To imagine how a Crusader would feel upon discovering the holy grail, one must only look to a seventeen year old virgin feasting his eyes on his first pair of perfect, naked breasts. Could there be a more religious experience? Firm, rounded flesh covered in smooth, pale skin like the marble of an altar, stained only by two dark red circles, like the dried blood of countless sacrifices to goddesses with breasts not half as beautiful as these. It’s enough to make one drop to one’s knees and thank whichever deity was wise enough to craft these magnificent mammaries, and beg that this moment last for an eternity, for surely it could not possibly be surpassed in seven hundred and fifty nine lifetimes, let alone the paltry seventy or so years likely remaining. Unless, of course, if it wasn’t asking too much or upsetting some divine plan, maybe one could perhaps, possibly, pretty please, actually touch the breasts?
It is in just such a situation that we serendipitously stumble over Kyle Pozair, a rather tall epitome of a seventeen year old virgin. Kyle had grown rather tall rather quickly at a rather young age, the sort of rather young age at which his rather young friends were rather in a lather regarding his rather remarkable resemblance to a chap named Frankenstein (we rather like saying “rather”). Yes, many a child had perched behind the pituitarily-powered Kyle in class attempting to affix a pair of bolts to the expanse of his neck or planted a bucket over the doors to douse him in green paint. Kyle had often lamented his long lanky limbs and harangued his humiliatingly high head for making him the target of these cruel cruel hilarious children, but now he blessed his Brobdingnagian body, for though he had lost all feeling in his extremities and dropped to his knees an instant after the baring of the bounteous bosom, his height left him in a splendid situation, eye to areola as it were. Kyle immediately understood the mythic tales of the Gorgon, for now, as he stared at those red unblinking eyes, peeking out from behind serpentine curls of long luxurious black hair falling from a head he could no longer remember, he realized that at least one part of him had quickly, quite understandably and almost painfully turned to stone, possibly explaining the aforementioned loss of feeling and cognitive ability.
Kyle could not believe his luck as the leather bodice, which seconds ago had secured those succulent scarlet-tipped casaba melons, was slowly peeled back even further, revealing more flawless alabaster skin tautly stretched over a magnificent midsection marred—if you could call it marred—only by the most beautiful button of a bellybutton, which practically winked at Kyle as if to say “yes, this is really happening.” His eyes tore themselves away from those titanic tits and sprinted down the belly to see—no, it couldn’t be but...but it was—a perfectly trimmed triangle of lush, silken black hair pointing at the holy of holies, a treasure trove of decadent delights that Kyle had only dreamed about when not watching them reenacted by marathon men and women as flexible as the plastic that made them. And yet, though this was no dream and surely no video, Kyle was sure he would not be allowed to finally experience this carnal cornucopia if he couldn’t stop making that unfortunate fish face. For what felt like forever, he’d been begging his eyes to cease their infernal goggling, struggling to wrest back control of his lips to end their unseemly puckering, but his efforts were for naught. He knew he could only have a moment or two before he was recognized for what he was. Not the manly, macho, randy savage he appeared to be, a chained and leather stud who couldn’t properly turn his back on society because he was too busy lying on it while women fought for the right to ride his orgasmic obelisk. Oh no, Kyle was a scared little boy playing a man’s game and now that he’d been handed his finest fantasies on a naked platter, he was—like a handless man with toilet paper—stumped. He didn’t know what to do but he was sure that if he didn’t pounce on those plump pontoons soon, they would be put away and he’d be kicked to the curb, laughter ringing in his ears and an erection wilting in his pants, the perfect ending to this night that had started so poorly before taking a strange awesome turn.
But actually it wasn’t just tonight that had gotten off on the wrong foot, it was Kyle’s entire life. Seventeen years ago, the womb had opened up beneath Kyle and started him on a downward slide that seemed to continue to this day. After being forcibly evicted from his cozy home of nine months, he blinked the muck out of his eyes and found himself in a hospital in the suburbs of Lawn Guyland and immediately exploded with an impressive wail that could have catered to the finest waul in the country. Fortunately, Kyle’s father knew just what to do for he was, after all, the city’s foremost gynecologist. In fact, it was he who moments ago had grabbed Kyle by the ankle and yanked him from the uterus. Grasping that same ankle, he had flipped Kyle upside down and administered a quick rap to the rump, the last spanking Kyle would ever receive, and handed him to his mother, a plastic surgeon who clearly would never do unto others without first having done unto herself. And so, it began.
