Leah Lays London

First London date June 30, 2010

Once I am naked, he cuffs my hands behind my back and pushes me onto the sofa. He undresses to his socks and stands before me. His shaft is thick, the head engorged with blood, but he isn’t fully erect yet. The kissing before hadn’t made him so. His cock points downward, the head hanging to one side a little lower than his balls.

I crane forward from where I am seated, bowing my head, stretching my jaws, bringing my lips around the glans. Making a seal around the front part of the shaft, I fill my mouth with spit and swish it around the head. My tongue moves slowly from side to the side, along the bottom surface. The consistency of the flesh changes once it has been inside the warmth and wetness of my mouth for a minute. The shaft elongates. The cock straightens, and it rises.

I go to the floor. My thighs nudge his legs apart, and, balancing on my toes, I wedge myself in the space this creates. Pursing my lips, I take more of the shaft inside. My head nods over him. He keeps his pubis trimmed, I notice from up close. The weather has been warm. The scent between his legs is musky and fragrant, though not an overpowering sensation. It smells masculine. I like it.

I look him in the eyes as I suck him, rotating my face around the shaft as I take the cock fractionally deeper inside. My hair caresses my cheeks as I move. I make slurping noises. I pool the spit on my tongue and layer it over him. There are bubbles of air in the saliva that coats the top side of the cock. My spit drips from the bottom of the shaft in viscous cords that rain on my thigh.

I test whether he likes a gentle use of teeth. The tension in the muscles of his groin and thigh suggest to me that he doesn’t. I change tactics. Pouting my lips, I focus my attention on the head. My tongue presses the knob against the roof of my mouth. His glans makes my cheek bulge. I taste precome now and make appreciative moaning noises while I suck. My eyes are big and wide and constantly looking up at him. It is difficult to keep my balance without the use of hands.

When an especially long rope of saliva dangles from his shaft, I use my mouth to catch it and then spread the wetness over his balls. My tongue flattens. I drag it over the wrinkly skin. Then I slide my mouth along the side of the shaft, as though I am playing a harmonica. Lips apply unequal pressure as I blow over the skin. I use my tongue to feel out the veins that pump the blood through his penis. Capturing his head again, I alternate between sucking his cock and lipping his balls.

The man has been completely impassive throughout most of the blowjob. I would have appreciated a verbal response, feedback, encouragement, hands in my hair, a grip on my breasts, fingers stroking my back, his touch reaching for my cunt. Instead, he is content to stand there without making contact. His eyes are for the most part lidded shut, so my upward glances have little effect. But they are there if he wants them. I suck him as a duty.

Abruptly, he crosses over behind me and seats himself, then reconsiders and reclines backward on the sofa. One foot is on the floor; his other leg extends out. Does he want me to keep fellating him or climb on top? He doesn’t say. I reposition myself to the side and continue with the blowjob. I pay attention to the scrotum first, sucking each hemisphere, latching on with lips, curling my tongue, pressing its bottom against the skin, which has now tightened up. I bat the point against the testicle, flicking upward, and investigate its shape and how it moves inside the sac.

His cock swerves slightly to the left. I discover that this new angle is better for sucking. I can take him deeper now more comfortably. The head sinks into my throat. I am certain I can deepthroat his length, but because he has been so silent, I decide not to make the effort. I roll my head with his shaft embedded partway down instead. Spit runs freely now. The saliva trails along the shaft and falls over his groin. The whiteness of it reminds me of semen, of course. I let it collect at the base and suck it up and wash his glans with it.

He has a hitch in his throat. His breathing has become sharper, deeper, more expressive. I rotate my head faster in response. I fuck his cock in and out of my mouth, always keeping the front third inside while I bob over the middle. Because I want him to come, I suck hard. I make my tongue soft and level it up against the underside as a tactile counterpoint to the force my lips apply on the shaft. My breasts press against his thigh. There is a strain in my shoulders. I am glad we are nearing the end.

He tells me he is coming a moment before he does. My lips tighten at once around the circumcision scar, and I lap at the glans where it indents. The orgasm bursts out in a single liquid spurt. There are aftershocks, but these add only a little more semen to the initial jet. He tastes of salt and bleach. I hold the come in my mouth and spit it back onto the shaft. Then I press my face in it and take it up again. My tongue licks carefully at the edges and over his groin to ensure that I have recaptured all that he has given me. I swallow and crawl onto his body. He doesn’t kiss me.

In truth, this wasn’t among my hundred best blowjobs. But neither was this man sufficiently collaborative in sex. When we fuck later, I confirm my first impression. I don’t spend the night.