The Ice Cream Cone

Nowadays anyone with $300 can go down to a good electronics store or even Wal-Mart and pick up a camcorder with rudimentary editing capabilities and a menu of special effects, but when I was in school, video recorders were still almost the stuff of science fiction, extremely expensive, and the movie camera still reigned.

I was sitting at a small café table in the Satellite, the underground adjunct of the student union building at UH, the part that later got flooded out in 1976. Across from me were a couple of cinematography majors named Jon and Mario. Both of them were shaggy-haired, like most hip guys were then. Mario was dark, lean and hungry-looking, with shadowed green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and perpetual stubble on his face, predating the Don Johnson look you were later to see everywhere. Jon looked very much the surfer dude, mahogany-skinned and gold-highlighted, with sea blue eyes.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "Your project is a short film, and you want to depict me...eating an ice cream cone. Am I understanding you correctly?"

"Exactly, Sidonie," Jon said. "That's all. Why, you had something else in mind?"

"It's just that—well, I get what you want to symbolize with the ice cream, but...I mean, me? I don't look the part." I was too lanky and not really pretty, which was why I was pretty sure they weren't trying to sucker me into doing an actual porn film; I was more the handsome and distinguished type, a thing girls are told they're going to be when they are not conventionally cute. In my heart of hearts, I felt I was better than cute: I had a good mane of chestnut hair, nice hands and feet, and was in excellent physical condition. I'd always been a jock in high school. And—there was that one other thing...

"It's that smile of yours, Sid," Mario said. "That built-in wicked smile. The idea for this film was born the first time I ever saw you smile."

"Oh..." I said. "That."

"That" consisted of a smile that had never looked quite innocent, even when I was a little girl. I heard my first comment about it when I was six, while we were visiting kin in my dad's hometown. My aunt Cora said to my mother, "Emma, when that girl of yours learns what she can do with her smile, you're going to have to lock her up!"

My mother tried to discourage me from smiling too often. When I was a little girl, she used to say my smile was too special to give to just anybody; later, she told me to be careful who I smiled at and how, as men might think I was more grown-up than I was, and want things I wasn't ready for. Photographers who came around to take school pictures would sometimes do a double-take and tell me I didn't have to smile after all...

"Apart from temporary stardom, what's in this for me?"

"We'll have to see," Jon said. "See, we have to consider the rental on the camera, and—"

"All right, all right," I said. "We'll work this out. But I must have something. I'm always broke—you know how things are."

"Yeah, life is tough," Jon said.

We began to work out the arrangements. It was obvious to me that vanilla would be best, and Mario and Jon agreed with me completely. I specified Bluebell Homemade Vanilla and a sugar or a waffle cone. Might as well do these things right with the best materials. Then I got thinking of the problems that might arise for a girl who found herself alone with two guys and a camera, or even without a camera...

"One other thing," I said, narrowing my eyes menacingly at them. "Nothing—absolutely nothing—is to happen that is not my idea, or that does not have my approval. Is that clear?"

I saw the aw-sheeit look that passed between them before they agreed. I wasn't worried. I outweighed at least one of them, in a muscular and athletic way. In my last year of high school I had punched out a guy who had said something to piss me off, and he'd gone to the hospital with a broken jaw. Dad said I'd gotten in an extremely lucky punch and I deserved the cracked metacarpals I got out of it, but the incident had given me a reputation as a fighter that no one chose to mess with. We'd been right in front of the window of the Principal's office when it happened and they figured I just didn't care. And I hadn't. This had gone down in the nearby village of Glendene, but half the grads of Spencer High who went on to college ended up at UH, and word gets around. If they got any funny ideas that I wasn't willing to go along with I would make sure that there was plenty of damage all around.

"Yeah, that's clear," they said.

"Not only that," I said, "I want to see the final print before you release it."

We decided on Mario's apartment as the best venue. It was the only venue, since Jon and I still lived in our respective parental homes. We met there in the early afternoon. Jon was wearing snug button-fly jeans and a silk-look shirt. Jon was wearing a tank and surfer jams. I was wearing a miniskirt and a tube top. The air conditioning was up pretty high, because we didn't want the lights melting the ice cream; I hoped we wouldn't get too cold. Somehow, I don't think anyone would.

