A taste of power

True story this time...

So I was at a “passion party” the other night. You know this kind of party – a bunch of women tittering with embarrassment whilst passing around forty different kinds of vibrating dildos. Although, with this particular crowd, there was far less embarrassed tittering and far more bawdy suggesting going on. Even with my aunt in attendance, my cousin (her daughter) and I had a grand old time comparing notes and swapping stories.

Lubes, creams, lingerie, and toys were passed around the circle – ask me some time about how we played a game involving an eighteen-inch double-headed dildo going back and forth between our thighs... but I digress. The various unguents, edible and not, were smoothed on our forearms and sampled. One, in particular, aroused the most palaver – a product designed to suppress the gag reflex, useful when giving blow jobs. The look of instant distaste that flashed on most of the faces and the way this product was quickly tossed from woman to woman would have given away their disgust immediately if anyone had been in doubt of it before. My cousin and I exchanged a look that promised confabulation later.

After her guests had gone, my cousin and I began chatting about that reaction. See, neither of us has a problem with blow jobs. It seems that we both enjoy giving them, for various reasons. I can’t speak for my cousin, but for me, there’s such power in fellatio. Most women see this power as balanced on the man’s side – they feel that since he’s the one receiving the orgasm, that he is the dominant partner in the situation; that the woman, on her knees, is submissive. Actually, that’s quite the opposite of what I feel, even when I’m on my knees.

You see, during that time, I am the one in control. I can draw out his pleasure or I can make him come quickly. His sensual torture can be intensified at my whim. When his cock is in my mouth, he is in my power: I have his most sensitive part next to my teeth – the part of me that can do maximum damage. He has to submit to my tender ministrations, lest I slip. More than that, though, is the power to bring my man to the edge of himself, then pull him over with my lips and tongue. Wringing out the anguished moans as he tries to hold back, hearing his breathy exhortations and eventual warnings, feeling his hands fist in my hair as he attempts to slow my progress – these are my finest moments, the moments when I claim dominion.

I may be on my knees looking up, but the eyes looking down into mine are adoring in their surrender.