One of my readers wrote to me last week and asked me what it feels like to deep-throat, no doubt in part because of this post wherein I give instruction in that slurpy art. I would offer to him that if he’s truly curious, no one is stopping him from his finding out first hand, or mouth, as it were. And yet, as amazing as it might seem to those of us who have dabbled in the bisexuality rough, apparently some men continue to carry the belief that sucking a dick or two makes you gay.
As if that’s a bad thing.
Therefore to answer those querying but as-yet unadventurous minds, I’ll address here what it feels like for a deep-throating girl.
I’ve almost always considered fellatio deeply satisfying. I find that taking a man’s cock in my mouth gives me an enormous sense of power and pleasure. I like reducing the guy to bad grammar, if not complete pre-verbalism, with my mouth (and my hands. Hands help). However, I have to say that my pleasure in sucking a man’s cock rises in direct proportion to how into the guy I am.
I love sucking Donny’s cock, as I have said before and no doubt will say again. Not much outside of a blindfold and a brisk spanking, or some dirty oral and a nice, hard toy, gets me as wet as quickly as sucking his cock. In part it’s the shape, the texture and the turgidity of it, but mostly it’s the fact that it’s attached to Donny, whom I love with an extra flamey white-hot burning passion.
I loved sucking C’s cock too—I remember that the very first time I came with him like “look ma, no hands” while fucking, I had been sucking his cock and I noticed that I was inordinately turned on. When I straddled him and slid his cock into me, I was already most of the way to orgasm, primarily from having him in my mouth and down my throat, my nose struggling to snuggle up against his hard belly.
As much as I have adored sucking some men’s dicks, I have loathed sucking others. Part of it is the size—I am an avowed queen of a modestly oversized dickdom—but more often it is the bigness of the dick in the man, and not the smallness of the dick itself. Tyler is not well endowed, but he could face-fuck me until I turned metaphorically blue, and I would have been delighted. Ernie, however…ah, Ernie…my resentment to him knew no bounds and I would find myself gagging the moment his modicum of cock touched my tongue.
The most repellant blowjob I ever gave was this pity job I doled out to the grubby needy pleading of this pathetisad little dude’s little dick. I remain unsure to this day why I did it—I really didn’t have to and yet I did, inconceivable as it is to my ken at this moment. I still detect a delicate heave of distaste when I recall the guy’s begging. And yet I gave in.
But all of this tattered and glorious reminiscence doesn’t really give you much of an idea of what it actually feels like to slide a cock down your throat. It merely gives you the back-story, if you will, the sympathetic understanding that no small part of the pleasure comes from giving pleasure to a specific dick and a specific person, and no small part of the pain comes from the same.
The mouthfeel of a hard cock is singular. A soft cock kind of feels like other things, like a finger or maybe an unflexed muscle. A soft cock is sort of floppy and soft, and maybe sucking it stirs up primordial memories of nursing. At any rate, when my mouth wraps around a flaccid dick, the sensation isn’t so wholly unto itself as wrapping my mouth around an erect cock.
The erect cock has a kind of kinetic smoothness, a sort of strange resilient rigidity. There is almost no drag as my mouth moves over the taut skin of a hard dick. Something about the hard dick—a hard dick that I like, which for the intents and purposes of this piece we’ll just take as assumed—compels me to suck it. A soft dick elicits a different response from me; I want to nurture it with my mouth. A hard dick, though, I feel a challenge to devour.
When I’m in bed with Donny, for example, I often have to remind myself to slow down and tease him. Intellectually, I recognize the purpose of the oral tease; I get the point of attenuating the blowjob act for his pleasure. But when I’m on my knees in front of him, or hovering over his prone body, or supine with him straddling my shoulders, and his big fat-bellied cock is there—right there—in front of my nose, it’s pretty much all I can do not to take it in my mouth and down my gullet as far as I can, which, at first, isn’t so far.
