What you are about to read is part fact, part fantasy, and is entirely true.
The names, dates, and locations in this story have been changed to protect the guilty.
Enjoy 😉
The show had ended, but the rhythm hadn’t left our bodies. That low, primal pulse from Desert Dwellers was still moving through us—like the night itself was dancing inside our bones. The streets were mostly quiet, scattered with the occasional drunk laugh or echoing bassline from someone’s car down the block. We pulled into the front spot of her apartment complex, right by the entrance. Prime real estate. Wide open. Exposed.
I let the engine idle for a moment. She didn’t move to get out. Just looked over at me, eyes heavy with mischief and moonlight.
“That was fun,” she said, voice low and a little hoarse from singing and screaming through the night. “I’m not ready for it to be over yet.”
She leaned across the console, her seatbelt still halfway tangled, and kissed me. Her mouth tasted like lime and salt and sweat and surrender. That kind of kiss that starts soft, but knows where it’s going. Her tongue traced mine with lazy confidence, then pulled back just enough to look down at my lap.
“You’re hard.”
A whisper. A smirk. No surprise in her voice – just delight.
She undid my belt with one hand, never breaking eye contact, like she’d done it a hundred times in her head already. The metal of the buckle clinked like a secret being unlocked. She slid the zipper down, reached in, and freed me. My cock was thick and aching in her hand, pulsing with blood and anticipation. Her fingers wrapped around it slowly—testing the weight, the heat. She exhaled like she’d just been handed something sacred.
Without another word, she leaned down between the seats and took me into her mouth.
God.
And then…. It happened.
Me, the ever vigilant man, scanned all my mirrors. Checked my blind spots. Looked around to see if anyone was coming…. So that I could.
It was late and it seemed everyone was inside for the night. Perfect. I started to relax into the sensation of her lips and tongue on my most sensitive place.
As I laid my head back, the nearby street light stared directly into my retinas.
It hurt.
It wasn’t just the intensity of the light, it was the quality of the light. The city had installed some new high efficiency LED style bulbs in the neighborhood. The LED elements don’t glow. They shout. LOUDLY. There is something harsh and cold about the light that comes from high output LED lights.
LED bulbs are the psychopaths of the lightbulb world.
They have no empathy. No grace. No self awareness – they just shout out cold, hard, intense, unfeeling light into the backs of your eyeballs and leave spots burned into your retinas for hours to come. They don’t care how you feel. They got the job done, didn’t they?
They did it with unprecedented efficiency, didn’t they?
Well then, shut the fuck up and be a little bit grateful for that light, horrific and unfeeling as it may be.
Hell, even the orange cast of those old school high pressure sodium street lights are 10 orders of magnitude more romantic than LED bulbs.
It’s kind of a Christmas miracle that somehow, some way, we’ve been able to tame the beast of LED lighting enough to make it useable in a studio setting.
At the risk of a mustache obsessed hipster claiming that “vinyl sounds better, man”, I swear to christ that virtually every other light generation method is far warmer and more soulful than these fucking LED bubs.
Hell, I wish we could have an orange street light right now.
I can imagine what her spunky, bleached white hair would look like, bathed in that orange glow.
Or, what if there was a blue, mercury vapor bulb in the street light on the other side of the car? Blue from one side, orange from the other – that would look amazing.
That’s such a popular lighting scheme on podcasts nowadays, and it makes sense. Blue and orange are opposite and complementary colors.
God, what would that be like if I had my camera right now, and could photograph her sucking my dick, bathed in opposite colors from opposite angles?
I think I could make high art of it. I really do.
She’s just so fucking beautiful, it’s hard to take a bad picture of her.
Maybe I could talk her into coming into the studio and doing a series of artistic nudes of her in those tones. Her hair, her skin, her curves, her eyes, would absolutely gobble up that lighting scheme. I can see it now.
But what would be the point?
Could I show it to anyone?
She can be pretty bold and daring – it’s one of the things I find so sexy about her.
I should order some amber and blue gels for our studio lights. Yeah. Definitely.
Even if she doesn’t let me show them to anyone – it will still be a beautiful moment.
If a photograph gets printed and nobody sees it, did any photography really even happen?
Is photography in the printing, or the consumption of the image?
It reminds me of the classic double slit experiment in quantum physics – the observation of a thing affects the nature of a thing.
