In Which Mackenzie Is Pretty Well Fucked In The Head
“What do you mean?” I demanded. I was still in the same position, physically, but was coming out of my little shell of submission really quickly. “I just sucked your dick, didn’t I?”
“In a strictly literal sense, you did, yeah,” Ian said. “But that wasn’t really a blowjob.”
“What the hell was it, then?” I asked.
“That was you putting your mouth on my dick and sucking a bit until I sort of came,” Ian said.
I gave him what I hoped was an incredulous enough look.
“That’s what a blowjob is, isn’t it?” I asked.
“A blowjob involves all those things, but it’s a lot more than that,” Ian said. “It’s… it’s…”
“It’s what?” I prompted.
“Okay, maybe this’ll sound a little weird, saying it out loud… but I can’t think of a better way of making you understand the difference. A blowjob is about the most awesomely incredible thing you can physically experience,” he said. “Or they’re supposed to be, anyway. If blowjobs really were like what you just did, then there’d be no reason anybody would want one… they’d just jerk off instead. They sure as hell wouldn’t go around talking about them the way they do.”
“You know, you might as well admit you never had one before,” I said. If I’d had any doubts before, the way he went kind of misty-eyed when he talked about what they were supposed to be like… emphasis on “supposed to be.”
Ian wasn’t about to take this observation sitting down, though… he got up, pulling his boxers and jeans up. His dick still looked a little hard, and was covered in spit and his stuff, but apparently he didn’t care. I don’t know how he couldn’t.
“I’m a musician, Mackenzie!” he said, his face reddening with what I think was maybe half anger. “Do you know how much action a guy with a lute can get in high school?”
“A guy with a lute is sexy,” I said, my voice scathing. “A dork with a lute is still a dork. Face it, Ian, you’re still the same loser you’ve always been… you probably go around all day terrified that somebody will call you on it.”
“Are you talking about me here?” Ian asked. “Or yourself?”
“Get out,” I seethed, pointing at the door. “Just get the fuck out of my room.”
“Fine,” he said, stooping to grab his shoes off the floor. “But here’s one for you… a girl with a dick in her mouth is sexy, but a dyke with a dick in her mouth is still a dyke!”
He could have said anything else, and I would have just been pissed off… well, pissed off or turned on… but…
Amaranth had said she could handle anything as long as I didn’t yell at her. I felt like, on some level, I could handle anything as long as I wasn’t a lesbian. Nothing against lesbians. Really. Hell, the way things had been going I could probably end up dating one without being too surprised.
I just couldn’t be one.
“Ian, wait!” I said. “Don’t leave… please.”
I had to force the last word out.
“You’ve been nothing but a bitch to me since I got up here,” he said, turning around slowly “Why should I stay?”
Bitch.
The word caught me completely off my guard. It had made me feel cheap and small when Puddy had called me her bitch… or worse, one of her bitches. Of course, when she’d said it, it had been at least something of a term of endearment, in a messed up sort of way. Ian was using it in a different context entirely, in which it was nothing but an insult, a vehicle for conveying contempt.
Probably I should have been more concerned at that point that the first guy–the only guy–I was halfway comfortable talking to hated me enough to call me a bitch to my face… but I guess I was too busy going weak and wobbly over it.
I wasn’t, as Steff had put it, “horny as fuck”… but maybe horny as hell.
Part of me… a small but vocal minority of me… wanted to see if I could get him pissed enough to say it again, without making him leave.
Why did Amaranth think I needed to have oral sex? I was already fucked in the head.
“See, and you don’t even have anything to say to that,” Ian said.
Of course I did. I’d just tell him I was more turned on by him calling me a bitch than by anything else he’d said or done… yeah, that would work out great.
“It’s true,” I said, with some difficulty. “I have been acting like… like a bitch.”
I had to repress the urge to shudder, to shiver with the word coming from my own mouth.
“It’s just that… okay, so, maybe it wasn’t your first time,” I said.
“‘Maybe‘?” he retorted.
“I didn’t mean it like that!” I said quickly. “The thing is, it was my first time… and so maybe I didn’t do it just exactly right. I don’t think that makes me a lesbian.”
