This breathtaking story about a blow job in a sex cinema is written and read by Joy as it Flies. Note that this scene contains breath play and BDSM.
I love sucking his dick. Jesus, I love sucking his dick. I love the taste of it, the feel of it, the way it fits between my lips, the dimensions of it perfect as it slides towards the back of my throat, awash with saliva. I love the rhythm of it – the change of pace as I move from active to passive, as we swap from me using my mouth to him using my mouth and back again. I do not love this man, I barely even know him, but I am utterly infatuated with the sensation of his dick resting on my tongue.
I kneel in front of him in a dark room in a sex cinema, an L-shaped space containing two wooden boxes and a sex swing, lit by blacklight that sets the lint on his t-shirt shining like constellations. My nose is pressed to the curve of his belly and I can smell clean cotton, fresh sweat. I am thinking of nothing. I kneel as if at worship, devoid of self- consciousness, as I feel him bounce on my tongue. Sometimes I can breathe and sometimes I can’t – all it takes is one tiny movement on his part, one miniscule push, and suddenly my relationship to the most important and generally unconscious function of which my body is capable is utterly transformed. I play with that awareness, as if watching myself from outside of my body; stroking his thigh with one hand as I suck as if to reassure myself, as if to say ‘I can’t breathe and that’s fine… I can’t breathe… and that’s fine…’
Seconds pass, and an instinct cousin to panic arises and I tap an alert on his thigh several times. I hear him laugh quietly and his hand slides to the back of my head, his fingers pressing into the hollow at the base of my skull. He shoves himself further into the wetness until my throat seizes, and then pulls away at the last moment, a ropebridge of spit hanging between the livid glossed curve of his cock and my panting mouth.
I laugh and wipe my eyes.
“What’s the matter,” he asks, looking down at me. “You need to breathe more than you need my cock?”
I look up at him. I picture my smile, a drunken snarl. I want your cock. I need to breathe.
He shakes his head in mock disappointment, but I know it’s just schtick. My knees throb and I reach up a hand for him to pull me to my feet. He walks me a few feet to the other chest, where I sit with my thighs spread and he stands between my open legs. I wrap my arms around him and place my hands at the small of his back and kiss and lick and suck. The fingertips of one hand coast over the cool soft skin of his balls as my tongue paints curlicues over and up and around and down.
In front of me is the door we came in, and then to the left and a foot above that, a rectangular window. I glance over and up and through dozy eyes half-see a row of faces, like mischievous boys peeking over the fence into an orchard full of heavy-laden apple trees. But they are not boys, they are men, and they are looking through a window in a sex cinema, watching a cockdrunk little whore make a show of herself. If they can see anything at all, because the room is blacklit. (It doesn’t make sense that their faces are so high but I am drunk and nothing makes sense except sucking)
He locked the door behind us, so there’s no way that any of them can intrude – they would if they could – and now that I know they are there I tell myself that I can pretend they are not, if I want, should that knowledge become too much to compute. I half expect it to, half expect to feel steady little insinuations of shame in my belly that breaks my concentration, the tiny voices of self-castignation left over from a Catholic childhood, but nothing comes. My shamelessness still surprises me, a glorious, burning surprise.
The door is locked and it’s just me, him, and the memory of their faces. He takes a step back and beckons me into a squat in front of him. As I slide off my seat my skirt rucks up around my waist and I leave it like that, revealing a tiny black lace thong and my bare ass. I bob on my heels, loop my fingers around the base of his cock and pull my lips back over my teeth. He mutters something, and with mouth full I make a questioning noise. Suck, he answers curtly, and there are his fingers again at my nape, a threat and a comfort both as I choke and gasp.
I can’t breathe and it’s too much but not enough, I can’t breathe and it’s fine, so fine, my knees and thighs are burning as I bounce and but it’s fine. I fill my lungs and he fills my throat and they’re watching and who needs air: fuck air. He pulls away with a flourish, as if to deliberately deprive me and I gurgle with delight. I look up at him and in a loud whisper tell him ‘I lied.’
I need his cock more than I need air.
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