NOTE: This was written by the male half of 2Excellent. It was previously published in five separate parts that garnered a LOT of enthusiastic responses. It is collected for you here in its entirety.
*****
*****
-Part 1-
It is 1997, I’m seventeen years old and on my way home. I’m sat in a train carriage doing what I always do; listening to my Discman and thinking about sex. Despite my overabundance of enthusiastic personality, I’m curiously shy around girls, never quite sure of what to say and prone to showing off. This has led to a strange imbalance throughout my teenage years. Girlfriendless and yet I don’t think I’m not too bad to look at. My father is terrified that I’m gay. My Mum says I’m handsome and of the two of them I trust her. I love women, but I understand this blatant unfuckability has to be about more than looks. I’m fairly certain people mistake my seeming overconfidence as arrogance, but I am my own harshest critic. They cannot know what goes on inside my head, and if I told them they would say I was overthinking.
The train stops at East Croydon and my music reaches Mindfields I know full well there’s a tiny scratch on my Fat of the Land CD, so it’s just about to jam up and start skipping. I fiddle with the buttons, jumping across to Narayan and when my head comes up again to survey the carriage, she… is there.
I don’t know her name, I just know that I’ve seen her on this train about a dozen times before, and she gets off at my home town of Hurst Green. She occupies that space in a woman’s life where she could be 30, 40 or 50 but the years themselves don’t matter, what she has that so many of the girls my own age seem to lack is a palpable self-confidence. She knows who she is. She dresses to accentuate that, and always seems so comfortable in her own skin.
My eyes have lingered for a fraction of a second and I shift them away. I do NOT want to look like a creep, even though all the thoughts rushing through my head seem to point in that direction. However, as my brief gaze left her, she glanced at me and I can now feel her look. She has librarian glasses, long dark hair with a streak of silver she wears with pride. Behind those glasses are green eyes I have caught once or twice and always smiled politely, as though stepping aside to give her space to move through a doorway. But right now, those eyes are on me.
I shuffle a little in my seat as I can feel myself getting hard. I stare out of the window, watching the brown brick walls stained with train-soot drift by, and I take in her form with just the edge of my peripheral vision. She is wearing a knee-length, light cream coat, (far too elegant to be wandering around Croydon in), a black blouse, a very slender necklace with what might be a single black pearl nestling in her suprasternal notch just below her throat. She shifts her position and as I incline my head, seemingly fascinated by a tall glass tower framed by a stormy, grey sky, I can make out the knee-length black skirt with a long split up the side as she crosses her legs. Is her knee pointed in my direction? That means something doesn’t it? Either she’s interested in me or I make her nervous… of course most probably she’s just getting comfortable and I in no way have influenced her movements.
There was a flash of something there though. In the crossing I caught sight of the lacy tops of her black stockings and just above that, the tanned skin of her thigh. I catch a subtle wave of her scent and catch my breath. I cannot stop my brain from going where it goes as I imagine stroking my hand up and down those legs, looking into those eyes, lightly brushing the satin with my fingertips which glide upwards to the opening of her skirt.
Oh god, now I definitely have a pulsing erection. I can’t get her out of my head. I steal a glance at those darkly made-up lips to see them ever so slightly twist into a smirk. There is a roll of thunder and rain begins to clatter down outside our train. I sigh, thinking about the mile I have to walk home from the station and pray for this storm to blow itself out by then. Twenty minutes later my prayers have not been answered, the carriage has slowly emptied at every stop and my hard-on has gone nowhere. I have tried to not look her way, but this mysterious lady has seemingly enjoyed herself over that time. She has been reading a paperback called “Seduction of the Minotaur” by someone named “Anais Nin”. A bar of dark chocolate sits upon the chair beside her, and occasionally, without adjusting her eyeline from the book she has reached down her left hand, and skilfully, broken off a piece with her maroon nail varnished fingers, raising the chocolate to her lips with deliberation, and chewed thoughtfully, each time sighing ever so slightly. I have never wanted to BE chocolate so much in my life.
Fat of the Land reaches the end and I swap it for Ten by Pearl Jam. Far more flustered as I root around in my bag. When I finally look up again, my heart skips a beat. In front of me, she has shifted position once again, and while her gaze is still locked inside her paperback, her left hand has extended towards me, with the last piece of chocolate, nestled in what remains of the wrapping.
