Best Blowjobs in the World

Author's note: This snarky fictional piece, a gender-flipped rendition of the concept in

MAKE ME SCREAM!

is an entry in the National Nude Day 2016 Contest. There's not a lot of explicit sex here; look elsewhere for a stroker. All sexual players are aged 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's. Enjoy!

*** THE BEST BLOWJOBS IN THE WORLD ***

(Who will win the playoffs?)

Todd was inherently rich, and arrogant, and self-centered, almost sociopathic. But not violent. Not a casual serial killer to whom human life had no value. Humans were not worthless, merely mostly irrelevant. He just not want to be bothered, so he either ignored or controlled people. (It's fun to be horridly rich.) He lacked imagination for anything worse.

He did crave one basic human satisfaction: orgasms. The more and stronger, the better. And not from his own hands, or anyone's ass, or a woman's pussy, or a man's lips. No, he loved female lips, naked women blowing him nicely, their eyes staring at him as he tickled their tonsils, tightened their throats, and filled their gullets with his burning jizm. Stimulation in cleavage was okay as long as a full mouth received his outpourings.

He did not much care for slurping hairy or fleshy bits. Some guys are like that.

His ever-shifting crew of hirelings were inconsistent. He decided to contract with specialists, no, THE specialists. He wanted the world's absolute best cocksucking women. More than one; they must necessarily work in shifts to keep him satisfied 24/7. And they would want days off. So, at least four.

How to select them? An audition? A competition? Yes, a contest!

And how to judge the competitors?

Todd's family had accrued considerable wealth from banking for a few generations, and from investing in and controlling technology firms for the past few decades. Todd knew that technology was imperfect but better than the soft alternatives. Technology made objective measurements. He had little interest in subjective judgments. But a technological solution...

A little googling revealed more than one orgasm-meter on the market. The simpler products were worthless. Some fools will buy anything, Todd thought.

The most sophisticated combined many measuring devices for vital metrics: pulse rate, blood pressure, flow duration and volume, galvanic skin response, cerebral activity, muscle contractions, and more, with wireless sensors strapped around the head, neck, arm, cock-base, and ankle, and clipped to a finger and toe.

That last gizmo had a long model number but was commonly called the CumMeter.

"Yes sir, the CumMeter is the most sensitive laboratory instrument for measuring male sexual response that has ever been developed," the company sales rep said. "The most definitive data comes from the mini-EEG in the headband. It directly measures activity in the brain's pleasure center, the cortico--basal ganglia--thalamic loop. It graphs precisely duration and intensity of a subject's experienced pleasure."

"That," he continued, "correlated with data from the basal-penis-ring's flow and volume metrics, the GSR or perspiration index, pulse and temperature data from the extremities, muscle tension metrics, and cardiac monitoring, combine to provide an accurate numeric profile."

He also explained the female version, with a small vaginal biochemical moisture sensor replacing the thin, non-intrusive basal-penis-ring. Todd grunted.

Todd considered the sales spiel. That all sounded perfectly rational and objective. But he had noticed other factors in his blowjobs, namely, the involvement and enthusiasm of his blowers. He already had the habit of timing performances and subjectively judging intensity and satisfaction. He noticed anomalies.

Ah, satisfaction -- THAT was the operative word, Todd thought. The CumMeter might measure the simple intensity of an orgasm, but it could not rate his overall satisfaction. A long, slow BJ with much teasing and brinksmanship before eliciting a long, slow orgasm was much more satisfying than a fast, intense explosion. Hmm, how could he even define 'satisfaction'? He decided its controlling factor was exhaustion -- the more wiped-out he felt after cumming, the better.

"That seems like a useful tool for evaluating individual orgasms as they occur," Todd told the sales rep. "But how about rating entire sexual sessions?"

"The CumMeter's software can be run for extended periods. Suppose a coital session lasts one hour. Our system will log all the subject body's physiological and neurological metrics for that entire time, and produce a profile, a satisfaction index, showing high and low points and overall tendencies. One peak orgasm may seem subjectively stronger than a string of gentler, longer ejaculations, but they can be shown to provide more pleasure and, yes, satisfaction

in toto

. It can also log the data over longer periods, say for day- or week- or month-long evaluations."

