedily wider as if to suck in and swallow my own wide-open swallowing sucking-in mouth...

And I knew that Billy didn't care what I tasted like or had in my mouth just a moment ago, but that he was finally kissing the girl of his dreams, as I, after all these weeks of showing myself off was having her own dream fulfilled by kissing and finally having the boy of my dreams. Or so I thought...

"That's enough of that," Henry said, pulling our heads apart. He shoved my face back on his cock and I resumed my sucking, yet he held Billy's head on his thigh, gripping the back of his neck so tightly that Billy's mouth was grimaced in an ugly gash-like smile that showed off his teeth; a wet brown pubic hair was curled around his left canine tooth. 

We looked at each other, sadly, abjectly, each held by someone I always knew I never liked and who I'm sure Billy resented as well. But what is it that lures people to their abusers? What was the basis of my love for Henry, and what was the basis of his friendship with Billy? I now know it was Power; that's what every abuser, rejector, humiliator has over his victim: the Power to abuse and debase, at his whim, and we had given ourselves up willingly, without resistance, and could no longer resist or protest even if we tried.

Commanded by Henry to lie down and spread my legs in the middle on Nob Hill I'd probably worn crotchless panties for the occasion; told to suck off the first guy who came along I'd have slathered my mouth in enough lipstick and gloss to look slutfully appetizing as any rich Tenderloin whore; and ordered to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge I'd most likely have waited for a passing tug so as to land on the skipper's cock and get gangbanged by the crew...

I would have done all this because I wanted to please, to satisfy, to be liked and admired, to imagine myself in love and being loved. But the more you do for the abuser/lover, the more he wants done; the more you offer, the more he takes; the more you give in, the more he expects. An abuser can only have loathing for his victim because the victim is but a worthless reflection of the abuser's own worthless inner self: both are attracted to yet detest the other, though not as much as they detest themselves. And having taken everything that's been given up, objects, dignity, emotional self-worth, there is only breathing life remaining and that too is an affront and must be snuffed out, by innuendoes, accusations, insults, enslavement, imprisonment, execution. Billy and I were ripe for extermination; like an animal's neck on the butcher's block, our heads roosted on Henry's lap ready for the guillotine blade to drop ... and we had willingly honed the blade to razor-sharp perfection. 

I glanced at Billy, our faces barely an inch apart, and saw his eyes gaping as avidly at Henry's cock pulsing in and out of my mouth as I stroked my lips up and down his shaft. Something was wrong here. Our eyes met, and for a mere instant I recognized something in Billy's look that suddenly explained everything about out strange menage a trois, the weeks of showing-off, the humiliations, the debasements.

Whatever may have passed unsaid and unexpressed between us, it wasn't Henry who was blocking Billy from getting at me, but I who had intruded upon and severed the connection between them. Billy's sad eyes had never been a look of longing for me, but one of jealousy for what I had taken from him, Henry! 

I sighed, but the ugly realization of it all surprised me only for a second, then saddened me: Billy had ceded himself to Henry more than I ever could or would! I had to give back each of them what they really needed and wanted: each other...

I oozed my mouth off Henry's cock and slightly nodded; Billy's eyes widened, and his mouth quickly moved my place.

He certainly knew what he was doing!

I sat up, picking at a pube on my tongue, and looked at Henry. He sheepishly smirked, then grimaced, and buckled his torso into Billy's face. 

He was coming in his mouth!

I wanted to cry and felt more used than I had ever been. Instead, I kissed him, trying to push his pube off my tongue and onto his.

The next day I broke up with Henry (and Billy) ... and never went back to the park.

****