Review #170

A Tale of Four Blowjobs

Story by Kimmie Holland

Review by Ray

Chapter 1, First Time (That Night) He Used My Face...

After pizza by candlelight,

Now that’s romantic.


he calls me over to sit on his lap.


I settle my pantied bottom

Woah now, we’re only two sentences in, don’t get too sexy.

across his thighs and put my arms around the back of his big neck. We talk and kiss, doing less and less of the former, until we're doing almost exclusively the latter.


God this story is sensual.

Meanwhile his hands have found their way under my nightie,

oh baby

inside my nightie,

oh baby

down the back of my nightie.

oh, baby!

It feels as if he has seven or eight hands and they are all over my body.

The sexiest creature in existance:


He makes me admit what a slutty little girl I am. What a dirty, cocksucking mouth I have. He has me tell him how many men I've sucked off. I can feel his cock throb under my bottom when I give him an honest answer. Gosh, even I'm surprised: it's a lot of cocks!


You people have no idea how happy I am that this story exists.


"And you swallowed every time didn't you, you little cunt, didn't you?"

Hey now, no need for such cunty language.

"Oh yes," I whisper into his ear—and that, too, I'm perversely proud to admit, is the truth.

You know what? This story doesn’t need my commentary. It really, really doesn’t. So I’m taking a page from Rob: pretty much all I’m going to do from here on out is bold the best quotes this story has to offer, starting with the next sentence.

His cock pulses again: picture the ring of muscle that passes through the body of one of those thick Amazonian rainforest snakes. That's what it feels like, something predatory and feral and sexy that's just woken up, hungry and looking for dinner. That's me: what's for dinner.


"You love it don't you, you filthy bitch?"


"Yes I do."


"You love to suck cock?"


"I love to suck cock."


"You need it, don't you?"


"Yes, I need it."


"Show me."


I slide off his lap and H stands up, undoing his belt, then the top button of his jeans. I take over with the zipper, getting it started with my fingers, and using my teeth to pull it down the rest of the way. My hands are occupied lowering H's pants, which he steps out of one foot at a time. I press my face against H's crotch and use my breath to warm his balls. Next I use my tongue, licking him through his underwear as his cock begins to make its way through the opening in the front, searching me out. That's how I know it's time to get down to serious business.


Kneeling on the floor at his feet, I slowly feed his cock between my painted lips. As I work slowly up and down the length of it, H. gets himself worked up verbally, his sexual glossolalia growing more heated, more aggressive, more "abusive." Things are heating up to that semen-boiling point where desire and violence meet, the tipping point between tease and please, the endocrinal trigger, the synaptical jump that separates orgasm from everything else.


"That's it bitch, take it, take it all."


I open my mouth as wide as possible, take my hand away from the base of his cock, and use both hands to cradle and warm his balls in my palms. I might be a pornographic priestess consecrating the holy wafer as I look up from the floor to H-on-high, his cock planted in my face, my lips sealed around the shaft where it meets the curling hairs of his lower belly. This is my favorite moment, a man's cock half-choking me, my big, made-up eyes looking upwards submissively, pleadingly, gratefully...adoringly?...and him looking down, all-powerful—as every alpha male deserves to be at this moment—lord and master of me, this pale, weak, perfumed vessel of fluff


and pleasure at his feet.


Something happens at this moment, something always magical, a transubstantiation as miraculous as any other. It manifests like this: H cups the back of my head in one of his big hands and jams my face into his crotch.


His cock, which seems to have swelled to unreal proportions to fill my entire mouth from tongue to roof, is literally jammed against the back of my throat. He's begun to violently thrust his hips and the solid stream of obscene verbal abuse that pours forth is no longer playful, teasing, and cautious, but pure rape-talk. It's at these moments of unrehearsed soliloquy that many men reveal themselves and one understands how thin the curtain is at a given moment between sex and violence even under the most consensual of circumstances.


Thrillingly, even knowing H as well as I do, this voice he's using now—it's the voice of a stranger, a man capable of sudden violence...a killer? Maybe! Does he feel it, too? How much stronger, how much more powerful he is? How I couldn't get away unless he let me go? How he has me totally at his mercy? How he has, quite literally, the power of life and death over me?


