The Art of Fellatio!

No no, when it comes to yaffling the yogurt cannon, my boys need to earn it! Don’t get me wrong; when I say earn it, it usually just involves buying me some form of alcoholic beverage, so it’s not as if I’m making them drop and give me fifty for the privilege of booking a meeting with Mr One Eye.

So when I walked in and saw boys in the class I immediately said to myself, ‘no freebies Claire, they gotta work it if they want to squirt it.’ I nodded to myself resolutely and settled myself down on a cushion, thrilled to see my foot fetish workshop partner park herself next to me soon after.

Our teacher glided into the room and instantly she just oozed sex (in the good way, not the wet wipe alternative). Her name was Isla and she was studying to be a sexologist. I instantly leaned forward and set my ears to record. If this chick was studying the course that I had worked for more than three years to get into then I wanted to hear every word she had to say!

Blonde, buxom and just an all-round babe, Isla drew every man’s eyes instantly to her. Basically you couldn’t ask for a more appropriate teacher to educate us in the art of spit-shining the baseball bat. As she walked around the room handing out carrots to her eager students, we all fell under her saucy spell. It probably helped that she had to bend over a lot and her incredible boobs threatened to topple out of her shirt each time, but I think that was just an added bonus.

Carrots successfully distributed, she glided back to the front of the room, hips swaying provocatively as she went, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on us mere mortals left clutching our carrots uselessly.

Turning around to face us with a smile as glorious as her ass, Isla produced a piece of paper that would become the mouth-to-junk resuscitation bible for many of us.

Twenty three, that’s right, no less than twenty three techniques for a good face frosting were listed on that page.

Isla handed them around and I watched as people eagerly scanned the page from top to bottom, thirsty for information on how to get to that cream filling they so craved.

Isla smirked, knowing with certainty that the room was hers for the taking. She had sucked us in with the sex appeal, and now she was about to blow us away with technique. Quite the appropriate description for such a class I must say.

We started simple with The Bob, the classic fellatio move; creating a vacuum by pursing your lips, then gliding up and down the shaft.

Simple, yes? Well sure, if I hadn’t been so eager to grab the first carrot I saw, which just happened to be quite the big boy. I considered whittling down my appendage by taking a few cheeky nibbles but decided that would be counter-productive.

I was here to learn about how to please my man at any size, so I may as well just accept my girthy practice model and roll with it.

Plus I probably would have given all the men surrounding me permanent nightmares if they saw me gnawing away on my member.

So I sucked it up (literally) and tried to adjust my little mouth around my well endowed veggie man. We moved on to a few more basics such as The Ice Cream Cone (licking the shaft like it’s the tastiest rainbow paddle-pop you’ve ever tasted, and uh-oh the temperature’s rising and that bad boy is melting fast!) and the Hand Extension, where your hand is an extension of your mouth (that one’s fairly self-explanatory to be honest.) After some time working on perfecting the basics, Isla deemed us ready to progress to the harder moves.

I’ve always been a bit of an uncoordinated dipstick, and as it turns out my mouth and tongue are just as useless at performing complicated moves! I tried and tried to master Roll Out the Red Carpet, where you curve your tongue back and push the tip to the roof of your mouth, then allow your tongue to ‘unravel’ as the lucky love rod enters your mouth, but sadly…no luck.

My tongue was more of a flop out rather than a roll and I ended up just getting a lot of spit on well…everything. This was quite confronting when we had to do all twenty-three moves staring into the eyes of the person opposite. You ever tried giving head to a root vegetable while staring straight into a girls eyes who you have just finished foot spanking?

Tricky. Very tricky.

The spit issue didn’t help much as I was constantly drooling all over my carrot and anything else in close range while I tried to compete in the tongue Olympics some of the moves required.

Luckily for me, Isla gave us a great piece of advice mere moments before I was ready to snap my slobbery carrot in half and give up.

“Sex is messy,” she said, her voice like velvet on freshly shaved legs.

“Sex is dirty and smelly and gross. The sooner you accept that. The sooner you will be able to really enjoy it.”

And she is so right Lovers. Every time I have crappy sex I start to think about all the gross stuff. All the squelchy sounds and weird smells and just the general ick of what we’re doing. I’m fortunate in the fact that I only start focusing on these things after I have realised the dude who’s flailing about on top of me is just useless, rather than at the outset of my naked trysts. When I’m having a good time, a queef is an opportunity to giggle; the squish of lube on skin is sensual rather than slimy, and the slap slap slap of balls on my ass is an ecstatic rhythm to time my orgasm to.

It’s all about perception.

With that in mind I stared down my carrot, determination glowing in my eyes as I took in that orange skin and rough texture. Watch out boy, I thought to myself, you’re in for a wild ride.

With renewed vigour, we continued to work through the twenty-three moves, from The Corn; nibbling the sides of the wang as if you’re eating corn, to the Self-Induced Turkey Slap (if I have to explain that one you’re probably reading the wrong type of blog.)

One move that got me a little conflicted (ooh feelings, dum dum dum!) was the Self-Induced Gagging.

Isla raved about the move, noting that she committed so fully to it that occasionally she came quite close to a bit of method acting, having to swallow down a touch of the old vom as it snuck up on her.

I know this move is very popular in the adult erotica world and hey sometimes we all feel like channelling Madison Ivy or Bonnie Rotten, but what about when it’s just you and the dude you’re keen on and this is the first time you’ve knelt at his pubic alter to get a little closer to the Big Man?

Is it too much? Do they know you’re faking it? Would they even like it if you tried to bring adult erotica so vividly into their experience? It’s all speculation I suppose, but I would be so devastated if I was halfway through the performance of a lifetime, spit flying everywhere, moaning like a gloriously wanton whore as I turkey slapped myself and pretended to choke down his boomstick, and he tapped me on the head and said, “can you tone it down a little?”

Hmm, that could be quite the mood killer.

I think the main thing the class taught me was that every style is different, whether you’re a Tea Bagger, a Hummer, a Zig Zagger or any other myriad type of blow jobber, as long as you (and he) have fun and enjoy yourself, then that will be the best type of fellatio.

We finished the class with some more practice and the room was quiet except for the odd crunch and squeal of ‘oh God no!’ as someone accidentally bit the tip off their unfortunate carrot.

Then the single men in the room were asked if they wanted to volunteer themselves for ‘practice’.

Pfft, is a frog’s ass watertight?

I’ve never seen fifteen men scramble to their feet so quickly and thrust their arms in the air. The only thing that could have topped it is if they cried, “I volunteer as tribute!”

I smiled as one of the girls whose unfortunate carrot had received a sudden circumcision walked over to one of the gentleman and offered her services. From his constant wide eyes I would say that that was the most terrifying blow job of his life.

One thing I’ll always cherish and never forget (apart from watching Isla reduce a man to a whimpering puddle through the mere work of her mouth and tongue) was the men as they left the room, rubbing their faces and whinging, “my jaw is so sore!”

Welcome to my world boys!

As Samantha Jones so wisely said, “They don’t call it a job for nothing!”

Written by Claire W.