Kyle’s parents were unfailingly cheerful, all smiles all the time, even moreso since the wondrous advent of botox. As far as they were concerned, everything was super duper, simply spectacular, just really great, thank you. Life was a big bowlful of Thai food at a silent auction, all country club and cordon bleu, gin, tonic and Harry Conick. God they were so lame! They thought Kyle was happy with his DVD’s, HDTV, PS1, 2, 3 and P, I-everything and no less than three family dinners a week with them and their precious pigtailed little Suzie, but alas, that was not the case. Though the uninitiated and unintelligent may think it’s wonderful to have rich doctor parents, in reality the peculiar double whammy of a plastic surgeon mother and gynecologist father sucked more ass than Mrs. Pozair’s Liposucker 3000.
Let us begin with his mother, the plastic surgeon who was her own best customer. As a young boy, Kyle always feared the pool parties where his mom would act as a living catalogue, displaying her wares in an eensy weensy, teenie weenie yellow polka dot string bikini and all the men’s pants would give her an exuberant thumbs up. It only got worse as he grew up and he had to listen to his classmates graphically ponder what they would do to her gargantuan gonzagas or be forced at wedgie-point to graphically recall what it had been like to suckle on her bodacious balloons (slightly salty actually).
But even that paled in comparison to the problems caused by his father. A gynecologist’s son can only get by for so long saying that “boys have penises and girls have vaginas” before his life is permeated by the pungent stench of his father’s work. It all started to go wrong when Kyle was 7 and “Take Your Son to Work Day” landed him in detention for playing a most explicit game of doctor. As he grew older, he came to the horrible realization that, between the two of them, his parents had already poked, prodded, probed, penetrated and pried open every piece of female genitalia within fifty miles. If you took the ten greatest minds in history and locked them in a room for a hundred years, they would be unable to conceive a more frustrating situation than being a young man surrounded by all manner of pretty girls, cheerleaders, MILFs and dirty, perverted teachers evil enough to fulfill a high schooler’s wildest wish, and knowing that your father has already been wrist deep in their vaginas. And, of course, they are all justifiably concerned that cold hands might run in the family.
Yes, poor Kyle Pozair’s life was replete with a multitude of miseries, each exacerbated by his cacophonously cheery parents and their unbending optimism. Kyle didn’t belong with those smiling simpletons and, as a matter of fact, he didn’t belong anywhere. He was doomed to wander the world, alone with his misery. But one dreary, drenching day, he had an elating epiphany. Misery loves company and there before him, sitting on the curb in front of Kmart, with rain running over their pleather jackets and mascara running into their eyes, with their heads bowed in despondence and an attempt to keep their cigarettes lit by shielding them with their overgrown bangs, were the most miserable people Kyle had ever seen: The Goths. They understood that life was like a box of shit where you always knew what you were going to get. They didn’t care that nobody cared they didn’t care nobody cared about them. As an added bonus, their scorn of superficial beauty and their fatalistic attitude meant that they had surely never visited his parents. In fact, Kyle imagined, the Goth girls would likely forgo tampons and menstruate down their legs just to rage against their machine. While their lack of vaginal hygiene was truly disgusting, Kyle felt they more than made up for it with their possession of vaginas which, like pizza, are good when they’re good but even better when they’re greasy. Kyle was so eager to join this cult of countless sorrows, he rushed home to empty his walk-in closets, grabbed his parents’ credit cards and bought every piece of black clothing he could find at the Gap and Banana Republic.
Going Goth was the greatest thing Kyle had ever done. He’d never been happier than when he was sulking outside of Sears, snickering and spitting at the mindless middle-class, middle-management minions mincing about mired in a pool of suck. But there was one problem, one miscalculation. Kyle hadn’t realized that, unlike normal women, the FemiGoths tongue piercings and lower back tattoos were carefully chosen to conform to the accepted norms of rebellion, not to indicate their propensity for promiscuous cocksucking and anal love. And so, Kyle, like all Goths, remained a desperate virgin.
