Baby Love

The first time Patricia came home after work and lay down on the living room floor, Bret thought he knew what she wanted.  After her long day at work Patricia wished to flop on the floor, fully clothed, to demonstrate her weariness, and he should do likewise—lie next to her, propped on his elbow, and listen to her complaints about her hard day.  But instead she asked Bret to sit on her.  When he did, settling himself gently on her hips, she said, "Scoot up." 

            Her hands were pressed at the seat of his pants, pushing him closer to her face.  Patricia began unbuckling his belt.  He tried to help her with his belt, but she pushed his hand away.  The zipper hissed, she spread the front of his pants and pulled his prick through the opening in his shorts.  Bret watched her tilt her head back, her tongue out.  Already he was stiff, and found himself leaning forward, his palms on the floor.  He rested the head of his cock on her tongue—and with this action Bret seemed to view himself from a great distance. . .as if he had inadvertently become involved in a wonderful, precipitous misunderstanding.     

            With his knees pressing her ribs, he felt Patricia sigh—a heave of her chest, then a relaxation.  She settled, grinned at him and took him in part way, and slowly spit him back out.  Gurgling, trying to sound like a little baby, she said, "Feed me." 

            She spit out saliva onto his cock, licked it off and took his cock back in.  Another sigh from her.  Their eyes met, she laughed, and further imitating an infant, she lisped, "Ga ga goo goo." 

That first time in the afternoon on the floor Bret was eager, and—swooping in from his great distance—he felt suddenly and inextricably involved.  He thought Patricia was demanding, amusing, with her baby-routine, and he. . .he felt as if he were sumptuously suckling her, enjoying the sounds of her slurping. 

            The next day and the day after that, when she wanted it again, Bret thought it kind of peculiar: her wordlessly lying back on the floor, her wagging tongue as he straddled her.  He offered her a weak, "Too many rough days at the office?" but she only shook her head, opened her mouth, and tilted her head back. 

            After four days, though, Bret was concerned.  Patricia wanted to suck him every day after work.  They weren't living together, and known each other for seven months—and Patricia hadn't demanded it this way before.  Now they had a routine, as if they were married; it felt very much like a schedule he had to keep.  Still he told himself not to worry, for who cared how Patricia wanted it, or even what she wanted?  Her wet mouth warmed him, then emptied him.  With her pinned below him, she made him feel uncaring and brutal—and anything to make sex thought-less and leave him unquestioning, that was fine. 

            Each time he saw the gleaming head of his cock flare wider and disappear between her lips, Bret closed his eyes.  The wetness of her tongue on him gave his cock its last bit of surging buoyancy, making him feel as if it were lifting away from himself, balloon-like.  He would have no worries now.  With a gentle push on his butt, she urged him in further.  It hardly varied—her face turning slowly left and right, the head of his cock bulging first in one side of her cheek and then the other.  She would suck on him then release him, and his cock swung up away from her, then she grabbed it with her palm and directed it back to her.  Here came more of her small slurping motions, her lips anticipatory, nibbling, taking only the first inch of him then spitting him out, only to take him in again, deeper.  Never any hurry in her, and despite his hope not to look, to simply revel in this, Bret did take peeks, then shut his eyes, counting to himself before he looked again.  

            Even with his eyes closed, he felt her hot breath on his stomach, and her ribs rising and falling under him as she seemed to be tasting him, slowly taking in more of him, and then, with the right angle ingesting almost all of him.  He would now be hunched over her, his palms planted on the floor.  He felt her settle beneath him.  She then began sucking on him earnestly, with him settling too, almost lying down over her face.  Tiny bits of grit from the floor imprinted themselves in his palms.  He raised himself off her a little, trying different angles in her mouth.  Balancing himself on one hand, he used his free hand to lift her head, bring it closer to him, almost cradling her face in his stomach.  Here, snuggling him, repeating her soft Ummm, ummm, Patricia seemed to be getting sustenance from him.  He felt as if he were a nursing mother, calm, patient, while her little one sucked, drawing him out of himself. 

            Eventually, after a week and a half, Bret began to feel engorged in the afternoon hours before Patricia arrived home; he was full of milky sperm, and wanted to nurse, aching if he didn't get suckled.  She relieved him.  "Afternoon feeding," he said to her once while she sucked, and she laughed, a muffled snort in her nose.  Then like a child, she took him out of her mouth and replaced him with her thumb.  Smacking loudly on her thumb, she made more baby noises; it was enlivening, funny, though he didn't laugh. 

            "You probably," she gurgled, taking him out of her mouth, "spot your shorts with milk, thinking of me." 

            "I do." 

            She said to him, "Hope you don't spill any before I get home. . ."

            "I wouldn't ever do that. . .spill myself without you."  He wanted to be beholden to her, and for her to acknowledge it.  It was shocking to realize this in himself. 

            "You're such a great mom," she said, "full of nurturing milk," and with that his cock stiffened further for her. 

            "I am swollen," he replied, cupping his balls. 

            Bret was delighted with her, yet he had begun to wonder why  Patricia always had to be on the bottom, and why she seemed only to be doing this for her own pleasure.  His pleasure didn't seem to enter into these sessions, though he enjoyed this immensely, and came every time.  This was solely her.  She never even took off her clothes for him; initially it was enlivening to do this with her while she lay below him in her business suit, but after a while he wanted her naked below him.  Some afternoons he thought of refusing her, or stripping her, or insisting he lie below her and having her sit on him so he could tongue her—but that wasn't what she wanted.  Patricia didn't really seem to be seeking his attention.  She came home from work and lay down on the bare floor perfunctorily, lining the hem of her skirt with a tiny fresh seam of dust as she took a deep breath and sighed. 

