Come in my Mouth

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by Chrissie Bentley

“What’s the most common lie that a guy tells his girlfriend?”  Sharon’s
eyes were glittering with delight.

Mary shook her head.  “I don’t know.”

“‘I promise I won’t come in your mouth.’  And what’s the most common lie
a girl tells him?”

“I don’t know.”

“‘Good.’”

Mary smiled briefly, and then frowned.  “I don’t get it.”

“Oh come on.  ‘I won’t come in your mouth’ – ‘good.’  The two biggest
lies.”

I sank down in my seat.  Someone once told Sharon she was South Philly’s
answer to the singer Amy Winehouse, and I’m not sure that they meant it
nicely.  It’s the accent, I think, an unholy cross between fingernails
on a chalkboard, and a fax machine that smokes too much.  But I love
her to bits, and I love to see her in full flight as well.  She’s hours
of fun, she laughs like a drain, and if you don’t understand her sense
of humor, she might as well be speaking Swahili.  Which, judging from
the look on Mary’s face, is what she’s doing right now.

“Okay, let me spell it out for you.”  Slowly, patiently, and a lot more
facetiously than could ever have been necessary, Sharon explained her
not-so-funny joke, then turned to me in triumph.  “Chrissie gets it,
don’t you Chrissie?”

I nodded.

“Every time,” Sharon concluded, then threw her head back in a violent
laugh.

Mary looked at me curiously.  “Really?  And you like it?”

I paused.  “What was that line from Sex And The City?  ‘Well,
it’s not a trip to Baskin & Robbins, but….’”

“I had a guy who worked at Baskin & Robbins once.  He was hot.”  Sharon
hooted again at her (admittedly labored) oxymoron, but Mary at last was
on solid ground.  “And I had a pizza delivery guy, only he arrived too
quickly.  I mean ‘came.’  He came too quickly.”  I laughed and was
about to add my own pun to the party when a shadow fell across us.
“And if you ladies have finished with your undoubtedly scintillating
conversation, the seminar is about to resume.”

We gathered our purses, rose and followed Mr Albertson out of the
cafeteria.  Great – the three of us had tugged so many corporate
strings in order to wrangle our places at the book fair… the biggest
in the country, mid-summer in New York… and our boss caught us
laughing on the very first day.  Good job he didn’t see Sharon last
night.

She had, from what she told us this morning, made quite the night of it.
The book fair’s not just publishers, after all.  There’s authors here
as well, and some of them… well, like the guy from Baskin & Robbins,
they’re hot.  Or, at least, famous.  So, when Sharon walked into the
hotel bar, and spotted – oh, I’d better not say his name; suffice to
say that he’s exotic, balding and recently separated – she just had to
leaf through his pages.  And they both told each other lies.
Apparently.

Me, I went to bed with a good book, and expected to be doing the same
thing tonight.  Star-fucking’s fine when you’re in your early 20s, but
it loses its luster after a while, especially when (as is so often the
case) the star turns out to be a dick.  A dick with a dick, granted.
But a dick all the same.

We made our way into the auditorium, and found our seats.  The guest
speaker… yes, it was Sharon’s friend from last night, as her pointy
elbows kept excitedly reminding me… was already at the podium, but
while he registered our late arrival, he gave no sign of recognizing
its loudest component.  In fact, I wondered whether he might even be
regretting having succumbed to her admittedly buxom charms?  Sharon
might be a dynamite editor, but she’s scarcely the smoothest dildo in
the drawer.  In fact, she can be rather prickly.

I fixed my eyes on the speaker, did my best to ignore Sharon’s whispers
and giggles, and when the guy seated in front of me turned around to
try and stare her into silence, I offered him my sweetest sympathetic
smile.  Quite frankly, I don’t think it’s possible to shut Sharon up…
even with her mouth full, she’s probably drumming out Morse code with
her fingernails.  I’d hate to be in earshot when she orgasms.

Damn, but this guy’s boring.  I swear, if he namedrops one more of his
bloody awful books, “and as I wrote in blah blah blah…” – I couldn’t
help myself.  “Please tell me,” I hissed to Sharon, “that he wasn’t
this dull last night?”