But Kyle had resolved to resolve that problem tonight. For on this glorious night, he was going to see every Goth’s dream team: the Suicide Girls: A traveling troupe of traveling trollops, naughty nymphs and pierced prostitutes who desperately gyrated naked on strangers’ laps, praying that one of them would turn out to be Daddy finally paying attention. Kyle hoped that they would come for his dollar bills and stay for his unparalleled tale of woe. Decked out in the blackest of his black clothes, he headed out with high hopes, a wad of cash and four pairs of boxers.
But sadly, it was not to be. The beagle nosed bouncer easily sniffed out Kyle’s fake ID and—more biceps and triceps than man—easily and literally bounced Kyle out of the club and onto the street where, suddenly, sitting on the curb and crying had lost its luster. But then, between sobs, Kyle noticed a pair of wickedly pointed leather boots which seemed to go on and up, somehow disappearing underneath a leather minidress so tight it seemed to be painted onto the most beautiful women Kyle had ever seen. One look up into her night-black eyes told Kyle there was more sexual pleasure in her right nipple than in an entire squadron of Suicide Girls. And somehow, his pitiful weeping had been mistaken for the dark, sullen brooding of a manly Goth with a mountainous member and he was dragged to a seedy motel where he would surely be ravished and ravaged like never before.
And so, we’re back where we started, watching Kyle and the arousing Aphrodite, looking back and forth between the two, like tennis fans wondering when the match will start. Kyle was frozen stiff—in more ways than one—by a true case of his eyes being bigger than his penis. Should he start with the left breast or the right? Should he dive right in, face first, or play it cool and order her to turn around so he could see the sweet can that put the “ass” in “fantastic?”
As his mind ached with possibilities, his concentration was broken by a throaty chuckle which performed the amazing task of wrenching his eyes back above the neckline and back to those black eyes, which now twinkled in amusement. Rapt, he watched as her hands rose to her neck, then slowly traversed the gentle slopes of her breasts until they were cupping the copious comely flesh. After a quick squeeze, her fingers began circling her nipples until they grew even more erect, an astounding feat matched only by the Herculean efforts of Kyle’s penis. Leaving the right hand alone with its happy task, the left slid over her belly and came to rest between her legs where her index finger vanished in an eye-popping display of prestidigitatory prowess. Kyle’s Adam’s apple jiggled frantically as her middle finger followed the index into the void.
Finally, Kyle could take no more and he leapt into action, pouncing toward her, ready to squeeze whatever he could grab and suck whatever would fit in his mouth. With lighting speed, her fingers reappeared and her left hand flew up, grabbed Kyle by the scalp and firmly held him at arms length. Arms flailing, desperately trying to at least brush against those tantalizing ta-tas, Kyle nearly burst into tears, sure that this was the moment the football team would burst from the closet and reveal this to be an elaborate practical joke, ending in an atomic swirlie. But all his fears, in fact all rational thought, was wiped away as she yanked his head back and kissed him hard, mashing his lips against his teeth. He barely noticed the metallic taste of his own blood as her tongue invaded his mouth and used his uvula like a speed bag. All the air seemed to be sucked out of him and he would have collapsed if she hadn’t ripped off his shirt and flung him onto the bed.
Dazed, Kyle watched as she smiled, wiped his blood from her mouth with her disappearing fingers and then slowly, leisurely licked them clean, before crawling onto the bed and reaching for his pants. Joyously realizing her intentions, Kyle patted himself on the back for having the foresight to masturbate ten times before he left the house that day, almost reaching to record he had set on the day he had discovered his mother’s supply of implants. As she peeled off his pants and boxers, Kyle’s penis, finally sensing salvation after years of loneliness and abuse, sprang forth like a humpback whale breaching the surface, poised to unleash its most massive eruption. As her hair cascaded over his groin and her blood red lips approached his trembling penis, her soft, pink tongue darted out and ran over her teeth, which seemed a lot sharper than Kyle remembered. Actually, he couldn’t even remember that she had teeth. Then her lips closed over Kyle’s shaft and his mind went blank faster than Michael J. Fox’s etch-a-sketch.