“Okay, fine, you’re not,” Ian said. “That’s still no reason for me to stick around, is it?”
“Then… let me give you a reason,” I said, fumbling behind my back to undo my bra.
This normally wouldn’t have been that hard a task, but my fingers were shaking pretty badly.
Oh, and in case there’s any doubt, I was fully aware how horribly cheesy the last thing I had said was. It was exactly the sort of thing somebody would have said in one of those terrible “erotic” stories I mentioned. Like Amaranth had said, I could be a slow learner… but then, I didn’t really have anything else to work with.
Regardless, it got Ian’s attention… or at least he stared at me while I did it. Maybe it was like watching a coach wreck. I don’t know. I got my bra off. As soon as it hit the floor, the realization of what I had done hit me, with compound interest from when I’d taken off my shirt. If I’d been anywhere but my own room, I probably would have left. If I’d had anywhere to run to… I would have, in a heartbeat.
Speaking of heartbeats, exactly when had mine become audibly loud?
I was already in my room, with the door shut and locked. I didn’t have anywhere else to run to. I kicked off my shoes. I’m sure I looked like an idiot struggling out of my too-fucking-tight jeans, which ended up kind of rolling themselves up on the way down my legs. Ian said nothing. I was standing there, in my panties… my little red thong underwear, with the waistband all twisted and the front kind of off-center… and my tiny little tits hanging there for him to see… and Ian said nothing.
What the fuck was he going to say to that?
“Well?” I said, repressing the urge to turn away and bury my face in my hands, or cover anything else up with them.
“Acting like a slut now isn’t going to prove anything,” he said.
I closed my eyes.
“Say that again,” I breathed, not thinking.
“Say what?” he asked. “You mean… you want me to call you a slut?”
He didn’t say as much, but the implication was there… that was sick.
That was wrong.
That was so fucking hot.
I moved forward. He didn’t move back. He let me take his shoes and drop them. I put my hands on his shoulder, and stood on my toes.
“Mackenzie,” he said, both a question and a warning.
“Put your hands on my ass,” I said. I swallowed. “Please.”
His eyes showed he was confused as hell, but he did… his hands once again squeezing and clenching and feeling, this time having the run of my bare ass, skin on skin. They were surprisingly strong hands, as I’d remembered, and the fingers were rough… maybe he wasn’t just a dork with a lute. Maybe he was serious about his music.
There was no music now, but I leaned into him and swayed, let his hands pull me in even closer… and felt his dick stirring, pressing the fabric of his jeans against my bare skin. I’d always thought men needed a longer recharge between times… I had expected to have to work harder for that.
“Let me do this,” I said. “Please.”
The pleases were killing a bit of me, each and every time, but it was a pleasant sort of agony.
“I don’t care if you think you’re a lesbian or not,” he said.
“Please,” I said again. “Please.”
He closed his eyes.
“Okay,” he said.
He let me undo his pants, and pull them down his legs. He stepped out of them with a little help, and then we repeated the experience with his underwear. He sat down again.
A lot of the wetness must have come off on the inside of his boxers, but what was left was not attractive. I picked up his shorts and rubbed them against the end of his dick, wiping it off.
“Careful!” he said, drawing a sharp breath. “It’s a bit sensitive.”
He might not have liked the attention, but it seemed like his whole body wasn’t in agreement there… the thing lurched and visibly swelled.
“Fucking hell,” I said, noting the reaction. “Is there anything your dick doesn’t respond to?”
“Mackenzie,” Ian said. There was that something in his voice again, that odd quality that went right through me like a magic knife. He waited until I looked up at him to finish the thought. “Shut up, okay?”
“No, I’m serious, is there…” I began, but he cut me off.
“So am I,” he said. “Just shut the fuck up. Do it or not, I don’t really care at this point… but I’m not going to listen to you bitch about it the whole time.”
I would have loved to argue with this, to tell him off… but, I really didn’t want him to go.
Also, his voice was still changed, and I could almost feel it on my skin. Was it just horniness? Was hearing arousal in his voice what aroused me in turn? Also, even though he didn’t lay any special emphasis on the word, hearing “bitch” from his lips, even as a verb… it still did something to me. For me. It carried an association somehow, now.