She snorted.  “Well, he is a bit full of himself,” she half-whispered.
“Even fuller than I was, in fact.”  Again her laughter drowned out the
speaker, and again the guy in front of us turned with an irritated look
on his face.  “Must be his agent,” Sharon hissed, just loud enough for
the man to hear.  “Nobody else could be care that much.  Fucking old
windbag.”

I felt myself redden, out of sympathy as much as shock, watched as the
man turned away from us, and fought to straighten my face.  The worst
thing was, he was rather cute… the guy in front us, that is, not the
author, who was now droning on about some existentialist dilemma that
he dramatically resolved on page 474 of blah blah blah blah….

“You can wake up now,  he’s finished.”  I opened my eyes.  Oh my God, Mr
Anderson… no.  It was the agent.  Beside me, I could hear Sharon
chattering away to whomever would listen, poor Mary probably, while
around us, the rest of the audience was leaving.

I thought of trying to bluff my way out, but I knew it wouldn’t work.
“Did I miss much?”

“No.  Nothing at all.”  He cast a nervous glance at Sharon, and looked
relieved when he realized she was oblivious to his presence.  “I was
wondering… it’s my first time alone in New York.  Would you be free
for dinner this evening?”

“I’m not a writer, you know.”  After all, why else would a literary
agent be asking me out?

“And I’m not his representative,” he said pointedly, with another glance
at Sharon.  He fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a
card.  “Robin Mitchell – publisher.”  “Hey, you do…” I rattled off
half a dozen book titles, a series that I’d been collecting for a few
years, on the history of American pin-up art.

He nodded.  “And you are?”

I gave him my card.  “Senior editor, eh?  See, we have something in
common already.  I’ll meet you in your hotel lobby at seven, yes?”

“Okay.”  I told him where I was staying, then sighed with relief as he
stood and walked away, just as Sharon turned her attention back to me.
“What was that all about?”

“He’s a psychiatrist,” I lied smilingly.  “We were comparing notes on
how to quieten unruly patients.”

“Fucking nerve,” she shrugged.  “I’ll tell you who needs a psychiatrist.
That smug shit who just spent the last 90 minutes boring us to death
about his books.  I tell you, if he could fuck like he can talk, I’d
still have him chained to the bed right now.”

“Instead?” I ventured.

“Instead, I gave him a handjob in the lift, then went back to the bar
and picked up the bellhop.”  She smiled apologetically.  “Yeah, well it
sounded a lot more glamorous the other way round, didn’t it?”

*****

Robin… it’s funny, I’ve never known a male Robin before, apart from
Robin Hood, but apparently it’s common where he grew up… was there at
seven on the dot.  “I would have brought you flowers,” he said as I
appeared in the lobby.  “But I didn’t think you’d want to carry them
around with you all evening.”

I smiled.  Actually, I’d rather he’d brought me a selection from his
back list – his company’s books aren’t cheap.  ”No worries.  So where
are we going?”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure, so I made reservations at my hotel
restaurant.  Which just happens to be your hotel restaurant as well.
Small world, isn’t it?”

“Very.”  Damn, I was rather hoping we’d be off somewhere else.  The last
person I wanted to see tonight was Sharon, but there wasn’t much chance
of avoiding her now.  Sh’d already told me she was eating in this
evening, in the hope of getting eaten out later.

Clearly, however, I’d under-estimated my escort.  Yes, we were in the
hotel restaurant.  But who knew that they had semi-private rooms, just
two or three tables, well screened from other diners, and insulated,
too, from the noise of the lobby and the muzak in the elevators?  “You
can even hire violinists to serenade you while you eat,” said Robin.
“But I thought that might be pushing it a bit.”

“Just a bit.”  Shit, what was wrong with me tonight?  I can normally
talk up a charming storm, especially with someone as cute as this.
Instead I was reduced to monosyllables, and not especially entertaining
ones at that.  “So tell me about yourself?”  I decided to let him do
the talking for a while.  It would probably be a lot safer that way -
and so it proved, because by the time we’d finished dessert, neither of
us was in any doubt of where we were heading next.  And the only
question was, whose room was the bed in?

Mine.  But not, I’m afraid, through choice.  He paid the check, we
finished our coffee, I stood, then stooped to pick up my purse – and
the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, alone in pitch darkness.
I turned my head and the Indiglo numerals on the clock by my bed read
4:05.  I sat up, reached for where I knew the bedside lamp was and
switched it on.  Yes, my room, my bed.  Someone had thoughtfully
decided to remove a few of my clothes, but my bra and panties were
still in place, and a blanket had obviously been pulled across me at
some point.

