MMF: A Woman's View Pt. 2

So many penises, so little time!

There are two sexual events I have not been able to figure: The first is the simplicity of two men and one woman. The second is white men and black women—the perfect pair? Oh, how black women would love to be coddled and enjoyed and pampered, which is something I know they yearn for. Yet the obvious need of each has fallen somehow on deaf ears.

The MMF threesome is the perfect scenario. Swinging is actually a very difficult event to accomplish—to find that one perfect other couple you and your husband get along just right with. The right personality, the physical attraction—and yet, somehow, to not fall for the other in a romantic way. Even more difficult is to find four people who are in the mood for sex at the same time. Getting two people in the mood at the same time is often a feat unto itself—but four?

The MMF threesome is extremely easy. It actually involves only two people. Your husband will want to spend most of his watching you move with your lover, watching you orgasm from a perspective he's never seen. He will think you're beautiful and loving, as he watches you pitch your throes of femininity at someone else, perhaps a perfect stranger. So the only real hook up, so to speak, is you to find a willing male partner. But this, too, can be troublesome.

Most women fail to realize they understand more about male sexuality than men. Men may go their entire life without ever seeing another man's erection. The sight of that first erection, especially when it's pointed at you, can be both terrifying and erotic for your husband. He suddenly gets what it's all about—what it's about to be a woman, to be able to take that big hairy monster into her body and drain it of its life.

But finding a male partner is also difficult. Many men spend their entire life trying their darndest to prevent those unwanted and embarrassing erections. Now, they're expected to have one—in front of you and your husband. They're expected to get an erection and make love to you, often with your husband climbing between your legs to get a bird's eye view of your connection. For the other man to achieve an orgasm is more difficult, and sadly, not often pleasurable for them. For while they're pumping away at you, they are aware of the man seated behind him, watching his cock slide in and out of you. It's almost embarrassing to ejaculate that way. Too often my lover locked his knees together at the point of no return, to hide is orgasm from my husband, to hold me tight and enjoy it with me.

For all involved, a great maturity is required.

But first:

My, the hate mail I have received. There's letters about incest, fathers and daughters, sex with aliens—yet my short and concise statement of this couples preference for male-male-threesomes gets hate mail and death threats. Why is this? What strange nerve has this lady hit?

I very distinctly pointed out anatomical differences I have noticed between black men and white men—that the "black is bigger" is a myth. But do the differences stop there? No. I remarked that most of the black men I have slept with are uncircumsised, and there is a variation in the consistency of their semen. For this, I was called a "whore".

(BTW, ladies, I actually recommend NOT to sleep with black men. They want to fuck you in front of your husband for revenge. They don't like you. They hate your husband. They want to fuck you because you're white. Yes, they will give a girl a proper good time, but for all the wrong reasons. If we allow another man into our bed, it's so I can be the object of desire and enjoy the thrill of multiple partners. I am not here to settle the score, and I repeatedly get that feeling from my black partners. Watch out)

But do I sleep with black men? Sometimes. Does my husband find it exciting? The contrast is exciting, yes. Are they "different"? Well, their penises are curved, and the name "black banana" comes to mind.But make sure he is there for your pleasure, and not to degrade you.

Maybe the death threats came from the fact that I said "size matters." It does. Throw out all that politically correct bullshit, men—women like size on their men. It just feels better. Part of it is psychological. But most of it is this splendid "full" feeling a large penis provides us. It's like a long, warm rubbery baton. Small just doesn't fulfill the need (that's probably a few more death threats, but it's really time we take their Playboys and big boobs and stick it up their asses).

We have to sit and listen to your fantasies about screwing our sister and best friend together with us. In fact, the dawn of female sexuality is not only coming—it has arrived. We simply are asking you to share it with us. Instead of drooling over two women, we're drooling over two men. And we love it. Know what happens after a couple starts swinging? The husbands usually drop out, and the wife takes over fucking numerous partners into oblivion. We finally feel free, liberated. No more goody girls. No more barefoot and pregnant. We're here with the anatomy built for fun, and watch what happens when you unleash us.

You can do whatever you want—just let your husband watch.

Mainstream pornography is terrible. It simply misses the mark and excludes so many women—and actually, men too. The men are ugly, and the acts barbaric. The infamous "money shot" which is the catch –all of all porn. Really, how many women like a man to ejaculate on their face? Not many I know, maybe one or two. How many women like to hold their vagina open and show how it's wet from a lover? Please, how infantile! Men are glued to porn because they are voyeurs—it gives them an absurd opportunity to get closer to another male's forbidden sexuality without experiencing it. So many men see dangling flaccid penises laying somewhere, on a beach or shower, and sit there and imagine, "That was in a woman?" or "That came inside a woman?" Face it, you do. And then you look at another man's testicles and what they produce, and you make a connection between your wife or girlfriend's past lovers. There is the mentality of the biological process itself that triggers this. Afterall, when a man ejaculates, he is giving something to his female lover, and there is a part of him she is taking home with her. It's his sperm. Only his balls can make that particular dose. Only his prostate can make that semen. And each ejaculate, like each penis it comes from, is unique to that person. And the fact that a man 'marks his territory' with each sex act is extremely possessory and psychologically devastating to the average male ego. We've been marked, and there's no getting around it.

But we don't generally regard our lover's orgasm as the end all—men do. It's only the end all in that make believe world of porn. Men are marking us when they release, which is why they're so against condoms. It's like they are missing their mark. But for women, the problems are just beginning—I hope I don't get pregnant. I hope I don't catch anything. Now I have to walk around with the stuff dripping out of me all day. What an embarrassing smell; I hope no one notices. The man's mark is the woman's distress.