I knelt between his legs, staring at his dick… it seemed bigger now, thicker. Fuller. More intimidating. I don’t know if that was my imagination or not. I remembered how shocked I’d been when Amaranth had told me that there’s some “give” to it.
“Look, if you’re not going to do it, quit fucking around and say so,” he said.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said quietly, looking up at him.
He gave me a look that was both pitying and scornful. It softened and then disappeared… but I’d seen it, anyway.
Do I even have to tell you what that did for me?
“Lick my balls,” he said. That made two more times than I’d ever expected to hear that phrase directed at me, and the suggestion didn’t sound any more pleasant the second time.
I did it, anyway.
I closed my eyes… opened them, leaned in way close and then closed them again… and then stuck out my tongue. Really, it was more poking with my tongue than licking. I could still taste the sweaty tang of his skin, stronger than on his dick. Different, too. I couldn’t describe how. Maybe somebody, somewhere has come up with a whole lexicon for precisely describing the taste, aroma, and bouquet of sex parts… but I was hardly a connoisseur.
I could feel the hair. It wasn’t as thick or as rough as I’d thought it would be, but I could taste and feel it, and that more than anything threatened to send me screaming from the room. Not the fact that I was tonguing someone’s balls, but the fact that they had hair on them and it might get in my mouth.
“Keep going,” Ian said, and I didn’t know if he meant I should lick some more, or move on to something else… but since I didn’t know what might come next, anyway, I kept doing what I was doing. I did it more. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could… which really didn’t feel like it was that much further than my lips, and did more than just run the edge of it against his skin.
I licked.
I lapped.
I tasted.
When he let out a little moan, I pressed my mouth against the sack–gently–so I could get more contact with the surface of my tongue.
He thinks I’m a slut… he thinks I’m a bitch… he thinks I’m a lesbian, I thought. I just kissed his balls.
“Now… the shaft,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained.
I lifted my head, put a hand under his dick, and raised it… slowly, gently. I had no idea how flexible the thing was and what would or wouldn’t hurt him. I mean, you can bend somebody’s finger backwards but it doesn’t necessarily feel good. I opened my mouth, moving down towards it.
“No,” he said. I froze in place, my mouth still open, less than an inch away. I raised my eyes. “Lick it, first.”
I hoped he didn’t mean the front, where the slit was. I had very few illusions about what I was doing, but… pee came out of there.
“Lick the length of it, from the base up,” he said.
I froze. The top? The side? All around? The top didn’t seem like it would work… I’d be headbutting him in the stomach. If I asked him what he meant, would he take that as more “bitching”?
“Do you want to do this, or what?” he asked, some of the hungry edge leaving his voice. He was getting irritated again.
That made up my mind… well, not in the sense that I made any sort of conscious decision, but it got me moving, which was all it took. There was really no better way to do it than to get down beneath him, lift his thing up some more, and run my tongue from the base, just above his nuts (can you really think of them as “nuts” when you’re sexually involved with them? Not that “balls” smacked of maturity.) all the way up to the tip.
Or almost. I was still wary of the hole, so I stopped my tongue at the kind of ridge before the… head part.
I really needed to improve my vocabulary.
Ian didn’t seem to mind my choice of stopping point. He–that is to say, his dick–jumped and jerked a bit against my hand.
“Do that again,” he said, and I did, and when he said “again,” I did it another time… and then, without invitation or command, I was just kind of licking all over, not really paying any attention to what I was doing or following any particular plan, even going so far as to circle my head around the swollen tip of his thing and, totally without thinking about it or meaning to, flicking my tongue lightly across the opening.
I was surprised but not shocked to find it was oozing… I don’t know if the stuff it oozed was the same stuff that comes out at the end, but either it was slightly less salty or it just seemed that way because the saltiness wasn’t a shock.
Oddly, now that I wasn’t expecting it to be sweet, it kind of almost was, a little bit.
“Do it,” Ian breathed, and this time I didn’t have to ask what he meant.
I took him in my hand again… I still felt that, in spite of everything, it would be easier to get going with my eyes closed, and that would be a lot simpler when I could both feel where my target was and guide it into my mouth. My mouth circled around just below the head… my teeth just brushed his skin before I remembered. He gave a weird little sigh but didn’t complain. I curled my lips back around, and then opened my eyes.