There is a beat. Is this a test? Is it ruder for me to decline or take what is offered? Pearl Jam are playing Once too loudly in my ears as I raise my own hand. I take the plunge and reach for the chocolate and the moment that happens her eyes jump to mine, a catlike expression of satisfaction. I grin too broadly, feel my cock twitch and thank her as I take the chocolate, feeling every bit like Edmund sat next to The White Witch, as she compresses the paper and foil into a tight ball. I raise the dense little block to my mouth and I can ever so slightly taste something beyond chocolate there. Almost imperceptibly a slight exotic undercurrent. I realise I can taste her fingers and I shiver.
The rain beats down as we reach Hurst Green. Nobody else is left in the carriage. I try to maintain not glancing directly at her she trades her paperback for a short, maroon umbrella, ready to disembark into this deluge. I am nowhere near that prepared in my summer jacket, and I am about to get absolutely waterlogged. However, considering how exciting this journey has been I weigh up the day and come out at an absolute win!
“What did you do last night?” my friend Matt will ask tomorrow.
“Oh, I just had the most erotic shared moment of my entire life.” I will say, beaming.
“Oh my god, who did you get to fuck?” Matt will gasp.
“No fucking, but I *did* get to eat a piece of chocolate.”
Matt will stare at me. I will stare back.
“We’re going.” He will announce.
“Where?”
“Safeway. I’m going to get you a massive bar of Dairy Milk, you horny bastard.”
I am smiling to myself as I stand up to leave the carriage. This astonishing lady stands at the same time, I could almost swear she did this on purpose. My brain oscillates between the contextual “Of course she got up now, this is her stop. People stand up to get off trains, you clod.” to “Yeah, but she could either have gotten up before you or after you.” And now, standing, we are within a foot of one another as the train slows. I am in her space and worried once more that I am making her nervous or intimidating her. It only now becomes apparent how much taller than her I am.
Once more, I don’t know where to look. I stare at the carriage door, willing the train to finally stop, but at the exact same time, yearning for this moment not to end. I am aware her face is upturned and she is looking at me. I breathe in her perfume. There is a spicy, fruity miasma to it that has me quite befuddled. I am trying to keep the front of my jeans covered with my bag so that she is not confronted with this tumescent evidence of my extreme attraction to her.
The train stops, with a shake, she teeters ever so slightly in my direction, as though if she’s going to fall, it’s going to be into me. I brace myself to catch her, but the fall doesn’t happen. She noticed this for sure. I lean to one side and open the door. Unfortunately, we are far up the train enough to be way beyond the sheltered station roof, so I am opening the door to a torrid wall of water.
I step out and am immediately drenched. I hold the door open for her and she slowly… deliberately… takes her time stepping down onto the platform, raising her umbrella to shield herself until she stands, not a speck of moisture evident, glancing across to the car park. Then without a word she stalks off that way, her high heels clacking audibly in between the raindrops. I look back into the train and see the conductor staring off in her direction as well, his eyes on the hems of those stockings. I close the door and hurry away as the train moves on.
As I struggle through the blitz, barely able to see in the gathering dark, I can feel water everywhere. My socks, between my toes, sliding cold fingers into my jeans, slapping the back of my neck, stinging my eyes and battering my ears. I almost don’t notice when an Alfa Romeo pulls up alongside the pathway, headlights on. It is maroon. The passenger window rolls down and there she is, one hand on the steering wheel, looking at me intently over those librarian glasses with those intense green eyes. I stop walking and stand there, saturated as the rain beats down and our eyes lock together with a powerful wave of venturing and acceptance. She studies my bedraggled form and says two words that will change my life…
“Get in.”
*****
*****
-Part 2-
I am shivering.
My entire body trembles fitfully as I lower myself through the open door into her passenger seat. Up until ten seconds ago I had been physically fine, but now I am gripped by tremors. This is down to several converging factors. Firstly, the wetness. There is now not an inch of me that isn’t dripping with rain, and I am immediately concerned for her car seats (something she waves off without a thought). Secondly the chill has crept in on me as a result of the above. Thirdly, I have never, EVER done anything like this before. It is in fact the first time a woman has shown an overt interest in me… unless I’m grossly misreading the situation and all she is in fact doing is giving me a lift three quarters of a mile down the road. And the fourth reason is the sheer, unbridled excitement of being this close to her and not having a clue what will happen next.
