My appreciation of male seed is directly proportionate to my arousal. About five minutes down the road the my post-orgasmic fugue had passed, and I no longer felt like a dirty girl, just a messy one. I pulled off the interstate and found a secluded spot behind a fast food place to change. I flipped my once red halter top over my head as quickly as I could releasing an offensive cloud of dried sperm from the crusted fabric. My bra was mostly clean but still intensely oppressive. Normally I would wear a 32F comfortably. However, for maximum cleavage impact I’d left the house this morning in an old 30D under wire. I unclasped the oppressive snare and revealed deep impressions in my rib cage and breasts that clearly showed dark purple on my golden brown skin. Lamenting them briefly, I remembered my precarious nudity and threw on a light blue, hooded windbreaker that I’d found wadded under the passenger seat. My skirt wasn’t so easily replaced, so I quickly scoured the black leather with an alcohol wipe. I removed my panties to give the same treatment to my soiled vagina. Several wipes were required for that disaster.

“Well, that’s forty dollars down the drain,” I bemoaned, remembering my shortsighted choice of Nick’s semen as a personal lubricant and already dreading my trip to the pharmacy for a plan-B pill.

For now, however, I was back in good spirits with a cold milkshake in my hand and cool breeze up my skirt. My choice of beverage was a fitting one considering my school nick name. Called “The Ice Queen” since junior high, my recent breast development had my classmates switching to “The Dairy Queen”.

The epithet wasn’t undeserved. My mother was from Hawaii and raised her only daughter a strict Mormon. Her piety was nearly fanatical, and she dragged me to services twice a week at the chapel, usually with me kicking and screaming the whole way. She was strict and humorless but above all else, she was a strong woman, tall and lithe from years of volleyball competition. I was never a match for her, and no matter how much I resisted, I inevitably spent Wednesdays and Sundays scowling my way through the liturgy.

Things changed one day after I turned 10. As she had every week of my life, Sunday began with my mother ordering me out of bed. The grumpy pubescent girl met her that day in a fouler mood than usual. Irritated by my intransigence, my mother reached for my wrist and pulled as she had many times before. This time, however, I pulled back, breaking the grip and sending my stalwart mother slipping to the floor. Initially overjoyed at my victory, I was horrified to see her crouched against the door frame, clutching her wrist, and staring at her open hand that trembled like a coffee cup on the train tracks. I tried to apologize, but she didn’t even notice me as she continually tried to clench her unresponsive wrist. I called an ambulance as she broke down crying.

Multiple Sclerosis is a terrible diagnosis. In my mother’s severe case it meant half a decade of watching a once proud woman waste into an early grave. Her illness forced me into the caregiver role and engendered in me a strong sense of duty. Despite our differences, I loved her dearly. I devoted myself entirely to her and, as was her staunch desire, to the Church. Even when she grew too ill to attend I still went. It was both out of support for her and my own need for comfort that I became a model disciple following the commandments my mother had laid out for me: no carousing, no skipping church, and no sex.

That final point was of particular importance to her, and she had a very particular definition of sex. I remember having my first period and borrowing a box of tampons from a friend. My mother found them in my purse before I could use them. She was furious and lectured me about the sanctity of my body’s temple. She immediately dragged me to the drug store where we bought so many pads that the clerk asked if we needed an exorcist. On the ensuing ride home, my mother made it clear to me that I was never to put anything in my vagina except my husband, and that any masturbation would result in my becoming “morally unclean”.

And so it went that I became the Ice Queen of Williamson High. From the first time I refused to play spin the bottle I was ridiculed incessantly. As I continued to grow towards my present well proportioned figure, more and more guys tried their luck and failed. My frigged reputation would only grow, and by 15 I had rejected half the sophomore boys (and at least one girl). At the same time, however, my own needs were beginning to surface. The first rumblings of female sexuality were easy enough to suppress, but by the age of twelve, I spent more nights than not lying awake and clenching my mattress waiting for the sensations to abate. I usually fell asleep in this position and woke up in a pool of my own juices convulsing involuntarily. I didn’t equate these symptoms with any religious indiscretion. I reasoned the pleasure had to be some sort of reward for my patience and virtue.