The taste? Terrible. We don't let you come in our mouth because we love the taste. We generally only let you come in our mouth when we want to conquer you. That's why we swallow when we're dating, but it fizzles after we've been together awhile—we conquered you. Time to move on. That's why we're more apt to swallow a lover's semen during a new experience—to conquer. It doesn't mean we love you less. It's just the female instinct to prove herself. To feel him shiver and tremble like an innocent puppy in the rain, and to hold his penis in our mouth until there's nothing he can do about it; until the poor lad has no choice and that trigger takes over. We swallow and feel him soften knowing we have just brought 200 pounds of muscle that could flatten us in a heartbeat to a bowl of jello. We took this big hairy penis and turned it all soft and cuddly.

Don't mean to be bold and daring here, but it is what it is. Look at any teenage male-very possessive of their prize on their arm. After years of marriage, this subsides as we mature and realize mother nature is what it is. This is the time we can continue and pretend these thoughts don't exist. Or, we can share with our lovers the true essence of the sexual act, and handle it in an open, mature loving way. That is, if your husband would just be a little more open indeed, the fun of two men is both thrilling and magnetic. It's not about domination. It's not about control. It's about sharing the world of untapped female sexuality, and the power of women. It's about one man in your mouth, and the other between your legs. About one man in your pussy, the other suckling a breast. It's about having two men ejaculate twice, and being covered in semen—and feeling like you've just started, while they lay there limp as noodles.

In the first story, I wrote about our first experience. That we decided to "break in" by just doing something simple. I found a young lad in a shopping mall and masturbated him in the back of our car. I really do suggest starting with "steps" like this, because it may turn sour. Once your husband has the image of you with someone, it can backfire. If you proceed all the way to intercourse, even a simple condom can make or break it. Sloppy seconds are warm and incredible, but let's face it—you've been marked, and it can be devastating. So, work slow. Start with masturbating someone—maybe even two or three, until your husband realizes what a turn- on it is.

Our next move was a blow job. So many times I have gone down on my husband, and then kissed him. He tastes his own precum and the salty flavor of his penis, and it's an incredible turn on for both of us. Our reaction after the hand job incident was just spectacular—now, could he watch me fellate someone? For me, it had to be the right person—you know, someone I had to conquer. Someone I thought enough of to let him in my mouth, and to swallow him. Fellatio is a very intimate act, almost more intimate than intercourse. During intercourse, you can close your eyes and let your imagination wander, and hold his balls so he comes faster. Giving a blow job is almost more intimate. He's in your mouth. You see his cock up close, every vein. Your mouth is doing the moving. You smell him. You feel his pubic hair on your chin. His penis leaks a string of fluid on your tongue that you taste. You actually get a better feel of him and what he's sensing—you feel him like no other act. His balls are dangling right there and you feel them go tight. Your own mouth movements are in complete control of him—how fast he breathes, whether his toes curl, you use a hand to push him down on the mattress. But your mouth controls him, not your vagina.

You feel his penis get bigger, expand, then get softer. It moves in you, and the nerve endings and taste buds in your mouth are so closer than in your vagina. The essence of his male sexuality is right there. You're tasting it. Seeing it. Feeling it. And when all is said and done, there is this sperm you have to deal with. Will it dribble like his precum? Will it spurt to the back of your throat and choke you?

Questions any lady must answer.

And it was these questions in mind when I set out to let my man watch me give someone a blow job for the very first time. I knew just who the innocent victim would be.

A blow job, believe it or not, took more work than masturbating that young fellow. Finding someone was easy, and the approach was direct: When he was alone, I simply said to my lover, "Would you mind if I gave you a blow job?" There was no long courting. It was almost nine o'clock and he worked in the mattress tore we purchased our mattress in. He was black, and about 22. Yes, I prefer young. He was also the first black fellow I ever had sex with.

So, I went into the mattress store when they almost closed. He was so shy, it was cute. He came over to me in his tie and thick black glasses, his dark skin so handsome against his black skin.

"May I help you?" he asked.

The rest was small talk. I work him in the back room on a chair, in front of a window. This was a game my husband and I played—the secret voyeur. He stayed outside and peeked through the window! Realistically, it was more comfortable for everyone. My husband loves watching, and this little lad—well, how would he have been with my husband standing right there?

With his back to the window, and me staring at my husband—our little secret—I gave this young lad the blow job of his life. I kept his shirt buttoned and his tie on. He just sat there, his kickers around his ankles, with black socks and shoes on. I peeled the foreskin back, to yield a beautiful pink mushroom cap,so different than the rest of him. I was in complete control, and knew at that moment I would swallow. His pubic hair was dark and wirey, and my nose pressed into his protruding pink belly button. His eyes were closed and his lips quivering. I had to place a hand on his abdomen to hold him down on the chair, because his thrusting was getting frantic. After just a few sucks, I felt those goose bumps rise off his belly, cupped his testicles and let him explode in my mouth. There were about ten good squirts, and I made sure my mouth sealed over him. Had this been a porn movie, I would have had to show the evidence. But I swallowed it all--every drop. This kid was so sexy, and that cologne was wonderful. Remember how Elaine on Seinfeld said "spongeworthy?" Should ave said swallow worthy. It's true. We know right away who we want to taste, and who we don't.

The experience remains one of the most beautiful I have ever had. I owned him. He was really a nice guy, so sweet and cute with those glasses of his. I hopefully also gave him an experience he will remember the rest of his life. Giving him a blow job there at work in front of that window was just sinfully delicious.

I swallowed everything he had pent up in there, and kissed him on the cheek. All that was left was a shiny black penis starting to soften when I slipped out the door.

My husband was already in the car with it idling.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" he said.

"Not yet," I whispered, and we leaned over and kissed.