            Because of the obvious pleasure on her face from this, Bret found rejecting her to be impossible; he was never able to stand above her and say I won't do it.  But he wanted to do this with her at different times of day—maybe in the morning when she woke up, or at her job, and say to her as he pulled himself out of his pants, "Here, take it."  That would make him the demanding one again.  He had even asked her a couple of times if he could do that, at work, maybe come to her at lunch time. 

            "At noon at work?" he asked.  "I could come by." 

            At work was impossible, she claimed.  "Big rush.  People knocking on doors, interruptions." 

            Mornings, when they woke up, were out too.  Not enough time as she sat up in bed, flopped back down, pulled the sheets over her head and whispered, "Oh, shit."  He had to turn off the alarm, and push her out of bed.  It was his job to get Patricia out of bed.  And evenings, that was a different mood.  More traditional.  It was his turn at night; it was his time.  Straight sex, under the covers, as if she were a reward to him: here was her body to thump and pierce.  One night, he threw back the covers, knelt on the mattress to display himself for her, and told her, "Go ahead, suck me."  He was fearful her sucking him was reserved only for the afternoons.  "Go ahead."  But she would not.  Inexplicably, her sucking him at night had stopped once their afternoon sessions began. 

            When she sucked him in the afternoon, he needed to do nothing; he only felt himself being pulled luxuriously, painfully, out of himself.  There should be something more to do, he felt, something more to be a part of, otherwise it would all be her—but when they were done, he was happy, exhilarated and surprised at how fast everything seemed to have gone, though often a half hour had passed.  He hadn't said a word, hadn't taken off her clothes or his.  He hadn't even kissed her.  His cock was clean, licked dry, his balls light, warm.  Standing up, he felt as if his feet hardly brought any weight to the floor. 

            Later at night in bed, he could actually make love to her, even seduce her, tell her what he was going to do to her, how he was going to do it.  She was the reticent one then, distant and passive.  Once their afternoon sessions had started, Patricia needed more coaxing at night, yet they became more playful and dramatic.  She had to be approached slowly and he had to talk to her more, convince her, give her more bluster and threat.  Everything felt more of a game, yet it was enjoyable.  Soon a new pattern began: their nights followed their afternoons.  An afternoon session guaranteed a night session.  Days when he didn't sit on her in the living room (Thursdays when she had to work until eight, or weekends) brought no lovemaking at night.  It seemed she was not interested.  This interruption made him want her more, and the next afternoon, after work, he was very anxious to begin, hoping their pattern had not been broken, that he could have his soothing session on the floor again, and then later at night he could threaten her with his cock, telling her, "You don't know what you've gotten yourself involved with here. . ." 

            "Oh, put it to me," she would laugh, as if she were reading lines. 

            He wished he could say to her in the daytime, before she even lay down, I want to force it down your throat.  This might return some of the initiative to him.  But with her fishing him out of his pants, opening her mouth, that would have sounded needless, stupid.  Still, more and more he wanted to push open her lips in the afternoon, make a game of that too, with her resisting him.  But it had to be dark when he threatened her, or she resisted him; the day had to be over, and when he did slide himself in her, it had to be in her cunt, not her mouth. 

            Sometimes at night he licked her, but Patricia didn't like it, acting as if his tonguing her were some kind of useless gift he was giving her.  At night it seemed he should only take from her, order her around, be selfish. . .

            And as the weeks went by, in their games, he began to have to climb onto her at night and try to open her legs.  She squirmed, resisting him and muttering, "No, nooooo."  Her thighs were closed, with his palm wedged between them.  A giggle from her as she worked against him. 

            He talked, threatened her with violence, but he had to be funny.  "It's like working on a nautilus machine," he said once, his hands on her knees, trying to pry them apart.  She laughed and he broke her open, and then he had to wedge his body between her open knees before she could close them.  Sometimes he wasn't quick enough and he had to start again. 

            "Ohh, too bad, baby!" she liked to say. 

Patricia returned from her job at 4:30 PM, so they had an hour and a half together before Bret had to leave for his own job as food catering manager for the airlines.  He worked evenings at the airport and would not be back until midnight.  Though they weren't living together, he usually returned to her apartment after work and spent the night.  Patricia was still up, often waiting for some new drama in bed.  Afterwards they were quickly asleep, with a new day assaulting them quickly in the morning, so dinnertime and the hour they had before dinner was their only time to talk, to actually be with each other. 

            "My quality hour," she joked when they were through in the afternoon, her hand on his fading cock, sweeping it around in a circle as if it were the hand of a clock.  "Tick tick tick," she whispered.  "Never enough time." 

            They would climb from the floor and Bret went into the kitchen to start dinner.  Cooking was easy after she had sucked him; he was relaxed and also, surprisingly, energetic.  He usually cooked while Patricia sat at the kitchen counter talking and reading the newspaper.  She was often underfoot, in the way, with him cheerfully shouting, "Out of the way!" 

            Patricia watched the clock.  He had to be out of the apartment by five-forty to get to work on time.  Before their sessions on the floor they used to have longer meals—but with his drained balls and warm prick he was in a much better mood for work, even if dinner was shorter. 

            Patricia managed time well; she was a businesswoman, with a packed daily calendar.  And she had a big wrist watch with two penises for hands.  This was a present from him—he had found it in a novelty shop downtown a couple weeks after they met.  The watch was the perfect gift for a woman who claimed she saw cock everywhere, and who was terrified of being late.  Thrilled with her present, showing it to whomever she met, she enjoyed acting like a child learning to tell time.  "Big prick at six, little teeny prick at twelve. . ." 

