Mercy Cunnilingus
An evening in Paris with Ruchama.
I met Ruchama, who went by the professional name Miss Ruthie, because she posted an ad for her dominatrix services on Craig’s List Paris. This was in early 2005. I was interested; I responded to her listing and asked to book a session. That would happen less than a week later.
She arrived at my little flat on Rue des Chantiers at about 6 pm in the deep dark of a Monday evening. I lived in an old courtyard building in one of the oldest districts of the city. I opened the door, and she stood holding a black bag, dressed for business. It seemed this was her after-work gig. She shook my hand politely and asked if she could step into the bathroom to prepare.
And then a few minutes later, she stepped out — dressed to dominate.
“Undress and sit down on your bed,” she said, speaking English with a delectible French accent. My bedroom was an alcove behind the living room with no windows. I did as she instructed and sat down naked as she stood above me, her face veiled and holding a riding crop.
The silence mingled for a few minutes, until she said, “What’s your fantasy?”
I hesitated; at that time I could not speak so openly about what I wanted. However, I knew it was a moment when I could be honest. My heart pumped in my throat.
“I want you to make me drink my orgasm.”
“I see,” she said. “And why is that? You can’t do it yourself?”
“Sometimes I can, but I like to be pushed.”
“Are you ashamed? You should be.”
“I’m afraid you’ll think it’s disgusting, that I’m disgusting.”
“A little, but I’m not here to judge. I want to hear about that. Lay back.”
I laid back on some pillows as she took some soft, black rope and tied my ankles to the bedpost; and then my wrists, pulling my body taut. She turned down the lights.
“Tell me why we’re here.”
“I asked you to make me drink myself,” I said, as she explored various parts of my body with her riding crop, with different shades of intensity.
“Why do you need me?”
“To make sure that I do it.”
“That’s what they all say,” she replied. “Well, maybe I’ll give it to you, and maybe I’ll wipe your cum on your bed.”
There would be nothing I could do about this. She stretched on a black latex glove and squirted some lube into her hand.
“Relax,” she instructed, as she probed into my ass and fucked me with her finger. I squirmed and groaned. “We’re gonna meet the girl in you who is thirsty for cum and also ashamed of it.”
And so, stretched against the bedrails, helpless to do anything but speak, hear her and look at her, with her finger up my ass, pressing into my bulb of pleasure, began a stage of our discussion too personal to recount, about shame and self-acceptance. Over and over, she reduced me to egoless pulp and left me with no other emotional outlet except to plead with her to do as I had asked. She would bring me to the just before the point of release, and stop, and encourage me to beg her and in that spot, she asked, “What’s this about?”
I answered…she asked more than once…and finally she explained why in her view I needed help getting my semen into my mouth. “You need to mature,” she said. “This is a matter of maturity, and I am in the role as the sister who will guide you. Not mother. Not lover. I am sister. I’m going to fuck you like I fuck myself.”
Then she spit into her ungloved palm and massaged me so beautifully with her hand. I was wholly out of control, pulling on my constraints, my eyes wide and studying her beauty. “Your sister is fucking you and masturbating you. Say thank you and be sweet about it.”
I cried my gratitude, barely able to form words. Then I spun and pulsed as my semen shot into her fist. I let my voice go, freely, and in that moment I felt so beautiful and beautifully free.
“There you go,” she said. “There you are.”
With the orgasm still throbbing through my existence, pushing her finger into the core of my pelvis, she ordered me: “Open your mouth and drink yourself.” I did as told, and she scraped her palm against my tongue and lips and a gush of my warm semen filled my mouth and wet my face.
She smeared the leftover on my cheeks and forehead, and then she produced a mirror to show me my expression; I did not recognize myself. As she held the mirror to my face, she fucked me more deeply and encouraged…made…helped me face myself…
“Don’t swallow. Open your mouth and look at who you are.”
I did, for as long as I could, and then I swallowed.
“Good boy. When you fuck yourself, you are always to watch your face in the mirror.”
She unfucked me, stripped off her glove and tossed it into a waste basket, and went to the bathroom to wash up — leaving me pulled tight.
When she returned, I said, “There is something else that I want but I’m afraid to ask.”
“Then you had better ask.”
“I need cunnilingus.”
“I see,” she said.
“Yes, it’s been so long. I am so thirsty for cunt.” I had lived in this city of exquistely beautiful women for months and not had a taste.
She sat down on the stool next to the bed, spread her legs and exposed her plump, full vulva. Her labia seemed to burst out, and she was dripping.
“You are begging for mercy cunnilingus,” she said, matter of factly. “Well, look at what you may not have.” She spread her twat, revealing the abundant moisture she had collected during our session. I was certain I would be denied.
In fact she never said yes. She simply got up, squatted over me, and pressed her vulva to my face. In this way, she masturbated, as I smelled and probed her vagina to scoop out her liquid and swallowed and grunted as she fucked my face with full force, satisfying herself, and in the process, filling my need and my desire.
She was silent, never vocalizing her surrender, until finally she jammed her clit against my teeth and then pulled herself taut and groaned, and gushed her precious water into my mouth and onto my face. My mouth clung to her plump labia as she rocked gently in her bliss.
Then she unmounted me, and went to the bathroom and emerged in her business clothes, strolling into my room. “Now, you must learn to do it yourself, alone. Do it again when I leave. You need it. Give yourself cunnilingus.”
Then she untied one of my wrists and left the rest to me. I did as she asked, still swimming in the delight of her. The next time I saw her, about two weeks later, she agreed to do a Book of Blue photo session and was the first model to allow me to photograph her face as she brought herself to orgasm into the mirror.