Eventually it became too much to handle. After spending 4 hours one night sweating through my sheets and hyper ventilating, I was at my breaking point. I reached for my groin but stayed my hand just above the panties. My palm hovered over my mound. I could feel the heat pouring out of my slit and occasional droplets of my juices that squirted through my underwear fabric as my hips periodically shuddered. My spirit was weak. I needed to shove my fingers inside. I needed to feel that warmth and wetness. I needed relief. In a last mad act of willpower, I jammed three fingers into my mouth and sucked as hard as I could on them. My eyes squinted, and tears rolled down my face. My lust was unaffected. I pumped my hand furiously into my mouth. Saliva poured from the stretched corners of my lips as my desperation drew muffled screams with every stroke. I maniacally thrust my hips into the air until finally, absolution.

I lay there trembling in the dark unsure at first what to make of my deed. Subsequent nightly reenactments convinced me that my actions were acceptable, and I began to take great pride in the pleasure I received as a symbol my self control. During later sessions, I would add the stimulation of my nipples, but until I was 17, my fingers never once even made contact with my vagina. Nothing did. I would pull at the skin on my hips to spread my labia when I urinated. I steadfastly refused gynecological examinations during my physical. And I absolutely refused the advances of any boy.

******

I arrived home. My cramped little townhouse was paid for my the substantial inheritance my frugal mother had stowed away. Legally, I was still in the custody of my aunt Rebecca, but I rarely saw her. She lived across town and had some high powered marketing job at a tech firm and couldn’t be bothered to check on a girl she barely knew. She was my father’s sister, and after he died my mother seemed to have no interest in socializing with his family. Now she returned the indifference.

It didn’t bother me. I had been the leader of the house since I was 12 and preferred to be left alone. I shuffled into the laundry room and unpacked the dirty clothes from my purse. Then I squeezed up the narrow stairway to my bedroom, fantasizing about a much needed shower. The tension of the long drive would melt away under massaging jets.

Stepping out of the steamy bath, I dried myself and went to the mirror to wrap my hair. Accomplishing that deftly, I gave my tight abdominal muscles a self congratulatory thump and left the bathroom naked but for my head. Carefree nudity was one of the lesser perks of solitary living. I sauntered over to my bureau and opened the top drawer to find some lotion. As I dug through the myriad panties, I couldn’t ignore the object buried beneath. It was my idol, my muse.

El Torero, the only sex toy I owned. As my childhood finger sucking had grown more frequent I had begun to receive pleasure from more ordinary oral contact. Eating hotdogs or popsicles, even the rhythm of brushing my teeth got me wet. One weekend when I was 14, I was at a friends birthday party. The menu of this late summer cookout featured hotdogs complimented by homemade pickles. My friend’s father prided himself on brining the largest homegrown cucumbers. In the buffet line I found myself entranced by the voluminous vegetable. I placed one on my plate and dazedly walked to the edge of the fence line. Grasping it, I found my young hands could not fully encircle it and my infatuation grew. I set my plate down and secreted my prize further around the corner and out of sight of the rest of the party. I took it in two hands, but it would have taken five to cover this behemoth. I slid it into my mouth careful not to bite down. I was still unsure as to why I was behaving this way, but the pleasure of the knobby vegetable on my tongue had me humming contentedly around it’s girth. I was only able to ingest less than a quarter of this monster, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I began to pump it faster and faster. My free hand reached under my shirt to grip a nipple. My juices were flowing thicker and sooner than ever before. I was moments from ecstasy.

Snap!

“Do you need help dear? I heard you crying,” came the worried voice of one of the chaperones.

“Mmmo!” I finished chewing the mouthful of pickle I’d bitten off in surprise. “No Mrs. Davidson. I just really like these pickles.”

She raised an eyebrow at me and gave a polite laugh before returning to the group. I don’t know if she knew what I had been doing, but my underwear wasn’t going to hold the evidence back much longer, so I made a quick exit. That night I scoured the internet for a more durable facsimile and found it: El Torero. Advertised at 12 inches long and 7.5 inches around, it was irresistible to me. I purchased it immediately. When it arrived I was slightly disappointed to find that one of the 12 inches was the uninsertable base. However, my opinion changed immediately after its first use and it has since replaced fingers in my nightly oral rituals.

