Date: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 17:35:05 -0700
From: ian wylde <wyldenights@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Erotic Adventures of Jack, the Omni-Sexual Detective, Installment 5

The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.  As such, all
characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind.
Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence.
If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual
nature, you shouldn"t be reading this.  For those under eighteen,
experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with
your mind enough after you reach adulthood.  You really don't need a head
start.

Now, without further delay, back to the story!

                          10

                  Sloppy Wet Blowjob

That night, as I wandered home after smoking copious quantities of Izzy's
sticky buds, consumed during the premier screening of Cum Splattered Faces
#16 (which I found infinitely superior to the first fifteen installments),
and with my head filled with the memory of the SWB I'd received from Izzy's
Mom (and the subsequent splooge of cum with which I'd splattered her face),
I coincidentally stumbled into the Zebulon parking lot.  Not sure how that
happened, but there it is.

I was horny, of course, and stoned, and feeling the strangest tingling
sensation in my mouth.  What to do?  What to do?

I flashed back to my first sojourn into the black and purple building and
the scene I'd witnessed while being molested by two strangers at the rear
of the theater and opening myself up to a possible gangbang.  The image of
that unknown brazen individual who'd been busying himself on his knees,
with a cock in each hand and another in his obviously willing mouth,
swirled about in my brain pan and sent tingles of pleasure to the junction
between my legs.

Unfortunately, I did not, at that moment, have the ten-dollar admission fee
upon my person, and so performing an imitation of the incident would be
problematic, at best.  I could have used my bank card, I suppose, but adult
theaters of the Zebulon variety did then and always have seemed to me as
more down-low, cash-only establishments.  This had and has nothing to do
with any desire on my part to remain anonymous, primarily because I don't
give a shit what anyone else thinks of me, but the underground vibe added a
certain mystery and, therefore, secret juiciness to the enterprise, and so
cash seemed the way to go.  Whatever the reason, I chose not to venture
inside, but this still left me with the desire to suck something.

What to do?

As I contemplated this dilemma while wandering toward the picnic bench
nestled in its dark corner, a late model luxury sedan pulled onto the lot.
It slowly made its way up and down the three rows of parking, where several
cars sat spaced at random, far away from each other.  Back and forth
through the rows it swam, like a shark searching for dinner, its lights
splashing me each time it reached my end of the lot.  I stood there like a
deer in the headlights, watching it go by.  Finally, it came to a stop at
the edge nearest the picnic table, with its nose pointed straight at me.
Its lights held me in their glare for several moments, before winking out
and bathing that entire corner in darkness.  I stood there for an
indeterminate period of time, my head filled with the soft, fuzzy feeling
of the sticky buds, and my trouser-hostage throbbing inside my tight jeans.
In the silence, I heard the hum of the power window as it went down.

Could it be an invitation?  I wondered.

My hands – previously hanging limp at my sides – developed a mind of
their own and set out on an expedition to explore the contours of my
clothed butt.  Like the grand adventurers they were, ever-seeking new and
uncharted territory, they gave my ass a playful squeeze then moved on to
the front of my pants and traced the outline of my erection.  Granted, this
region of my anatomy was neither new, nor uncharted, and axiomatically
granted, `tis the journey and not the destination that makes the rigors of
travel worthwhile, but in this case, the destination was the point, as it
were, and so my wandering appendages spent (some might suggest) an
inordinate amount of time rummaging around along the tubular length and
adding a brief side-trip down to the blue jean-encased scrotum and the
dancing nerve endings found therein.

Yes, well, be that as it may, in any event, and Onward Christian Soldiers,
I appeared to be at another one of those crossroads.  I could abandon this
insanity and make my way home to a hot shower and some furious
masturbation, or I could step onto this path toward an unknown but almost
certainly erotic future.

Masturbation... Cocksucking... Masturbation... Cocksucking...

What to do?

As usual, my dick (and its shockingly low IQ) decided for

me.

I walked toward the driver's side of the car in question, my entire groin
region tingling with static electricity as if I'd just been rubbing a wool
sweater while shuffling my feet along shag carpeting.  Why I would be
wearing wool on a warm spring night and what I would be doing on a shag
carpet that had not been in style since before I was born are questions
best left to silent reflection, as one might do with the inquiry of whether
or not falling trees make a sound without witnesses, and in any case, makes
not one whit of difference to the topic at hand.

All-in-all, however, I found it rather entertaining.

Throwing caution (and common sense) to the wind, I ever-so casually leaned
against the roof of the sedan and said:

"Would you like a nice sloppy wet blowjob?"

"Get in," came the whispered reply.

                            ??

