Blowing All Year Round

I am a huge fan of fellatio. It ties in with my natural love of cock. I adore the feeling of taking my boyfriend’s erection in my hand, stroking it, letting my tongue swirl around his length…

Or if he’s not yet hard, planting little kisses on him, relishing in the feeling of him growing harder because of my lips. Getting him to the high point of arousal and then having him fuck me silly is quite possibly my favourite way to spend an evening (my second favourite way being stuck under the duvet with a bag of crisps, watching Hannibal).

So, yeah, big fan of sucking cock.

Not so keen on the concept of Steak and Blowjob Day.

Apparently invented to counteract the “female aspect” of Valentine’s Day, on this most hallowed day you give your partner a blowjob and a nice medium rare porterhouse (possibly as a refuel after all the sucking) as an act of love and a thank you for the gifts you got on V-Day. I’ve got a bit of a problem with that.

For one thing, my boyfriend’s a vegetarian.

Half of me rather loves the idea of Valentine’s Day, as an excuse for going on an adventure with your partner and showing them how much you love them. I like flowers, I like being taken out to dinner, and I like exchanging silly and in-jokey presents as much as I like being pinned against a wall and kissed until I can’t speak full sentences any more.

And the other half of me thinks it’s ridiculous because of two reasons –

One – Why would you need a specially assigned day to show your partner how much you love them?

Two – As said by the ever eloquent CJ. Forrest:

Valentines Day is (to my mind) pretty reciprocal anyway, and even if it isn’t, what on earth makes you think that making a restaurant reservation and picking a card/ordering something from Interflora is such a terrible burden that it needs special recompense? How jaded and cynical must your relationship be if you’ll only do these things in tit-for-tat fashion?

Which is why ‘Steak and a Blowjob’ day really pisses me off. It perpetuates the idea that these things are somehow undesirable, that the only circumstances in which someone will do them is because they’re being shamed/forced into it.

I think that’s kind of, sort of right on the nose. It is entirely CJ’s opinion of course, but there is a great big heap of truth served in these quotes.

First of all, Valentine’s Day is not “a girl’s special day”. In its essence, it’s a day where both partners show their love to each other. Not something that one partner begrudgingly does for the other on one day, with the other begrudgingly reciprocating on the other.

Second – blowjobs are not icky. Blowjobs are as amazing as cunnilingus. Even more amazing when you’re 69’ing and getting it as well as giving it (but that’s a story for another time, I think).

Similarly, love is not icky. Love is (and excuse me if you think this sounds a bit mushy) really fucking amazing. Love is not one special day out of the year where you extra mega hard love someone and then not really, but 365 days a year where you… well, love someone with all your heart.

Love, silly and in-jokey gifts and adventures with your partner are things to rejoice in all year long.

And so are blowjobs, and cunnilingus, and any form of oral sex because oral sex is pretty fucking amazing.

(Maybe not steak all year long though – bit expensive…)

Written for Marie Rebelle’s Fellatio Project, which I hope to contribute to a few more times.

The Fellatio Project

Sizing Issues

Sunday evening…

“Do you want to have a shower with me?” he asks, already undressing himself.

It doesn’t take me long to actually jump into the shower with him, seeing as I’ve been gagging to wash away the remnants of the past (and particularly shitty) week. Of course, having not really had the energy (or good health) to invest in a good sweaty romp in the past week, a light bulb (possibly penis-shaped) went off in my head.

Shower. Horny. Sex? Shower? Sex in the shower? SHAWERSECKSLOL!

There was a bit of fiddling, a bit of fondling, and a lot of kissing underneath the comforting rays of the hot shower. I watched his cock get hard and soft and hard again, as we soaped each other up with Snow Fairy and made our intentions towards each other very, very clear.

[approximation of the conversation that happened]

LLB – “Sex?”

ILB – “Yeah. Not here though.”

LLB – “Why not?”

ILB – “You’re smaller than I am. Thus, logistics.”

LLB – “Aha. Gotcha. Damnit.”

ILB – “Yeah. Still, sex? Bedroom?”

LLB – “YAS.”

So, the action shifts to the bedroom, where he helps me blow dry my hair. There’s a moment of nothing, in which he tries to initiate the proceedings, but I hold back because I’m deep in thought. After I spend a while scratching his back, I share my sexual ruminations.

“I want to try something else.”

