My tongue and the tip of one fingernail found the place below and behind his scrotum. I scratched and licked, licked and scratched. Against my finger, his cock lifted and engorged. At the spot where his cock emerged from the wrinkled skin of his sac, I bit him. His cock twitched. My teeth nibbled up the ridge that ran up his cock’s underside. By the time I reached the top his foreskin had rolled back, exposing his glans completely. I could see the little knot of twisted skin where his foreskin was attached to his shaft, just beneath his dome. His cock was straining hard, as if it wanted to grow even bigger but couldn’t. I opened my mouth wide and closed it around his shaft. My head shook from side to side, sliding his foreskin, forcing it back further, masturbating his stem but not his head.
He groaned.
Did I hurt you, my love? Did I force you into an erection more powerful than any woman has before?
My finger worked in his rectum. I closed my lips on the knot and sucked it and licked it. His hips tried to move but I held him back with just a tiny crook of the finger that was hooked into his rectum. Wait.
It’d been a while since I’d had a foreskin to play with. My hand closed around his shaft, just beneath its head, and eased his skin up to cover the dome once more. As if the flaccid skin were a mouth, I planted a chaste kiss on its wrinkled lips. Still holding his foreskin forward, I inserted my tongue. It found a wet dimple and stabbed. He jerked. I rimmed his glans, running my tongue between it and his foreskin, round and round and round.
Men can whimper, you know.
My fist forced his foreskin back and released it. It stayed back. I spat into my hand and laid my palm on the head of his cock. I polished that bulbous knob, to and fro, then up and down. It drooled. The mixture of spit and precome was slicker than spit alone. My fist ran down his shaft, loosely, then up, tightening as it neared the top, smoothed over, then down again.
Was it torture, my love? Did the need to come tighten your balls?
My lips, soft and gentle, covered his glans. I let my mouth go slack and shook my head. As his cock wobbled between my lips, I made little noises. He grunted.
I took him deeper, still loose, still wet. My fist steered him into the pouch of my cheek. I rubbed him there, the tip of his cock on hot soft flesh. My tongue lifted his shaft and pushed it up, pressing his glans against the roof of my mouth.
I nodded. He went rigid.
I told you, “I want you to come in my mouth. I want it all.” You didn’t speak.
And I did want him to. I wanted to devour him, to drink him down. I wanted that which was him in me, to be digested by me, the cells of his body to feed cells of mine.
I pumped his shaft. My finger, in his rectum, found the walnut lump and massaged it. My mouth became ferocious. I slurped and mumbled and sucked and lapped and gobbled. I willed him to give me his essence.
You sobbed, I think, but my own noises drowned yours.
His legs stiffened. His balls retracted. It was time. I lifted my head and parted my lips. My tongue extended. My fist stroked and stroked.
Yes! Hot wet come flopped onto the flat of my tongue. I swallowed that first benison and swooped, engulfing his cock. My cheeks hollowed. I sucked hard and long. Manflesh was twitching and jerking in my mouth but I was adamant. I wanted it all. My mouth dragged every last drop from him, three spurts, less each time, and then just a trickle and finally there was nothing left to draw out.
I licked my lips and told him, “Your turn, my love.”
Mothering by Jacqueline Lucas
It wasn’t maternal.
It was very confusing.
I’m looking through a 21 mm lens and all his features are exaggerated. The red quiff. The black and white check three piece drape. The brothel creepers. Curling up towards me. The skin of a child. Fair. Milky. Soft as a cream bun. The injections are working. I can feel them. Soon I’ll be ready to haul my fat arse down to the clinic for the egg collection. In the meantime. There’s this little job. And I’m telling him he’s gorgeous. It’s just right. Could he lean into the lamp post. Incline his head just a touch. Show us your teeth. And I’m getting closer. I had no close-ups in mind but here I can feel his breath. He’s sucking on a lolly. It’s bulging out his cheek and I don’t know if it fits the shot but I want to be the rhubarb and custard flavoured dome in his wee little gob being alternately sucked upon and layered in a good slather of saliva with a good tongueing all the way around. And he knows. And he likes it. And as far as everyone else is concerned. There’s a weird mutton dressed as lamb taking photees in the Glasgow drisel of a summer’s day of a boy. Not yet known. Not yet holding back, and self assured, and keeping a low profile, and covering his arse and cynical. A touch. Here’s a young lad full of pleasure for his drape. His quiff. His hair wash at the end of the day. His ministering. The make up girls. The hairdos. The costume fiddling. And all those girls just waiting on him. All those girls just waiting on him. All those girls not ready to knock off till the last strand of his deep red hair is given a good rinse. And here. He’s staring back into a lens that’s closer and closer. And it’s manned by a girl.
A woman rather. With long black wavy hair. Who’s come specially for him. To look through one lens after another. One camera after another. Tell him he’s just the fucking business. And she seems to understand he’s got that extra bit. The look that means he’s worth it. He’s worth getting it bloody well right because he’s heading off this Glasgow shoot and out of this drizzle for L fucking A. For London for sure.
FOR AN AGENT THAT COUNTS. AFTER THIS MOVIE. AFTER THIS BREAK. AND THIS GIRL’S A GOOD SIGN. AND SHE’S LOOKING INTO MY EYEBALLS AND I JUST MIGHT FIND MYSELF PULLING DOWN ON THAT DARK BLACK HAIR CAUSE SHE UNDERSTANDS. SHE CAN JUST SEE. I CAN TELL.
I’m on to group shots now. And I’ve got two of them waiting. But I can’t stop. On these two. And I don’t know who to look at. Cause now there’s the naughty one with the dark curls and the side burns and he’s so cute. You’re just tremendous, boys. Will you look into the camera now. Will you lift your chin. What of a smile? Shall we go for a grin? Try a rollie again. Yes, give me the smoke. Let it out slow. No. Not you. Just that look you gave me there. You know the one. Try that again. You boys are just bloody amazing. D’you know that? And I’ve a mind to lay this fucking apparatus down on the damp ground and hold the poor wee boys’ heads together in my palms and kiss them both. Licking the outline of their cupid bows. One, after the other. Taking my saliva to follow their teeth. Lap at their tongues. A messenger bringing saliva from number 1 to number 2. And I don’t even know their names. Just their movie characters. And I know they know.
That they’d go along happily and excited cause it’s all new and a lark and
HELL THIS FILM IS JUST THE BEGINNING FOR ME AND SHE’S GIVING ME THAT PIERCING LOOK AND I KNOW SHE CAN SEE IT’S ME THAT HAS IT. THAT EXTRA WEE DOLLOP OF SEXUAL CHARISMA OR SUMMAT,
After the self congratulatories in the pub on Renfrew street I commandeer the lads. Like help us with the shopping, boys, my arms free, my steps jaunty with anticipation. They trundle my tripods, lenses and bodies past the chief cook and bottle washer of my tastefully decorated upmarket accommodation. This time she doesn’t press her mushroom risotto, merely lets me feel her eyeballs on my back as she and her son watch from the empty dining room. Great shoot! I call to my friend of last night, strain for the plaque “visitors not allowed”.