I hardly ever suck cock without it turning into an educational experience. And, indeed, I learn another lesson during this session—a practical cocksucking tip. As H's cock beats relentlessly against the back of my throat, I suddenly realize that to keep from gagging and choking it's only necessary to constrict my throat the way you would if you were preparing yourself to drink something very, very cold.

Wait, is that… is that true? Should I be taking notes?

It stiffens the muscles back there and makes them ever-so-less sensitive to the insistent jabbing and stabbing of a man's hard cock. It just goes to show you. Even with your nose buried in a man's pubic hair, there's always something new to learn if you're paying attention!


"You love when I cum in your mouth, don't you, you filthy slut?"




That's International Cocksucker for "oh god yes, I love when you cum in my mouth! I love when you use my face for your sexual pleasure!" and it's understood all over the world. Just for emphasis, I nod my head, nod, that is, as enthusiastically as one can nod with a mouth full of cock and I let my eyes smile between thick lashes. Drool, warm and copious, spills from my mouth as I moan-mumble and forms a little puddle on the floor around my knees. How degrading! How humiliating! H grunts with satisfaction, a leering sneer of lust rearranging his features into those of a centaur, a satanic satyr, the great god Pan.


He cups the back of my head again; tired of looking at my face, no longer wanting eye-contact, requiring only my warm mouth, the sight of my kneeling, suppliant, submissive and defenseless body beneath his, enjoying my helplessness and surrender, he resumes battering the back of my throat with his cock ((how can he thrust so hard, I wonder, doesn't it hurt him... no, the harder the better it seems to feel to him!)).


No longer concerned at all about my comfort—indeed, he almost seems unconcerned if I literally choke to death or not at this point—he thrusts in and out, out and in, harder and harder, using my head like some sort of fuck-ball, my ribboned pigtails ((as per his request)) swinging, until he starts spurting, one after another, short, tight jets of thick cum so far down my throat I don't even have to swallow—it's already well on its way to my tummy.


With a touch of gallantry, H helps me back up atop my stilettos when he's finished unloading and holds me tight, until my knees stop feeling all wibbly-wobbly. Then he guides me gently, with his finger thrust come-hither fashion inside my ass, back to his chair, and sits down with me once more sideways on his lap. Meantime, he feels me up, has me ask him to please, please kiss me on my filthy slutty cocksucking mouth, and then he thrusts his tongue into said filthy slutty cocksucking mouth, a.k.a. cum-bucket, piss-pot, etc.

He breaks the kiss long enough to

Realize what a horrible mistake he’s made?

tell me that my face smells like I've been sucking cock.


Alright, that works too.

He wants to take me out with his musk all over my face, women can always tell, he says, they'll look at you and know what a dirty little cocksucker you are.


"Would you like that?"


I nod, eyes closed, picturing it. "Yes," I whimper, unnecessarily, since he's pulled up my nightie to reveal incontrovertible proof of how much I'd like it. He touches the front of my panties.


"Oh look, you've wet yourself, baby. Are you excited?"


"Mmmm....yes," I squeak.


He puts his finger in his mouth. "You taste good baby."

The fuck does he taste with his fingers? The fuck did he put his fingers in the protagonist’s ass earlier?

I bury my face in his shoulder as he teases my swollen pink clittie free at last of its confinement behind the lace-and-rhinestone panel of my bikini-style panties.

"Feel good?"


I wiggle my ass in his lap and whimper some more. Oh god, does it feel good, whatever he's doing to my clittie, it's driving me crazy! His hand is like a warm, intelligent vibrator, automatically synchronizing its speed precisely to my level of arousal... set, purposely, just one setting lower than what it would take to take me over the edge.


"Do you want to cum, baby?"


Nodding...yes, yes, yes!!!


"Ask me to let you come, tell me what a dirty girl you are."


Now it's my turn to be filled with the holy spirit, to speak in tongues. "Please, please let me come. I'm such a dirty... cocksucking girl... such a slut... my face... like cock... smells of cock... I'm... a... cocksucking... cum-swallowing... sissy-girl... oh... oh... oh..."