His dick’s in my mouth. My mouth’s on his dick.
My cheeks burned. I burned. What would Steff say if she could see me now?
I began to move. I remembered how he’d tried to get me to take more of the thing into my mouth, and so I worked my way downwards.
It was… kind of rough. I didn’t know how much pressure I could exert before it would bug him, so I kind of opened my mouth and moved down, or forward, or whatever, and then closed around him again.
But, I couldn’t really suck while I was doing that, and I was sure that, no matter what Ian had said, sucking must necessarily be an integral part of dick sucking, so after the first few “gulps”, I tried moving further down by sliding my lips over his length.
Again, I found my tongue wanting to curl up and explore the intruder, and this time I let it do so. The flavor and scent of him… of his skin, of his sweat, of his sex, of his dick… was already inside my mouth, filling me. What could a little bit more of a taste do?
Plenty, for both of us, it turned out… it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to manage my tongue while I was working on taking more in, and sucking, and not accidentally biting… but the reaction it got from him, and the reaction that created in me, was worth it.
I couldn’t get all the way down… his dick hit the back of my mouth, the opening to my throat, and there was just no way to get past that. When I stopped, he kind of pushed forward, but I backed off… the pressure on my throat would make me gag, and probably bring up whatever was left of my too-big breakfast. I didn’t get irritated, or pull my head up. He just must not have realized we’d reached the end of the line.
Anyway, he really responded to the sudden backwards movement, so I went back down and up again, and then a few more times. It was almost like he enjoyed that as much or more than he did the sucking, the licking, the fact of a girl’s warm lips wrapped around the shaft of his dick.
So, I did it some more… after a few tries, I fell into a rhythm that he seemed to really like, to the point that he got into it, too, thrusting forward and up to meet my downward movement, pushing again against the opening of my throat. I adjusted my position every time he did that, but it didn’t seem to throw us off any.
Then, something clicked in my mind: face fucking. Yeah, I was slow, but I got it now. Oral sex wasn’t just some dirty party trick, it wasn’t just putting your mouth on somebody’s happy parts… it was sex… it was fucking, it was bodies coming together with friction and thrusting and twisting and desire.
The realization that I was having sex might have freaked me out, but the big fat dick in my mouth was pretty distracting.
Once I understood exactly what it was that we were doing, I think I got a little better at it. It was actually almost kind of fun… I could give my boyfriend–or you know, Ian–sex without ever having to take off my underwear, without having to involve in any way the disgustingness between my legs.
Anyway, considering that a pussy doesn’t have a tongue and can’t suck, the mouth could hardly be called the inferior substitute…and most guys I’d overheard talking about it seemed plenty aware that there was something inherently nasty, if not outright wrong, about a girl’s pussy.
It was no wonder they were so into getting head.
When he finished, which seemed to go on for longer than when he’d just spurted on my face, I swallowed almost without thinking about it. I know that’s supposed to be gross, but… it was already inside my mouth. It was sticky, and mixed up with my spit, and it probably would have taken more than one try or some serious effort to spit it all out, and I’d pretty much be keeping it in my mouth as I walked over to the trash can.
Honestly, I would have just been more embarrassed to spit it out than to swallow. I don’t even like blowing my nose. I don’t know why, or what the one has to do with the other, but it was the same impulse in my mind, somehow.
Once again, we were left with nothing really to talk about, me sitting back between his legs, and him sitting above me in the chair.
Once again, I was the first one to speak… and once again, it was on the same subject.
“So… not a lesbian,” I said, feeling an odd warmth throughout my body that had nothing to do with that comforting revelation. In fact, at that moment I hardly cared about being a lesbian or not. Somehow, what should have been one of the main points of the exercise had been lost beside the weird sense of accomplishment, of enjoyment I’d taken away from it.
“No,” he agreed, “but… if it’s all the same to you,” he said, slumping backwards, out of breath. I don’t know why, when I’d done most of the work. “When I tell my friends back home about this, can I tell them that you are?”
I gave him the look he deserved, and he laughed.
After a moment, I did, too.
Double your pleasure
Double your fun