No, that isn’t true. I do have *some* clue. My teenage years have been spent reading porn. Playboy proved too chaste, Razzle too grotty, Club, just about right. But as well as the extremely pretty girls, smiling back at me in the altogether as they lounged on beds and sofas, my favourite part were always the letters pages. Because you could imagine doing all kinds of things with the girls, but those letters gave form and focus to the possible potentials. They expanded my hypothetical repertoire.
The green-eyed lady isn’t looking at me, but is intent on seeing through the pouring rain as her wipers sweep back and forth. Some classical music I think is Mozart is playing on her car stereo. The interior smells magnificently of her, and my head is swimming.
It would be dishonest of me to consider myself a blushing novice like Christian Slater in The Name of the Rose (my VHS tape of that always went blurry and fuzzy as the tracking messed up from too many times rewinding to the 44-minute mark and that amazing sex scene in the kitchen). Far from it, my head was filled with depraved filth. I had taken on board vanilla sex as it had been described to me, and then read further into more kinky avenues, uncertain as I stroked myself to gasping orgasm in my evenings, as to whether I had accidentally picked up a fetish or two as the fireworks in my brain went off.
But all of that was inside. Outwardly I had almost no practice. So, when she slows down on my prompt to the right-turn that will lead to my street, both of us sit in an engaging silence. Expectation crackles in the air as I clear my throat, her car sat humming in the road. To one side led mundanity at my house. Any minute now another car would be approaching from behind, I felt a sense of sudden tension. Was I being called upon to make a choice?
“I live a few miles that way,” she said cooly, not turning her head, but indicating with an extended finger. “Would you like me to drive you *home*?” Her participle was dangling, and she knew it.
A multitude of ways to respond paraded through the speech centre of my brain. Was it better under these circumstances to come off as mature and confident or the way out of his depth virgin I was? Do I use humour? Understatement? Exaggeration?
From the corner of my eye a grey VW Jetta appears, cresting the distant horizon behind us and making its way down the road. Any second now it will be nudging against our rear, beeping peevishly. The Maybe-Mozart music rises up. I have to decide right this instant.
She has spotted the other driver in her rear-view mirror. When I turn back, her face is close to mine. I drink in her scent. The silver curl of hair. Her neckline, the dangling pearl. She whispers into my ear.
“All you have to do is say yes,” she intones, huskily.
“Yes,” I blurt. Nowhere near as cool as I could have managed. But it makes her smile all the same. She guns her engine deliberately, disengages the handbrake and we leave my street and the Jetta behind.
***
The part of town she now drives us into is where the rich people lived. We pass long driveways, manicured lawns, electrical gates, pool houses, and she eventually comes to a halt beside one with slightly suggestive topiary. A tall bush has been given an elegant female form and this floral lady appears to be arching her back in ecstasy. Green-eyes turns the wheel and drives us inside, clicking a button on her keyring to command the garage doors to open up for her.
I follow my host through the internal door to her house as she finagles the burglar alarm code and the garage doors close slowly on the grey, sodden afternoon. Suddenly my hackles start to rise as I notice things she is making no effort to hide. There is space for a second car. As I walk I glance down a stairwell to a basement room and spot the edge of a Foosball table. When she shows me the first downstairs bathroom she hands me a “His” towel to dry my hair as I leave wet footprints in her hall. I glance at her right hand and almost kick myself for not noticing the glitter of a wedding ring before while she was reading. It is silver with a tasteful little diamond flanked by rubies that have been cut into swirling flames. As we pass through, just to the right of the stairs is a framed photograph of an older man leaning on the helm of a yacht. He is handsome, clad in an open shirt and rolled up chinos he knows he looks amazing in. His eyes are intense and he is sporting designer stubble. The way he holds himself reminds me of her. A confidence I can only dream of. I may be seventeen, but being around adults makes me feel too much like a child. I push this feeling down and try to get on top of it, walking with more purpose.
She hangs her long, cream coat in the cloakroom, steps into her kitchen, across white marble tiles, bends for a moment to unlatch the straps on her shoes and steps out of them. As she does this I am left with a lingering glimpse of her fabulous bottom, framed in black above her stocking tops. I try to control these trembles. They haven’t stopped. If anything, they are getting more powerful as I move on shaky legs, trying my very best to surreptitiously reposition my throbbing erection behind my belt-line so that it won’t jut out diagonally, like I have a courgette in my left pocket.
Now a few inches shorter she pads across the surprisingly warm floor in stockinged feet and leans against the grey granite countertop.
