Of Blowjobs And Bomb-Drops

"I'll enjoy it, too," she continued. "I'll cum. You'll get even better at it. We'll add fingers, toys. I'll order you on your knees or on your back and I'll ride your face, dry-hump it, barely let you up for air, and obviously you'll get to tongue my horny little asshole too."

One of her hands left my head and moved towards my twitching, swelling cock. The move felt predatory, but clearly my cock didn't sense the same danger that my stomach and my chest did.

"But I need you to tell me that you really love it," she insisted, working my cock, daring me to lie.

"I need you to tell me that you fantasize about going down on me, or me forcing myself down on you, and that that's how you get yourself hard and get yourself off.

"Tell me that when you're cruising around at night looking for porn, that's what you just keep coming back to, even if maybe you think you should be looking at something else: men, on their knees, on their backs, licking women's pussies, devouring them, sucking them, worshiping them, making them cum."

The hand still on my scalp gripped my hair a little tighter once she finished her rant. I could hardly believe it wasn't rehearsed. Even when she was pissed off -- or maybe just disappointed -- she could dirty-talk me nearly to bursting. If she hadn't already sucked me dry four times that day, I probably would have erupted all over her other hand right then.

"Jesus, Cat," I panted. "Maybe I didn't before, but I think I might now."

And just like that, a grim spell was broken. Her hand relaxed and tousled my hair, and her other hand moved down to my balls and tickled them. She giggled.

"Well that's very flattering, thank you," she said brightly. "And you did manage to be honest with me, finally, so there's that."

Looking up at her, I sighed.

"I'm sorry, Cat," I tried, "I just don't-"

She interrupted me with a long, soft, reassuring "Shhhhh."

"I know, baby. It's okay," she said. "But if I wanted you to be eating my pussy all the time, I'd have told you. I'd have shown you. I just hoped you'd have known that by now.

"But I get it, too," she said, letting me off the hook a bit. "Tit for tat. Maybe I should've explained it to you. I will now. But I need you to be open-minded."

'Open-minded' was another classic trap, but thus far in our relationship, Cat had suffused it with nothing but positivity. I nodded into her lap. She patted my head.

"Clearly I like getting my pussy eaten," she said. "And I love sex, and I love you."

My heart melted a little bit. It was odd to feel that in my chest while a hand was still teasing my balls.

"But you're a masculine lover, Jack," she said, "and I love that about you. I love your jawline, your broad man-back, your deep brown eyes, your height, your muscles -"

"My cock?" I asked. I tried to pass it off as a joke, but, well, that was an awfully long list without mentioning it.

She gave my balls a tug. "Greedy," she tutted.

"I love your cock, baby," she said, after only the briefest pause to scare the shit out of me. "And I love you sliding it, pushing it, even ramming it into me sometimes. I love touching it, sucking on it, worshiping it. I love your cum.

"I really love your cum," she said, and, given the day, it was hard for me to muster any kind of disagreement.

"I mean," I began, but it was a struggle to find the concepts, let alone the words. "I mean, I guess you haven't full on fucked me, but, I just don't see how me being 'masculine' is an issue."

She sighed again, but it was light and breezy. There was no danger. Well... there was less.

"Babe, there's no way to make it any simpler," she said. "Every fantasy is its own thing. 'Masculine' and 'dominant' are not the same. Sometimes I want my man to be so deep inside of my ass that I can feel him in my throat. Sometimes I want to find his prostate and take total control of his orgasm, aiming his cock like a gun, pointing it at whatever I want to hit, and pulling the trigger whenever I decide it's time.

"And sometimes," she continued, "I've got a fantasy where it's me and someone feminine -- a woman, probably, though not necessarily. And, well, call it quirk; call it a twist of fate. In all of my fantasies where somebody's licking my pussy, that someone is feminine. That's part of the magic. It's not science. I can't give you a formula or an equation."

Suddenly, I got it. I also got sad. It was such a strange sensation. I don't know that I'd ever been sad when Cat was around, ever since we'd first gotten together.

"So you're giving things up," I said, "to marry me. To be with me. Things you've thought about, and that you really want."

Cat considered it for a moment, and then she shrugged.

"Not necessarily," she said. "None of those fantasies demand that my masculine lover -- and that's you, and only you, from now on -- not be right there with us. Hell, some of them include both my man and my woman from start to finish."

I caught the flicker of a smile on her face, and a glint in her eye.

"In fact," she said, "in those fantasies, I get rather dominant with both lovers. It's pretty hot."

Well, that snapped me to full attention, both figuratively and literally. Cat just laughed in response.

"So, you mean you want...?" I began, not even daring to say it.

She patted my head and tugged my balls at the same time.