“Sure. What do you want me to do?” he says, listing some tantalizing possibilities. He eventually starts with rubbing my back, admiring my arse. And then he admires my arse in a different way, by gifting it with a couple of good spanks which have me squirming to the point where my head swims and I nearly slip from the bed.

There follows kissing my back, kissing my cheeks and a flicking tongue near my cleft, searching the wetness that’s pooling between my labia.

And Jesus fecking Christ, it is a lot of wetness.

He fingers me, rubbing my clit with one hand and other bits of me with the other. My arse wiggles and squirms, as do I, in delight and ecstasy. There’s a valiant attempt at doggy style, but, again, I’m but a small woman and have a bit of a limitation as to how I can stretch and bend.

Nevertheless…

“I want you on top of me.”

“Great! Facing you? Facing the other way?”

Facing him, I ride him, managing to wiggle my hips and arse in a way that I can’t even explain myself. It’s hot. It’s necessary. It ends with mutual orgasms, and possibly the best set of orgasms I’ve had in a long while.

So, no shower sex this time around. But I’m sure we’ll find a way. And in the meanwhile, after-shower sex is pretty damn awesome as well…

The Kissy Kissy

I knew he was up to something. I knew he wanted me, badly. He told me later that he’d been undersexed in the past few weeks, and I couldn’t fault him on it – so was I.

The playful, teasing, kissy kissy, want you, want me dance had been going on all day, with moments of work being interrupted by moments of “God, I wish I could jump your bones right now.”

We’d had sex a few days ago, which was nice, but a bit marred by the fact that the sofa bed we’re sleeping on is incredibly creaky. It’s almost like the bed’s going “Hello, I would like it to be known that there are two individuals getting it on on my back here.”

Which isn’t handy when you’re actually staying in someone else’s house, let alone his folks.

But when it came down to the dirty bits, this time, I had no problems with the creaky noises. I was focussed on one thing: getting him off. He was reclining supinely on the bed, his erection jutting out and ready for my hand.

It ended up being messy. It ended up with him teetering on the edge of a huge orgasm whilst simultaneously trying to get me towards an orgasm with his fingers. I think he rather liked just how wet the act of me jerking him off made me.

Just a hunch.

By the time he was inside me, I didn’t feel like I was properly on this planet anymore. I’d had an orgasm which knocked the wind out of me, and was still flying when he penetrated me.

And for a long time after we’d finished too.

I liked the look on his face. I liked the way he said “Because you’re in love with me” and then said “I’m in love with you too” with that silly and adorable look in his eyes.

Kissy kissy. Want you, want me.

The Almost Sex

It’s the middle of the night, after another one of those inopportune days. Between preparations for Christmas, accommodation-induced paranoia, feeling generally under the weather and just a whole lot of other shit, I’ve found it hard to sleep.

So has he.

He’s still awake when I ask if I can switch to his side of the bed. “Sure, sure.” he says, in that voice that always manages to soothe me, and wriggles around. There’s a moment where he’s on top of me, and he’s so warm and comforting that I just want him to stay there forever.

We kiss, softly.

We relish each other’s heat. His hand strokes me, idly. I want to ask him. I want to beg him to make love to me. Not because I need orgasms, but because I need more of that heat. I need to feel the connection, I need to feel okay again.

I don’t end up asking him.

But as we lie, spooning, like always, his hand still strokes me – leaving traces of warmth along my thighs and buttocks.

There’s been a lot of almost sex in the past few weeks. There’s been the feeling of his warm cum, painted across my naked back. There’s been teasing. There have been orgasms, had whilst touching and caressing each other.

Although, in a way, isn’t that also sex?

That hot, giddy, silly, ecstatic, loud, moaning, grunting, dizzying, HOLY SHIT kind of feeling … do you need penetration for that? Do you even need orgasms for that?

I don’t know. I don’t think so. All I know is that almost sex is quite nice too… and I’d like more of it. Almost.

 

Midnight Feast

“Happy birthday, Lady!”

It was a little after midnight when we finally made it upstairs – the early hours of my 23rd birthday. I sat on the bed and unwrapped my lovely presents, which included a scandalous amount of chocolate and a lot of glowing love.

I was already pretty pleased. And that was before I got to unwrap my last present…

Giggling, we stood in front of each other, with me peeling away his layers of clothing. Jumper made way for shirt, made way for warm and fuzzy chest. Trousers made way for boxers and made way for a shapely bum and a jutting, erect cock.