“He’s in Barcelona right now,” she says at last, answering my unspoken question. “We have an arrangement that entails he is allowed to pursue whomever he wishes while he’s away, provided that when he returns, he tells me all about it and we can… *reclaim* one another.”
“And you?” I ask, attempting nonchalance while my brain races at a thousand miles an hour. She smiles again and leans towards me.
“What do you think?” she coos.
“I… think it’s only fair if he affords you the same privilege,” I reply. This would have been smooth if my teeth weren’t chattering. This does not make me feel the least bit attractive.
“Let’s get you warmed up,” she says, her eyebrows arching in seemingly genuine concern. She flicks the glass kettle on and retrieves two mugs from the shelf. “You should use the shower,” she continues, indicating the larger, second downstairs bathroom out in the hall. I gratefully nod and peel off my jacket. It leaks rainwater over her tiles and that precise brow of hers now furrows. She crosses the kitchen far faster than I would expect her to move and far from being annoyed at the trip-hazards I am leaving in her home she taps the arm holding the jacket. I let it fall to the floor as her hands move to my chest.
“May I?” she asks, a serious tone to her voice as she declines to look into my eyes. She is almost shy now.
“Please do.” I breathe, and in that moment her fingers are at my collar buttons. Slowly she travels downward, undoing each one with precision as the kettle boils behind her. Reaching the last at my belt she spots me shifting uncomfortably to conceal my arousal. I don’t want to embarrass her, but conversely this brings another smile to her face as both hands pull my shirt open and over my shoulders, leaving it half draped down my exposed back. We hold for a moment as the kettle bubbles and clicks.
I reach behind myself to wrestle the soaked shirt off, only to see what she has steered me into. With my arms pinning themselves her left hand rises up to stroke over my chest, grazing my right nipple and travelling up to touch the back of my neck. Tiny little electrical pulses cross from her fingers to my damp, cold skin as my shivering intensifies. I am held frozen in place, unsure of whether to continue to take off the shirt and change the scenario, because I do *not* want this to end.
Then I feel her other hand. She has found my cock through my jeans, and again with the lightest of touches, traces a fingernail up the length of it. Now she looks up into my eyes and breathes softly with satisfaction, and what I am now fairly certain is arousal.
“Oh my!” she mutters, as two fingertips feel out my tip through the denim. I am ready to cum right there, and this intensifies as she leans upwards, lightly pulling my head downward to plant her lips on mine. Just once, gently, but firmly. I taste her mouth and my knees start to buckle. I cannot place the flavour, but hazelnut cream is my best descriptor. “Is this alright?” she whispers in my ear.
“It is so *very* alright,” I assure her, and she smiles through our second kiss.
“Good.”
“Why?” I stammer quietly. “Why me?”
“I might tell you later,” she replies, a playfulness entering her tone. “Now off to the shower with you.”
I catch my breath and for the first time in a while I am able to push through the shivers. I grin back and let the shirt drop, before scooping it up along with my jacket and carrying them through to the corridor, turning the wet pile in my arms as I go to prevent excessive dripping on her floor.
I step into the shower room to find it is exactly that. A big, green-tiled chamber with an enormous shower-head the size of a dinner plate suspended in the ceiling of one side. Drying rails stand across to the left, and I strip off my shoes, socks and jeans to hang my clothes over these.
I am standing in only my clinging shorts, a little uncertain. Just the act of removing this final barrier to absolute nakedness feels like a line is having to be crossed. I hook them up and over, freeing myself at last. Stroking myself for reassurance.
I glance at the door. I have not yet locked it, and I decide to leave it that way. Then I pace the warm, under-heated tiles over to the shower head and the simple controls. I am shivering again, but this stops when a boiling tropical rainstorm bursts above me and I groan in pleasure.
The one thought on my mind as I let this manmade rainstorm wash away the natural one, is what the hell does Green-eyes have in store for me when I am finally clean?
*****
*****
-Part 3-
As I emerge from the wet room, a soft, white towel around my waist I can hear new music around the house. It is playing softly in every room. I love this enchanting voice, and the piano alternates between contemplative twinkling and passionate pounding (I later find out it is a collection of B-Sides from the single releases of the first three Tori Amos albums).
I wander the ground floor looking for the green-eyed lady, a second, smaller towel in my hand, which I use to diligently mop up the traces of wet puddles and footprints I have left in my wake.
“You’re so sweet,” a voice intones from just above and I realise she has been watching me from the top of the stairwell for quite some time.
