Hum Job

The hard, firm cock juts out from his lean body with a life of its own, a gift for me. Yet for a moment I feel shy. Even in the dark I glance away, so he won't see me looking at it so directly and so longingly.

But then his sculptor's hands reach out and slide up and down, feeling the curves and planes of my body. Parting my thighs, he tongues and fingers me in the place he calls lovely and pink. I feel so connected to him, indebted to him, for the pleasure that keeps me writhing, wanting more and more, till I feel creamy and ever creamier. Does he know how deeply he is stirring me, the pink mixing with cream? Does he know that the more I feel his fingers moving in that one place, just there, just so, the more I feel that at this moment we fill an entire universe?

Then I take him in my mouth, at first simply circling the tip with my tongue. I want to tease him, I want to please him. For a moment I question my motives. Is connection the reason, or is the pleasure-giving free and pure? I argue with myself the meaninglessness of this distinction, while my hands and lips grip his transfixed cock, and then all questions drop away. I breathe deeper and deeper, faster and faster, my mouth full of him, hearing myself humming, him groaning. Now I groan too, our intensities hover separately for a moment and then plunge back together again. He comes in my mouth, and I swallow it in one smooth glide. "Tastes even better than sushi," I say, and we both laugh in the dark. —Ruby Conn

We had been going out for some time before she did it. There had already been a lovely gamut of sucking, licking, kissing, stroking, moaning, sighing, pumping, and squirting. We fit together well. But there is something special when a woman makes me come in her mouth, and she hadn't done that. My ex-wife did it only once in 19 years when she was trying, too late, to fix the marriage.

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Fellatio is special because it is a very "pure" act of giving. I don't think about her pleasure then, I just lie back and enjoy the total bliss. Coming this way is like making sushi—much lovely effort to produce a little squirt of semen served up fresh. Like a good chef I like to have my work savored, instead of trashed inside a little rubber bag.

That evening we had eaten dinner and gone to bed, or perhaps we had just skipped dinner and gone to dine on each other. She curled over me with one hand wrapped around my shaft and licked the tip. I slipped my hand down her buttocks and tucked my fingers inside her cunny. Then she went to work in earnest.

During the day she plays the cello and now she was playing me. Her fingers vibrated up and down and her tongue and mouth did the same. She sang a tune in the back of her throat. Perhaps it was Bach or Vivaldi, a very lengthy piece. Finally, at the crescendo of the music, I exploded in her mouth, and died a little death before coming back to earth. She thanked me for the sushi with a little smile and said that she enjoyed the flavor. I thanked her for dining with me. —Pierre Lahti

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