"Not now, babe," she said, the laughter still lingering in her voice. "When I said 'yes' to you, I knew we weren't going to make things messy like that for a good long while - not until we know everything, do everything, and have built a life together. Rock-solid."

After hearing all of that, I was pretty rock solid - even after those ball-tugs. Still, I took her point.

"For now, focus on me and you," Cat said. "You're always going to be the one proper cock in this relationship -- well, proper flesh-and-blood cock, anyway -- and that's a big responsibility.

"That also means that your cum is the only cum I'm ever going to have inside of me, ever again," she concluded, "so let's get back to it."

I felt her lap begin to disappear, so I lifted my head to let her move. To my surprise, she didn't fully leave the couch. Instead, she swung one leg over and draped her body over mine, her mouth sinking down onto my throbbing cock. Her pussy and plugged asshole hovered over my face, and now, I was faced with the most curious sensation of knowing exactly half of what the hell was going on.

As if reading my mind, Cat lifted her mouth off my cock.

"I'm getting my cum, baby," she said with authority. "You can do whatever you want back there."

I mulled it over for a second or two, and, as I felt that hot wetness engulf me once again, I shrugged to myself and decided to take a chance. I lifted one hand up and back, and delivered a firm swat to one of my fiance's perfect ass cheeks.

She jumped just a bit, and yelped all around my cock. Then she giggled all around it too, and I knew that everything was going to be just fine.

I devoured her pussy again, too. Why not? It was right there, and I felt like it.

* * * * * * * * * *

My wife has a clear code for when I'm not to bother her at home. It's rarely used, but sometimes there's a million papers to grade all at once, and she'd rather not be stuck in her office on campus for an extra 8 hours.

I've seen her office, and I don't blame her. Despite her best efforts to keep it clean and organized, it's small and cramped, and the books that line its shelves cultivate a certain musty odor. In a larger, properly-ventilated library or bookstore, that smell can be intoxicating. Like any intoxicant, however, concentration leads to overdose, which leads to injury.

So, whenever she needs to do a marathon grading session, Cat sets herself up at our kitchen counter, fully clothed, glasses on, with a tight ponytail or braid pointing downward. Regardless of what she's wearing, specifically, that precise combination of location and accessories and non-nakedness makes it clear: don't fuck with me. I have to get this bullshit done.

Ironically, when she's wearing her full professional outfit at home, that's almost always a sign that we're doing something kinky. There's no way she's doing actual work, at home, and wearing that shit to boot.

There are rules of engagement, of course, that do not count as 'fucking with' her. I make her a hot or cold drink at various intervals, depending on the season. For each delivery, I can kiss her on the cheek exactly once, and she has the option of turning it into a lips-on-lips peck. If she really gets into a rhythm and goes for more than four hours, I'm allowed to force her to eat something. She gets a five minute neck and shoulder massage after the meal whether she thinks she needs it or not, and then it's back to it.

It's Sunday night, and she and I were the dual authors of her current misery. We spent most of Saturday alternating between fucking off and fucking, and pushed a few more errands than usual into Sunday morning. After lunch today, she heaved a massive sigh, and availed the 'don't fuck with me' code.

I've done my drink duties on the hour for about four hours now, mostly keeping to my office in between. It's just about time to remind Cat to eat something, so I open the door quietly and head into the kitchen.

I can't help but smile -- and exhale just a bit with relief -- when I catch sight of my beautiful professor taking off her glasses, then pulling off her scrunchy, and then stretching out both her arms while still sitting on the high-backed bar stool. It doubles as a victory pose. She's finally done.

I walk into the kitchen. wrap my arms around her, and plant a big kiss on her cheek. She smiles, closes her eyes, and leans into it. Her arm crooks and her hand comes up to caress my face.

"Let me get dinner started," I say. She nods with her entire upper body, clearly stiff and fairly well exhausted -- but hungry, too. Sometimes a little reminder brings it rushing to the forefront.

I grab some pots and pans, knives, and the large cutting board, and set myself up on the opposite side of the island counter. I set some water to boil and get veggies out of the fridge. In between very-responsible bouts of chopping, I look up to check in with Cat. I expect to see her zoned out, listless, maybe playing around on her laptop or phone.

Instead, she seems vaguely frustrated, mulling something over in her mind. She's cradling her own face, resting her chin in one hand. Her crossed leg is swinging back and forth. Her eyes aren't focused on anything here in the real world, but she's most definitely not zoned out.

I pointedly don't go back to my chopping. I also don't say anything. The silence is pregnant. It's her move.

"We need a bitch," she states decisively.

Memories of Blowjob Day come flooding back, like hot blood into an eager cock.

Also, a torrent of hot blood floods my eager cock.