The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance

by Scott Hildreth

  I grinned at the thought. “Do you take it everywhere?”

  “It and my American Express card,” she said in a stolid tone. “I hate to leave home without either of them.”

  I rested my chin in my hands. An admiring look followed. “You’re funny.”

  “Acting this way masks my true feelings.” She grinned a clever grin. “It’s a front. A façade.”

  “What are you truly feeling?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes,” I responded. “Right now.”

  She removed her glasses. “Tingly. I feel tingly. The all over kind of tingly.”

  Once she opened up, she was much different than I expected her to be. I suppose I could have perceived her bold attitude as meaning many things, but I saw it as flirtatious. Pleased beyond words, I studied her as she twisted a loose strand of hair with her index finger.

  I pushed my plate to the side. “If they were going to make a book about your love life, would it be contemporary romance, or erotica? And, what would the name of it be?”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Book people.”

  “It’d definitely be erotica,” she replied. “There’s been zero love in my life, so far.”

  “What about the name?”

  “Give me a minute.” Her eyes shifted to the ceiling. After a moment of aimlessly searching around, she met my gaze. “We’re talking fiction, right?”

  “Sure.”

  She grinned. “The Cops, the Cock, and the Girl in Gym Socks.”

  I laughed so hard I snorted. “Why gym socks?”

  “I love gym socks.”

  “What’s the plot?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. Erotic Romance plots are driven by sex. So far, the only meat I’ve had is barbeque. I need fuel for thought.”

  My plan to get her undressed was coming along much better than I expected. I raised both brows and tilted my head toward the door. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

  “I’m enjoying myself, so I guess that depends. Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  “Let me grab my purse.” She grinned and reached for it. “Hopefully without spilling it.”

  5

  Jo

  I nodded toward the bulge in Tyson’s jeans and gave him my go-to introductory line. “I want to suck it.”

  He seemed confused. “You want to suck my dick?”

  I guess it wasn’t what he expected. I gave a reassuring nod. “I do.”

  His eyes gleamed with approval. “Will you leave your glasses on?”

  I’d have worn a bunny suit if he asked me to. Sexual fetishes fascinated me as much as the men who harbored them. Refusing Tyson’s desires would have required an extremely odd request on his part.

  Wearing glasses during a blowjob wasn’t it.

  “I’ll leave them on if you want me to.” I gripped the frames and wagged them up and down playfully. “Sure.”

  His response came on the heels of an exhaled breath.

  “Leave them on,” he murmured.

  The person who trained me in the art of oral pleasure lived with his parents at the time, just across the street from the home I grew up in. I was enamored by his wispy mustache, tight-fitting Levi’s, and the ribbed white tank top that later became his trademark.

  Bart told me that the way to a man’s heart was not by feeding him, but by sucking his dick. We agreed that he would spend the summer teaching me how to give head. After the following school year started, we would go our separate ways.

  Over the course of one summer, he taught me how to properly (his words, not mine) suck a dick. The “training” (again, his words, not mine) began in mid-May while our parents were at work. By the end of August, I’d sucked him off no less than a hundred times. During that time, my palate learned to accept the taste of a man’s semen as being the reward for a job well done.

  I envisioned going back to high school a more marketable – and much more desirable – young woman. Much to my surprise, a summer of having a dick shoved down my throat managed to boost my self-esteem.

  It did nothing, however, to polish my social skills.

  I went back to school versed in the art of giving head, but far too socially awkward to convey my newfound talent to any of my male classmates.

  I lowered myself to my knees and stared with eager eyes while Tyson fumbled to free himself from his blue and white striped boxer shorts. After what seemed to be an eternal battle, his manhood sprung free.

  “Holy crap!” I gasped.

  He chuckled. “Sorry.”

  I studied his massive member for a moment. It was perfectly shaped, thick from base to tip, and as long as my forearm from wrist to elbow. A second job as a leading man in A-budget porn films was an attainable goal if he ever lost his FedEx job.

  I pushed the glasses up the bridge of my nose and met his downward gaze.

  “It’s perfect,” I breathed.

  He huffed out an argumentative sigh. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Walk around with this fucker between your legs for a day and see what you think,” he replied.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Love to what?”

  I gripped it with both hands, only to find that I couldn’t wrap either hand completely around it. Elated at the thought of having him force it into my willing folds, I looked up and smiled.

  “I’d love to have it between my legs for a day.”

  He grinned a half-assed grin. It was the same odd smirk that preceded every blowjob I’d given. Male-speak, I guessed, for “suck my dick, please”.

  I accepted my cue and guided the tip of his cock in my mouth. Upon tasting his salty pre-ejaculatory fluid, my eyes fell closed. A few practice strokes followed. Then, I eagerly took half his length into my throat.

  “Jesus. Fuck,” he exclaimed. “Stop.”

  Reluctantly, I slid my mouth free of his rigid shaft and opened my eyes. A strand of saliva draped from the tip of his dick to my lower lip. I collected it with my index finger and then met his wide-eyed stare.