"That sounds like what I'm looking for. Ship it."

"Yes, SIR! MasterCard, Visa, Discover, or AmEx?"

With the instrumentation on its way, Todd thought about the next step. Running his contest in the USA could be tricky. He must either find legal loopholes or stage it outside USA jurisdiction. And he wanted the world's best, not merely the local or national best. He scribbled a list of obvious considerations.

* Openly announce the contest on a secured, anonymized website.

* Promote the winners' prize: a guaranteed, safe, lucrative contract.

* No more than two contest sessions per day. He needed time to recharge.

* Sail his yacht, and contest only in international waters, to avoid local laws.

* All potential competitors must have clean bills of health, of course.

* Pre-qualify contestants to avoid wasting his time on second-raters.

That last factor was probably critical. If two thousand applied he would need nearly three years to rate them all. Unacceptable. No, he needed preliminary contests, local and regional trial heats. He called his lawyers and fixers to see what could be arranged.

The arrangements exceeded his expectations.

"Yes sir," his best fixer said one month later, "We found geeks to build impenetrable international websites announcing The Blowjob Playoffs. The competition did not gain mainstream media attention but it is widely known. We focused on likely locales where women are reputedly the most skilled fellatrices."

"Of course each event requires rigid genetic and STD screening and exhaustive testing by volunteers," he continued. "Besides men rating their satisfaction, we also used simple digital cuffs to record blood pressure, pulse, and time. Each individual result is of little meaning by itself but the statistical agglomeration is fairly valid. Regional finals winners are assuredly the best among applicants."

He went on, "And now we have compiled a list of the top 100 applicants, and an itinerary for your cruise. You must sail from San Diego the day after tomorrow. You will find the first contestants aboard, the winners from Los Angeles and Tijuana. You will pick up more in San Francisco, then in Honolulu, then Tokyo, and onward -- two for each day, as per your instructions. Each will be transported back to their home from the next port. Because of the trans-oceanic distances, you will essentially have a stockpile of women awaiting you."

"The CumMeter is installed on your yacht," he concluded, "and calibrated. Provisions are aboard. Your all-gay crew is ready. This is it, sir! Good luck."

Todd's mechanical temperament did not allow for excitement. But he

did

look forward to the journey. Around the world in 50 days, sailing 600 miles per day, being blown individually by two beautiful women each day. Yes, this

would

be something new!

The CumMeter apparatus was not intimidating, merely a modified laptop computer and a set of thin, unobtrusive bands and clips containing wireless sensors. Todd had set a testing regime: four hours with a woman, eight hours of rest, four hour with the next woman, another eight hours of rest, and that comprises one day. Test sessions were in the yacht's master suite; unoccupied women shared staterooms.

The yacht sailed right on schedule from Mission Bay. Eleven women were aboard, the beginning of his trans-Pacific stockpile. 7000 miles, twelve days from San Diego to Tokyo meant twenty-four women for the first leg of the voyage. The large luxury craft would be crowded.

After a half-hour to shower, drink a Tequila Sunrise, and reach international waters, Todd had the first candidate sent in. She was short, dark, intense, with long black hair tied back from her sharp features. Her black bikini disappeared as soon as the cabin door closed. She crawled onto the bed between Todd's spread legs, kissing up each thigh, past his pubic mound and his hairy navel, up to his nipples, and then his neck, and then back to nipples and navel and knees.

She said something. He caught the phrase,

la reina de las chupadas de Tijuana

, the blowjob queen of TiaJuana. Her English was as bad as his Spanish but the words did not matter, only their sultry tone, their implied promises, the low growling tune she sang.

"Spanish is the loving tongue," goes the song, and hers certainly was.

Her tongue first touched his clean feet. She licked between his toes, sucked them, massaged the soles, mouthed his ankles, and nibbled upward, inch by torturous inch. Oh, what a tease! Her tongue examined the hairs on his calves and thighs. Her nose nuzzled his thatch from belly to bottom.

