She Gets Her Facial While Allowing My Release

One lasting trope in porn is the so-called “facial.” This visual has appeal for men, yet carries a subtle undercurrent of dominance. Think about it: we often say the face is the “window to the soul.” Through our faces, we communicate, observe, sense emotions and express ourselves. One could claim that a person’s unique appearance really is their identity. Conversely, the result of male climax—his semen—is very much like marking territory. When it happens during intercourse, his most intimate reproductive power enters the woman (potentially impregnating her). But when he sprays across her face while enjoying bliss, she becomes little more than a target. Her essence, which defines who she is, turns into something passive. Getting coated in sticky fluid on her nose, hair, and eyes can be seen as reducing her status; almost dehumanizing her. As she lies there while he climaxes, she looks up at his manhood, focusing on the tip that will project his most private gift onto the part of her body that best expresses who she is. In all the erotic romance novels I’ve edited, this scene never appears once; women are the primary readers. Yet it happens repeatedly in films watched mostly by men. I imagine some women enjoy this dynamic; I haven’t polled anyone on it specifically. But the subtext seems obvious: he holds authority, and she is just a receptacle. He commands her, literally spraying his essence across her personality. Recently, our chastity dynamic shifted. My sweet partner has been doing Kegel exercises while denying me access. She still wants penetration when I tend to her, but only with two fingers that now reach only the second knuckle. I lick or finger her, or she does it herself, sometimes multiple times daily. Last week, this altered how I tease myself. Being quite flexible, I can fold in half so I’m staring at my own glans. With our new wrought-iron bed, I hook my heels under the headboard’s crossbars. I can’t pull my groin all the way over my face (my torso and legs differ slightly in length), but even without that full angle, it’s close enough. She decided I should experience male medicine: I was to receive facials myself (though I’ve never given her one, nor does she recall anyone else doing so). The first time she commanded this position, pulling on my body tingled with the coming explosion. It had been ages since my last climax; it took only minutes. I saw everything clearly: the trembling slit, my testicles bouncing as I stroked to her direction, and the prostate swelling. It was fascinating yet slightly terrifying. Conflicting emotions overwhelmed me: the excitement of an approaching climax filling my body mixed with dread at what would follow, knowing I’d be coated in my own seed with no way to stop it. She told me to open my mouth. My mind resisted the climax while my body betrayed me. In a sudden rush, I watched my prostate pulse as the first wave hit; then hot, sticky cum was propelled toward my face, one after another. It landed in my mouth, up my nose, and into my hair and eyes. Just like the movies, but from my own perspective. Weeks had passed since I last ejaculated, so it seemed there were bucketfuls of fluid aimed at my face, now just a target (like those women in porn) for my wife to see covered by her useless sperm. Once finished and my humiliation complete with my own seed, she made me massage the residue into my skin around my cheeks and neck. All week long, she has delighted in watching me foul myself this way. But yesterday was distinct. She had me lie on our chaise lounge (the one surrounded by D-rings) and strapped my ankles over my head to the floor. My penis hung vertically above my face; my entire field of vision filled with nothing but my thighs and genitals, less than six inches away. Then she began stroking me herself: she wanted to give me that facial while watching, using me as a mere receptacle just like men do in films. She proceeded cautiously, building intensity then slowing down, working me up to shoot the largest load possible directly downward into the window of my soul, covering it with sticky cum. After about fifteen minutes, I could hold back no longer, staring at that trembling slit. As everything tightened to propel forward, she stopped; a ruined climax instead of strong pulses, slowly pouring my seed into my mouth and face rather than the powerful spurts. She was satisfied. For now, I am permitted to cum, but with conditions: she wants entertainment from it in the same way men enjoy films (except she gets a live show and participates). So much for our vanilla female-led relationship. So every day this week, I’ve received a self-made facial. I don’t know if she’ll ever tire of watching—many men do get bored with film eventually. For now, she allows the release but demands that price. It’s remarkable what (this) man will endure for an offered orgasm. Perhaps it would be even more degrading if someone else performed it on me—bound to those D-rings and unable to escape my fate.