  I sucked the mixture of pre-cum and saliva from my fingertip. “What’s wrong?”

  He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. “I need to get ready.”

  “For what?”

  “To have you suck me stupid, I guess.”

  Sucking a man’s dick was like auditioning for the lead role in a Hollywood movie. If I played the role to a T, I’d get the part. If I faltered or didn’t give it my best, I’d remain unemployed. I’d been out of a job long enough. I needed long-term employment.

  “Would it be better if I let you drive?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “You can fuck my mouth if you want,” I deadpanned. “Just grab ahold of my head and pound away.”

  “Are you--” He wiped his brow with the web of his hand. “Are you serious?”

  His cock swung from side to side as he spoke. A glistening droplet of pre-cum clung to the tip, threatening to drip free with every breath he took. I encompassed the swollen head with my lips and sucked it free of the bitterly sweet substance.

  The head of his dick resting against the tip of my tongue. With an open mouth and inquisitive eyes, he waited for me to respond. Holding his gaze, I sucked the tip one more time for good measure and then flashed a smile.

  “Yes,” I responded. “I am.”

  He swallowed heavily. After a short pause, he gripped the sides of my head with his hands. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  “I’m on my knees with an open mouth,” I said. “What do you want, a written invitation?”

  Without further provocation, he rowed his hips back and forth slowly, forcing half of his rock-hard shaft into my mouth with each stroke. After receiving no complaints on my part, his thrusts became more aggressive.

&
nbsp; Within a few seconds, he was engaged in a full-fledged face fucking.

  The satisfaction of having a man’s cock in my throat was difficult to explain. During the act, I felt helpless and at the mercy of my partner. Upon bringing my partner to climax, I felt powerful and in charge. The strange mixture of feelings made the act extremely satisfying.

  I held his gaze as he pounded his thick length in and out of my throat. The smell of his sweet cologne merged with the musky odor of sweat and sex. Floating on a cloud of hope, I eagerly accepted the punishment, optimistic that I’d satisfy him enough to bring him to climax.

  His eyes glistened with satisfaction, leaving little doubt that he was in heaven.

  I, too, was lost in a blissful state. My nipples ached. My pussy throbbed. I hoped he wanted to have sex with me, but even more so, I wanted to please him with my oral abilities. I gripped his thighs tightly in my hands, knowing I was mere strokes away from needing to draw a breath.

  His cock swelled.

  The sound of his labored breathing gave hint to what was next.

  I pressed my tongue against the base of his rigid shaft and lifted my chin slightly, allowing him free access to my willing throat. Several aggressive full-length strokes followed. Then, he paused, gazed into my eyes, and gave one last balls-deep thrust.

  His demonic cry of pleasure echoed off the walls of his living room. His thick cock pulsed as the warm reward erupted in my throat. Satisfied beyond measure, I remained motionless, waiting for him to recover.

  He released my head from his grasp and retracted his hips. “Holyfuckingshitthatwasawesome.”

  After sucking a breath, I wiped the corners of my mouth with the pad of my thumb.

  His flaccid cock hung heavily between his legs – a reminder that our night’s journey, sexually speaking, was over.

  I looked up. His face was covered with his hands. While I caught my breath, I relished in the thought of satisfying him enough to bring him to climax.

  He lowered his hands and met my gaze. “That was fucking amazing,” he breathed.

  “I thought so, too,” I responded.

  “Can we do this again?” he asked.

  Bringing him to climax suggested that he was pleased with what I offered him. Having him verbally express his pleasure, however, made his thoughts crystal clear. Before I had a chance to respond, he continued.

  “Not this,” he stammered. “I mean see you again. I’d like to see you again.”

  With those spoken words, I received the part I’d auditioned for. Filled with pride, I stood and smiled. “I’d love to.”

  6

  Tyson

  Saturday mornings weren’t set aside for the sole purpose of cleaning my car, but I often found myself in the driveway doing just that. After wiping the final drop of water from the hood, I stood back and surveyed the car for any areas that needed attention.

  Shawn studied the top of my car for a moment, and then turned around. “Let me get this straight. This chick puked all over the top of your Cobra and wiped her mouth off on a microfiber towel. Then you let her suck your dick with her dirty puke-covered mouth? That’s nastier than fuck.”

  “Her mouth was clean. She brushed her teeth after she puked.”

  “If she carries a toothbrush in her purse, that makes it even worse.”

  “She doesn’t, but how the hell would that make things worse?” I asked.

  “If she carries a toothbrush, she’s a certified puker,” he explained. “Pukers have issues deeper than puking, dude. That chick will end up keying your car when you dump her. Or, she might stab you in the eye with something. She might even cut off your dick while you’re sleeping. Rest assured, motherfucker, she’ll do something.”