I stood in front of my bureau, holding the translucent orange leviathan in both hands. Feeling playful, I gave it a wet kiss on the head and sashayed over to my laptop. I checked my E-mail and found almost forty new replies to my ad. I deleted the half with no images; the ad specifically requested visual proof—though that had clearly spared me no heartache that afternoon. I skimmed through the pictures, rhythmically slapping the head of El Torero against my bare nipples as I browsed. There were some good pictures in this batch but nobody near my specifications. Still, I saved three of the messages, intending to meet with them next time I was in Austin.

I had to go to Austin. Even my early cock hunting excursions across my own city of San Antonio had met with unacceptable risk. A past partner had once recognized me at the mall with my friends, and only my immaculate reputation saved me from discovery.

But why work so hard to protect my reputation? After my mother died I spent a year praying for answers before finally settling for the silence. Though my life was now vacant of moral purpose, the thought of turning to hedonism was eminently loathsome. My chastity wasn’t just a moral creed; it was a way of life. It was who I was. Religion or not, I couldn’t change my entire self image at will. Years of teasing and the fortitude gained from facing my mother’s illness had forced me to develop a bizarre pride in my perceived frigidity. Despite the derision, I simply couldn’t bear to be thought of any other way. It was the core of my self identity. When you spend so long telling yourself you are a better person than the people around you, the humiliation of admitting defeat is intolerable.

Unfortunately for my principles, my womanly ardor grew every year. I was masturbating twice a day nearly every day. Sometimes I would spend entire weekends locked in my house sucking my own nipples and worshiping my plastic master. I was finally forced to compromise with my standards and laid out a plan. I would never let any of my friends from school find out, and I would only allow myself oral sex. I had gone so long without penetration that it would be impossible to simply pop my cherry with a random guy or even my finger. The event was so built up in my mind that it simply couldn’t happen until I found a worthy partner. I would only fuck a man if his cock were as big as El Torero. Viewing porn had led me to believe my search would be brief. However, one year and almost 30 dicks later that search hadn’t turned up one guy even close to my requirements. However, I remained dedicated to my ideals.

My freshly recharged phone was vibrating blithely on the kitchen counter as it had probably been for the past twenty minutes. I retrieved it just before it threw itself to the tile floor like a lemming. There were a handful of texts, mostly superficial and easily ignored. Bethany wanted to go to the gym tomorrow; of course, she wanted me to drive her. XxSprayNRayxX was pissed that I no showed our date this after noon. I laughed, having completely forgetting that I’d even scheduled a second date. I sent him an apology and told him I’d hit him up next time I was in down. There was a very good chance I would forget to do that as well.

The last message made me much more energetic. Tabitha was free next weekend and wanted me to party with her. Tabby was a second year psychology major at the University in Austin. I stayed at her apartment any time I was in the city and she didn’t have her head buried in a textbook. Unfortunately the latter condition was rarely met, so I made the most of any opportunity I got. She, in turn, was excellent at finding me capable guys to hook up with. While reading the text I subconsciously groped the underside of breast. The last line had piqued my anticipation. Marco would be in town. Marco was Tabby’s cousin and 4 years older than her. Every time our conversation turned to my particular sexual appetites she would mention him. She would swear that she saw Marco changing at the beach when she was fourteen and that his dick was as long as her arm. I had learned to be skeptical of girl’s fish stories, but I was a hopeless and horny optimist.