            Her girlfriends loved her watch.  Their eyes had lit up whenever they saw Bret. 

            "Great gift," he was told.   

            "Yes," he said.  "Makes her never forget." 

            "Yes, I'm sure. . ."

            Her friends always had new lines for Patricia about her watch.  "Oh, look," they laughed, "soon it will be eight o'cock!"  Many questions to each other too, in loud voices, about the watch: "I wonder, are these two pricks modeled after a particular cock, I mean, did some guy pose for it?  They look so realistic." 

            "And is it the same cock, flaccid and then. . .angry?" 

            "I think that's the idea." 

            "No foreskins on either of them."

            "Good, clean unhooded pricks." 

            Patricia would spin the little penises around in a whirl, and everyone shrieked.  "So many cocks, so little time!"

            These days he knew penises were in vogue; everyone, especially women, could talk about them, make jokes about them.  A very visible gay culture helped too, as well as everyone's horror of straight male desire, which people felt could be lessened by smart talk about pricks.  Nice girls saying to each other at his office, "I love my boyfriend's prick and his balls. . .love to see them jiggling in his shorts at home." 

            He couldn't make similar comments about cunts; that would be in bad taste, and woman-hating.  Women were becoming lewd, though there didn't actually seems to be as much fucking these days.  Much more talk, though.  More jokes.  More horror. 

Soon after they met, Patricia had given his prick a name: Mr. Leubner.  She addressed his cock as if it were a person, a person separate from him.  "Have you been treated well today?" she would ask it, touching it through his pants.  "That last drop of pee wiped off?  Pants not too tight?" 

            At least she avoided the standard lines he might have expected.  Nothing about how she hoped Mr. Leubner had been a good boy and was not poking around in other women.  Patricia was too cool for that.  "Oh, I can be very jealous," she told him, "but not over Mr. Leubner.  He can't help what he does." 

            "But me, I can help it, right?" 

            "Yes, and if you do fall down and make love to another woman, it's not Mr. Leubner I'll be angry at." 

            "Oh?" 

            "But it'd be you I'd leave; Mr. Leubner I'd take with me."  

            Very scary, very funny.  A good laugh for both of them as they seemed to stick their beaming smiles into each other's faces, both of them trying to outdo the other with their amusement and terror. 

            Before their sessions on the floor started, Bret had felt very comfortable with Patricia.  She wasn't clingy or whiny; she had her own life, and a good job.  But after their afternoon sessions had proceeded for a while he began to feel a little desperate, even angry toward her, though this seemed to only occur when he wasn't with her. 

            With sex, she was ordering him around, basically, determining him.  Patricia made more money than him, though that didn't seem to matter to her (and it hadn't mattered to him, at the beginning).  Yet she didn't really like her job, and perhaps after work, returning to him, the only solution was his cock in her mouth.  "I'm like booze, or dope," he said to her once.  "I'm the soothing habit you can't quit." 

            "No rehab for me," she said. 

            The first months they knew each other he had expected her high salary to wreck them—one of them would find the disparity impossible to deal with, probably him.  His earning less than her was on Patricia's mind too, but he discovered she had it all worked out.  "We're the same class," she explained.  "Brought up strict middle class, and I've just gotten lucky, along with a lot of others.  But we're all going nowhere; we're stuck in the headlights, awaiting our doom when everything collapses.  I don't have anything over you. . ." 

            It sounded rehearsed.  "With your eighty-five a year?" he asked. "Stuck in the head-lights?" 

            "Yeah.  The only difference between us," she said, "is that the real hyenas have let me in on the kill to clean the legs and hoofs of the carcass; everything else, the guts and the eyes, the good stuff, they've already eaten.  Either way it's not my. . ." and she laughed, "not my road-kill." 

            She worked for the United Way.  "Charities," she claimed, "are mammoth feeders.  Everything gets picked clean; we scour the savannah, the jungle, stripping it bare.  You would not believe how much we take in.  Rich people love charities and they know the money goes mostly back to them anyway in administration costs and tax breaks—that's better than giving it to the government or undeserving poor people." 

            "How do you stick with it?" he asked her. 

            Putting her hand over his mouth in mock horror, she told him, "I hate it there, but I'm too weak to leave." 

            In his work at the airport Bret oversaw the distribution of four thousand dinners a night, loaded onto airplanes, served up hot to the passengers.  The whole process was like a big school lunch program, and it was probably more complicated then running the airlines themselves.  Frantic food assembly-lines, and drivers, and flight attendants.  Half of every work night he seemed to actually spend on the planes, clearing up problems, while passengers made their way past him down the aisles, the whine of turbines coming through the service door, and the thump of luggage in the compartments under his feet.  

            But he liked it—he wasn't behind a desk, he was still young, yet he managed people, made fairly good money.  The flow of passengers, the time-tables, the same flight attendants over and over: the job was real, it was almost stupidly hands-on and, in his mind, never permanent.  He never felt he worked too hard either, probably because each night the job actually was over, the planes had left, and there was little left to think about.  The passengers were eating their food, content, watching their movies. 

            Bret had loved airplanes since he was a kid.  He still loved his airplanes as they waited patiently at the gates at night, their wing lights on, the row of bright portholes running down their sides.  He liked to buy books about planes, and he sky-dived too, leaping out of aircraft over farm lands with his friends.  In his living room were his big glossy coffee-table books full of airplanes, military and commercial; he also had models in his apartment, and he had videotapes of great moments in aviation, as well as gun-camera tapes of dogfights between fighter planes.  It was adolescent, Patricia said, and he agreed with her.  "Innocuous too," he said.    

