Pussy-Licker: Domestic Arrangement

Oral Sex: For Fun & Profit? The Full And Shocking Truth.

We investigate...

Suppose – just suppose, you wake up one morning with the ability to speak fluent Cantonese. Something you could never do before. You can't explain it. It tilts your life out of balance. It gives you a new perception on yourself, and on the world. To me, meeting Julian and Sandie is something a little like that. All those things I've previously taken for granted, my attitudes and sense of sexual identity get totally switched around. Call me naïve, but they introduce me to a whole new sexual vocabulary, a new gender language I'd never thought existed before.

Gender relationships, they say, were in flux. Now they're in free fall.

I know the dialogue. I'm familiar with the arguments. Sitting here, sprawled around 'The Jude & Ritchie TV Show' office, we begin the new week's briefing by attempting to come up with some original angles. You know the show, of course? You've seen it. We've already done transvestites, transsexuals, intersexuals, metrosexuals, ambisexuals, bisexuals, sex-addicts, sex-toys, Lady-boys, adultery, adult-babies... contraception preferences. So where do Julian and Sandie fit into the show's spectrum? Perhaps they don't.

"Exposé? Human interest? They're just words" points out Ritchie. "Just words."

And I sit here, sucking my biro slow and contemplatively. You know me – Jude, the blonde half of the partnership, I can act smart. But now, I'm squirming in my chair to get a better view of the monitor. That is the reason I'm squirming, isn't it? Respooling the interview tape second-by-second, voices coming through my ear-stud.

The facts are simple enough. This is a couple who've been married some seven-and-a-half years. And she – Sandie, now runs 'BONA ESCORTS', through which she – not to put too fine a point on it, pimps him – Julian, out to visiting business-women in the South-East area... It starts like this. Interviewing them separately in the expensive home they share, all angular furniture in shades of aubergine. We sit across a round-glass coffee-table in their conservatory. We're replaying it now. Watching the changing image as Julian leans forward to emphasise a point. His warm presence radiating even on-screen, as does the extraordinary charm of his conversation, full of quicksilver feints away from his ego. He'd be impossible to render in print. He seems pleasantly inoffensive, a mild gentle man with grey-shot hair. A man who is keen to make us coffee, eager to please. His lips moving silently, sensually. Of course – they would move sensually.

By contrast, Sandie has tight, stubborn lips. She's wearing determinedly high boots, and gets straight down to the issue at hand. In this relationship she has all the assertiveness genes, she's obviously its driving force.

"We were both working when we first met and married" he explains. "I was managing a retail outlet. It was alright, but it wasn't great. I lack the killer instinct, never had the commercial drive to reach the top. And when I was made redundant it didn't bother me greatly. Sandie was doing fine. Her graphic design studio was in profit. Logic determines she should continue as bread-winner, while I'm happy to be house-husband..."

"That was fine" she agrees. "What had originally attracted me to Julian, I guess, was his essential passivity. He's always been easy to get on with. He allows me, even encourages me, to express the more dominant side of my personality. While he's more compliant, content to take the more submissive, more feminised role. I sometimes wonder what he was like before we met. He's always been oral-orientated. Was he like that as a youth, with the other guys? It wouldn't surprise me if he'd experimented that way, and deep-throated the occasional monster dick. But – whatever, our relationship seemed to work out fine, until before too long, it was exactly those elements about him that began to irritate me. The business wasn't going quite as well I pretended either. It's a competitive world out there. There are lots of bigger design studios prepared to undercut their smaller rivals, squeeze them out of the market. I went into partnership with a financial guy called Anwar, no need to go into details here. But he's the direct opposite of Julian, and – yes, we became lovers. He packs a big portfolio – if you get my drift, and knows how to use it! So it's an economic, as well as an erotic merger. We fuck on a regular basis – and it's great, but more importantly I was determined that my enterprise would succeed. So when, during a business-trip to Cologne intended to drum up a new client-base, I encounter Marietta, I know that I had to get her on my side. She's commissioning editor of an auto magazine. She could put a lot of work my way. She takes me out, treats me lavishly on the company expenses. There are even 'male escorts' provided. But of course, when she comes on a reciprocal visit to check out our resources, I'm expected to provide a similar level of corporate hospitality. I'm able to set up overnight accommodation through Anwar, he has an expensive riverside apartment. In fact we'd used it on a number of occasions for our own extra-maritals. But cash-flow is tight, it doesn't extent far beyond that, which is where I eventually decide that Julian must play a part..."