“Left my clothes to dry,” I call out, unsure of how to steer the tone back in the direction it took in the kitchen. She descends the stairs, smiling again as the piano intensifies. In other contexts, this pleasure I seem to be imbuing, merely with my presence would feel almost predatory. I’ve read plenty of stories where the foolish, horny teen boy is lured into a spider’s web. However, the look on her face, while most definitely hungry has a tinge of sadness about it as well.
“What is it?” I ask in clumsy fashion. As though someone like this is going to just unburden her heart to a complete stranger because they asked.
“It…” she chooses her words carefully and delivers them with relish “…is a good evening to be me.” She has had a shower herself, to wash the smoke of Croydon off her skin. Her makeup has been removed, her hair is wet and her face looks fresh, her eyes wide and observant behind those glasses. She is clad in a silk gown, dark, slate grey with tiny details of maroon flowers washing across her upper body. But I note she is still wearing satin stockings. She tosses me a dressing gown made of a towelling similar to the one round my waist. I thank her and pause, uncertain as to whether to fully undress in front of her. She leans upon the banister and watches me, expectantly. I allow a sly smile to creep across my features and in an act that might be interpreted as cheeky defiance I turn my back on her, pull on the robe and then remove the towel, having shown her nothing more.
“Spoilsport,” she mutters as she walks past me, back into the kitchen and pours boiled water from the kettle into two mugs. “This is coffee,” she states, plainly. “For energy. Chocolate, since you’re a fan.” At this she shoots me a look and we share the memory of our first contact. A shiver runs up my spine as I remember the taste of her fingers. “Plus, a little amaretto for your nerves?” It is a question. She proffers the bottle in her hands.
“That sounds lovely, thank you,” I say, and she pours in a generous shot. –‘But it is dull, son of Adam, to eat without drinking,’- the words steal through my head. Followed by Marissa Coulter offering Chocolatl to Tony Makarios, a poor, trusting kid she’s about to snatch off the street. I tell my literary side to shut its trap lest it ruin this for the both of us.
I receive the steaming mug, that she has applied exactly the right measurements with expert timing to make it cool enough to drink without burning my mouth. Wouldn’t want to injure my tongue now. “Mmm,” I sigh as she watches me over her cup. Then I take the plunge, because it is so strange that I don’t know the answer to the following question yet. “I’m sorry to be rude and blunt, but what is your name?”
An enigmatic expression passes across her face, and I already know her answer.
“No names,” she says, with firm authority.
“Understood,” I nod. “Then call me whatever you wish.”
She takes a step towards me, drink in one hand. I am very aware of her breasts, outlined beneath the robe. I have touched one breast before in a sexual context. On an exchange trip, I got together with Marianne, one of the French girls. We kissed a lot whilet my class was in France, and in a few months’ time when they visited England, Marrianne and I met up again at a party. Regrettably we had perhaps left it too long; this was the last night we were going to see one another, and while I had stroked towards her chest during a make-out session before, she had steered me away. Now, I did not enjoy feeling like a grasping baby so I kept my hands respectfully upon her back and her hips, her face and her hair. But for this final evening something was different. Either she wanted to give me a treat or she genuinely wanted to feel my fingers upon her nipples, because she very deliberately guided me there that time. I remember little explosions going off in my head that I was being trusted to this degree and I was gentle in my caresses. My hand in her shirt as our tongues explored one another’s mouths.
But it has been a few years since then, and now a fully grown lady has designs on my hands and potentially more.
“Let me guess,” she says softly, looking me up and down, reading my body language, correlating that information with everything else I had done in her presence. “You know what you’re doing…” Uh oh, she was overestimating me wildly. “You just haven’t been able to do it yet,” she concludes. That was far more accurate. I take a deep breath.
“Correct,” I nod.
“So,” she let’s this simple, initiating word hang in the air and I catch a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “That would make me your teacher right now.”
“Let’s just say,” I venture. “That I have the theory down, but I need experience in the practical side.”
“Well then,” she straightens up a little and takes another step towards me. Teasing me with her proximity. “One assumes you have particular… tastes. Maybe a checklist of experiences long overdue to start adding ticks to?”
“Pretty much all of it,” I admit. “But,” and here I decide to be wholly honest. “I am just so happy being here with you. If you just want us to sit and talk that will be an amazing, memorable, no… an *indelible* evening for me.”
That air of sadness flits across her features once again. What is it? What is she hiding?