            In Patricia's eyes his models were a competition, almost like another girlfriend.  Whole afternoons were spent building them, while she worked.  She worked too hard at her job, harder than him, she told him, and her days never ended; each one was a continuation of the last, and her phone was always ringing at home.  He knew she resented his free afternoons, his model kits, and his male friends shouting at each other as they tumbled through space each weekend, with the ground whirling below them. 

             "I have no worries when I'm falling to earth," he told her one day as they lay on the floor, her jacket on the sofa above them.  He had starting asking her to take it off before she lay down; he was bothered by how she didn't care if she got her suits dirty on the floor. 

            They were done now, lying on their backs and staring at the ceiling.  The collar of her blouse was damp with her saliva, and her hair was tangled with a spattering of sperm in it.  "Parachuting," he said to her, "is the one time I never worry about things." 

            "It is?"  A small, hurt look on her face.  She was sure he'd forgotten about his other moments of non-worry. . . 

            In fact, for Bret, sex with Patricia was a lot like jumping out of a plane, especially when she sucked him.  He was made to feel like a well, rising up from down deep, bubbling over.  Here he was, finally: out of his body, emptied.  Yet full too, content, centered.  Since Patricia was never in a hurry and wasn't interested in closeness or words in the afternoon, sex was very  relieving.  Unlike when he was engaged with it with other women, he had no anxiety, no fears about who loved whom the most, or even where the relationship was going, or whether his prick would rise next time.  A wonderful feeling—just like when he fell from airplanes, feeling nothing, feeling everything, very placid, yet very excited. 

            Now, sitting up, wiping her chin with her fingers, Patricia asked him, "So, dear, how many times have you jumped?"  

            "Hundreds of times." 

            "You ever going to take me on one of your jumps?" 

            "No," he laughed, still lying on the floor.  "Having you jump with me would diminish what we have here. . ." 

            "Has anyone," she asked, "ever fucked in freefall?" 

            What a question.  He stopped laughing and looked at her.  She stared back at him, a smile on her face.  He said, "Well, they have, kind of.  Someone I know from our jump-team claims his girlfriend gave him a hand job as they dropped.  That would be very dangerous.  It probably didn't happen." 

            She raised her eyebrows at him.  "Back in college," she said, kneeling above him, "my roommate had a picture from Playgirl magazine on her wall that showed nude male parachutists coming to earth, their pricks and balls dangling.  It was so cute.  This girl used to joke and open her mouth to the photo, with her tongue out, and say, Ummm, guys, dropping from the sky." 

            Bret was sure Patricia was making this up, but here in their afternoon sessions, she was making the fantasy come true.  He said to her, "A dream come true, I guess." 

            "Why don't you take me on your jumps?" 

            "You never said you wanted to jump."

            "But it sounds like fun.  It sounds like sex."  Big grin.  "I could suck you." 

            "It's too dangerous." 

            "What, sex or parachuting?" 

            "Both," he laughed.  "Parachuting," he said, "isn't like going to an amusement park, even though people think it is."

            "But I don't think you have to be too smart or have that much training to fall out of an airplane." 

            Watching her shrug at him and stand up, he was angry at her. He saw the two of them falling through space, Patricia sucking him, her arms and legs out, her clothes fluttering.  She wanted to insinuate herself everywhere in his life, and to make him passive in his enjoyment of her.  

            She smoothed her skirt.  "Take me on a jump."

            "You'd kill us both." 

            "I'd be fun, falling to earth. . ." 

            "Yes, falling to earth," he said.  "Besides, beginners have to jump tandem, and we wouldn't be in the right position to do it. . ." 

            She stepped into her shoes.  "Well, you could unhook me!" she said mockingly, and walked away.  

            "That's not how it's done," he said, too loudly.  Why was he angry?  What a vision, the two of them in free fall, his back arched, legs stiff, as she burrowed into him.  But he promised himself she would never go on a jump with him; he had to keep some separation between them. 

            "How 'bout it?" she asked from the kitchen, not letting go, while he still lay on the floor, his pants down.  

            Should he tell her he thought she was selfish?  For Patricia it was only Me me me.  Always her treat.  Her lying on the floor as he suckled her.  Her the big baby.  Or maybe she sucked him because it was some kind of spectacle, a show for the people in the apartment across the alley—or for the whole world to see as they floated at 5,000 feet. 

            When she had started their afternoon sessions, he had offered to pull the curtains because anyone across the way could see in.  She refused.  The performer.  Or maybe she just had low self-esteem.  That's what was written these days in magazines.  Articles about sex addicts, who wanted it every day, in public, in cars, on balconies—or else they don't feel loved.      

            Or what about her terrible job, her chasing money, and hating it?  Is that why she sucked him every day?  Too much money-grubbing and shame?  Or maybe she simply didn't want to be working downtown—did she want to quit and have babies?  Stay at home and be mom?  But he was the mom—his cock like a big teat in her mouth every afternoon.

            Patricia didn't want to be a mother.  There had been no talk about their moving in together, no talk of marriage.  No squeezing his hand when a baby carriage rolled by on the street or puppies darted underfoot.  She was not even enthused about married people.  He and Patricia had met at a wedding, and made fun of the bride and groom's new life together.  "Have you seen their two families?" she asked him.  "Not a good prospect, I'd say." 

            Two very different families coming together, with him a friend of the groom's, and Patricia a friend of the bride's.  The reception afterwards was very awkward; the two groups hardly mixed.  He and Patricia hit it off well though, with her inviting him to dance.  "Let's break the ice," she said. 

            When she asked him what he did, he told her he was an industrial caterer.  A joke of his.  "I feed the planes." 