From behind the bathroom door, I listened to the loud slobbering and sucking noises coming from the bedroom, as disgusted as I was aroused. And though nothing could stop me from entering the room—and my woman—I felt Kyle deserved these last few moments alone for, after all, they were his last.
When I entered the room, Lucretia was sitting on the bed, wiping the last of Kyle’s fluids from her chin. I was tempted to lick the few stray drops that had sprayed her bosom, but my appetite was soured by the sight of Kyle’s deflated—now detachable—penis lying in the corner staring at me with it’s unblinking eye, as if to ask “what the hell just happened.”.
“Did you enjoy the show, my love?” she asked, arching her back, raising her eyebrows, knowing full well that the show continued..
“Of course, but I’ll never understand why you can’t just bite them in the neck.”
“I could” she ran her tongue across her red-stained lips and teeth, “but I like having all the blood in one place. Didn’t you ever shotgun a beer when you were mortal?”
“That’s a delightful image. But why do you even go through this charade? Why not just hypnotize your meals like the rest of us?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she smirked, crossing and uncrossing her legs, watching my eyes react. “Any Vampire can control a mortal with their mind, but controlling them with your body”—she wiped a drop of blood from her breast and licked it from her finger—“now that’s special.”
I smiled and reached for her. “You know you could control anyone with a body like yours.”
She grabbed my hand and brought it to her mouth. “Yes, but after a thousand years of controlling the same thrall, it’s nice to see I still have the touch.”
“I’m hardly your thrall.”
“No?” she laughed, licking my finger “How many other Vampires watch their lovers with other men?”
“Please, they’re hardly men. Besides, I enjoy watching you debase yourself.”
“I’m not debasing myself. I’m debasing them. I’m in complete control.”
“You have a cock in your mouth.”
“And when I do, their life is in my hands. I can give them immeasurable pleasure, or unbelievable pain. I can make them do anything I want.”
“Yes but, I repeat, you have a cock in your mouth.”
She laughed and stood from the bed, pushing me away from her, before stretching herself like a jungle cat on the rack.
“You’re right as always my darling, I am debasing myself” she leaned forward, putting her hand on my chest and looking straight into my eyes, her eyes twinkling like a burgeoning galaxy, “I guess I’ll just have to never put another cock in my mouth—or anywhere else—ever again.”
She turned for the bathroom, then looked back over her shoulder, laughing at the look on my face.
“But maybe I’ll change my mind if you clean up this mess. Darling.”
I could still hear her laughing through the door, even as I bent to pick up Kyle’s discarded ding-dong. Poor little fella, at least he died doing what he loved. I flipped it onto Kyle’s still smiling corpse, then wrapped the body in the sheets and flung the whole bundle over my shoulder, like a demented Santa Clause preparing to bring a shocking present to an extremely naughty little girl. As I walked into the night air, I once again wondered if I’d been blessed or cursed to fall under the spell of this evil-woman child.
Ah, the things we do for lust.
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This story was partly inspired by a college debate when we were discussing the sexual dynamics of Basic Instinct. Yeah, that was a college class. I had to take Basic Instinct out of the library and watch a naked Sharon Stone on the library TVs, fast-forwarding and rewinding and using slow-motion to capture every nuance of the movie. Totally worth thirty grand a year.
We were discussing the first sex scene between Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone. Someone suggested that the scene was a fight for control, with each character trying to get on top and be in the dominant position. I pointed out that Michael Douglas must have won because he got Sharon Stone to go down on him and it doesn’t get much more dominant than that.
A heavily tattooed girl with lip and tongue piercings argued that Stone was actually in control, because she had all the power. She could give Douglas a lot of pleasure or she could stop and make him beg for more or she could just bite his dick off. My response was simple: “But you have a dick in your mouth.”
Victory! (Did I mention college was thirty grand a year?)
Of course, I have to admit that she’s not totally wrong because I’ll do almost anything for a blowjob. I’ll go the mall, watch an all-day Dallas
So yes, I will admit that blowjobs give women a lot of power and control. But still, you’ve got a dick in your mouth.
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