And then she reached his cock. With a professional attitude. Tongue, and lips, and cheeks sucked in to compress his dickhead, and pushing down till her lips kissed his pubic bone, his not-inconsiderable cock brushing her tonsils, and then out.

She was an excellent judge of his condition. To the brink, and back. Almost there, but retreat. Bring him to sweat and trembling and stressed muscles, then a soft, laughing shaft-stroke.

An hour passed. He had been yelling at her to finish him for over half that time. She had ignored him and continued her slow ministrations. She finally allowed him relief after ninety minutes. His thunderous cum, a Niagara of jizm, flowed down her throat like pink lemonade.

She drained him. And then she revived him. And then she blew his mind.

The timer gently beeped after four hours. Todd had to push the girl from his groin.

"

Basta ya

, enough already, we're done, thank you,

muchas gracias

, oh fuck..."

She kept sucking. He slapped a red button on the wall. Two effeminate but strong crewmen opened the cabin door and carried off the protesting naked Latina.

The CumMeter system recorded everything.

The yacht then was nearly to San Francisco to pick up another load of women. Todd would surely need his eight hours of recuperation. Honolulu and Tokyo were a long ways off.

Once past the Golden Gate, the boat rules changed. Weather permitting, nobody went topside clothed, and nobody wore clothes belowdecks. This was a naked cruise across the Pacific. Why? Because Todd willed it, and he was the boss. He rather did like looking at bare flesh. His 'rest' time included nude ping-pong, and naked lunch, and sunbathing on the sun deck, and external re-hydration in the sun-deck's pool with lovely companions to whom he did not speak lest they bias the contest.

They were west of the Farallone Islands when the next woman's turn came. Some degrees of longitude beyond for the next. And the next.

Women went ashore in Honolulu, and more came aboard. Tokyo was a week away.

They sailed (motored, actually) down the Asian coast, Tokyo to Shanghai to Hanoi to Djakarta, Rangoon and Calcutta and Karachi. Japanese women, and Okinawan, and Chinese, Annanese, Filipino, Malay, Burmese, varieties of Indian and Pakistani.

Then to Yemen and Suez, and into the Mediterranean, for a melange of classical mouths. Past Gibraltar, on to The Hague and Stockholm, and across the North Atlantic to Halifax and New York, down to Miami and around to New Orleans -- yeah, some Mississippi queens. Across the Gulf to Campeche, on to Kingston and Belem, to Rio de Janiero and Montevideo, then back north to Panama and up the Mexican coast, returning to San Diego. The seven-week voyage had been exhausting and informative and rather entertaining.

Todd returned to his tesseract house in the Hollywood Hills to review the data. Damn, so many sucks were so good! Women of all colors and sizes and voices and faces. All talented, with many subtle gradations of talent and result. All so skillful. But the data would reveal the winner.

His doorbell rang. This was a rare occurrence; visitors were usually either pre-cleared or announced by guards. How did anyone bypass his security?

He routed the doorcam to his laptop screen. Four women stood there, various women, modestly dressed but with curves revealed, looking into his camera. They knew he was watching. They each carried a small bag, nothing else. He shrugged and went to greet them.

"Yes?" He was in his controlling-people aspect.

The four stepped past him into the foyer. A tall, tanned blonde in a robin's-egg sundress spoke.

"Good morning, mister Terwitz. We know of your competition but did not enter because... we do not need contests. But we can demonstrate our expertise and convince you to retain us for your future oral needs. You can measure your response as you have with your contestants. Your test system is nearby, yes?"

She seemed to know in which bedroom he had left the CumMeter gear. The four graceful women led the way; Todd followed.

"Please initialize the system; put your sensors on; our sister will start," said a slim dark Mediterranean woman in a peach sundress. A third woman, a surprisingly tall and curvy Asian, peeled off her lemon dress. She wore nothing underneath. A fourth woman, sturdy and black in a white dress, stood silent witness.

Todd was a bit off-put by their intrusion but did not protest when all four undressed him, helped him don his sensors, and settled him on his bed. The Asian woman slithered next to him and proceeded to give him the blowjob of a lifetime. Warning lights and beeps issued from the CumMeter computer. Todd felt as if his soul was melting for four hours.