            Patricia said, "I've always wondered who did that, all those little dishes wrapped in cellophane." 

            "No one wants to fly without getting fed, though it's ending.  Airlines can't afford it." 

            Now, still on the floor, his soft cock drying in the sunlight that streamed in, he heard her ask again from the kitchen, "So?"

            He said, "You're ridiculous.  You can't parachute." 

            He looked at himself, and zipped himself up.  He stretched his legs on the floor, his toes pointing.  Usually he was the first one up when they finished in the afternoon. 

            From the kitchen she asked, "Am I too selfish?" 

            She came back into the living room and they stared at each other.  "What's wrong with you today, anyway?" she demanded.   

            "Let's drop it," he said, sitting up. 

            "Why?  You brought it up.  Am I too pushy?"  She gestured to the floor.  "Too debased?" 

            "I don't know.  We're done talking.  You're the one who's insecure.  Can't stand to let me have any control." 

            "What are you talking about?" 

            They stared at each other, not speaking.

            "Oh, I get it," she said.  She walked up to him, flopping down on the floor next to him.  She started pulling up her skirt and opened her legs.  "Am I too demanding?  Do you want to do it for yourself?  Here I am." 

            When he didn't say anything, she said, "Go ahead, unzip, stick it in.  Be some hoodlum whipping it out at the terrorized chick." 

            A very sudden deflation of his anger as he witnessed her anger, for he suddenly wondered if she been raped when she was younger.  Perhaps there was still much he didn't know about her.  Tilting his head to her, her face only inches from his, he asked softly, "Did you get abused?"  

            She laughed at this.  "I wish I had," she said, speaking to the ceiling, bouncing her hips on the floor, pantomiming sex. 

            What was going on, anyway?  His anger was back, even fiercer.  She was somehow mocking him.  Amazingly, out of nowhere, he wanted to hit her—but she probably thought he was incapable of that.  And he found he wanted to thrust himself in her just like she demanded, to show her he never backed down.  He watched her squirm on the floor, pretending to be terrified, her knees up, pressing them together, then dropping them open, as if making fun of him. 

            He looked at her.  "My big cock," he said, unbuckling, pulling his pants and his undershorts down, wishing to free his legs, not have his cock just poking out of his undershorts, which is how it worked in these afternoons sessions.  But his cock was flat; usually as soon as he was out, and she was pushing him to her face, he was stiffening, but it was too soon afterwards, and he had no desire. 

            He rose up on his knees, and saw her smile, just for an instant.  Focusing on her lips, he was working his hand on himself, but there was nothing in him.  Scooting up to her face, he brought his cock to her mouth; she was holding her lips pressed together as if she were holding her breath.  The seal, needing to be broken.  Tight mouthed girl. 

            Maybe that would work: resistance from her, which was what often happened at night. 

            He pushed himself at her, but his loose cock flattened itself against her lips.  She made a small muffling sound, her lips still pressed together.  Again he pressed his cock, slack and spongy, at her mouth. 

            Here on the floor how could he change his anger into desire, or lust?  Being angry at her wouldn't make him hard, he realized.  Instead he had to want her, need her.  So what was it that made him hard all the other times with her on the floor?  Was it her requiring sustenance from him, her sucking on him like a baby?  The look on her face when she was milking him—her closed eyes, her trembling eyelids, her slurping and gurgling—that was what aroused him, made him hard  quickly.  And it was what bothered him about her now. 

            He didn't want her now.  Instead he was repulsed by her.    

            She licked at him once, a quick flick of the tongue on his loose cock, then quickly pressed her lips back together—and he slapped her.  She gasped, brought her hand to her face. 

            "Yes, make fun of me."  Real fear was in her eyes now that he had hit her.  Would he hit her again?  Slowly he slid his cock down her right cheek, his other hand up in the air, ready to strike her again. 

            Even with his cock on her cheek, he was still limp.  He remembered all the times on the floor with her, how he never worried about getting hard.  Even at night, when it was his show, when it was him who had to provide the drama—he still had been quick to rise.  Now he was stuck.  If he could only see her open her mouth, things would be right.  If he could lay himself on her tongue like he usually did, feel her hands on him, her warm breath on his belly, her needing him, his pale, glowing sperm on her cheeks, big baby that she was. . . 

            He knew he had to give up, not want anything for himself.  He just needed to be milked. "I give up," he said, standing, then suddenly bending to hit her again, another slap. 

            She began laughing and he hit her again, and she let out a small gasp, her hair flicking up from her scalp.  He liked how his hands made an impression on her.  Still, maybe she was playing games.  She was out ahead of him, giving him what he wanted, letting him think he was a big man, with his anger as he beat her back, beat back her demands.  How hard could he hit her until she wanted him to stop, until she realized she had lost control?  Would it make things better, the harder he hit her?  Would he get stiff? 

            He should hurt her, really do it—though even then there was no guarantee he'd find his strength again.  Women, using his weakness so well, getting beaten down but always winning.  Always controlling. 

            He hit her twice more, yet when he finally walked away from her, he felt even weaker.  Out of the apartment he went, closing the door gently, his cock still out, wiggling and soft in front of him as he skipped down the hall stairs.  He thought of Patricia's comment about her friend with the pictures of nude skydivers—how pathetic that must have looked, their pricks dangling in the sky.  The women weren't bothered by that, though; the sight of those men with their flaccid dicks made them happy. More cocks to suck.  More weakness to give out to men. 

The next day Bret let himself into her apartment to wait for Patricia's return from work.  He had spent the night at his place, the first time in nearly two weeks.  Strange to be by himself in bed, feeling so heavy and alone.  Hour by hour he was growing heavier, denser. 