We all have moments in our lives where action and reaction, cause and
effect, the road less-travelled, and the path not taken provide us with an
object lesson in responsible decision-making.  Murphy's Law being what it
is, this educational opportunity tends to only present itself after the
fact, however, and so offers no guide when it is most needed.  Such is
life, I suppose, damn it all.

Sometimes, however, life presents us with what we need, in spite of our own
best intentions (or worst manipulations).  Sometimes God (or the Goddess,
or Allah, or Buddha, or Krishna, or Fate, or luck, or happenstance, or
whatever best suits your belief system) closes a door only to open a
window.

I did not want to run into the Right Reverend Artemis Collingswood in a
dark parking lot on a dark night with delicious thoughts of oral sex
running through my pleasantly stoned brain.  I did not want to suck his
dick – at least not his, specifically.  I did not want to become privy
to the one tidbit of inside information capable of putting a stop to his
repressive, discriminatory, hypocritical and morally-superior regime.  But
it is possible I needed to.  And it is possible our fair community and its
innocent, yet horny people needed me to.

Or, perhaps this is all so much self-aggrandizing bullshit.  Time will
tell.

                            ??

The interior of the car smelled like vanilla and cigars – a pretty
disgusting combination when you think about it, but my mind at the moment
found itself occupied with other matters; namely, the car's occupant.  He
was an older man, distinguished-looking, with wind tunnel-tested white
hair, recently trimmed and combed back, revealing one of those faces you
normally associate with politicians or televangelists.  Or, in his case (I
would later find out), both.

We sat in silence at first, waiting for the dome light to turn off and
bathe us in the darkness the scenario seemed to require.  I watched a
silver cross on a chain swing back and forth as it dangled from the
rearview mirror, its arc growing smaller with each pass, yet still imbued
with a hypnotic quality.

I could hear the man mumbling to himself – nothing intelligible, no
single word I could discern; a baritone hum, deep and low, and mildly
disturbing.  I chose to ignore it.

At the eventual and automatic extinguishing of the dome light, I slid my
knee up onto the seat and turned to face him.  "So..." I said, if for no
other reason than to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Suck my cock, sinner" he replied.  The "sinner" bit seemed odd, but I let
it go, mainly because most of my cerebral function was focused on a desire
to create strange sucking noises, thus proving conclusively the general
lack of said function.  I also thought there should have been a bit more
preamble – foreplay, if you will – but he apparently felt getting
straight to the business at hand to be a more appropriate response.

Fair enough.  I suppose neither one of us held any illusions about what
this was.  He wanted to receive a blowjob, and I wanted to give him one;
simple as that.  No muss, no fuss, no, Of course I'll respect you in the
morning – just good, clean American oral sex.  So be it.

I flipped up the arm rest-thing in the middle as he leaned his electronic
seat back and set the steering wheel upward to give me room.  I'd been in
this situation before, though on the receiving end and in the driver's
seat, but I understood the mechanics of doing it the other way around.  The
only thing left was for me to get started.

I ran my hand up his inner thigh until it came to rest on his crotch.  What
I felt there seemed only semi-hard; a condition I'd seen in numerous porno
movies, but that I'd never understood.

My dick gets hard the moment there's even the hint of the possibility of
maybe having some form of sexual contact at some point.  It's either soft
or ready-to-go.  There has never been an in-between.  But still, it takes
all kinds, and each person experiences sex in their own way.  My task,
then, was to see if I couldn't help him along.

I massaged him for a few moments and felt the necessary effect growing in
my hand, but it seemed clear from the expression on his face that he had
little desire to play around.  He wanted nothing more than to jump straight
to the main event.

                           ??

Since I first branched out to include men into my sexual repertoire, I have
found this to be the case about seventy percent of the time, and I've never
understood it.  From my experience, men – most men in the kind of
homosexual situations I've found myself in, anyway – would rather skip
the formalities and go right to fucking.  I, on the other hand, love sex in
all its wide variety, and if I were forced to choose, I would rather play
than fuck.

Also from my experience, I apparently share this desire with most women,
who often complain of other men's fumbling oafishness.  I can relate.

I adore the female body, which I suppose is why I also delight in shemale
bodies, provided those bodies are more feminine than masculine.  The comic
clichι about the drag queen sporting a hairy chest and a full beard
proves the old saw about many a truth being said in jest, and so for me,
the feminine – that touch of the Goddess – while not non-negotiable,
is nevertheless my preference.  Casting such preferential things aside,
this adoration leads me to revel in the delight of playing with the
feminine body.

But since I also like all sex, this playful attitude extends to whomever I
happen to be playing with – male or female, masculine or feminine.  My
reasons are quite simple.  Giving someone an orgasm, when done properly, is
(I think) the nicest thing you can do for another person.  If you take the
time to play, if you concentrate on giving them pleasure – in whatever
form that pleasure takes – and you proceed with the attitude of doing it
for them, and not to them, then you're not just fucking.  You're doing
something more.