"When she first raises the subject she suggests I act as 'chauffeur' in a voice that's as near to verbalising quote marks as it's possible. It's not necessary for me to say more than 'huh'. How can I refuse? Naturally, this night, I won't be her husband, or partner, I'll just be there to drive them from the restaurant to the apartment. Later she suggests I dress in a more amusingly provocative way than just a uniform, she has some ideas. By then I've already agreed, so it's too late to back out."

"Of course Julian wasn't, and still isn't, aware of the apartment's role in my sex-life (at least, until he reads this!). That amuses me. That's a bonus. And everything works out fine. Marietta arrives. She seems impressed by our corporate set-up. We go out for a business meal, the price-tag alone damn-near puts our account into overdraft. Julian picks us up and drives us back. He's in the long leather coat I'd arranged for him to wear. You can guess what he's got on beneath – very little! He parks the car and follows us up into the apartment. She hardly seems to notice him. Treats him like a servant, even when he appears with martinis on a tray, and all he's wearing is this stupid little leather posing pouch. Similar to the way the 'escorts' provided in Cologne had been dressed. But the best is yet to come. I'm busy showing her portfolio's of work. He's standing there. She reaches out, flips his pouch down, and begins stirring her drink with his penis. It's the most bizarre thing I've ever seen. The totally nonchalant way she's doing it. Getting freaky with my husband's semi-hard bonking equipment like that. Treating him totally as property. As an amusing toy. In the way men treat women, I suppose, if the gender roles had been reversed. And, I suppose, why not? I was fascinated. While he just stands there waiting for her to finish..."

"What was I to do? It must have been round about this point, I guess, that I realise there's going to be more to this than I'd anticipated. It began as a kind of game, a masquerade. Marietta is tall and blonde, very assertive, very self-assured. I knew she'd been looking at me in an amused kind of way. And I was there at Sandie's behest. I couldn't let her down. What should I do? She's got my cock out, I daren't risk her displeasure by putting it away. If I upset her now, Sandie might lose the contract. So I just stand there, conscious of the martini-trickle down my shaft gathering in a shimmering drip on the curve of my glans. Should I wipe it? She solves the dilemma by neatly catching the tear of moisture on her little finger, and licking it clean. And once they've had more drinks, and Marietta suggests they check out the rest of the apartment, we go through the kitchen, the bathroom, and inevitably wind up in the bedroom. By now the thong has fallen around my knees, around my ankles and off. And I'm flip-flopping nude between two fully-dressed women. An oddly perverse, and strangely arousing sensation. Marietta flicks on the TV remote, and lies back on the bed. As she lies there she reaches down, quite casually, removes her underwear, spreads her legs, clicks her fingers at me and points. Like she's summoning the waiter, she's had the appetiser, it's time for the main course..."

"And he goes in between her legs on all fours like some submissive lap-dog, his tongue hanging out, his dick hanging down. I mean, he's good at it. When it comes to lip-service he knows what to do, he has a well-educated tongue, I made sure of that early in our marriage. And you can tell she appreciates it. But what's even stranger is that she yacks on about business to me as she lies there with him giving her vigorous head...

"And I'm sucked in there by sexual gravitation, drawn inexorably beneath the arch of her thighs into that yawning singularity. Her cunt is flesh-pink and moist, a hungrily flexing tunnel in a nest of coarse curling black tentacles, a deliquescence of warm dissolving softness closing in around my tongue, tiny rippling muscles gripping. Memories blur beyond this point, coming at me in a storm of moist tongue-penetrations deep-sliding, her legs coming in around my shoulders, clamping me in there tight, her furred mound rasping like velcro on my chin. It's not true that all vaginas are alike. They're not. They each have distinct aromas. Different textures on your taste-buds, some richer, some sweeter, some with more, some with less moisture flooding out to greet the eager lap of your tongue, blending with the drool of your saliva. Some protect their secrets in tight grooves of crinkled flesh, others yawn and gape, overwhelming you, intoxicating you, drawing you deeper inside in voracious tides of slip-slithery coral-tinted fleshiness... Marietta is like that, awesome, like I'm drowning in her, lubricating that clit-bud with my tongue, slow, then faster, lick-lick-lickity-lick, my finger-tips teasing the glittering orifice beneath with gradual rhythmic insertions... until the first orgasm hits her, and it spreads to engulf me in quivering shock-waves that won't let go, pulse-squeezing around my trapped tongue, rip-tides gushing in my face, closer – more intimate, more a part of the intensity she's experiencing than even she is..."