            Back in her apartment, he hoped when she walked in he could apologize, and have his prick out for her, shiny and hard.  Here you go, he'd say.  Take nourishment.  That would get things back to where they should be. 

            But standing in the middle of the living room, all by himself, working himself blindly with his hands, he found he couldn't get erect.  "If I hear her footsteps, can I do it then?" he wondered.  He had to be big when she stepped in.  But he couldn't get it up; instead, Patricia had to be there with him, using her hands, her mouth, helping him by needing him, as she did each afternoon. 

            He sat down.  He would wait.  He was still hanging out of his pants.

            Fifteen minutes later her key sounded in the door.  He heard fumbling, then he heard her briefcase being dropped to the floor, and her soft fuck.  She was having problems of some sort.  Standing up to go to her, he was still hanging out of his pants—he thought of slipping himself back in, and zipping up, but he was still heading to the door.  He saw the door opening before he could get there. 

            She was kicking her briefcase in with her toe, holding a shimmering green dress in a plastic bag from the cleaners high in one hand, her keys in the other. 

            "Jesus!" she cried when she saw him, and she took a step backwards.  

            Then she saw his cock and her expression changed.  She stepped up to him.  She was in jeans; on her left cheek he saw a bruise.  Her lower lip was split.  She hadn't gone to work today, though apparently she had visited the cleaners.

            Bret felt chagrined at what he had done—and he knew he wouldn't be hard for her; he was sure of it.  He was a pitiful weak man who had to hit women, who had a soft cock. 

            But she was walking to him, to lean against him, her forehead in his shoulder, her eyes down at his crotch as she touched him, and worked him in her hand.  Feeling her weight against him, feeling her breath on his cheek, out he rose, warm and steady, rippling in her palm.  When he was hard, he wanted her to pull him down with her to the floor.  Drag him down.  Anything to get them to where they should be. 

            But instead he went in a new direction: he lay down on the floor on his back.  "Let me lick you," he said.  "You sit on me this time."  

            His rich, bowed cock was fabulous as it fell back against his stomach, but he would not use his cock.  She must come to him this time; now was the time for a change, for some control from him.  He could lie below her with his mouth open and she would push her body into his face, her breasts, or maybe sit on his face.  He would be the baby this time, not her. 

            Throwing her dry-cleaned suit on the sofa, she walked away, upside down in his vision, then turned and unzipped her jeans and peeling them down her legs.  Throwing the jeans at him, she laughed and said, "Die, asshole!" and she was on her knees, wrapping the pants around his face, with both of them laughing.  

            She was trying to push the jeans down his throat in a mock fight.  No sitting on his face like he hoped, or forcing her breasts into his mouth.  He wanted to give her the pleasure, be the one whose mouth was full; he didn't want to be momma, or the big man like he was at night in bed, talking his trash, or hitting her.  He wanted to give her pleasure, be the child, instead of her.  If only she were nursing him and he could suck on her!  In the living room in their afternoon sessions she never had orgasms, only he did.  But this time she, not him, must grunt and cry out on the living room floor.             

            He pushed her off him violently, sending her backwards.  "Let me take care of you!" he cried, ripping the jeans from his face, and rising up on his knees.  Saying that gave him strength, more strength than his cock gave him, or his slapping her.  No need to hit her, or fuck her.  "I want you to sit on me," he said, "and I'll lick you.  Lick your cunt, or your nipples, lick all of you." 

            When she shook her head at him in denial, he hit her with his open hand, and Patricia was down on her back.  He jumped on her, pushing open her closed mouth with his fingers.  She was sputtering, biting his fingers, so he hit her again.  Shit, he hated her mouth, always open, open now as he hit her, open all those other afternoons.  Her mouth was bloody, and there were flecks of blood on the floor.  Horrible what he had done to her, but why was she always wanting to open her mouth to him, to suck him?  He wanted to suck her instead.

            Now he realized he had to get out of the apartment, not come back, get far away

from her before he hurt her any more.  They were finished with each other, for he was weak, incapable.  Exactly.  He should never see her again, for she wouldn't let him lie below her and please her; instead he had to hit her and mother her with his milk. 

            He stood up, and Patricia rolled over on her stomach then rose on her hands and knees, wiping her nose and mouth.  Below her, dotting the floor, were small round drops of blood.  What had he done to her, broken her nose? 

            He knelt to her, and Patricia suddenly laughed and grabbed him around the neck.  Immediately there was blood on his face and neck; he could feel it smear on him as she held on tight and bore her weight on him, and he went to the floor.  She was climbing into him, onto his back, and he began bucking, trying to get her off him, both of them wheezing, crashing forward onto the floor. 

            She flew off him, her shoulder banging on the floor.  Immediately she rose on her hands and knees, shook her head, with her spit hanging from her mouth, mixing with the blood.  It dripped to the floor in a long stream.  Bending down to the floor, Patricia laughed, stuck her tongue out, and licked the blood and saliva on the floor.  She was crazy.  She was mocking him—with her licking the floor here was another one of her games.  She always pretended to be the weak one, the crushed one, showing him she could take it, take anything.  She was too strong.  Too strong for him.  She didn't even care that he hit her. 

            Neat little dabs of brighter wood shone where her tongue had been.  She was smiling, licking at new drops of blood that fell.       

            "Stop it," he said. 

            They were both on their hands and knees.  "Don't you see, it's my turn," he said plaintively, still on his hands and knees, his cock still hard.  "I want to suck at you." 

            "My pleasure is your being the mom!" she cried, wiping her mouth.  She was on her hands and knees too,  in her twisted underwear and her shirt.  They faced each other, like two curious dogs.  "You're so pathetic," she laughed, smiling.