As I pondered my good fortune, my thoughts turned to the paradigm of pricks—El Torero—that I was still carrying around the house. I slid it sensually through my bare cleavage as I reveled in this happy chance. Marco had been a frequent target of my masturbatory fantasies, and the thought of finally meeting him had my skin tingling in anticipation. The sliding dong reached my lips, and I extended a wet protuberance to trace it’s underside as it continued up my face. Back and forth I drew it across my tongue like a violin bow, the soft skin of it’s ribbed contours making sweet music on my mouth. I poked the well-articulated head into my mouth and sucked deeply. I imagined Marco gently encouraging me. Throwing my head back, I slapped the foot-long phallus across my nipples and let out a pleasured sigh. I wedged the cock into my cleavage and pinched my arms around my full breasts together to hold it in place. This freed my hands to caress my own body while my head bounced enthusiastically on El Torero. I slid my hands down my stomach and pressed my hands into the taut flesh of my flat bronze abs. My hands returned to my breasts, and I gently rolled both nipples as the first drops of my pussy juice splashed onto the tile. Craning my neck downward in this way made for difficult breathing, and as the pleasure intensified, my first squeal had my mouth sputtering against the plump silicone shaft. I coughed as the dong slipped from my mouth and was barely saved by a quick pinch of my knees.

I needed a more comfortable position. To my disappointment, the bottom half of the massive dildo was relatively dry. I had successfully deepthroated smaller items including a foot-long hotdog. El Torero, however, dwarfed even that in thickness and rigidity, and every attempt to take its full length had ended in gagging fits. With the prospect of meeting my golden God on the horizon, insecurity coaxed me into one more try. I lay prone on the kitchen counter with my full breasts thrust toward the ceiling and my head dangling over the edge, loosing the towel that bound my still wet hair. This would make for one straight line from my mouth to my stomach and give me the best chance at total insertion. I reached above my head and drew in the first four inches of the dong. My eyes were already watering as its tremendous girth was stretching my jaw to the limit and probing my epiglottis. I stayed calm, breathed slowly through my nose, and gently massaged my throat with the mass. I gagged slightly, and the slight taste of bile drifted into my mouth. I didn’t stop my efforts. I summoned some courage and pressed firmly with the shaft as I opened my unrelenting throat with rapid swallowing motions.

My success was surprising and immediate. As soon as the initial barrier of my throat was cleared, peristalsis drew the full length of the dildo into my throat. Only its wide base kept me from swallowing the entirety. My first instinct was to spit it out. The sensation was terrifying, like choking and vomiting at once. The thickness of the dildo compressed my trachea and made breathing difficult. I focused myself and continued my slow calming breaths. Eventually I was relaxed enough to continue. I slowly dragged the cock from the depths of my gorge. Every inch of it danced across the folds of my esophagus and sent powerful waves of oral delight into my hips. These were familiar but the waves seemed somehow denser to me. They flowed but never ebbed, my pleasure never retreating, and when I had drawn the full length to the edge of my throat, I plunged it back. Faster and faster I pumped the bottom seven inches through my gullet. I could barely breathe. I saw my neck bulging with each thrust, and quickened my pace so I might finish before I passed out. I was wildly bucking at the air. My ass was splashing into a pool of my cream with every stroke.

I came. I tried to scream but could not. I was lightheaded. The joy and the asphyxiation intermingled, and I felt outside of myself. My body was nothing but warmth and ecstasy, and I felt that blissful form rise off the counter top and spread like a fog over the kitchen. This was no longer a pussy orgasm. Every part of me was cumming. My hands and my eyes burst with joy. My toes curled into balls and rolled away. Every strand of my chestnut hair shot a tiny rainbow blissfully splattered against the walls.

“Arrrgghhhhhhhahhhh!” I grunted as I ripped the dildo from my mouth. I hyperventilated, tears and spit running down my faces as I gazed in horror at the device that had probably almost killed me. I sat on the counter top for a moment to regain my wits before hopping off to survey the damage. Six dishes lay shattered on the floor along with a thankfully intact spice rack. I didn’t even remember how I’d done it, but I could imagine the kind of flailing I’d done in the throes of my oxygen starved orgasm. The wall connecting to the counter was also drenched, but I was pretty sure I knew how that happened.

I spent the rest of the week fantasizing about my trip and practicing my technique. I was much more careful in subsequent trysts not to kill myself. Choking on a dildo would not look good in my obituary. By the time Friday came I was literally chomping at the bit to put my new skills to use. Marco was in for the night of his life.

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