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“I Love Coming On Your Cock”

by Waarlowe

Short Works

Word Count: 3,364

You are lost in the head, adrift. On winter days, you feel intense isolation, pangs of loneliness like chunks of broken bricks in your chest. A rustling through the fine vellus hair on your shoulders.

For two months you’ve been one thousand miles from home, jobless. Your prospects for this hegira were hugely misguided. No one in Austin needs another key grip in their production crew, especially on the brink of a major recession. Week eight. No savings left. No prospects for income. No intimate friends. No lover. You’ve come to realize the pursuit of happiness is a correlative of your ability to pay the rent, because it’s all you can think about. So, you tell yourself, you’re pretty much fucked.

You’d once read somewhere: Loneliness is a sign you are in desperate need of yourself. The problem is you want nothing to do with your self. You want to lose yourself, maybe inside someone else. Credit card debt and dismal mood be damned, you’re off to the bar. And sometimes, salvation lands right in your lap. Sometimes literally.

Walking into Little Woodrow’s, the sun mocks you, its winter slant strange and incongruous with this T-shirt weather. It is January in “the hill country,” as the locals call it.

Cute girl sits down next to you at the bar. You don’t know what to make of her. Hispanic? Eastern European? Doesn’t matter. You’re not in the mood for conversation, and you’d checked all of your pimp swagger at the door of your apartment after sobbing into your hands like a chump. You don’t really give a goddamned shit about anything.

But, she is cute…

Jeers and cheers from flat screens above the bar. Sneakers squeak on wax.

She orders a Guiness and immediately turns to you and says, “Basketball is so boring compared to football.”

“And how is that?” you ask with a sigh, unable to hide a sneer. Because you are borderline offended.

“Because there’s no spirit. No… fierce competitiveness.” She sweeps a thick strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.

“Really?” you say. “I come from a land where basketball is virtually a religion.”

“Ah!” she says, “Well where is that?”

“The Gateway to The South,” you say, conspicuously slow, luxuriating in your edginess. You surprise yourself and announce, “I realize that Texas sucks its own football-shaped dick,” a little too loudly.

Her eyes widen, white as porcelain, embedded with glossy brown gemstones like you once saw in a museum.

“But,” you go on, puffy in your ballooning bitterness, “even the NFL is boring compared to, say, March Madness. A whistle blows every twenty seconds in an NFL game! At least it outpaces fucking baseball.”

“Fuck you,” she says incredulously, her eyes smiling. On how many levels did you just offend her, you wonder. Yet, her entire body is smiling. You are compelled to swivel your entire self in her direction. You notice her teeth are perfectly shaped little porcelain tiles.

“Do you seriously mean to tell me that March Madness is duller than the Super Bowl?” I ask. “In terms of fun factor?”

“Whoa,” she says, her mouth still grinning.

“Alright, I admit that in the NBA, no one is playing defense until the fourth quarter. Those guys are punching a clock, making millions.”

“Okay, let’s back up,” she says. “College basketball is fantastic! The NBA is what’s boring compared to the NFL. I mean, the college boys have things to prove.”

“Daaamn straight.”

“Ok, so we agree on something.”

“Sure,” you say….And then the momentary silence. Even in this abyssal mood–especially in this abyssal mood–you cannot tolerate an awkward lull. So you ask lamely: “Have you ever been here before?”

“First time–at this bar I mean. I’m from Dallas,” she says.

“Oh?”

“I’m staying with my uncle–he lives here–and tonight we’re seeing the Dresden Dolls play at Uncle Tupelo’s.”

“I know that band,” you tell her, shaking your head. “That Coin-Operated Boy song?”

“That would be them,” she says, cheerfully.

“What a dreadful thing to be,” you mutter, staring at the bar top. “Like a fucking automaton, some crazy bitch’s coin-operated boy.”

“Oh my god!” she guffaws. “Wow.”

“What?” You remind yourself of Archer, not intending to emulate an adult animated sitcom character, but you know you’re acting like a dick.

“Well, you’re just…” She furrows her brow.

“I’m what?”

“You’re just a pocket of sunshine.” She says, smiling like a veteran saleswoman. And by now her unrelenting smile is a contagious one.

“I’m sorry,” you say grinning, introducing yourself and offering your hand.