Later, Robin told me that I’d blacked out in the restaurant; that the
hotel doctor checked me out and declared it was probably a 24 hour bug;
then he and Robin carried me up to my room.  “Best if she just sleeps
it off,” said the doc and Robin, the sweetheart, said he’d stay there
with me, in case I woke up in the night and felt worse.  I knew that
bit already, though, because he was the next thing I saw, stretched out
on the couch at the far end of the room, a book on his chest and fast
asleep.

I sat watching him for a moment.  The evening had been alive with
promise… when he touched my hand, I swear I saw sparks, and when he
took it and pressed it to his lips, and murmured something that I only
just heard (but I know the words “taste you” were in there somewhere),
I almost wet myself there and then.  In fact, now I think about it, the
fact that I didn’t wet myself should have warned me right away that I
wasn’t feeling quite right.  Add that to my earlier inability to speak
coherently, and maybe to the ease with which I fell asleep at the
lecture, and the doctor was probably right.  Maybe I did have a bug.

But I felt fine now.  Finer than fine.  I climbed out of bed and headed
for the bathroom. Robin didn’t stir, and I smiled at the bare feet
protruding from beneath his blanket; smiled, too, as I spotted his
trousers neatly folded on the chair, and his shirt carefully hung on
the back.

I cleaned my teeth, peed, then stepped back into the room.  He hadn’t
moved since I last passed, and I wondered.  He’d left my underwear in
place – what about his?  I tiptoed to his side, crouched and lifted one
corner of the blanket.  Long legs, hairy and muscular, and a pair of
cotton briefs, good old-fashioned Y-fronts.  Well, that answered that.

The thing is, there’s a lot you can do with a pair of Y-fronts,
especially if, like these, they’re a little loose.  For instance, using
the tip of one finger, you can lift up one of the flaps and who knows
what you’ll find in there, all curled up and sleeping, just like its
owner?  And, if you’re really careful, and you make sure to use your
finger to gently roll it, rather than using your nail to hook it out,
you can maneuver that something till it’s just peeking out, still warm
and unsuspecting.  Then you can lean forward a little and stretch out
your tongue… careful, don’t jog him with your chin, just let him
sleep on… and you just circle around that little slit with the
tiniest tip of your tongue.

A story came to mind, one I read online a few nights ago, about a girl
who awakened her husband by sucking gently on his cock.  What a
wonderful way to greet a new day that must be.  And it must be pretty
good for the guy as well.  I leaned forward a little closer and licked
again.  The taste on my tongue was tart but tantalizing, as I danced
lightly around that one closed eye and this time, I was rewarded with
the merest hint of movement.

I glanced up at Robin’s sleeping face.  He lay impassive, completely
unaware.  But his dick knew something was going on and, as I ran my
tongue once more across him, I could see it unfurling beneath the
fabric of his briefs, thickening and strengthening, and pushing through
the flap.

Boldly, I dragged my tongue across his helmet, then down onto the shaft.
He wasn’t fully erect yet – at best, he was semi-soft.  But, even in
the dim light cast by my bedside lamp, he was an impressive looking
fellow.  I concentrated for a moment on that super-sensitive spot,
right where the helmet meets the shaft, and this time I got a twitch.
And another one. That’s it, my beauty, just keep on hardening, and I’ll
do the rest.

Flat on his back, Robin slept on. Was he dreaming, I wondered?  And, if
he was, was the state of his cock playing any part in it?  I worked up
a little spit and dribbled it onto his helmet.  I blew gently.  Another
twitch and, at last, his cock made its first attempt to rise, to reach
out to whatever was teasing it so.  A little more spit, a little more
air, and this time… gotcha.  His helmet was in my mouth, and I
shuffled forward a little, to inch my lips down his now rigid shaft.

I placed a finger between my legs, pressed against my panties, lightly
stroking myself.  For the first time, I thought about shaking him, but
no.  If Robin was going to awaken, then so be it.  I wasn’t going to
give him any more help than I already was.