Granted, the act of anonymous sex (and let's face it: that's what I was
having) doesn't really lend itself to an affectionate sharing of pleasure.
It really isn't about that.  It's about getting off, period.  I understand
it, in a clinical sort of way.  But I don't have to agree with it.  I get
off best when I'm giving someone else an orgasm – especially one of the
screaming-variety.  And if I can make their legs twitch
uncontrollably...Woo, Baby!

But maybe that's just me.

                             ??

I undid his belt, unfastened his pants, pulled down his zipper, and hooked
my fingers into the waistband of his underwear then said, "Lift up." He did
not, at first, appear to understand what I wanted, so I made it perfectly
clear.
  "It works better without pants."

He snorted, and I could see him blush, even in the darkness, but he got the
point and thrust his hips up off the seat, allowing me to remove the fabric
impediment to his object of my sucking desire.  It stuck out roughly five
inches, with a prominent mushroom-head and about a two-inch girth, and with
its base surrounded by a tuft of coarse hair.  His ball-sack felt full when
I pulled it out from the confines of his legs.  I could smell his musk –
an altogether pleasant aroma – and I could see a drop of pre-cum pooling
at the tip.

"Suck it," he commanded, as if I hadn't already planned on doing that very
thing.

I dropped one knee into the foot-well and leaned across the seat, as a
thought began swirling around in my delightfully dirty mind.  It bounced
off my forebrain, received a nice juice of lust from my animal brain,
careened around and through my cerebellum, and danced from synapse to
synapse, performing a final lewd pirouette before flashing the following
notion onto the porno screen in my head: If I weren't wearing pants, and
with one knee underneath me and the other down below the seat, and with my
ass stuck up in the air, just so, I would present an ever-so fuckable
picture to anyone who might come up behind me.  Interesting...

                          ??

I love my mind.  It keeps me entertained.

                          ??

I stroked him as I slid the head between my lips, savoring the taste of
cock – a flavor sensation I still enjoy to this day.  I worked it into
my mouth, sucking him as my fingers tickled his balls, sliding him in and
out, covering him with saliva from my throat, just as Izzy's Mom had shown
me.

                           ??

The phallus is a superb creation in my opinion.  Its shape, its texture,
and most of all its taste are a pleasure to behold, to touch, to lick, to
suck, to shower with affection (and saliva), to test the tonsils and tickle
the back of the throat, to stroke and milk until you get to the creamy
center.

Artists have rendered it, troubadours have sung its praises, poets have
showered it with prose and prostitutes have made gobs and gobs of money
from its manipulation (hey – hookers are people too).  Ninety-or-more
percent of the porn industry is devoted to it, in one way or another.  Its
image adorns the walls of ancient temples.  It is the ultimate male symbol.

But since every silver-lining needs a cloud, it's also the source of
extraordinary stupidity.  Millions, billions, perhaps trillions of dollars
have been wasted because of it. People have been murdered and wars have
begun as a result of it going where it shouldn't.  Marriages have ended
(and more than a few have begun) because its owner stuck it here, there,
everywhere.

And ultimately (and happily for the narrative purposes of this tale) its
desire to be sucked helped to cause the fall of one seriously hypocritical
asshole.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

                          ??

I knew this girl once who loved oral sex even more (if that's even
possible) than Izzy's Mom.  Here's what she told me:

	"I don't give head.  I don't perform fellatio (her emphasis).  I
don't give blowjobs."  She paused in her declaration (and the oral
ministrations she was performing on yours' truly) and gave me a smile
ribald and lascivious enough to make Pan himself need to fan his face to
cool down.  "I suck dick," she finished with a prideful and enthusiastic
flourish.

And then she gave me a demonstration.

You know what they say: Attitude is everything.

                           ??

If his moans of pleasure and calls for the Divine Creator weren't an
indication that he was enjoying my efforts, then the guy must have been
either a consummate actor or a serious masochist.  It wasn't long before I
had my answer.  I felt a hard spasm in his penis as his hips bucked once,
twice, a third time, and then a flood of hot cum shot into my mouth.  I
spit it back out while still sucking on him, covering his already-softening
erection with his own juices, as he let out a low growl.

My own cock twitched inside my pants, and I thought for a moment that I
might cum myself, but I was saved the embarrassing wet spot when I arched
my back, pulling my somewhat painful erection away from the edge of the
seat.  This stuck my ass back into the air and the ever-so fuckable image
flew back into my brain.  I nearly came then, as well, and only the
emergency standby image of Hillary Clinton naked pulled me back from the
brink.

