/Choke
Power and the Facefuck
By Chelsea G. Summers
Its kinetic springiness is a draw, as is its shape that seems cheery vaguely Teletubby in silhouette. Its weightiness, that thud-threatening heft of it, compels. The thousand or more idiosyncrasies particular to each individual—an arcing curve heavenward, a sweep to the right, a bend sinister, even a martial ramrod straightness—engenders affection. Likewise the spectrum of colors, the emboldened empurpled, the impudent scarlet, the feisty raspberry, the creamy vanilla, or the stouthearted blackberry. But it is above all the mouthfeel of a cock that impels me. It is the cock’s ubiquitous velvet-on-steel texture that my mouth—and throat—appreciate.
I feel used, abused and rosy with pride.
What makes it remarkable is its ability to disappear cock like a tawdry, tatty spangled carnie lass swallowing a shiny sword.
Technically, it is not my mouth’s skill. Technically, my throat would be the skilled laborer in this cock-gobbling, this dick-wolfing, this prick-scarfing at which I am so adept. In short, I am endowed by nature and/or nurture with the ability to deep-throat, and it’s a craft I prize deeply. My first kiss was a French kiss, and my first blowjob went deep. My gag reflex is whimsical; it raises its hairy hackles at the introduction of a toothbrush, but a cock can pass with pearlescent aplomb.
Taking a cock into my mouth and down my throat, I court the showman’s razzle-dazzle. Now you see it, now you don’t. Prestidigitation gains erotic luster when it rejects the banal card or the pedestrian nickel and in their quotidian stead takes up the noble cock. Men like to watch, I’ve noticed. Eye contact, in my art as in a magician’s, is key. In mine, however, there is a lot less idle patter. I don’t like to talk with my mouth full.
It should be called “blow-play,” not “blowjob” because it’s less work than it is fun. A unique organism, each blowjob unrolls with its own peculiar Isadora Duncan rhythm. Slow and slurping, quick-time sucking, fingers sliming in time, or hands-free as a stylistic device: I tailor the head to its recipient. I am the prime mover, and it brings me deep, wet, pink pleasure. Control is the name of the deep-throating game, at least until it is not.
When the blowjob turns that seedy corner into the dark alley that is face-fucking, control is no longer mine. My skills, my play, my mouth cease to matter. The lips, the mouth, the throat, they become not much more than another cylinder of wet pink flesh and I am merely along for the ride. My lover wraps my hair in his fist like the reins of a half-broken horse and he rides my face at a gallop, pistoning his thick dick with thoughtless, somatic, and often painful, imprecision. Make no mistake: it hurts to be face-fucked, regardless how able a sword-swallower you are. The pain is integral.
© Tony Ward 2009
The chimerical change from the pattering shower of blowjob to the howling tornado that is face-fucking can happen just that quick. A hand on the back of my head, the pneumatic drill of hips, and I am suddenly hanging on for the ride, my gag reflex capriciously engaged, my gorge rising, my will pressing it back, my head speaking a silent prayer for quick release, and my pussy liquefying faster than an ice cube on Route 66 in August. Face-fucking is a paradoxical thing, with teeth. Held hard, I hold fast and hope for the best.
After, I am left raw-ragged and red. My throat burns. Popsicles gain a renewed charm. I feel used, abused and rosy with pride. A blowjob well done is a thing of beauty, but a face-fucking gladly endured (nose slamming pubic bone; testes tap-tap-tapping at the chin; breathing an afterthought; lips friction numb; peristalsis dispatching with thrumming, pumping, jetting spunk) is a thing of true grit. You have to respect a girl—or a guy—who will take it like a well-trained bitch.
(Turnabout is, of course, fair play. Any man who puts me on my knees, wraps his fist in my hair, and makes me pray for air and spit enough to breathe and lubricate (respectively), deserves to have his face ridden. Him on his back, I straddle his mouth and, wary of teeth, grind his nose and chin and broad pink tongue until sweating and tremulous, I erupt banshee-wailing and come wet and gliding on his open, kowtowing mouth. Any lover bold enough to fuck my face with his seven-inch-dick can expect to be paid back in kind, and like it. Props to he whose chin is fortuitously placed and rolls easily like a giant Aggie or a Steely into the divot of my vagina. A well-formed chin cannot be over-praised.)
“Force” can connote such ugly things. Except, of course, when that force serves as the blank check for our so poorly hidden desires. Mouth agape, lips pressed out like a choirgirl, throat open, my gag reflex and I sit with pleasure at the tipping point. We don’t always want to be taken advantage of—and certainly not before summoning that thick, viscous porn-starry spit—but that doesn’t mean we don’t. And yet, sometimes in this supplicant and sucking position, whether flat on my back, propped on my knees, squatting, sitting, or standing, force sounds like release. Fuck my face and set me free.
After, I am left raw-ragged and red. My throat burns. Popsicles gain a renewed charm. I feel used, abused and rosy with pride. A blowjob well done is a thing of beauty, but a face-fucking gladly endured (nose slamming pubic bone; testes tap-tap-tapping at the chin; breathing an afterthought; lips friction numb; peristalsis dispatching with thrumming, pumping, jetting spunk) is a thing of true grit. You have to respect a girl—or a guy—who will take it like a well-trained bitch.
(Turnabout is, of course, fair play. Any man who puts me on my knees, wraps his fist in my hair, and makes me pray for air and spit enough to breathe and lubricate (respectively), deserves to have his face ridden. Him on his back, I straddle his mouth and, wary of teeth, grind his nose and chin and broad pink tongue until sweating and tremulous, I erupt banshee-wailing and come wet and gliding on his open, kowtowing mouth. Any lover bold enough to fuck my face with his seven-inch-dick can expect to be paid back in kind, and like it. Props to he whose chin is fortuitously placed and rolls easily like a giant Aggie or a Steely into the divot of my vagina. A well-formed chin cannot be over-praised.)
“Force” can connote such ugly things. Except, of course, when that force serves as the blank check for our so poorly hidden desires. Mouth agape, lips pressed out like a choirgirl, throat open, my gag reflex and I sit with pleasure at the tipping point. We don’t always want to be taken advantage of—and certainly not before summoning that thick, viscous porn-starry spit—but that doesn’t mean we don’t. And yet, sometimes in this supplicant and sucking position, whether flat on my back, propped on my knees, squatting, sitting, or standing, force sounds like release. Fuck my face and set me free.
- 07/01/2009
