by Jamie
I have never been the world’s biggest fan of the blow job. There are reasons. My first experience — two kids fumbling their way into the unknown in a too-well-lit parking lot — was a surprise ending framed by confusion, a spit take, and the absence of any sort of towel or tissue. The memory is horrifically humorous. There’s also the fact that I like doing unto others much more than having them do unto me. My penis simply doesn’t have the sensitivity to crave those quieter nuances of pleasure; it likes being in motion much more than lying in state, receiving worship. And that brings me to how I embrace my role in the sexual contract. While definitely more comfortable as a dominant, I find the idea of forcing a woman to kneel before me while I use her mouth as a Fleshlight to be distasteful. I don’t need that formulaic script, that tired cliché, to know where I stand (so to speak) in the dynamic. I prefer more creative and interesting and respectful ways to assert myself.
That was how it used to be, anyway. But for the last six months, Sophie has been taking me to school.
Sucking cock is Sophie’s absolute favorite thing to do. It took me a while to appreciate why. Far from feeling used or demeaned, Sophie feels like the most powerful woman on the planet when my semen hits the back of her throat. I can’t argue with her because I feel exactly the same way when I kiss her between her legs until she erupts. So I was left with a choice. I could deny her the chance to enjoy her favorite sexual activity, or I could peel back the lazy layers of my sexual defaults and learn something new.
So we’ve been practicing. Sophie has an instinct honed by her years as a professional and by her simple delight in what she gets to do. She hungers for my pleasure. I believe this, I really do. We have worked hard, listened hard, to find each other. And I must confess, it didn’t take long to start enjoying this journey. I have come in her mouth a couple of times, to her victory-dance delight, but for now we are working up to that higher height. For now the focus is on the hand job.
When Sophie reaches for the bottle of oil and opens the lid with a quiet plastic pop, I feel my blood stir. The Pavlovian dog between my legs (and ears) knows what that sound means. I lie back with my head comfortably pillowed. Sophie sits between my parted legs. She cups the oil in her palm briefly, in case it needs to be warmed, and then she grips my shaft and lets the oil seep out and on and in.
Sophie’s hands are shapely and expressive. When she touches my penis, it’s as if she is a chocolate lover with the perfect bite melting on her tongue. Her motions are at once firm and gentle. She strokes slowly, insistently, up and down my swelling shaft. The effect is like that of ocean waves chasing each other up the sand, one after the other. Or perhaps a symphonic movement that builds and builds, phrase upon phrase.
My mind darts and flits, still never far from retreating to whatever it is in the shadows that distracts me. To stay focused, sometimes I play a tape in my head. I relive sexy encounters from the past, random moments, or I invent scenarios that keep my mind attuned to this actual moment. I remind myself that it’s okay to receive. I remind myself how much Sophie likes doing what she is doing, even though it will take 30 minutes or an hour to get there, even though my cock will lose some rigidity somewhere along the way before rebounding. Together we’ve learned how this map looks.
In spite of my musings and self-awareness, I don’t know exactly why my map looks the way it does. The most intense orgasms I have ever enjoyed, the top ten highlight reel, happened because of a hand or a mouth. But that hasn’t been enough to tip the scale. Sophie’s insistence has changed and broadened my mind.
Eventually her hard work starts to pay off, and my pleasure rises incrementally, almost imperceptibly, to the surface. The ground begins to shift as if those ocean waves are scooping the sand out from under my immersed bare feet. Each of the wayward nerves in my cock is a stalk of wheat in an endless field, each stalk randomly stirring or being still, each with a mind of its own, until a swelling breeze sweeps across the golden landscape and bends each stalk to its will, and the field ripples as one.
It takes a long time to harvest my wheat. Sophie doesn’t care. She can tell when my pleasure has risen to the top and begins to spill over. I moan involuntarily. I begin to lift my hips in rhythm with her motions – still gentle, still insistent, but her excitement shows. When it finally comes, my orgasm starts in my fingers, my toes, the strands of my hair, and it roars into my torso and my pelvis and out of my cock like an endless peal of thunder, a blinding flash of light, a summer storm parked right above the bed.
It gets better, easier, more powerful, every time we practice. And last time, when I regained my senses, I looked at Sophie – sheepishly, because that’s still my reality to some extent — and recognized the look on her face. It’s the look she gets when the tables are turned, when I’m between her legs and she is close. Expectant. Hungry.
“Are you okay?” I have to ask.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Hang on. I’m…”
And then, while she still holds my drained cock, her hands roped in semen, without any direct help from me, a spontaneous orgasm convulses her.
And watching her, my sheepishness obliterated, I come to a few quick realizations.
One, I know she means what she says about loving to make me come. Not that I doubted her. But it’s nice to have irrefutable evidence.
Two, I couldn’t ask for a more perfect partner to help me explore, to help me kick down some fences.
And three, I’m reminded that sometimes, when the energy is intensely right, I don’t need a refractory period.
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