                           ??

It pays to have such an image on file.  More than once, it's saved me from
public embarrassment.

                           ??

I wiped my mouth with my left hand and leaned back into the seat, turning
and once again facing forward.  I breathed deep in an effort to slow my
racing heart and blew the air out through pursed lips, and then looked at
the man whose dick I'd so recently been sucking.

I'm not sure what I expected from him.  In the past, when I'd been on the
receiving end, I'd always given the blowjob-er a kiss, if for no other
reason than it seemed the polite thing to do, but I had neither the
intention nor the desire to get one from my new anonymous friend.

Don't get me wrong: I love kissing.  It's probably my favorite thing to do,
but I don't like kissing men.  Not sure why.  Maybe it's the roughness of
the whiskers or whatever, but in any case, it's not my cup of tea, and in
this case, the point was moot, because he showed no inkling of an
indication of a desire to do so.

In fact, it seemed clear from everything about him: his posture, his
pointed not looking in my direction, the, I want to be anywhere but here
expression on his face; he wanted me gone.

                            ??

In retrospect, and with the benefit of hindsight and information to which I
was not then privy, I think he wanted something else, something darker and
more violent.  But like the family who chose at the last minute to cancel
their Trans-Atlantic trip on the Titanic, the little psychic twinkle we all
have from time to time told me it was time to go.

                            ??

I pulled the door handle with my right hand (the one without cum on it) and
exited the vehicle, closing the door behind me and walking away without
uttering a single syllable.  I stumbled over to the picnic table as I heard
his engine start behind me.  My heart raced, my cock throbbed and my left
hand felt sticky with cum.  I needed a cigarette.  I needed to sit down
before I fell down.  I needed something to clean my hand.

I found a small pile of leaves next to the table and wiped myself as best I
could; spitting a few more times for good measure, just to make sure I
wouldn't swallow anything.  As I parked my butt atop the table, I pulled a
cigarette from the pack in my shirt, lit it, and dragged deep.

Time (once again) to take stock: Okay, so, I'd just had someone cum in my
mouth for the first time, tossing common sense and safe sex practices right
out the damned window.  I rationalized that I hadn't swallowed and so
should be okay – the famous last words of the monumentally stupid –
and in any event, the thing was done and I couldn't do anything to change
the fact, except for getting myself to the clinic for an HIV test just as
soon as humanly possible (I did, the next day and tested fine, although;
with the extended incubation period, it was the physical equivalent of
whistling through the graveyard).

                             ??

As I am writing this well after the fact, it should be noted that I did not
and have not contracted any disease (fatal or otherwise) but this does not
make me any less of a complete moron.  I swear, sometimes I'm astonished at
my own blithering idiocy.

                            ??

Be that as it may, and at the risk of seeming to diminish my stupidity, at
the time, these things were not at the forefront of my thought processes,
limited though they may have been.  What was, was the not unpleasant taste
of cum in my mouth.

I'd tasted my own before, of course, both by benefit of having kissed the
girls and/or women who'd been kind enough to allow me to cum in their
mouths, as well as by having – out of basic curiosity – done so after
masturbating.  Tasting someone else's, however, was entirely different.
I'm sure part of it has to do with the fact that different people are
different, and so it is logical to assume that different people's sperm
tastes different, but there seemed to be something more at work here.  I'd
just had someone cum in my mouth.  There's a first time for everything, and
that was mine, but the concept seemed a bit more complicated than such a
simple explanation would suggest.  That said, such contemplation was well
past my capacity at that moment, and so I contented myself with cataloguing
the many and varied delightful sensations fluttering about my thoroughly
aroused body.

Everything from the top of my skull to the tip of my toes tingled.  My
nipples were as erect as my penis, which throbbed with pleasure and sent
sparks of erotic energy to my still-tender ass that was at the moment
squirming on the table.  No question about it: I was in horn-dog heaven.  I
wanted to fuck.  I wanted to be fucked.  I wanted to wallow in a non-stop
fuck-fest of colossal proportions – a veritable Woodstock of fucking.  I
wanted to stick my cock in someone and have someone else stick their cock
right straight up my ass and absolutely pound me.

                            ??

I'd be getting what I wanted the very next day.

I'd be getting it from a lesbian.

...To Be Continued...

Dear Reader: I hope you are enjoying this ongoing saga of moral hypocracy
and (of course) sloppy wet blowjobs.  If so, please let me know.  If not,
also please let me know.  I value all of your input.  Who knows..? If I can
get this thing published, maybe what you tell me can become part of
something that could be around for a long time.  Or not...

In any case, keep reading and Support Nifty!!!

Ian Wylde