Practice Makes Perfect….
I find the whole idea of a world championship for cock sucking incredibly, gloriously erotic. Why not? The world, at least the Western world, is full of infinite possibilities, and there’s equal opportunity for all women, even me.
Whenever I’m on my knees now (and it’s often), I make believe I’m Claudia. Not Lady Gaga or Britney — my new heroine and latest role model is Claudia. Her fame is not due to mere beauty or luck, but is justly based on merit and perseverance. I believe if I practice a lot and work hard, just as I’m doing now while kneeling before a brand new cock, working on my basic bob and slide, I can become just like her.
Claudia, according to a dispatch from a Romanian newspaper widely reported on the Web, is the winner of the first Oral Sex World Championships. Competitors from all over the globe attended the event at a Black Sea spa. An all-male jury awarded Claudia the $1,000 first-place crown. Their decision was based on “speed” and “artistic merit” in two rounds titled “technical” and “freestyle.”
At first, when I read this, I chuckled, as most readers did, I’m sure. But, ever since, I haven’t been able to get it out of my pretty, come-sucking head — a head no longer chuckling, but giggling and giddy. I’m jealous! Like Claudia, I want to be internationally recognized for my abilities (at least all the guys tell me I’m able)!
The purity of it all excites me: cock sucking for the sake of cock sucking, in and of itself, having absolutely nothing to do with love or any other emotion that might get in the way of technique and performance. But think about the bonding going on between the cock sucking performer, the anonymous owner of the succulent cock, and the observing audience! It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime, life-altering experiences when minds, not just bodies, truly connect. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it. The idea of it alone is enough. I can’t think of a better expression of eroticism.
I want to be Claudia! The epiphany pops into my head at the exact moment when I’m licking the underside shaft of my latest prize of a penis. Or if not Claudia, at least second-place finisher, shedding genuine tears of happiness for the winning girl. Instead of a crown, I could then wear a tight T-shirt, with my hard nipples poking the fabric, flaunting the fact: “Miss Fellatio World. First Runner-up.” The mind boggles with all the fresh cock I would attract.
My lover has no idea what’s going through my head as I’m giving head. That’s part of the fun of it; I remain a mystery to him. He, on the other hand, is totally exposed, vulnerable to my every tongue-flickering whim. I know exactly what he’s thinking; he tells me so. Even taciturn men feel compelled to talk to me when my mouth is full. While I’m sucking like a vacuum cleaner, they are spitting out appreciative, flattering words:
“Look up at me while you’re sucking, bitch. I want to see your gorgeous, fluttering lashes and grateful, smiling eyes while your sexy lips are around my cock.”
They ask questions: “You like to suck cock, don’t you? You’re just a cock-sucking cunt, aren’t you? Tell me, cunt, isn’t this the best cock you’ve ever tasted? You can’t get enough of my fat, juicy cock, can you? You don’t want to ever stop sucking, do you, bitch?”
Of course, I can only answer with my head — a vigorous nod or a swaying shake. Those well-executed head motions just add to the cock owner’s pleasure. And it is his pleasure, after all, that brings me mine.
Actually, what I want him to tell me is how I’m doing — a real critical review. Vague praise is meaningless: “This is the best blow job ever…Slut, you suck so fine…” Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before. What I crave — besides cock, of course — is brutal honesty. And the more detailed the critique, the better.
Unfortunately, most suckees are hopeless in this regard. All they care about is “shooting me a pearl necklace” or whether or not I’ll “swallow.” They’re so ecstatic just to get a blow job, they don’t really notice, much less appreciate, my truly expert level of keenly honed presentation.
Do they consider the pronounced, feminine arc of my back and butt while kneeling (evolutionary biologists call this “the fertility curve”)? Can they award points for the dexterous way my hand moves at the base of the shaft, so it’s synchronized with all my various mouth actions at the most sensitive tip? Are they connoisseurs of how even the eloquent (dainty, yet firm) grip of my hand ensures that my finely French-manicured nails are showing? Are they closely observing the vigorous, quick tempo of my acrobatic tongue, lip, and neck movements, as calorie-burning as my aerobics class — without my face working up even one tiny bead of perspiration, much less ruining my makeup (except my lipstick, of course)?
Olympic-level cock sucking is just like ballet. Unless you have actually executed a perfect pirouette on point oneself while dressed in tights and tutu, even the most avid dance-goer hasn’t the foggiest notion of how hard it is to make it look so easy.
What would Claudia do? I figured it out that she probably has her very own professional coach! I decide to confess my need for Olympic training to the owner of one of my all-time favorite, most suckable cocks. He always brags about how many “wenches” have given him head, so I can learn from his critical comparisons and contrasts. But he quickly counter-proposes with what he calls “a better idea.” He’ll set up a School for Sluts. I’ll teach Cock Sucking 101, for which his cock will be my students’ teaching aid. Clearly, he has his own fantasy.
