Intelligent Designs
"Love is hot. Truth is molten."
-Donovan
1
Like a good lapsed Catholic girl, Trystessa had learned to decently suck cock, which was exactly what she was doing right that minute, five hours, thirty-six minutes and fifteen seconds to be precise, after having received the twelve dozen roses from Temperence. The roses, minus the single dozen whites that had found their way into a vase she'd placed on the kitchen table, were otherwise bound in bunches and hung from the ceiling in the garage to dry.
The cock, namely Bob's cock, after the overkilling extravagance of Temperence's gift and the angel's ridiculously absurd claim that nothing casts a love spell like the taste of your bestie's asshole, had become for Tryss a symbol of reason, and her acting upon it an exercise in stabilization.
They were laying in Tryss's bed, having assumed a sixty-nine. Bob was on the bottom, pillows propped beneath his head. Oriented toward the foot of the bed, Tryss was on top, pondering the merits of Bob's cock as she tongued a slow zig zag trail from shaft to head. She thought it handsome, for a cock, rock solid yet velvety to the touch , veins curving up and around like sculpted marble ornamentation, modeled sides and anterior like the aerodynamic body of a sea serpent leaping from the calm seas of his flesh. Bob's cock was entirely intact, the first of its kind she'd experienced. Access to such equipment, Trystessa had discovered, had been a pleasant change.
It was true, the good hype Tryss had read. Unlike her few uncircumcised lovers, Bob's orgasms were delayed, there by delaying hers, due to the nerve endings both inside his intact prepuce and on his glans. Bob's undamaged frenulum too was full with a high concentration of nerve endings. It was a design that made sense for the mutual benefit the organ was intended for. She admired how his foreskin retracted as his erection swelled and became a sort of tunneling buffer during intercourse, like some inter-vaginal massage mechanism. It became obvious to her how it aided in increasing her lubrication. Why whole cultures continue to promote male genital mutilation was beyond her.
Still, she didn't know which looked funnier, the circumcised little floppy tough guy dick with its turtle neck collar or Bob's flaccid little dick hoody, like a little pink gangster that suffered depression until stimulated, stretching its skin until the hood turned into a mask, and then the mask slid down to reveal Darth Splitface. Tryss liked it alright, gliding her tongue around his head and fitting most of him down her throat, making him whimper and moan and swear under his breath and call her a dirty slut. She sucked him with slow precision, focusing her mind on the task so that no disturbing thoughts interrupted her efforts as she tried to forget about the lousy job Bob was doing from his end of their reciprocal juxtaposition.
Which, was precisely the thing. Bob wasn't reciprocating. Tryss had her pussy right in his face and all he was doing was breathing on it. He was going to owe her big time, something huge, like the load he was going to shoot. I should stop right now, she thought, and hop on this thing. For the love of all that is sacred in the world, do I have to rub it in his fucking face? That's it. Three more licks of this lollipop and I am mounting your ass, you selfish prick.
So Tryss licked, once, twice, thrice, and then it happened. Bob, without any advanced warning, neither bodily nor vocal, jettisoned a globule of jiz right in her eye. Stunned, she remained draped upon him, watching with her unsmited eye the slow undulation of the rest of his load seeping forth, like a self-icing dick cupcake.
It was then, as she felt the warm gooieness in her right eye gum into her lashes that thoughts of Temperence came rushing back, of their day together, of their extremely electrifying first time having sex and of Temperence's generous yet quite excessive gift of roses. Tryss then recalled how she'd arranged a single dozen of the nicest whites in a vase and set them on the table in the kitchen nook, which she later ultimately carried upstairs, set upon the dressing table in the spare bed room and then closed the door to hide before Bob showed up.
"What happened?" whimpered Bob from behind Tryss's ass.
"What the fuck Bob." She growled, sadly exasperated, "You were supposed to warn me!"
"I'm sorry! I couldn't help it! It's just that you, were doing it really nice, so I was like, hypnotized!"
"Yeah, sure Bob!"
"Seriously! I thought you were going to swallow it!"
"Yeah, well, I don't remember agreeing to swallow it! Tryss exclaimed as she crawled from him and bounded from the bed, her eye soppy and closed with his come, "I mean, I might have, maybe, if you had actually tried to eat me out."
"Oh, you wanted that?"
Tryss plucked a pair of tissues from a box on her bureau, and then proceeded to rid her eye of semen as she turned to disdainfully regard him. Bob had sat up then. Whether it was fake or genuine, the look of naked stupidity colored the expression on his face. Disgusted, guilt ridden and feeling quite grossly short changed, Tryss coolly studied his handsome, stupid ugly face, his lean enough chest, his open legs and the fountain of spooge dripping itself onto her sheets.
Tryss angrily plucked three more tissues from the box, and would have thrown them at Bob if she knew they'd weighed enough to make an impact. Instead, prepared to hiss a few obscenities in his face, she poised herself to carry the tissues over to him. But, something made her stop in her tracks. Bob's expression, his posture, had not changed or shifted. He was staring, not unlike a wax museum statue. Then she knew it. The smell, like a warm sandy beach and tall dry grass. Oh no, not again, not now.
Having rendered Bob paralyzed and mute, the angel appeared again, this time as a brilliant flash of silver. Suddenly very ashamed of herself, of her nakedness, Trystessa sprang for her clothes. Still half blind with a coagulating mix of tears and semen, Tryss tripped and fumbled around the floor as she scrambled to put on a pair of boxers.
"What's your problem Trixie?" the angel chided in her Brooklyn Puerto Rican twang, "Like nobody seen you naked before?"
"You haven't seen me naked before, " Tryss grumbled, "at least not totally, I think, so I'm covering myself, thank you very much!"
"Oh you're just ashamed because you got caught sucking dick you don't really wanna suck."
"And how the fuck would you know I don't like dick?!?!"
"Because it was only yesterday that you were eating pussy like a fiend, you silly wench. But that's alright. It has been revealed and the universe finds favor in your lust for Temperence's little honey pot."
"Oh really!?!"
"Oh my God, yes really! Would you just stop with your bull shit and just surrender to your feelings?"
Composing herself as well as she could, having gotten back on her feet and covering her breasts with Bob's shirt, Tryss leveled a gaze at the angel with her clean eye while she continued to try to clear the other of ejaculate.
Her latest outfit, some space girl alien astronaut thing, was just as outlandish as the last. There she stood, garbed in a highly reflective chrome plated skin tight body suit, four inch heels, chrome eye shadow, purple lip stick and her hair tucked inside an enormous, dazzlingly bejeweled, styracosaurus like multiple horn frilled head dress. There were no naked bits to be seen, though there were the hints of nipples and the gentle crease of a camel toe. Following the angel's stare, she saw that the creature was hungrily scrutinizing Bob's time-frozen erection and its slick frosting of come.