She sighs, takes it. “My name is Jenn. fatih escort Jenn with two n’s.”

“I thought all Jenns had two n’s,” you reply, noticing the smallness of her hand in yours.

You converse for a very fluid hour. Mutual touches of hands on knees, on shoulders. After two pints each, you agree to see what’s down the block, and you know the block well.

On the way out of the patio bar at Woodrow’s, her neo-hippy uncle arrives. Early fifties, wearing cargo shorts with socks pulled up to his knees and a tie-dyed shirt, dreads in his hair, smelling (smiling) of weed. His name is Chuck.

“So you guys are seeing the Dresden Dolls tonight?” you ask.

“Yeah, well I am. Don’t know about her now,” he says grinning.

Jenn does not protest.

No, you are thinking… She will not be going to see the Dresden Dolls tonight.

Chuck is unobjectionable as hell for his niece to move on to the next place with you–a total stranger. “Good to meet you, man!” he says. “Have a great time!”

At the Ginger Man, she tells you she was born in Thailand, the product of a Navy gent and a Bangkok school teacher. Formerly, she was a cadet and sailor for the U.S. Navy, followed by the surprising position of social worker. Eventually, she could no longer tolerate the exasperating woes, tears, travails, and dehumanization of her clients. Not to mention the obscenely shitty pay for a job in which people spit on you and call you a cunt.

“I could only help them to a point,” she says, “and their personal agonies made me want to slit my wrists.”

Saying fuck-all to the savior life, she turned to art. Silversmithing. Now she manages the office of a jewelry store. One time she was working with molten silver and passed out next to her Bunsen burner and nearly burned her face off. She calls it an “occupational hazard,” adding, “Which isn’t nearly as scary as a clinically diagnosed schizophrenic with a history of gun violence.”

You sit in Ginger Man’s courtyard as the sun sets, the upright propane heaters keeping you both warm. Four more pints, maybe five? You start wondering where she keeps it, because she’s tiny.

The patio is crowded by now. Conversation with Jenn is flowing like propane through the pipes to the flickering gaslights circumventing the pergola. Topics go from industrial farming and its ecological impact to gloomy Russian novelists, the titillation of vulgarity, snowball fights and fistfights… Somehow, your use of the word hyperbolic–or maybe it was thorax?–provokes her to interrupt you mid-sentence.

With her brown gemstones leering into your eyes, she nearly shouts: “I can’t wait to have your dick in my mouth.”

“Jesus, that’s swell,” you say, shifting in your seat. “I mean, that’s wonderful! But please keep it down.” You rasp in a hushed shout, “People are just six feet away!”

“Why?” she says, with that gleaming smile. “I mean it! I can’t wait to suck your dick!” she announces, scanning the room and broadcasting it shamelessly.

You look around frantically.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

“I’m looking for our server,” you reply, “because I am paying the bill ASAP.”

During these three hours with her, you learn that Jenn is allergic to both marijuana and latex. But she obviously isn’t allergic to dick, because she wraps her lips around yours before you are out of the parking lot.

As you are about to buckle the seatbelt in your Honda, she peels off your regular leather belt and unzips your fly. You speed off toward home, and she chucks your belt out the sunroof.

“Um,” you say, with her head in your lap, “you know how hawkish Austin Police are in this neighborhood–“

“Just shut up and drive and let me suck it,” she says.

In your bedroom, she asks you to hit her in the face with it. She wants you to pud-smack her face, and you oblige by clubbing her cheek with the engorged heft of your dong. You do everything she wants you to do, and then proceed to fuck her tight little body in every position conceivable… The term coin-operated comes to mind.

Earlier today you were on the verge of psychological collapse. Now you find yourself seven-plus inches deep in a girl who comes on virtually every fiftieth thrust. She cannot get enough.

They say everything’s bigger in Texas, and tonight, so is your cock. You feel like you have a parking pylon dangling from your pubis, and you suspect it is wreaking havoc on her plumbing (small as she is) as you slam it into her sopping wet, hairless pussy to her beseeching howls for more.

Eventually, she pushes your chest down on the mattress with one hand and swings a leg over your head, introducing her swollen and dripping bonne bouche to your face. She takes your pylon into her mouth and you can çapa escort feel her teeth near the base of your shaft. Surprising you again with where she puts things, the distended head of your cock must be competing for room with her larynx. It feels like an out-of-cock experience, like your penis is a separate entity.

