I come from the ‘meh’ camp of 69ing, really feeling that there’s just too much going on, that the distraction of his face in-between my legs effected the quality of the blow job I was giving too much, and in turn, the guilt from that detrimentally effected the pleasure I could receive from oral. Which was a drag, because receiving oral is one of my all-time favourite things. I firmly believed it was better to take turns, fully concentrate on him, then maybe fully concentrate on me. Or the other way round, I’m not fussy like that. But recently, (and let this be an endorsement for the ‘full and frank communication’ school of sexual pleasure) I have had an epiphany.
The conversation went a bit like this;
“Yeah but, I don’t fully enjoy 69ing because it feels so good that I get distracted and can’t do my job so I have to hold back so it doesn’t feel so good so that I don’t fall apart with your cock in my mouth….”
“But I love it when you fall apart with my cock in my mouth. That’s best bit about 69ing.”
“Yeah, but I feel like I ought to hold it together…”
“But I love the feeling of you trying it hold it together, and then the feeling of you falling apart with my cock in your mouth… That’s the best bit about 69ing.”
“Yeah but, even when I’m coming I just feel bad that you’re not coming because I was distracted and my technique was all off.”
“But I love the feeling of you coming like that, and I love the feeling of you trying to hold it together, and I love it when you fall apart with my cock in your mouth. That’s the best bit about 69ing.”
You get the picture; the very thing I was hung up on is the very thing he likes the best. It took me 20 years to work this out. I figured we’d give it another go.
I straddle him, his face and fingers are in me, I suck his cock with my hand cupped around his balls or stroking him. I squirm at his touch but he holds me firmly to him with the crook of his arms looped through my thighs holding me in place. Soon I’m getting sloppy and I can’t be held responsible for rhythm any more, I rest my head on the inside of his thigh and take his cock deep into my mouth, I’m suckling on it now, it fits perfecting into the soft roof of my mouth and I pressing it with the flat of my tongue. Low murmurs of pleasure are hummed between my lips and his length. It’s so wet. I’m sucking like his cock is the only thing keeping me tethered to myself. I try to regroup and organise my face into more useful action, to make more techniqued movements like I see the girls on the films do. But I’m not the girls on the films, I’m messy and happy and I’m going to let this engulf me, not artfully or correctly, or egalitarianly, but guiltlessly and joyfully. He ups his pace too, the flat, spongy surface of this thumb slipping over me, his tongue busy. I’m losing track of which fingers are where. I’m losing track of everything.
He feels every part of my orgasm, my toes flex into is forearms and my cunt clenches on his hand. Involuntarily my hips push me into his face, greedily rubbing myself closer, faster onto him. The muscles in my stomach harden onto his and my spine curls. He holds me tightly on to him, he has control of every part of me, even my breath and moans are muffled by him. He is in me and around me, under me and over me in every way. I let go of myself.
Do I feel guilty that I got distracted and my technique was off? Do I fuck. There’s plenty of ways to even things up.