            She was right about that, but Bret knew now that if he left he wouldn't see her again and might never recover from this.  He had to make things right; he had to show her he cared for her, and that she should care for him too, let him have what he wanted, that she should give into him and allow him comfort. 

            "Put on your suit," he said.  He gestured at her clothes wrapped in a plastic bag on the sofa.  "Put it on and sit on me." 

            Without saying a word, obeying him, wiping her face, taking big sniffs through her nose, Patricia pulled off her shirt and her underwear then ripped open the plastic bag.  Naked, she raised the green dress over her head and dropped it down onto her hips, all in one motion, very smoothly.  She zipped it up and turned to him lying on the floor on his back.  She stepped over him and squatted down on his chest, the hem of her dress covering his face.  But she was facing towards his feet.  He didn't want that. 

            Instead of giving him a chance to lick her, she leaned forward and took his cock in her mouth.  Not what he wanted.  The warmth of lips and tongue—it should be him doing this to her, not her doing it to him.  And she was pushing down hard into his face with her hips and butt.  Perhaps she wanted them both to suck at each other.  With her movement, and her dress and hips over him, the living room winked shut.  He felt as if he were being bundled away inside her dress, put in a sack, the smell of her as well as that of the fabric (and the dry cleaning) pressed into his nose.  His blindness and her smell, enveloped him as if he were in a tent.  She was kicking, drumming her ankles right next to his ears; she was giggling, struggling with him, grunting.  He felt just like he did at night when he was the tough guy, being ordered to force himself on her—only he was bound up, covering in fabric now, and she was sucking him.  He couldn't see.  Couldn't breathe.  He was kicking too, and he could hear his sounds as if they were coming from far away.

            No orientation, no up or down, left or right.  She was calling to him, seemingly high above him.  She was on top of him, which was what he had wanted, but his cock was glowing in her mouth.  Wrapped up in women's clothing, defenseless, his cock out, he had no chance.  He was being sucked again, very fiercely, not languidly as she usually did.  He would come if he weren't careful.  He didn't want to come.  He could hold back if he wanted to; if he didn't want to come, he wouldn't come.  This was his struggle he could win. 

            Her tongue and her fist was firm, fast on him.  He thought of her, minutes before, licking the floor with her tongue.  Patricia didn't care about herself, her own pleasure, or his pleasure.  There was something else she wanted.  He thought of blood on his cock as she sucked, her blood from her face.  The blood on her, and on him too, the both of them wheezing while she worked him, her lips popping on him.  She was in rhythm—each time she pulled her lips off his prick she ground down on his face with her butt.

            Even after he had hit her she was going to win.  She sought his sperm, had to drink his sperm, despite everything.  "You're like cocaine," she told him once in the living room when she had finished, lifting his cock and pressing her nose up against a drop of semen hanging at the tip.  She snorted it, and whispered, "Sweet balm of the gods. . ."  

            Both of them had been laughing. . .this ridiculous scene, her nostrils bubbling.  The addict.  Always drinking him, splashed with him, soothed by him.  Here hidden under her dress, his face between her legs, it was the same.  He was going to lose to her again, get drawn out of himself again.

            He was going to come—and sure enough, out he spurted.  His sperm spattered on the floor, on his stomach, and she was licking it off him, sighing, inhaling loudly, being dramatic.    Then she climbed off of him, her skirt lifting, the bright light of the room crashing back in his eyes.  She wiped her lips, and once again she was stepping out of her clothes, her dress this time, turning and throwing it at him.  Whap, right over his face.  

            She still hadn't come, here in the afternoon on the floor.  "Look, you've wrinkled it," she exclaimed triumphantly about her suit. 

Over and over Bret had imagined them dropping from the airplane, falling forever, and now they were up in the air, doing their jump.  For three days after their session on the floor, he had thought of it—their leaping out into the sky, neither of them wearing a chute.  Or jumping in terrible weather conditions, or maybe they weren't in a jump zone and other aircraft were in the area.  Anything that threatened them—it would be exciting and good.  To be out of the plane, descending, rocketing down, as if in a dream, but knowing they could not wake up out of their fall. . . 

            He envisioned it again and again—with Patricia sucking him off as they fell.  He even saw it absurdly: both of them naked and no chutes on either of them.  Completely naked as they shot down through space, as in her damn roommate's photos.  He would do it.  He would give her a jump to end all jumps; she would have her heart in her throat, instead of his cock in her throat.  It would be easy to arrange.  No one else would be involved; even packing her chute would be his responsibility. 

            "Let's go on a jump," he had told her over dinner that night, after their battle on the floor.  "You and me." 

            "Sure," she said, bringing her arms out from her sides and fluttering them as if she were falling. 

            Her face looked better that it had in the afternoon, amazingly, and her nose hadn't been broken, just bruised.  She was enthusiastic about his proposal, and after their session she seemed amenable, calm, soothed.  Essentially, Patricia was unstoppable.  He realized that he really never gave her pleasure; instead she provided the pleasure.  It was her control, whether she lay under him in the afternoon, or asked him to force himself upon her at night. 

            He could stop her, though; he could stop her demanding, and her always being the baby, the nourished one, the selfish one, the winner. 

            Now, up in the plane, many rules were being broken for the jump: Patricia was not in tandem with an instructor (and he was not an instructor), and they had not registered for the jump, but since he was well known in the parachuting community he got a pilot to take them up, a pilot smiling at him, eyeing Patricia, nodding. 