I lift my head from H's shoulder. My nightie is hiked up over my pierced navel, my panties pulled down, and I'm sitting side-saddle across a man's lap as he diddles my engorged clittie. My face smells like his crotch. My tummy is filled with his cum. The pale smooth flesh is exposed above my streetwalker-pink fishnet thigh-highs. My legs extend, trembling, and rigid as I approach orgasm, my feet arched inside the red platform sandals, my back arched, everything seems arched, if eyeballs could arch mine are arched...and then it happens.


"Are you going to wet your pretty nightie," H asks, scarcely a moment before I start helplessly shaking and spurting.


His hand has picked up that scarcely perceptible quarter-speed necessary for me to achieve escape velocity. As I shudder and gasp on his lap, achieving a kind of feathered apotheosis, I'm lost, floating within moments of timeless bliss, wide-eyed, blinded to everything, I see it clearly: paradise as celestial orgasm, just these peeks (and peaks) of pleasure, no more, no less, and in those moments, all we could ever desire of angels and heaven.


In the hazy, candlelit aftermath of bliss, I feel H peel the soaked nightie from my belly with a tsk-tsk expression of mock-disapproval.


"Look what a mess you made."


I gaze down over my exposed tummy and purr my contentment. He holds his palm, shining with my cum, in front of my face.


"Lick it clean, piggy-girl."


I lie back in his muscled arms again, close my eyes, and softly lap the cream I've made, quiet little pussycat tongue-strokes across his work-hardened palm...I taste clean, almost sweet, it must be the exclusive diet of fruits and veggies, nuts


and oats, I think, absently. I'm like some passive creature raised for milk and meat, to fuck and eat, gentle, soft, and yielding, here's my mouth my ass my throat master... it's all for you.

To be continued...

Oh, did I mention there are four chapters of this masterpiece?

Chapter 2, Pillow Talk with a Mouthful

Having changed into a short black chemise, I tiptoe around the bed and slip under the blankets next to H. His big body radiates heat and has already warmed the sheets. This is my favorite part of the evening. I curl up, snuggle close, almost clinging to him, like a koala bear on a eucalyptus tree.

“Moan like a koala”


He puts a heavily-muscled arm around my waist and pulls me even closer, his hand, burning like a brand, resting possessively on the bare cheek of my ass, a.k.a. his ass, as he occasionally likes to remind me.


"Whose ass is this?" he'll ask, giving me a playful—if still stinging—slap on the bottom. Or sticking his finger inside me without preamble.




"Don't forget it."


"I won't."


From where I lie nestled against his hairy chest, I stare up at the shadows of the roses that he brought me earlier in the evening; they're dancing hypnotically on the ceiling in the scant light of a scented tea candle. H. begins to reminisce in the dark. He's recalling the night he took me to an upscale restaurant along the shore. I was wearing

Godfuckingdammit I don’t care. Since review number one I’ve been bitching about clothing descriptions, and I gotta be honest, my 100% infallible opinion hasn’t changed.

an itsy-bitsy backless black mini-dress, silver heels, black thigh-highs. He tells me that as we walked up the stairs to the dining room he could see the exposed place between the tops of my stockings and my sheer panties.


"I swear," H says, "every guy at the bar turned and probably caught the same view."


"You think?"


"Oh yes baby. They caught a glimpse of that tight sweet ass of yours."


"Do you think they'd want to fuck me?"


"Oh I know they'd want to fuck you. You'd like that, too, wouldn't you?"




He lifts my hand off his shoulder and directs it under the sheets. His cock is stiffening.


"Next time we go away, I'm going to have you ask the desk clerk for the key and tell him you can't wait to get to the room so you can give your boyfriend a blowjob. Let me hear you say it, baby."


I do, in my best sissygirl voice, like a spoiled Lolita pouting for her cherry lollipop.


"Would you do that, baby? Next time we go away?"


I'm momentarily returned to my senses. Most probably, H is still only fantasizing, and is only looking for me to play along, but, then again, I'm not so sure. We've ended up actually doing many of the things that started out—and seemed to me at the time—only fantasies. For all I know, a week from now I could be standing in the shabby lobby of some David Lynchian motor lodge at two a.m. trying to force out these very words to an unamused homophobic clerk who'd like to see me at the end of a pitchfork.