  Completely paralyzed by his ridiculous warning, I stared at him with tired eyes and an open mouth.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Gary was dating a puker,” he continued. “Freaky bitch wore that dark purple lipstick all the time and had him whip her with a wire coat hanger while he was fucking her. When he broke up with her morbid ass, she drank a bottle of fuckin’ Drano. Sucked it down like it was an ice-cold Budweiser. Her sister found her naked body in the bathroom with a note to Gary written on the wall in purple fuckin’ lipstick. The nutty bitch ended up in the hospital for damned near a month. Spent a week or so in there to fix her burned up guts, and two more for a psyche eval. They figured out she was mentally bankrupt, and the cops hauled her crazy ass from the hospital to a nut house in Austin. Bitch is still there, wadded up in a straitjacket and suckin’ her meals through a straw.”

  I was completely lost by his lipstick laden tale. “Who the fuck’s Gary, and what’s a puker?”

  “Gary’s a forklift driver from work.” He poked his finger in his mouth and acted as if he was gagging. “A puker’s a chick that pukes up her food after she eats.”

  I looked at him as if he were insane.

  “Your chick’s a puker,” he insisted. “Did she run to the bathroom after you guys ate?”

  “No. You’re talking about bulimia. She’s not bulimic.”

  “They never admit it.”

  “She’s not bulimic, you idiot.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

  “It was nerves. She’s gets anxious in front of people she doesn’t know, and she got really nervous. She just puked. After that, she was fine.”

  He arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “How big is she?”

  I shrugged. “Average sized.”

  “Compared to who?”

  “Compared to everyone.”

  “Compare her to someone.” He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head. “Give me an example. Compare her to someone in school.”

  Shawn was my closest friend and had been since we were kids. He was a running back on our high school football team, and never quite let go of the memories associated with that four-year chunk of his life.

  The haircut he wore throughout high school – a faux hawk – was typically worn by gaunt-cheeked teens and douchebags who rested their white Oakley sunglasses on the backs of their heads. Nevertheless, Shawn still wore his hair in the same fashion.

  My father had always referred to him as being an instigator, but I disagreed. He did, however, have an opinion about everything and seemed to enjoy voicing it through the dramatic stories he often told.

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed a water spot from the passenger side window. “Karen Felper.”

  He threw his arms up in frustration. “Who the fuck’s Karen Felper?”

  “Blonde chick that was dating Chad when we were freshmen.”

  “I’m drawing a blank.” He touched his product infused hair as if to make sure it was still there. “Compare her to one of our cheerleaders.”

  “A fucking cheerleader?” I glared at him. He should have known better. “Really?”

  “Sorry, Bro. I wasn’t thinking. Compare her to someone else.”

  “Cameron Diaz.”

  “The actress?”

  “Yeah. She’s tall-ish, and thin.”

  “Tall and thin? She’s a puker for sure.”

  “She’s not bulimic. She’s naturally thin.”

  His brows raised. “Does she have wrinkled up titties? Pukers have shriveled up titties, that’s one way you can tell.”

  “No, they’re not wrinkled,” I said. “They’re just small.”

  “Describe ‘em.”

  “Average sized. C-cup. A small C-cup.”

  He swung his right hand into a large arc. “Does she have a big fat ass?”

  “No. She’s pretty average in the ass department.”

  “Skinny chick with no tits, no ass, and she pukes a lot. I’d drop that bitch before this even gets off the ground.”

  “She puked once.”

  “Dude, you’ve only been on one fuckin’ date,” he complained. “Look at it this way, she’s puked on one hundred percent of the dates you’ve been on. That’s terrible odds.”

  “Whatever.”

&n
bsp; “Does she wear purple lipstick?”

  I spit out a laugh. “No. It’s normal colored. Lip colored. Pinkish-red.”

  He turned away in dramatic fashion, walked to the rear of the car, and paused. “What if that motherfucker puked every time you went out? From nerves or whatever the fuck she told you? Then what? Lipstick notes on the bathroom walls and straitjackets, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  “Garber,” I said.

  His eyes widened. “What about her?”

  “She looks like Garber.”

  He faced me. “The librarian?”

  “Yep.”

  He strolled toward me, stopping no more than an arm’s length away. “Looks like her a little bit, or looks like her a lot?”

  I shrugged. “Could be her twin.”

  After studying me for a few seconds, he scoffed and turned away. “Bullshit.”

  “I’m serious. She could be her twin,” I insisted. “She looks just like her.”

  “Dark hair?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “Thin, but curvy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Big fat dick sucking lips?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Thin face with high cheeks that are accentuated with just the right amount of blush?”

  “That’s her.”

  “She doesn’t wear those black cat-eyed glasses, does she?”

  I grinned. “She sure does.”

  “Show me a picture of her.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Pic, or it didn’t happen.”

  “I didn’t take a fucking picture of her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t have an opportunity. That’s fucking creepy, anyway.”

  He burst into laughter. “You’re a creepy fucker. Creepy fuckers do creepy shit.”

  “I’m not creepy.”

  “You’re creepy as fuck,” he argued. “You’re going to mess with this bitch until she gives up the pussy, and then you’re going to fuck her a few times and move on to someone else. In your weird way of thinking, you’ll have banged Garber, who you were infatuated with.

  “Garber was every Plano Senior High graduate’s dream.” I spat. “I’m not creepy.”