“Ah,” you say, “we are doing a yin-yang.”

She withdraws from the sucking, choking slightly, and tells me, “Shut the fuck up and eat my pussy.”

So bossy… you think.

But you do as instructed, burying your tongue in her pit. It tastes good, clean-like. It does not come served up the way Henry Miller liked it: “Strong and smelly, with lots of gravy around it.” While there is plenty of gravy, it must be vegan gravy. You make out with her cunt like a French soldier on leave. But soon she needs more dick inside her ductwork, so she clutches your dong–squeezing the shit out of it–and scoots up to place it inside her hotbox. She starts bouncing on it in reverse cowboy. The girl is a bona fide spinner, so light and nimble that she literally switches to straightforward cowboy whilst perched on your cock and pivoting around. Within seconds of her straddling your pole, she is coming again.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhnh! Auuughgh god oh fuck!” she exclaims.

By now you’ve composed in your head a Diagram of Fuck chart. It is a joint effort, this clinical display. You slug away in every possible orientation, except perhaps the Roto-Rooter, which doesn’t exist, but you want to somehow work into your heady diagram.

Not to sound reductive, but Jenn, you conclude, is made to fuck. This is evident in her pursuit of pure, visceral joy, and her unfailing conversion of that pleasure into climax. This vignette, in fact, should be named Orgasmo, because that’s what she was–the raw end of a nerve firing synapses as catalyzed by a plump, solid dick. You do not give a damn what your upstairs neighbor Peggy hears or thinks of the soprano yips and yowls emanating from your boudoir. After ten or so orgasms emitting from her girlish pipes, you lose count.

“I love coming on your cock,” she moans, writhing like spirogyra in a puddle of juice atop your sheets. “Oh god I love coming on your cock.” Her… twentieth(?) vocal eruption propagates through your thin walls like an earthquake.

“That felt like a 9.2 on the Richter scale,” you joke, breathless.

She laughs, basking in an afterglow that would also register on a Geiger counter. “But don’t ever stop, please. Keep fucking me, please please please,” she says.

You do that too, drilling your pylon into her alarmingly juicy pussy. It just keeps getting wetter and wetter. There is almost nothing you can do that won’t blast her off into Kingdom Cum. After pulling out to give your shaft a rest–and preparing to take a piss–she grinds the jelly of her vadge into your abs and insists you stay put, don’t move. “Just keep your thorax where it is, buster,” she demands. In seconds, she lets loose yet another clitoral explosion. She comes just by seesawing her cunt atop your tummy. You kiss her open, wailing mouth as she spouts unremitting glee…

You have to pee, really fucking badly. You consider asking permission to take a piss on her, freak that she is. But after returning from a quick wash, you both agree to a nap.

Spooning next to her, though, your cock inches its way back into her trap. This phenomenon is not a matter of your own volition, nor hers. You’re both too exhausted to do anymore actual fucking, so after a few languid thrusts, you fall asleep. Just like that, with your dong marinating in her juices. The sensation of a warm, slippery twat engulfing your cock is one so profoundly comforting, you wonder if an evolutionary factor is at play–a literal return to the womb.

Astonishingly, your bone-weary penis stays firm with what feels like the girth of a soda can. Not granite-firm, but plenty puffed-up so as not to wilt and fall out. This interlocking sleep thing is a first; you’d tried it with other women, even ex-girlfriends. Usually, with that kind of meat-to-meatus contact, your pelvis is on autopilot and a biological imperative compels you to keep thrusting, but you are so fuck-worn that you both drift off.

…Upon waking a few hours later, you can’t help but resume the cadence in the lascivious rhythm of the night. You plunge your pylon deep and slow at first. But now heartened by your brief rest, it’s as though you have twinkle-toes. You find yourself bouncing off the memory foam mattress with a kind of weightless ferocity, intermittently airborne. You are giving her all of your chi. With each pump, you bury every millimeter into her molten snatch, from tip to hilt–as if marionette strings tug at your heals, waist, shoulders. Gravity güngören escort is lost on you here in the disarray of your sheets.

