The Night 69ing Almost Cost Me an Eye


Ladies, I’m a pretty easy guy to figure out. Let me buy you some beers, laugh or at least nod at my ridiculous attempts to tie everything in the free world back to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Tender is the Night,” and, if you have some time to spare, sit your ass on my face. That’s all it takes to make me happy. It’s a simple life, but not without its risks.

To illustrate, I’ll recount a romantic interlude from a few months back. The woman in question, who I impressed with either my rapier wit or sizable expense account, came back to my room for some hardcore snogging. A few hours later, she stripped down to everything but her skivvies and high heels. She then, rather sexily, straddled my chest, facing my feet, and gave me some prime viewing of her exceptional derriere as her hands worked El Captain Peter (AKA Professor Abington Brown AKA my penis).

All in all, great stuff. Very much like one of those dodgy sex videos that run in my mind 24/7.

But as she started slinking back, moving that spectacular ass toward my face and her legs around my head, I noticed something.

Specifically, how close the points of her heels were to my eyes.

So there I was, effectively pinned to the bed by her body and my own inability to interrupt a woman once she’s got me in her ass tractor beam. And as much as my mind reeled with the prospect of her booty inching closer and closer to my waiting mouth, I was becoming increasingly aware of the precariousness of my situation.

As in one-false-move-and-I’m-blinded-for-life precariousness.

Because at that moment, I had what are essentially two daggers sliding past either side of my head, being controlled by a woman who — while no doubt of superior intellect and taste — was sloshed on appletinis by the time we hit the sheets.

I will admit, as she hovered over me, I spent a good few minutes contemplating a heel to the eyeball, the inevitable trip to the emergency room, the excuse I’d have to conjure for this one, and whether or not I could effectively pull off an eye patch. But it was all in vain. Clearly more experienced than my weenie ass, she deftly slid her legs out and wrapped them around my head, the tips of her heels safely beyond my noggin.

That was my cue to go to work. So I did.

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  1. Pingback: Tits and Ask: Girls Who Bite | Ken & Ariel

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