In the kitchen, Jon got out the ice cream and a waffle cone and proceeded to build the ice cream cone. He had spent the last several summers of his life working at Baskin-Robbins and he knew how to build a good, cohesive, professional-looking one. This he proceeded to do, dipping the scoop in water each time and dragging it through the ice cream to form perfectly round scoops, piling the first one hard onto the cone and sticking the other two firmly on top of it. It stood pretty high.

"There you go, Sidonie," he said, handing it to me. "Enjoy it!"

I started to lick at the ice cream, but Mario said, "Hold it! Don't get started until I get the camera rolling."

We went into the living room, where Mario had set up the camera. "Go ahead, sit down and get comfortable," he said. Both he and Jon had kicked off their shoes, and so did I. I sat down on the couch. "Now, give the ice cream one lick, from the edge of the cone to the top...then look at the camera—and smile." I did so. "That's perfect!" Mario said. "Now you can get started."

Eating an ice cream cone, especially a triple-dip, is an art. You want to eat it fast enough so that the ice cream doesn't all melt before you are done with it; at the same time, if you exert too much pressure on any side of the side of the tower of scoops, you run the risk of knocking one of them, or worse yet, all three, off the cone. All the while you are pressing on the structure from the top so as to work it down into the cone. Then you have to go down to the base of the pile, where it overlaps the edge of the cone, and catch it with your tongue so that it doesn't drip too much. All this while, you are turning the cone around and around—again, so that it stays symmetrical and none of the ice cream falls off.

While I worked on the ice cream, Mario and Jon took turns working the camera. They got in very close, shooting from every angle.

"That's it," Mario said. "Don't be afraid to open your mouth wide. Great! Let's have lots of tongue here." I dragged it slowly and tantalizingly up the sides of the tower of ice cream. Ice cream got onto my lips and ran down in tiny rivulets towards my chin, and I licked those up too.

Presently I had this cylindrical structure, which I had worked down to about six or seven inches long, when I noticed that both my cinematographers seemed to be having some trouble breathing. They were, in fact, flushed of face, with bright, dilated eyes. Every now and then I'd see one of them lick his lips and swallow. I looked at them again. Yes, I thought as much. A serious erection strained at the fabric of Mario's jeans. Jon's surfer jams served no better to hide his condition; it's not every day you see a Hawaiian-print tent. I smiled at the camera, and at them.

I'd told them that nothing would happen that wasn't my idea to leave myself an out if I wanted it. That didn't mean that I had to take it. If I had been absolutely determined that nothing would happen, I'd have said so. I'd had sex with more than one guy at a time, the first year I was in college, and while the event itself had been fun, my relationship with the men had fallen for other reasons, and I hadn't planned to do that again. But it's every woman's prerogative to change her mind...

I swept the very tip of my tongue around the top of the tower of ice cream, starting pretty close to the top on one side, and slanting it down so that it was maybe an inch and a half away from the top on the other. Returning to the starting point, I did the same thing going the opposite direction. I repeated this until I had a deep, slanting groove encircling the top of the ice cream. I licked down the sides of the cylinder, so as to give more definition to the structure at the top.

I wasn't quite satisfied with having a cylinder, so I flattened my tongue and drew it up from the base to the tip on two sides of it, until I had achieved a shape that was vaguely three-sided. Drawing my tongue into the narrowest, hardest point I could manage, I dug a little slit-like hole in the very top.

Grinning, I displayed the object I had created to the camera.

"Far out," breathed Jon.

"Wow," said Mario. "Jesus, Sid! That's some fine looking sculpture. I swear it's got everything but the veins."

I had a spot of ice cream on the end of my nose, and more ice cream was dripping from my lips. Stopping the camera, Jon leaned down and delicately licked the tip of my nose. Then his warm tongue swiped the ice cream dribbles from my mouth. I put out my own tongue and slid it against his. My pussy had bloomed into a heated flower at the sight of how excited the guys were getting. At the touch of Jon's tongue against mine, it went into aching, throbbing overdrive, and all I wanted was to feed into its hunger. With a little growl I put my hand on the back of Jon's neck, pulled his mouth against mine and sucked his tongue right in, grooving enthusiastically on its muscular litheness.

