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xmag.com : February 2001 : Girl Trouble

Recently Rex was solicited to write for a major women's magazine, from the woman's point of view and in a woman's voice. That's when I discovered Anna, my female alter, lurking in my sensitive places. Suddenly she was free...to speak her mind. And she got paid for it, quite handsomely, too; so now she insists on being heard. This Valentine's month, Anna has taken over this page to tell a softer, gentler story about a favorite topic we could both agree on: the gift that keeps on giving--giving head. I give you Anna in her Exotic magazine debut. Call it "Boy Trouble."
 
 
Sir can I speak...now with your cock like an engine oiled by my mouth? Can I mumble 'I love you' as your advancing desire demands my scarlet lips open, my head bowed and bobbing, my joyous cheeks filled overflowing with you and you? Sir, can I speak? I am not love or passion, compassion or caring, I am only pleasure, yours and mine. Do you sense how close I shiver to orgasm reciting your cock like a long prayer in my mouth? There can be only one...cock, one mouth, indivisible under God.
 
Caress my long taut throat as I fellate your wisdom, will, domineering skill and I will tell you, wordlessly with my bubbling sucking mouth, I am not whore, Goddess, mother, daughter, daydream, nightmare, succubus, sister, wife. Though my mouth obeys your cock, you succumb to my mouth more completely than any cavity-in-captivity you can create.
 
Vessel. Empty. Cavern. Feel the void where all things are born. Some women so wounded, the mere thought of fellatio feels more fearful than rape. I pity them, knowing my jaws hold your cock and balls, transferring all power like the mountain river flows to the crouching lake. I collect you. There is no other course your cock can take but the one I dictate. Now.
 
Sir, can I speak, collared and restrained, wrists bound behind my back? You say to me, I'm jacking off in your dirty mouth; but I know the summer lake serves far more than pleasure. I reflect thoughts' passing clouds, mountains and trees and give life to all these transitory things...like you...gliding, striding over my tongue, my lips become portal into a stargazing future. Poems, songs, books all written about me. Unfathomable, I am, even with my eyes open looking up at you...not a mountain, just a man, pulling the leash on my collar in rhythm with my bobbing face. Lapping, gentle immutable water engulfs the finite shores of your cock...so close to its own dying, wilting, retreating. Which is more infinite: my soft mouth or your hard cock?

This Valentine's month, Anna has taken over this page to tell a softer, gentler story...

 
Sir, can I speak, difficult as that is right now? Didn't I take my new plastic teeth out for you and create this empty sucking vessel ingesting your cock and balls. In this conscious cavern, my mouth is my vagina where you are born. My face becomes all lips and tongue, cheeks and gums that could barely talk or eat, and yet I give you life. Make you a man. For if a man is not erect, then what is he? I have made you so completely, and will keep making you that way till I suck all the juice out of your erection like bitter sweet sap. Take your being down into me.
 
And you will never...
 
And you will never...
 
And you will never forget me...forget this, revisiting you later in your dark solitude like a succubus, draining you again and again. My mouth will be gone, mounting another and another and you will be pulling it all out of this moment passed: my hair, eyes, lips, face, tongue. This vessel that I make carries you, your cock, across the wide lake of joy turned to sorrow. And standing on the other shore of your being, do you know it was me who took you there? And you want to go back, come home, but there is no vessel. You can't return. Ever.
 
Sir, can I speak? I cannot taste you anymore, or even recall your flavor. I only see your eyes, feel your shudder, hear your last groan. And you're gone. Forgetting, "Love is always eternal and therefore is its own eternity." Remember me there in your eternity--just a dream or a free thought passing like a cloud, reflected in this lake of joy or sorrow. You decide.
 
Sir, can I speak? I am forever; you are going to
come in my mouth. Always. And never.



X

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