Like most heterosexual men, he just doesn’t get the point. This is not fantasy for me; it is a clearly defined mission, with a measurable, achievable goal: to be Claudia, to reach beyond my grasp of the cock I now have in my mouth, to attain the world acclaim that I know can be deservedly mine. The men I suck must remain really no more than props and I’ll use them as such.
As if I’m on a diet, I make a vow: to ingest several different cocks daily. Variety is important, for you can never tell what shapes and sizes the judges will poke at you. I set up a video camera in my bedroom, to tape each encounter. My trial subjects don’t mind; I make a copy for them; my mouth is the gift that keeps on giving, and they now have a free porno movie to watch whenever they’re horny and lonely.
Style, agility, poise. These are the qualities that my — immortalized on video — cock-sucking images help me to develop. No longer do I have to replay my head action in memory. I confess, watching my mouthful-of-cock self on the VCR is quite a turn-on. But I force my brain to maintain laser-like focus on my quest — perfecting my cock-sucking performance.
Which raises a fundamental question: are the contest judges what the New Journalism termed “participant-observers,” or do they simply sit back and witness? It makes a great deal of difference in how I orchestrate my cock sucking. What’s visually pleasing is not necessarily the most instantly pleasurable sensation for the suckee. So I seek some splendid compromise, trying to score the highest points in both categories — visual and tactile.
Just like this is a Miss America competition, the one single thing I must constantly remember — so that it becomes an involuntary reflex like gagging — is the importance of smiling while sucking. First, you must smile for the camera, judges, and audience, as every girl is taught from an early age to make herself pretty and pleasing to others. Second, of course, you’re smiling specially for the suckee, so that he knows you know you’re extremely lucky to be blessed with his unique cock in your mouth. Plus, from a purely physiological point of view, it’s pleasantly surprising how the facial muscles used in smiling bring added pleasure to the cock. Finally, to be able to maintain that happy expression while an eight-inch cock is being thrust deep down your oral cavity relaxes the throat and mitigates the gagging. I can see Claudia smiling now, as I breathe deeply through my nose, relax my throat, and swallow an enormous brand-new cock. Visualization: that’s key in any athletic training.
I’ll wipe the smile off Claudia’s face when she sees my second-come routine. This is my specialty. Just about anyone with a mouth can make a cock come. But only an expert mouth like mine can create, just minutes later, a second come shot from the very same, formerly flaccid, cock.
A real competitor doesn’t discount the importance of costume, either. Normally, I prefer a snug, sexy micro-mini, exposing my panties when I kneel, together with an extremely low-cut top, so that he can shoot it down my cleavage if he wants. That’s what I’ll wear for the contest, I assume. Or maybe the competition will feature both swimsuits and evening gowns, in which case I’ll pack, respectively, my multicolored string bikini (whose top I’ll shed when I perform) and my creamy Versace knockoff. The eroticism of the latter, I find particularly appealing, mixing high fashion with the lowest, hard-core porn.
For the freestyle event, if the judges allow a costume change, my plan is to don an all-black catsuit, together with a mask like SM people use. The mask will have a huge hole for my mouth, plus tiny, imperceptible slits for my nostrils, so I can breathe when my mouth is full. I don’t even need holes for my eyes; I can see with my mouth. The point here is to present myself simply as a femininely curved, well-toned body with nothing but a come-hole for a mouth.
I bet Claudia hasn’t even thought of that: to present oneself simply as a mouth for cock like the famous old “glory hole” of gay-cruising public bathrooms. There shouldn’t be any decorative distractions, not even earrings, when I lie on my back on the gymnast’s horse — my head tilted upside down over the edge to deep-throat the longest, thickest dong with which the judges want to test me. The more you can level out the bend in your neck, the more your throat can act just like a cunt. That’s one of the nuggets of wisdom you gain only through sucking.
Then, in the same position, I’ll take two cocks at once. So I must remember to ask my dentist for one of those oral surgery clamps to practice stretching my mouth. Also I’ll need lots more collagen shots for my pouty, bee-stung lips, to make them just like a cunt.
A related routine I want to perfect is simultaneously playing a number of cocks like a xylophone. At the World Championships, I’ll have a row of men, maybe ten, lined up on the stage. The trick will be to make them all come at almost exactly the same time. This requires unusual patience and perception on my part, which I’m confident the judges will recognize. When I start to taste the pre-come from one cock, I’ll have to move immediately to the next, and so forth, and then back again.
I’ll need more than a few good men to help me practice this event. So if you want to help my most girly, Cinderella-like dream come true, do be a Prince Charming, won’t you, and volunteer! We’ll make Claudia incredibly, lustfully jealous with my nonstop practicing to take her crown. Although this provides a wonderful excuse to service my insatiable oral needs with countless numbers of men, still my pretty, come-sucking head remains full of worry:
What will I say during the contest’s interview segment? This has to be part of the contest’s new format and it’s as anxiety-producing as how I’ll style my hair that championship day. What will Claudia and the other girls say? What will I say when the moderator asks me the question:
“How would you make the world a better place?”