I sucked, gently and tentatively.  He was still thickening, I could feel
my jaw being pushed further apart to accommodate his growing girth.   I
clamped my finger and thumb around the base of his shaft, holding him
steady as I leaned in further, feeling him sinking into my mouth,
tapping the roof, nudging my throat.   Then back and forth, fucking him
slowly, while my tongue lay flat on the bottom of my mouth, sending
soft waves of motion against his flesh.

I had a rhythm, in my mouth and in my pussy – my finger was inside me
now, stroking up towards my clitoris, circling round and then flitting
away.  I didn’t want to come, not yet, and not like that.  But I wanted
to be ready for that moment when he did and, though I was sure that he
was still asleep, I also knew that I would not be waiting long.

His hips were moving with me now, not violently or forcefully, but
enough to let me know that more of his body was joining the party.  My
pinkie brushed his tight balls.  They were huge, too, and I pictured
myself trying to suck on them.  It would have to be one at a time, but
that was no hardship.  It just gave me twice as much fun.

Pre-come on my tongue. I could taste it leaking now, sharp and maybe
just a little too bitter.  Well, it’s not a trip to Baskin &
Robbins.  Robin, Robbins.  I smiled at the synchronicity, but
closed my mind to the rest of that thought.  There’s no law that says I
have to swallow… hell, there’s not even one that says he has to come
in my mouth.

But isn’t that half the fun of it?  The salty shock, the liquid heat,
the look in his eyes as I gulp down his muck… eyes which I was
suddenly conscious of, gazing down in shock and awe as my head bobbed
down along his straining, stretching monster.  And then he was pulling
back, trying to draw away, and the faint moan that was escaping his
lips was now stammering in panic – “shit, Chrissie, I’m coming… oh
God, here it comes.”

I was holding on fast, though, and I wasn’t about to be cheated.
Feeling his release and tasting it too – not so bad, after all, and a
double scoop at least.  I swallowed hard, thick and slick in my throat,
and my own tensions were bursting in a wave that rushed up from the pit
of my stomach to mix with the magic that was racing down from my
throat.  And I was still sucking, draining down the last drops, until I
had to let go and fall flat on his lap, my breath hot and salty, my
tastebuds still dancing.

His hand was on my head.  “Chrissie.  That… you… was marvelous.
Nobody’s ever done that before.  Not like that.”

I couldn’t resist a light tease.  “Really?  What did I do that was
different?”

“You didn’t stop.”  Hmmm, did I detect a faint stutter?

“Well, of course not.  Should I have?”

“Other girls…”  This was hard for him, and I silently chastised myself
for making him spit it out.  Or not.  “Other girls say they don’t like
it.”

“But how do they know if they’ve never done it with you?”

He was silent for a moment.  “They tried it before, I guess.”

“Well, they obviously did it wrong.”  I don’t know, I’ve never
understood those girls who’ll go through life avoiding something, just
because they didn’t like it the first time.  And then make a virtue out
of it to a later lover, as though he really needs to know that he can’t
have what he wants, because some other guy got it first.    Make up a
lie, invent an excuse, tell him you want to save it for a special
treat.  But don’t tell him that he cannot come in your mouth… or up
your ass, or across your tits, or wherever else he might ask if he can
do it… just because someone else did it first.  That’s not just rude,
it’s spiteful too, like him telling you he won’t eat your cooking
because his ex-wife’s potatoes were hotter.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?”  Robin burst into my mind.

“Oh sorry.”  I shook my head.  “Something a friend of mine was saying,
about how more lovers lie about what we just did, than just about any
other position there is.”

Robin chuckled and ruffled my hair.  “‘I promise I won’t come in your
mouth’.”

I kissed his softness, felt it stir, and raised it with a gentle fist.
“Good,” I said.  “I’m glad to hear that.”  I lowered my head to suck on
his helmet, then stopped and looked back up at him.  “Oh, and yes, I’m
feeling a lot better now.  Thank you for asking.”

“I kind of figured that out for myself,” he said slowly.  “And now, in
the spirit of the absolute honesty with which we have apparently sworn
to abide, please carry on with what you were just doing, or this time,
I promise, I really won’t come in your mouth.”

I raised one hand and saluted smartly.  “In that case, maybe I’ll come
in yours’.”  And he was already reaching for my hips before I’d even
finished my sentence.