The art of deep-throating lies in two things: creating enough high-quality viscous porn-starry spit, and relaxing your throat to accommodating proportions. Both take time. The gag reflex is my friend, I know, and so I court it with a wily coquettishness. I take the dick in as far as it just uncomfortably will go, and I wait, holding my breath, until I find my throat begin to relax and until I need to breathe. Then I’ll slide my mouth to the tip, do a little do-si-do with my tongue at the end, and slide back up until I just barely begin to gag and hold again, swallowing the tip.
At these moments what I feel is a mixture of challenge and trust and pride. I trust the man not to thrust and fuck up my prep time. I challenge myself to see how much I can put in my throat, how long I can hold it, how easily I can get ready. And I feel pride in a blowjob well begun. When a guy does thrust and fuck my face before I have properly lubed my throat, it hurts. It feels a lot like when you swallow very hot soup or too big a piece of lamb shank. It sometimes makes me gag a bit, and other times it makes me gag a lot.
After a few minutes of warm up, I can feel my throat begin to relax. Usually then I find an angle that will work for sustained deep-throat with this particular cock—and all are different. Sometimes I like to control the blowjob, and sometimes I like to be face-fucked. And other times, like when I’m tied up, I don’t really have a choice but enjoy being face-fucked. In all cases, finding a comfy spatial relationship is key. Bad angles make for bad fellatio—it’s simple human geometry,
When I’m in control, I feel like I’m choreographing an elaborate underwater ballet with my mouth, my hands, and the dick at hand and mouth. The slurpy noises, the imagined visual, the occasional eye contact, the hushed bated breath, the timely exhale, the fingers sliding the mix of saliva and pre-cum, the cock that pauses, filling my mouth and my throat, my throat fluttering little swallows around its tip. I love the feel of having my mouth full. If I’m really into it, it makes me wish that the guy had two or three other dicks to fill me with simultaneously. This strange feral compulsion washes over me and I wish I could take him into me everywhere all at once, even as I’m trying to keep my head while I’m giving head.
When I’m being face-fucked, however, the sense of control is lost and in its place comes a wild ride. When face-fucked, I feel like I have to keep a delicate balance between my breathing, my relaxed throat, and this relentless pneumatic cock that is drilling my mouth. Much of my experience then is completely wrapped up in my submitting to the moment, of finding my slender balance in this overwhelming crash of sensation. It, too, is pleasurable, though rhythm is important, for if the man isn’t aware of what he’s doing, he can make me gag, and then I have to fight to control that urge, to will it to stop and to find my calm center in his pheromone storm. My throat is almost always sore the day after a rigorous face-fucking.
I have never willingly spit. I like swallowing—or I should say I like it with the guys I like. If I was angry at my boyfriend, as I was with Ernie, swallowing felt like a mouthful of gall. A cock about to come sends out subtle susurrations before the Doppler ripples that signify the coming. I like feeling them, feeling it all, the tense taut tightening of flesh, the slight up-pull of his balls, the St. Vitus shaking. All of it. There is nothing like the undulation of a cock that is coming. I can feel from my lips, through my mouth, along my tongue and into the back of my throat the current of a man’s orgasm as it flows through his cock. It’s a wondrous thing, to have him tense under me, to feel him grip my hair, to hear him moan or scream, to see him twitch and jerk, to feel his orgasm graffiti my throat.
Afterwards, if he’ll let me, sometimes I lay there next to him, his cock held gently as an unspoken word in my mouth as returns to its fragile birdling state. Then, the feeling is not so much power, or submission, or even wonder, as it is contentment.
Translating the purely physical into written language is difficult, and this piece feels to me a bit more forced than my usual writings, perhaps because it’s dick-sucking divorced from the whole rolling rest of it.
I hope, though, dear querying reader, that this writing helps assuage your curiosity. Even better, I hope it whets it.
Life is too short to spend it reading. The world is your oyster. Go slurp it.