Post Love Forty Six
There was only Jill now. Jill was happy pleasuring me. She’d become my go-to girl. I’d end up in her room late at night, drunk and desperate, sneaking in to accept simple pleasures when all else had become too complicated. I’d gone to see her after Celine, after Esther, after Mahin. Before I knew it, my birthday had crept up, so I went to see her for that as well.
I was sick at the time. I was a body filled to the brim with mucus and cum, and I wanted to celebrate another year the same way I had spent it. She told me she didn’t want to get sick. I said we could skip the kissing part and get right to it. Some urging and some birthday boy guilt was all it took.
Birthday shots, birthday joints, birthday walks alone after dark, cutting through the alleys to ensure my privacy, carrying a lightheaded heavy head, she let me in and walked me to her room. Happy birthday. I took off my shoes and walked over to the bed. This is where we would usually set in motion our safely built routine of putting on music, kissing, caressing, fondling, and making out. That’s how her blowjobs started. But it was all out the window now. She hesitated in this new moment, this unexplored field of interaction. It was colder, more distant, more honest. I liked it. But Jill resorted to comfort. I want to kiss you, she said under a nervous smile. I cut short her attempts at intimacy. You’ll get sick. I knew she couldn’t afford to get sick. Then she stood there, awkwardly in front of me, not knowing how to proceed. She’d never been a slut before. I feel weird not kissing you, she said. I don’t know if I can do this. I buttoned down my fly. Just do it.
She pushed herself into the moment, getting down onto her knees and pulling out my dick in quick movements, then hid her shamed face against my body with my cock deep in her mouth. And so my birthday gift was the cancellation of any and all posed closeness between us, the ushering of a young woman into her first true display of whatever it is one calls it when a woman wants absolutely nothing but to pleasure a man, or to pleasure herself by pleasuring a man, or perhaps doesn’t care about the mans’ pleasure at all besides the organic manifestation of it, feeling his human warmth dripping down her face. Jill was sucking my dick and was going to suck my dick until my cum was on her, all over her, and that made me feel good. Only now did I realize how much I hated the pretending, the touching, the kissing of lips that made me feel nothing. Why would I want to pretend to feel a kiss when I can only feel the orgasm? It was better this way. Pure, honest, bare and beautiful. I don’t know why some feel like there should be some stigma there, why some would want me to sense myself being bad. We were both getting what we wanted, using eachother to the same extent, and screw the reasons why we wanted what we wanted. It was happening and it felt great. She took off her shirt and bra and put her big beautiful tits around my cock once more, fucked my cock with them until my sick legs sat me down on her bed. I rested on my elbows and smiled because Jill knew what it meant. I wanted the full view, the tits sliding up and down my cock, the nipples protruding between the fingers, my tip drowning in that sea of horny flesh and reappearing, over and over, looking better each time as I felt myself breathing hard through my slimy nostrals and obstructed pipes, my sickness mixing with the booze and the high. Jill looked at me and smiled as I started to moan, and in the back of my mind I knew that the rising sexual comfort between us would soon begin to manifest itself in more, would soon mean we were going to fuck. I didn’t want to fuck her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I was getting what I wanted from Jill, but the balance was off by too much. I was getting off and she was getting none, nothing but cum in the eyes. She was getting jealous, and horny, and comfortable. The simple matter of the fact was, if I wanted to keep fucking her tits, I was going to have to fuck the rest of her, too.
She took my cock back into her mouth and started blowing me, harder and faster this time, sucking the distractions and inner monologues out of the equation, all focus back on getting off, maybe the last time I’d ever have her like this, unfairly ready to please me, she spat on my dick and placed it back where she knew I wanted it, stroking it up and down with her massive tits, I let go into the visual greatness of our greatest parts engulfed in eachother, I felt it rising up and let it go through me like a rush of blood, a rush of cum, I looked at her tits getting covered in long white streams of it, shooting myself onto her like a dog pissing on his territory. I loved big tits, I loved to cum on women, and that night I was an honest man. A truthful man, doing what he liked to do on the day of his birth. When it was all over, I felt empty again. Jill sucked my dick a bit more and got up to clean off the cum. I started to get dressed. I was still drunk. I slouched home coughing up phlegm, forgetting another year, another cheap orgasm, another meaningless night.