Jenn’s tits are fake. She told you so whilst shlobbing your knob on the drive home, as if posting a disclaimer. Could’ve fooled you. The surgeon had done her justice. They were perfect boobs for her diminutive frame, about the size of two peaches. You consider how you can fit an entire nectarine in your mouth without danger of choking. You think of your friend, Tony, who once insisted that the smaller the boobs, the more diligent they fuck. Tonight, you cannot disagree.

During this revitalized round of porking, you manage to slip one finger into her snatch, just atop your dong. It barely fits. You tickle her Gräfenberg whilst thrusting and she asks, “What are you doing?”…and then she demands you keep doing it. This results in convulsions, along with staccato screams between gasps. This orgasm is a 10, as far as whole-body earthquakes are concerned. And this is what finally sets you off–the apotheosis of Jenn’s ecstasy manifesting in a kind of faux epilepsy. It is almost unbearably hot to think that another human being has lost all control of her body because you’ve inserted parts of yours into hers.

In the midst of her unfettered screams, you pull it out and jack your turtleneck, aiming for the swale between her two delicious peaches. But you overshoot, and launch a wad of cum directly into her right eye. Ropes of your white spume decorate her clavicles, the pit at the base of her throat, her tits. A strand covers her lips and chin.

Jenn is a good sport. She laughs and makes for the bathroom sink, exclaiming. “I have jizz in my ocular nerve! It stings!”

In your own afterglow, you can only snicker, apologize, catch your breath, slump on the bed.

She washes her face and falls back on the bed with you, landing on one elbow with her hand cupped to her jaw. Stares you in the eyes. “I want you to fuck me in the ass,” she says. Simple as that.

You shall comply. You suggest it might require some lubrication, except that you accidentally say lucubration. (You’re still very tired.)

Jenn laughs again, but the exposition of this word turns her on all the more–she is quite the word-junkie. But who doesn’t get all squishy over the romantic notion of study by candlelight?

“Oh, you won’t need any lube,” she declares.

Her request to fuck her in the ass puts lead directly back into your pencil. Before involving the butt, though, you need to reinstate your granite hardness, and work up the juices–the lubrication part.

“Okay,” you say, “on your knees.”

She haunches her body into tornado position, and so into her cunt your cock once again does delve. Her moans recommence as if you didn’t skip a beat.

Your plan, after so much romancing her sizzling pussy, is to work the snake back into the basket. But first, you grab her pussy lips from behind and wrap them snug to your cock. You do this with your left forefinger and thumb, your other hand clutching her bum as if squeezing water out of a sponge. Fucking hard with slaps of skin on skin, and then suddenly withdrawing and introducing it into her third browneye.

That Jenn expected the irrigation of her twat to be adequate for anal penetration was kinky enough, and turns out to be true. It slides right in, and upon doing this you are astonished. It’s been a few years since a woman asked you to shove your dick into her asshole, which you’ve always found to be a tricky affair. The process is similar to a rat snake eating a chicken egg, but in reverse. Lest you’re a porn star with a gaping arse and a future dependence on Depends, one must proceed with patience.

Still, after the head of your dong is firmly buried in her exit chamber, she looks leeward and demands you to spit on it.

Spit on it. You wonder what kind of porn Jenn likes to watch. But, like a coin-operated boy, you do that.

Once all of your meatloaf is snuggly inside, all you have to do is grip the handles of her hips and flex it. No thrusting necessary. One, two, three, four flexes and she’s nearly in ecstatic tears, her squeals muffled face-down in the pillow. Naturally, you give her the reach-around to grope her clit, hard and slippery as a cherry pit. Then you start ramming your junk into her curvaceous rump.

“Oh my fuck! It’s as if your cock is in both my pussy and my ass!” she exclaims.

You whisper in her ear that you sprouted another dong and now you have two, and she mutters something like, “I’m convinced!”

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god!” she spouts.

The tightness of her tunnel combined with her stentorian orgasm sets you off again, and this time you erupt in unison. And this time, the lights go out for both of you…

You awake before dawn, thinking, what a spectacular freak. A mother of three in her mid-thirties, who looks barely twenty-five. What was it about Jenn, obeying her psycho-chemical mandates, driving her toward organoleptic bliss? Dallas isn’t so far away, you think. And life isn’t so bad, after all.

But, yes, you were definitely fucked…

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