Oh did I mention the protagonist is male?


Or transgender or something, I don’t know or care.

"Well," I say, with a balance and objective philosophical honesty not often found in pillow-talk (or any talk, for that matter), "I'd probably be too humiliated and nervous to get the words out. How about if you said something to the desk clerk like 'she can't wait to get upstairs to suck my cock' and then you can turn to me and say 'isn't that right, baby' and I'll like lick my lips and purr, 'oh yes…'"

"Hmm," H says, "I like that. Maybe you can give the clerk a little sample of what you do best. I know you'd have no trouble with that, would you, you little slut?"


"Oh you know I wouldn't," I murmur teasingly into his ear. "I'd suck off anyone you told me to suck off if I knew it would get you hard."


"I know you would baby. You'd do anything to please me, wouldn't you?"


"Oh yes…I would. Anything."


Under the sheets, his cock now fills my hand. I can feel it sliding, hot and hard, along my creased palm, the smooth already-slick viper head of it nestled against my inner wrist. No way is he going to be able to get to sleep with this between his legs.


"Look what you did, you naughty girl."


"What I did?" I nibble playfully at his neck.


Under the sheets, both hands go to work. I tease the underside of his cock with my fingertips, gently manipulate the foreskin up and down around the glans. I cup his balls, lightly run my fingernails over them.


"I think you're going to have to use that filthy mouth of yours again. What do you think?"


I smile and nod. "I think so too."


"Better get to it then, baby. Show me what that dirty mouth is good for. Show me what a sissy cocksucker you are."


And so I scoot down beneath the sheets and slowly feed H's erection between my lips.

Scoot, bottom, clittie—why am I so amused by the word choice in this story?

Lying on his back, hands behind his head on the pillow, he groans his satisfaction.


"That's it baby," he says softly, contentedly. "Take it all."


My hair hangs over my head as I bend over his crotch. The room is quiet except for the sound of my diligent slurping. H is in no hurry; he's taking his time. This is the way he'd like to fall asleep every night, I'd bet, slowly sucked to complete relaxation, his last few ounces of tension squirted out into the warm and willing mouth of his girl-slave-wife-whore-geisha-bitch-sissy.


After a bit, I lay my head lightly on the warm pillow of H's stomach and continue to suck, changing the angle and facilitating the ejaculation I can tell is nearing. There is a thin rod of buzzing—is it muscle, seminal fluid?—it's hard to tell exactly what it is but I feel it between my lips whenever H is getting ready to cum. It reminds me of the glowing filament in an electric bulb. When I sense it, that is my cue to lock in on the rhythm of my hand and mouth, coordinating them to his thrusts, letting him take over and dictate the pace as he begins bucking his hips off the mattress and pushing his now fully engorged—and engaged—cock in and out of my mouth.


Soon I'm rewarded with a spill of precum spreading across my tongue. I tighten my lips, forming a wet seal around his slippery shaft, tighten the ring of my fingers; my mouth, he says, feels like a hot wet pussy. I feel a rush of pride. The strangest things can make you happy.


Within a matter of seconds, H lets out a loud groan, then another even louder, and a third loudest of all. A far-off part of me wonders what the couple downstairs must be thinking—all night long my heels click-clock-clocking across the uncarpeted wood floors, then the occasional "cocksucker" "slut" "bitch" escaping, still audible, from H's erotic chitchat, and finally the rumbling roaring-groan of the male primate giving triumphant voice to its full sexual satisfaction at the moment of conquest.


They know there isn't a woman living here and they've no doubt seen H coming—and seen him leaving—often in the morning. Just from the look of him it would be obvious that H wasn't the "slut" and "bitch" they hear being ordered to her knees. That it's not me groaning with animal pleasure as I release the contents of my genitals into a compliant mouth. They might, by now, even be rolling their eyes as they lie in the bedroom under mine, and saying to each other, "That fairy upstairs is at it again."


It almost seems odd to me, not that it doesn't make a difference anymore what the neighbors think, but that it ever made a difference to begin with. If I reserve any of my former shame at all, it's hardly more than an old reflex, a vestigial remnant of an instinctual

Google Docs put a red underline under insinctual and I couldn’t take the story seriously anymore bye everyone.