Rest time. Todd regained his breath, showered, lunched, ignored his guests' chats, and looked at the data profile. This last BJ was clearly the winner.

Todd and the four lounged naked and splashed in his rooftop pool until evening and the passage of eight hours, his recuperation period. Then the women playfully eased him back to the bedroom, and the device's sensors, and an enchanting set of full lips in the black woman's mouth.

Another soul-draining blowjob session. Four hours of teasing, taunting, tribulations, and triumph. Four hours that left him reeling and dazed. Four hours that the system rated as being equal to the previous, which was better than everything before.

Todd rested until early morning, the break of dawn. Then the next woman, the Mediterranean goddess, who proved that the way to a man's heart is through his urethra. Todd felt himself melt away and drain into the void.

A long morning of regeneration -- and then it was the blonde's turn. Like all the rest, she was a distinct beauty. Each bit, average. Her lips, thin. Her eyes, bright but not legendary. But her skill...

Todd had felt himself approach

le petit morte

, the little death of orgasm-induced unconsciousness, with each of the previous three. The blonde took him over the line, not once, not twice, but too many times to count.

The monitoring software managed to count. Its warning lights flashed red.

Evening approached. The home-delivery pizza washed down by a red wine pulled from Todd's cellar left remains on a patio table. Five naked bodies refreshed in the dusk light. Todd reviewed data on his Android tablet but he knew the results.

"You're hired. Contracted, actually. My people will do the paperwork tomorrow."

"Thank you, mister Terwitz," the Mediterranean goddess replied. "We accept. But we have one condition. Day after tomorrow is National Nude Day. We know this is not your practice, but we wish to spend the day naked in public. With you. The beach at Santa Monica will be a fine location; everyone there will be skyclad. We will be a few among many. But we need to feel the freedom, and so do you, believe me. You will be best-off there."

Todd considered, rationally, unemotionally. These four topped all other contestants. These four seemed eager to please him. If they wanted him publicly exposed but anonymous, well, he saw no harm, and it could be a positive experience.

"Done," he said.

An urge arose. "I would like to suck some tits". Eight were offered.

Thus began a most enjoyable relationship.

A new schedule was set. Two hours of blowjobs, four hours of recovery, then another two of BJs, and so on. He was blown in public on the Santa Monica beach on National Nude day but so were many other men, only not so expertly. At home, he grew to like being multi-tasked, two women on his cock, two feeding him boobs. They never seemed to need fixed shifts or assigned days off. Two or three were always available.

Todd knew he had acted correctly. A stiff competition, then hiring, er I mean contracting the best. Did he feel a bit tired by the constant slurping? No surprise.

Todd did not normally view himself closely in his bathroom mirror. He did not shave himself; a loyal (and well-paid) gay manservant handled that chore and all other aspects of his grooming. he was self-absorbed but not vain, not as the rest of know that feeling. He merely assumed his perfection.

But he did look at himself a few months after the competition. He was alarmed by what he saw. He pulled up photos of himself on his laptop from before the contest. He compared them to his current visage. He looked older, much older. What...??

The blonde stood beside him at his desk and touched his shoulder. Funny, he had never learned her name, none of their names. Did that matter?

"So, you've seen. Yes, there is a cost. Nothing is free. And I don't mean money."

"What...??"

"Oh, do not fret. Your life will be very pleasurable -- what is left of it. Your physical life, I mean. Your immortal life... oh, that goes on forever. And we'll be there with you, oh yes we will." She chuckled.

"What...??"

"You know the word succubus, yes? We are your own personal succubi. We suck your cock and swallow your semen. We suck your soul and swallow spurts and blurts of you. We are not greedy. You will last a long, long time. Yummy."

Her smile did not soothe Todd. Too bad.

"Oooh, you seem nervous. Let me relax you."

She dropped between his knees, pulled his shorts down, and swallowed his cock. And his soul. What was left of it.

The End, none too soon.

Author's note: This story by Hypoxia Smurf, who has a passing acquaintance with blowjobs, is copyright (c) 2016. Your constructive feedback is appreciated. No death threats, please. If you like this, VOTE!