I practically ripped my own clothes off, diving in next to him on the bed. Well, after I’d had my fill of warm, naked cuddles.

He set about giving my body the once-over with his tongue and his lips. There was some joking, some faffing, but all of that (well, most of that) quickly went out the window as he set about exploring my pussy and its surroundings.

It felt great. It nearly always does, apart from the times when there’s something off – facial hair tickling or my clit deciding it’s suddenly too sensitive, or something like that. To be honest, there are only so many ways you can say “the sex was great” without actually making up words to describe just how great the sex was.

So yeah, the sex was fabulicious, his cock felt amazesome and in the end, we shared a couple of flimflanflandangistic orgasms.

Ahem.

Suddenly…

It was the sort of sex that Alison Tyler would write about. Sudden, intense and much-needed. But mostly sudden. One minute, we were mucking about and laughing. The next, he turned me on my side and straddled me.

For about ten seconds, I was stunned by the sudden change in mood. I think I actually said “Wait, wha?”

“Because I was thinking about sex with you, and now I want to have sex with you!”

“But I’m still wearing knickers!”

Two seconds later, I wasn’t. The room was dark, his body was warm and the rhythm – however fast, however slow – felt comforting. And then uplifting. And then it felt like wanting more.

Not just a little more. A lot more. I felt the electricity, the connection, I felt it warming us up inside. It felt good. It felt like peace.

And after he pulled out, I wanted him back in. Badly.

Lying on our sides, facing each other, we kissed. After fumbling, trying to get each other off with our hands, I grabbed his cock and started rubbing it against my clit. And then, I started rubbing myself against his cock. It had an effect on him that manifested itself in a seemingly never-ending stream of words and breathy whispers and “Oh baby… oh baby”.

I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the pleasure it was giving him and how free I felt while doing it. Faster and faster I went, until he came. He then informed me that we will be doing that again in the future.

Who am I to say no to that, ey?

It was rather amazing. He was incredibly stimulated, I was incredibly stimulated and at the end, we were both incredibly elated. Epic winning.

There were more shared orgasms afterwards. Lying in the dark, watching him bring himself off to a climax in which the cum flew halfway up his chest…

It felt like peace too.

Listen To Your Body

Sometimes, in sex (and life, of course), the body and the brain do not see eye to eye. Sometimes, the brain will want things of the body that, however willing, it isn’t able to do right then and there. And the body will rebel against the brain.

I felt exactly that last night.

It wasn’t bad sex. Not at all. It was good, decent, god-we-needed-this sex. But it was marred by my body wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep. I’d been ill for most of the week, with Wednesday night being a particular low point as I struggled to do just about anything other than keel over in immense pain.

So, my body wasn’t exactly fit to be fiddled.

But my brain tried to convince me of the opposite. It just went sex sex sex more sex shagging shagging fucking COITUS.

And who am I to deny my brain?

I should have thought better of it, to be honest. Should have listened to my body instead. And from the impression I got, as we were lying on the bed afterwards during the come-down, he wasn’t feeling on top of his game either.

“We should practise more.” he said. I agreed. And then added “But with a slow build-up, right?”

He nodded, before telling me that he wanted me to masturbate along with him because he wanted me to have my orgasms as well.

Needless to say… I slept very well last night.

Marathon Man

There was a lot of porn. That’s probably how it began – with me going, “Ey, you know what would be awesome? Watching a lot of porn.”

He’s got porn. He’s got all the porn.

He got out his stash of Magic Disks (the disks with all the porn on it) and asked me to pick a number. Which number I picked really doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that it took a while for any of it to cause any arousal.

Strangely, what tipped it over for me was a gang-bang scene with Laura Angel and a German bloke named Rocco. And a bunch of other girls, but mainly Laura Angel.

God, what a woman.

I shifted hither and tither, feeling the friction in my jeans. I knew I was wet – I’d be fucking surprised if I wasn’t. I wanted to touch myself. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted… well, lots of things, really.

So I undressed. Right down to my lovely purple bra and no knickers – frankly, they were getting in the way of my orgasm, so off they went.

Off with the porn, off with the panties and on with the sex.