"Art first, Sid," Mario said. "You haven't finished your ice cream." Jon released my mouth and stood up. Mario was standing almost as close as Jon was, and I had a good look at his crotch. His cock was filling up the front of his jeans so that some of the buttonholes on his fly were actually pulling open. Raking my gaze from this interesting sight to his face, I gave him a hot, insolent grin. He inhaled sharply and adjusted his cock in his jeans. "Do you work with any other medium?"

"No, I've only worked with ice cream," I said. "As for the subject—well, you work with what you know."

"I want you to know my subject!" Mario said breathlessly.

"Mine too!" Jon said.

"Just hold onto it," I said. "I've got an ice cream cone to finish."

"Christ..." Mario clenched his fists at his sides and closed his eyes. Jon restarted the camera and he and Mario backed away. The camera continued to run.

It was time for me to destroy what I had created.

I shook my hair back away from my face and gathered it in back with one hand. Then I opened my mouth over the tip of the ice cream phallus and swirled my tongue around it. Closing my lips over the ice cream shaft, I went down on it, allowing the cold tip to hit me in the throat. Because I had been steadily consuming ice cream for several minutes, I did not get an ice cream headache. I raised my head, and the shaft emerged, smooth and glistening, from between my lips. I licked them clean of the creamy vanilla substance, and smiled. Then I went down on the ice cream again, again, and again, the phallus losing both size and definition with every stroke.

When I had worked the ice cream down to the level of the cone, I extended my tongue and twisted and swirled it deep into what remained. I looked up at the camera again, ice cream on my lips and chin, and grinned. There was a small bowl on the end table next to the sofa, and I put the partly-empty cone in it.

Jon reached for the camera and moving his hand over it like a blind man, found the stop button. Mario leaned down, licked the ice cream off my face, and kissed me hungrily, his stubble rasping against my chin. I was just about ready to grab him by his shirt front or the waistband of his jeans and pull him down on top of me, when I had a better idea.

"I take it you've shot all the footage you're going to?"

Jon nodded.

"Good. You can move the camera out of the way, now." He did. "Unplug it," I said. He did. "Both ends," I said. "Shooting's over."

Jon moved the camera to a corner of the living room, and Mario moved the lights. They came back to stand in front of me, looking as expectant as dogs who know you're hiding a treat behind your back.

"Now what happens?" asked Jon.

"First man to get his cock out," I said, "gets the ice cream treatment."

I thought sure that Jon was going to win—all you have to do with surfer jams is haul them down in front. However, he had pulled his drawstring so tight, and his dick was so adamantly hard, that he could not get the waistband down past it. Worse, he had the drawstring tied in a double knot. While he picked frantically at the knot, Mario flicked the buttons of his fly open. Underneath his jeans, he wore nothing. Five and a half or six inches of cock sprang out as abruptly as a switchblade, framed by the rumpled tails of his shirt.

"Shit," Jon said.

Mario moved close to where I was sitting on the couch; I scooted forward. I could smell the interesting scent of his body, the ball-sweat concentrated in his dark, thick crotch hair, sweaty denim and Quiana and the soap he'd used when he'd last showered. I closed one hand around the base of his cock, and he tugged his jeans down further so that I could cup his balls in the other. Running his fingers through my hair, he pushed it back from my face and held it there. He spread his legs a little so that it was easier for me to get a grip on him, and so he could keep his balance better. I took his cock in my mouth. It was delicious, unusually hot and salty after the sweetness and coldness of the ice cream. I tasted the pre-cum that had gathered at the slit, and flicked my tongue against his frenulum. Mario's hands in my hair tightened.

Jon had finally managed to get the double knot out of his drawstring, and better late than never, had hauled his unit out. He was a little stockier than Mario, and so was his penis. He stood close enough so that I could see him, holding it in his hand, trying to keep it contained.

"Christ—her mouth is still cold from the ice cream! But damn—it still feels good!" Mario said. I kept my grip on his cock and balls and moved my head back and forth so that his hard, veined shaft pushed in and out of my mouth.

"You shouldn't have that problem much longer," Jon said. I looked from the tanned hand he had clamped around the end of his cock, up to his face, turned half away in an effort not to pay too much attention to what I was doing to Mario.