            In the cabin, just the two of them, she worked him up in her mouth, laughing at his vibrating balls as they shook with the roaring engines.  She was not afraid, even when the door was opened.  She was incredible.  Not surprisingly, stepping out into the air was not a problem for her either.  He was right behind her, his cock out, bristling in the whirl of their fall.  He felt very relaxed, very visible.  They lost each other momentarily, then were reaching for each other, hands and legs out, sleeves and pant legs crackling.  They got together, face to face, and she was nodding at him enthusiastically, enlivened with their plunge.  Then she reached for his cock; he was red and strong, just as he had been in the plane—he was terrified, he realized, and his cock was still stiff in the terror. 

            But he wouldn't let her touch him now. 

            It was time to concentrate.  She was smiling a compressed grin, her lips tight together, reminding him of her lips when she had held them pressed together and mockingly asked him to rape her.  Be the hoodlum, she had cried, whip it out. 

            "Arms and legs out!" he screamed in the air, and he demonstrated. 

            She copied him, doing it very well, her back slightly bowed, her knees bent, the smile still on her face.  What a game!  Still holding her hand, he pulled her face within inches of his own, and she gave him a wet, yet buffeted kiss, her tongue out.  Then he rotated onto his back and she began crawling onto him, her face inching down his chest into his belly.  The sun winked out—she was on top of him, blanketing the sky momentarily.  She slipped her mouth onto his prick, and he glimpsed the sight, then lost it, as a flash of her saliva flicked up and away from them.  She was steadying herself, her hands on his hips, her mouth working him.  They didn't have much time in free fall but he felt very calm and untroubled; it was all familiar to him for what she was doing had happened to him many times before as he lay on his sunlit floor.  Now the floor was thousands of feet blow, but he could still lie on it.  She was taking him all the way in, with one of her hands squeezing his balls, massaging them.  He was almost there, he realized, with Patricia nodding, then shaking her head left and right.  The howl of the wind!  It felt as if she were sucking him with her whole body, not her mouth, having to bring all of herself onto him, keep him situated in their barreling descent. 

            Then, taking him out of her mouth, she shouted at him, saying, "I refuse to open my chute!  You can't let go of me now!" 

            Outrageous.  He struggled to right himself, to get at her chute and open it, but she pushed his hand away. 

            Then, appallingly, she was disengaging her chute, unbuckling, tossing it from her. 

            Such complete triumph in her, as the chute rose up and away from her, out of reach. 

            "Can't dump me now," she cried.  "You gotta have me; you won't dare leave.  You need me too much. . ." and she slid him once more into her mouth. 

            Too very extreme.  His thrill in Patricia's strength and defiance was immense as the sky; his inability to let go of her, or to keep her on him, was equally as big and mighty and encouraging.  And he was waving his hands, legs, his whole body tensing, his head tilted back, as he bellowed and came, and witnessed a long streamer of semen sliding out the corner of her mouth.  Up it rose, floating away, as the sun winked off her helmet, and off the sperm.  He felt horrified and free, still no chute open, with her seemingly naked, as naked anyone could ever be, as she plummeted to earth with no chute on her, the whole world watching.  Too completely naked in her defenselessness, her brazenness.  No chute!  The sun shone brightly, the wind kept howling.  He was falling and coming at the same time, just as she had wanted; this was her gift to him here, given by her desperate, greedy child's mouth on him, him the mother who could not let go, who needed to feed his child.  And his vision of his awful retribution for her as he pulled on his cord and jerked away from her, seeing her startled face plummet away, her mouth suddenly empty.  Could he really do it?  He had to defeat her, to free himself from her.  A quick tug at the chord would do it.  Otherwise he had to hold on to her, keep her with him; it could be done, of course, but did he want it?  Many parachutists had been saved by partners, holding them dear to their chests, falling too fast, yet surviving. 

            She was calling out to him, having turned herself around to him, face to face.  He saw her wide eyes, and he envisioned her gliding away from him slowly, her arms and legs flapping.  

            Yet feel her small body, a woman's body, not a man's—and no parachute on her to give her extra bulk.  Feel him hug her as he pulled the cord, and as he bounced back up from his suddenly taut parachute lines, holding on to her, his legs wrapped around her, keeping her with him, as she gripped his cock with her hand, shaking it at him, a few more drops of sperm wiggling off and being flung sideways.  And she was probably still savoring him as she fell with him, always the big demanding baby, smacking her lips while she kicked her legs and screamed at him into his ear, "Yesssssss!" 

            Here he was, Patricia's dear and loving mother, always the mom, high in the sky, having given her another afternoon feeding session, clutching her, feeling proud and strong and utterly able to provide for her, dominate her, to kill her, end her, if he wanted, but knowing that he couldn't do that, and feeling equally as proud and strong with that, with his care for her. 

            They were falling, still falling, too fast, but much more slowly then before.  His cock was out,  with her showing it to him, letting it shine brightly in the sun, still erect in the whistling air, as if many eager hands batted at it, asking it never to fade, to be visible always in observance of his being beholden to her, and her to him. 

            "Come to mommy!" he shouted at her, into her ear.  "Come on!"  He stuck his tongue out, pretending to be a little boy—and she seized at it with her mouth, sucking on it too, wagging her head.  Which was best, being a child or a mother?  The irony of it—being the swollen mother with milk, as well as being a little boy, and a man too, full of strength to support her, keep her from death, eyeing the bruises on her face, and knowing Patricia was not stoppable, that she sought total control of him, but that he could kill her if he wanted. 

              "Ga ga goo goo," he cried, looking at his prick, watching the sperm still drip and slide from him and fall alongside them as they rocketed to earth in communion with each other, with her right in his face, sucking on his tongue, giving him unending confidence in himself and his power.