And crikey, there was a lot of that. There was round one, where he spread me open and slid into me while standing at the edge of the bed. There was round two, where he shifted and we ended up at the foot of the bed, mercifully not in danger of banging our heads against the headboard (it happened early on in our relationship. And it was not very nice. At all.)

Rounds three, four and possibly up to infinity all blurred into one heavenly dose of energetic fucking and orgasms, with a bit of me on top and a lot of “I can’t feel my bloody legs!”

By the time I actually got on top of him (and I’m very pleased to point out that this, for once, didn’t end in my legs completely seizing up – HURRAH!) my brain was swimming and my body was drifting and the look on his face as I rode him was one of the most brilliant sex faces that’s ever been made. Or at least it was in my humble opinion.

At the end, after a solid amount of solo orgasms as the cherry on the cake, we had a discussion about films, which to me is just about the best afterplay in the world. Also, very us.

Of course, this could only end in one way – both of us waking up a few hours later, utterly dehydrated because apparently hydration is the one thing you forget in a fit of passion.

Still. That was a lot of amazing sex. And that man of mine… god, he never fails to surprise me with his stamina.

Naked With Intent

It always starts in either one of two ways. Either we’re lying in bed, having a laugh, when things take a turn for the salacious. Or we’re somewhere else, winding each other up, before storming to the bedroom with the full intention of shagging each other’s brains out.

In this case, it was the former.

Maybe combined with a bit of the latter.

We were definitely naked-with-intent. He had a week off from work, we both needed heaps of carnal relief, so our intention was to do exactly that: relieve each other carnally.

And he did that so well. His fingers found their way to my waiting cleft, taking in the expanse of my labia, my clit and my hole.

It felt good. So damn good.

So I wanted it to feel even better. I guided his fingers into the position that never fails to get me off during a solo wank (just above my clit – it’s freaking great, I tells ya). As he frigged me off, my own fingers rubbed against my perineum, making me gasp. Because Jesus, I’ve only just discovered that gently rubbing your perineum (when sufficiently turned on and playing) actually feels like the sexual equivalent of eating chocolate lava cake.

Yes. That good.

I came to a shuddering orgasm, most of which I was still riding out when he decided he wanted to ride me out.

As far as intentions go, I think the universe manifested our intent to have a bloody good fuck into reality.

And all thanks to being naked with intent.

(*or just two really horny and frustrated people who wanted each other. Yeah, probably the latter.)

Raindrops

In which the awful weather prompts me to wax poetically about fucking.

It’s a Friday evening, and the weather’s turned rather spectacularly. As the rain hits the pavement, and the traffic purrs along outside, my thoughts drift. It’s kind of funny how the rain can make you think of tangles of limbs. Of naked flesh and the sounds of slapping and moaning and the feel of your partner, inside or around you.

All sorts of images fill my mind.

Like the little dirty mind-film from last week. The memories are a bit blurry, but in my head, it’s as dark as it is today. There’s rain, or maybe there is not, but there is definitely traffic outside and it’s definitely a grey Saturday afternoon somewhere in September.

He asks me if I want to have sex, and I say yes, because my hand’s already on the bulge in his trousers and I want him, but sex hasn’t crossed my mind until he asks me, with his eyes, his voice and his throbbing erection.

Upstairs, we strip in record time. Or, at least, I think we did. What I remember most is his body, the way his face looks between my thighs, with his tongue licking and mouth sucking and making me wetter and wetter.

I want it to go on forever. In fact, I’d like to take this opportunity to pitch to you the idea of having one day a year entirely dedicated to oral sex. Giving and receiving. International Oral Sex Day, if you will. I know there’s such a thing as Steak and BJ/Cake and Cunnilingus Day, but fuck that shit. Let’s just have one glorious day dedicated to the both of them. And when you’re spent, you can enjoy some steak with cake as afters. Simple as.

But I digress.

At this point, I still don’t want him to stop, but my desire for his cock inside me wins over. He sheaths and positions himself over me. And then he’s inside me, and he kisses me as we fuck each other, and I can smell and taste my cunt on his lips. His cock. His cock. Oh, his cock, it feels so fucking perfect inside me, so filling and so, so, so fucking big…

A week later, and I’m sitting in the living room, writing this post. As the TV plays and the rain trickles outside, mingled with the hum of late evening traffic, I smile to myself. Because something tells me we’ll soon again be a mess of tangled limbs and bodies in synch.

And that makes me smile even more.

In fact, it makes me laugh.