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“We can stop watching,” the nearby Art says.
On-screen Art says nothing—just stares at Lemon like he’s about to devour her.
Trying to move seductively—but tripping over the desserts quite a bit—Lemon gets on the bed, spreads her legs wide, and starts touching herself.
I can’t believe this is happening. I want to wake up from this nightmare, or at least run away, preferably all the way to Staten Island.
My voice is choked as I ask, “Can you play it on fast forward? And look away? I’ll tell you when it’s over.”
If he were the one putting on that kind of a show, there’s no way I’d agree to look away, but again, he proves to be a better person because he does as I ask. That, or watching me buff the weasel isn’t something he wants to see while sober.
On the screen, the masturbation show is happening at breakneck (or breakfinger) speed, yet it still goes on for what feels like a very long time. The reason is simple: on-screen Lemon goes through every technique I’ve ever blogged about, and even invents a few new moves.
If he saw this, would Art realize I’m a professional? No idea, but I’m glad my on-screen self doesn’t have access to an electric toothbrush or any other props.
Nope. Spoke too soon. On-screen Lemon leaps to her feet, grabs a whipped cream can and a cherry, then returns to the bed and covers her pubes with cream. Then she adds the cherry on top of it, of course.
Shoot me now.
She beckons Art, and they exchange a few words that I can’t hear on fast forward. I bet it’s something like “come eat” from her, and “okay, fine, anything to stop you from even more masturbating” from him.
Once on-screen Art is convinced, he goes for his treat in a cheetah-like leap. Then again, it might just look that way due to the video speed-up.
Should I tell Art he can look again? If that’s what it takes to slow the video down, I guess so. I’m that curious about his cunnilingus technique.
I clear my dry throat. “Can you stop the fast-forward?”
Art turns back and audibly gasps.
Was that a good gasp or a bad gasp? Probably bad. He can’t believe the alcohol made him stoop so far below his ballerina-inspired standards.
The on-screen Art doesn’t seem to mind Lemon’s charms. He works through the whipped cream like he’s been on a hunger strike, then laps at her folds with just as much enthusiasm and ferocity.
She begins to moan.
Of course. I want to moan too—from humiliation. I also want to tell Art to look away again, but I’m struck speechless, so I just sit, my breathing rushed, my toes curling—like it’s the me-right-now who’s getting licked.
Is this some weird muscle memory or something that goes beyond that?
The moans get louder and louder, until Art turns down the volume on the TV, making my already-flushed face burn even hotter.
When she comes, her orgasm looks so powerful I feel an aftershock here on the couch.
“How’s that?” on-screen Art asks with a cocky smirk.
She rips at his shirt, sending buttons flying. “You’re officially not a whipped-cream virgin.” She pulls down his pants. “However, you are at risk of getting pussy whipped.”
What does that even mean?
Grinning, Art helps her get his clothes off, and soon, Mr. Big is unleashed.
I gasp, and so does on-screen Lemon. We also both nervously lick our lips… or maybe in her case, wantonly.
Even for something nicknamed Mr. Big, this is… well, big. You’d think with all that vodka, whiskey dick might be a concern, but no. Mr. Big is at full mast, a pure, enormous gorgeousness that looks kind of dangerous. Like there should be a license to wield it.
Did he pee near Chernobyl? I don’t know about the current me, but the look on Lemon’s face is reminiscent of Ann’s when she saw King Kong for the first time.
Yep. I understand why I’m still sore.