"The sounds he's making, the slurpy-slurp noises, are a little distracting, but she contrives not to draw attention to it. Only the way she bites her lip, her altered breathing, the undulations of her stomach give her away. Until – as it subsides, it occurs to her that he's so good, and she's monopolising him, why don't I try some? Naturally I can't admit I've already been on the receiving end of that talented tongue. I feel odd, embarrassed, yet I can't deny the eerie eroticism is a turn-on. I hurriedly undress, take her place on the bed, he comes in to lick me, just as enthusiastically. While she goes into her shoulder-bag and produces this massive vibrator. 'They do so like to stick things into us, and it's so satisfying to return the favour' she smiles, lightly greasing it with her manicured finger. She moves round behind him and just... slides it in. All the way. He groans hot breath into my pussy as she impales him, but he doesn't pause. 'He likes it' she announces. 'Look at him, he's so hard he's nearly exploding. I've a suspicion he's had this done to him before, like he's been helping out at some boys-only parties.' And he was. I've seldom seen him so stiff, so red, so engorged. Bobbing and straining, swaying and quivering as she works that big vibrator in and out of his rectum, until he begins coming in great wild spurts across the duvet, and she laughs and applauds each pulse. Things just get crazier after that..."

"There's no actual genital penetration. Just oral. On my part. Until my tongue is rasped raw, my chin sticky-moist with vaginal juices, and the taste still there – catching at the back of my throat the following morning, the faint musky perfume still there as I wake. But oddly, while I'm doing it, it feels like it's not me. It's a role. A performance. That's what liberates me. But afterwards, when we get home, me and Sandie are both so sexed-up we have the best fuck we've ever had. It was amazing, for both of us..."

"And needless to say, Marietta is well-impressed. The result is she phones me later from Cologne. We'd failed to get the design contract. That's a bummer. But – oh, she's scheduled to return later that month as part of a delegation to liaise with other clients. And do I have the address of that 'male escort'? It doesn't take me long to work through the logistics of it. 'Oral Sex: For Fun & Profit'. I set it up. He agrees to do it. Naturally. Of course, I don't tell him there'll be four of them in the delegation! But word of mouth is a powerful thing. And recommendation soon brings in other requests for his 'services'. And soon I'm setting up a web-site, 'BONA ESCORTS', and we're now making more than I ever did from the design studio. I'm thinking of taking on more escorts. Providing they're capable of guaranteeing the satisfaction-level I've become used to from Julian. Stallions to a man, tall, dark, handsome, athletic, hung like the Gardens of Babylon, and so good in bed that any woman lucky enough to have sex with them would be well-advised to wear a crash-helmet when the time comes to get it on. Oh yes, and a tongue like a lizard. I'll be doing the auditions. And our marriage? that's stronger than ever..."

You see the problem here? Wonderful material. But – like, Huh, how do you deliver that on day-time TV, on 'The Jude & Ritchie Show'? Ritchie says "Exposé? Human interest? They're just words. Just words."

Maybe. But I sit here now, sucking my biro slow and contemplatively. Replaying the interview tape second-by-second, voices coming through my ear-stud, yet again. Where do Julian and Sandie fit into the show's spectrum? Perhaps they don't. Meanwhile, I find myself penning the mobile number for 'BONA ESCORTS' on my post-it pad. Going over each number carefully, retracing each number over and over... my tongue slurping out from the side of my mouth, mmm, mmm, thinking thoughts I shouldn't be thinking... like I woke up one morning with the ability to speak fluent Cantonese.

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY