That was all. ‘I’m going to come on your face.’ No instructions for me, though I played with my breasts and nipples, sucked my own fingers after touching myself, hoping that would help. All that I had known before the appointment were the details of the meeting and a request to wear a lot of makeup.
My effort didn’t seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again. And the mantra. ‘I’m going to come on your face.’ I writhed on the sheets and groaned. No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh. Again, no reaction.
Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel the way unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest. ‘I’m sorry honey, it ain’t gonna happen,’ he said, as if it had been my idea all along.
Cortes