"I don't have that problem now," Mario said thickly. "She's warming up quick. Fuck, but this feels good! I heard somewhere that she gave the best head in Texas, and I can believe it!" He clamped his hands onto either side of my head and thrust at my mouth, panting and emitting little groans of delight. I raised an eyebrow—it was not like I was in a position to express myself otherwise. Best head in Texas? Damn!

I clamped my lips around Mario's hard, hot cock, and when he pushed the head against my throat muscles, I hummed and purred. Out the corner of my eye, I could see Jon standing close enough to reach out and touch, holding onto his twitching cock. The end of it was brilliant with clear, shiny precum. I let go of Mario's balls and switched the hand I had encircling the base of his cock. The hand I'd had on Mario's cock was slick with precum and saliva. I reached out to Jon, and he took his hand off his dick; I replaced it with my own slippery hand and started jacking it. I thought about releasing Mario and switching to Jon, but Mario suddenly arrived at the stage where he would be in no mood to permit that.

"No way," he rasped. "You can do him later, but not until I've come down your throat! Oh, God, Sid. Just let me keep on fucking that wicked mouth of yours—oh—ah—oh fucking Jesus I'm gonna—ah fuck, look out, it's—AAAAAAAGH!"

His cock twitched and expanded, and the hot, salty effluent rushed up out of his core and gouted into my mouth. I swallowed as much as I could, but I couldn't even begin to keep up with it; I let it dribble out from around his spasming cock and down my chin. He backed it out before he was truly done spurting, gripping it with his fist, bleeding out the last of his climax. Warm drops of jism flew onto my face, my shoulders, and my hair; and almost before he was clear of me, Jon moved in and took his place. He had let his pants fall down and kicked them to one side, and was wearing nothing but his tank. His thick cock and husky balls emerged from a nest of hair lighter than Mario's. I observed that his complex male scent was varied by notes of suntan lotion and salt water. I swallowed, licked my lips, took a good breath, and surrounded his warm, stout unit with my mouth. He emitted a barely human groan of pleasure at the feel of my tongue lashing his cockhead and flicking at its pee-hole.

"Grab hold of my ass, Sidonie," he said. I reached up and grabbed his muscular buttocks. He put his hands on my shoulders. He let me get in a few strokes of my own before the drive to release himself totally took him over and he began to thrust. His longer wait, and the effect of watching me work on Mario and drink his cum, had left him hardly any time for speech. Hardly any time at all. "Not—not long, Sidonie," he grunted. "Put your claws in my ass, I need some hurting, I don't want to do this right away—oh, shit, that didn't work, this is too damn soon—oh, fuck—oh, baby, this is this is IT—aaaaahhhh! Oh, oh, oh, God! OH!" His hands tightened like vises onto my shoulders and he stood rigid, hips thrust forward, gasping and groaning as he jetted into my mouth. My nose was buried in his spicy hair. I tried to swallow it all, and got most of it. He stayed there until he had finished and began to soften a little in my throat.

He took it out and we all three flopped temporarily winded on the sofa, Mario on one side of me and Jon on the other. I had swallowed what both men had given me but I could still taste it. I licked the excess from my lips.

"Lord, what a mess you've made," I said. "I don't suppose either one of you gentlemen would like to help me clean up?" Jon stripped off his tank and handed it to me. I mopped my face and hair. Stretching luxuriously between the two cinematographers, I looked at the one to my right. Jon lay sprawled naked next to me. His tanned torso was overlaid by a thin layer of fine, straight hair, the kind that was almost invisible in some lights but would glitter like gold mesh in sunlight. "Mm, nice," I said, approvingly. I turned and looked at Mario. He had not bothered to button himself back up, but lay there partially out of his jeans. I reached over and started unbuttoning his shirt, and found him to be covered with a darker, thicker overlay of body hair. A small gold cross nestled in the fur that covered his chest. While I watched, he got out of the rest of his clothes.

"Looks like we've done things a bit backwards," I said. "I mean, usually, one takes one's clothes off first..."

"I notice you're still dressed, Sid. What's stopping you?" Mario said.

I sat up and dragged my tube top up over my head. "Pass me the rest of that ice cream cone," I said, settling back on the couch. Mario handed it to me with a slightly puzzled air.

"What are you up to?" he asked.