And thank christ the modeling lights in our studio strobes are incandescent and not those god-forsaken LEDs.
I honestly think that would detract from my art if they were.
She reaches for my hand and gently squeezes it.
Oh fuck – that’s right, she’s going down on me right now, and it’s my favorite thing in the whole world.
I tune in to the sensation of her lips on my cock. The temperature of her mouth. The reverberation of her voice softly maaning, “mmmmm” as she orally makes love to me.
I pull myself together and quickly make a truce with that fucking light so that I may be more present to what’s happening in my lap right now.
Soft and warm and hungry. Her tongue circles my head with this deliberate swirl, like she’s savoring a piece of candy she doesn’t want to rush. She sinks lower, taking more of me inch by inch. I can feel her hot breath on the base of my shaft and where my pubic hair WOULD normally be. Her pace unhurried, teasing at first. She’s playing with me. Dragging her tongue along the underside of my very excited cock, pulling back to kiss the tip, then plunging again.
At this point in my life, she has given me the best head I’ve ever experienced.
And here’s the thing –
It’s not about technique.
Technique is like vodka.
The better it is, the less you notice it.
With Ashley, I didn’t taste the vodka at all.
I taste her, through my cock –
Her hunger, her joy, her eroticism, in taking me deep, in swallowing me down.
A generously, lovingly, enthusiastically given blow job speaks to a man’s soul in a way that no steak ever could, no matter how much Emeril sanctifies it.
It says, “I see you. I feel you. I taste you. I want ALL of you, inside of me, in the deepest and most intimate of ways. That’s how much I love, accept, and adore you.”
When she swallows me, it is a sacrament to her. It is holy communion – she takes this part of me, and makes it part of her, quite literally.
And that, my friends, is what makes it so heartbreakingly hot.
She squeezes my hand again.
I run my hand through her hair as she runs me through the other side of her pretty little head.
God, where have I been?
The thing that makes her blow jobs amazing is the thing that makes her amazing in other parts of her life – she is so aware of those times when I get lost in my own head. When I fall down my own rabbit holes. She has this way of gently bringing me back to earth, to whatever is happening right here, right now…
Her moans vibrated through me. She slid deeper, faster, her hand gripping the base, mouth wet and tight and utterly unrelenting. Every stroke was a wave crashing over me. Every flick of her tongue made my thighs tense and my breath catch. I let my head fall back against the seat and closed my eyes, drowning in her rhythm, that same rhythm that had carried us through the show earlier.
I warned her I was close.
She didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull away.
She just kept sucking. It seemed to turn her on even more knowing that I was about to go full on “La Petit Mort” on her….
I finally came back into my body. My present tense. This moment with my lover.
I felt my cock get hard – very, very hard.
My god, I think I had even become slightly soft during my battle with the LED bulb outside.
Fuck.
I can’t help it.
I’m a photographer.
Light is my oxygen, my language, my meaning in life.
You know what they say – the best thing about a person is often also the worst thing about a person.
I took a big deep breath to turn off my photographer brain. I paused.
I felt into this moment – not just the fact of her sucking my cock, but the curiosity and excitement with which she is doing it.
My cock gets even harder, if that’s even possible…
She looked up at me, her eyes full of love, mouth full. I could see and hear and feel how much she loved doing this – hell, I think she did it more for herself than me. My orgasm might even be the byproduct here. That hand she was holding mine with?
It is absent.
I look deep into the shadows and find that she has unbuttoned her pants, and that her hand is now inside her panties.
This fact, this sight, of her unabashed, unapologetic, and full enjoyment of this moment, sent me over the edge.
My body and my soul took over. I let go.
My cock pulsed and gushed. She swallowed in sync. Her other pretty little hand firmly yet carefully, knowingly, stroked the base of my cock, milking it for every last drop – her lips and tongue and soul, sucking me completely empty.
She pulled back slowly, licking her lips like the show wasn’t quite over. Then she climbed up and kissed me. Deep. Open. Letting me taste what she’d just taken from me.
She giggled against my mouth—this dirty, satisfied laugh that lit something wild in my chest.
“Sleep well,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against my jaw. “You needed that.”
Then she stepped out into the night and disappeared up the stairs, hips swaying like she was still dancing.
Speaking of photography – check out my gallery here.