“Alright,” the lady says, taking the last two steps into immediacy. The atmosphere between us tingles as she lays a hand upon my shoulder, that maroon nail-polish again, applying subtle pressure, coaxing me to incline my left ear down towards her mouth. With a start I feel warmth on my earlobe. It is between her lips and I feel tiny measures of pressure from indentations in her teeth. She plants dry, passionate kisses in the sensitive area of skin where my ear meets my neck and I shiver hard as her other arm circles me. Then I hear her whisper. “Talking with you is genuinely a lovely experience,” she breathes. “But given free reign, what would you *most* like to do with me right now?”
I am in ecstasy as she kisses me further, parting my bathrobe. I feel hers, open now and glance down at her breasts. These are the first naked nipples I have actually *seen* up close, and they are pink and rigid with little goosebumps surrounding them. I caress the small of her back as I pull her into me, and the thumb on my other hand brushes her left nipple, making her gasp in pleasure as I hold her.
I don’t fool myself that it is just me doing all this. Something about the way she has set everything up is positioning the pair of us at maximum arousal. I am just thrilled she chose me to be the one to accompany her to this place. “What would you love?” she asks again. “Ask me and I’ll say yes.” Oh god, I adore this experience so much. This welcome acceptance. No, again with the understatement. As her arms encircle me and her nails lightly graze ten lines in my naked back, this is *need*.
I feel her pelvis push against me as we kiss deeply. This causes me to free my mouth from hers for a second as she looks up intently, eyes drinking in the sight of what she is doing to my expression.
“I would love…” I breathe into her ear. “I would love to eat your pussy.” I feel her trembling now as her hips undulate with mine, and a little chuckle escapes her as she gently frames my face in her hands.
“Is that not something you’ve done yet?” she queries. I shake my head and bite my lip as a powerful wave of wanton desire rushes through the both of us. “Well then,” she purrs, and gently presses on both of my shoulders as she shrugs her robe aside. I catch sight of her knickers approaching as I am compelled down to my knees. They are lacy and black, and once again I am reminded of a line. A border we have come to, and are about to cross. Once beyond this point things will be different between us. The moment hangs as we examine it together, shivering in anticipation.
I glance up, panting softly, breathing her in. Freshly showered but still so gorgeously, intimately scented in a way my sense memory will never lose track of. I study the area around her waist, her navel, the wonderful, soft, wide V that descends from her hips. She looks down at me and strokes my hair.
“You’re going to have to pull them down for me,” she states, matter-of-factly.
Lightning races through my body. I have never been so awake or so alive. I hook my thumbs around either side of those knickers, just a few inches above her stocking-tops, and I begin to slide them down.
This is it. I have seen a hundred pussies before on the printed page, on grainy, fuzzy erotic videos from back when you couldn’t really see any kind of detail anyway. But I had never ever been this close. And as her panties slide down her legs and my fingers brush that satin, at long last her delectable cunt is revealed to me.
I kneel, gazing at her, barely able to breathe with excitement. My cock is so hard and pulsing right now I didn’t even know if I could stand if she ordered me to. It is requesting all the blood in my body to maintain such peak density.
I looked lovingly at her soft, curled lips, the seashell in the middle inviting my touch, her pink, hooded clitoris, the neatly shaved triangle of dark hair surrounding it. Then I feel her hand on the back of my head.
“Go on,” she whispers. “I want nothing more in the world right now than to feel your tongue there.”
With a soft moan of capitulation, I bury my face between her legs and finally, after all those years of imagining it, I explore that most sacred of places, with enthusiasm and passion that has stored up inside me my entire life.
Green-eyes leans back against the kitchen counter, throws one shapely leg over my shoulder, hooking me in, gripping my hair and almost immediately begins to cum in my mouth, moaning and shuddering in release with an animalistic fervour.
My brain is nothing but fireworks.
*****
*****
-Part 4-
The first time I ever actually ejaculated was under not-ideal circumstances, but they were somewhat beyond my control. I had gotten suddenly hard repeatedly over the years, unsure of what that meant but finding it amusing. I was never exposed to the core information on self-manipulation, ergo I had no clue what a wank was.
But one occasion, a few years before this story begins, my father’s then-girlfriend was staying over for the night. She was a pleasant lady named Stacy and we got on well enough over supper and TV. However, late in the evening while I was reading in bed, the two of them took to his room. Only a single wall separated us. Now I had spent my childhood in a bedroom underneath the spacious attic my parents slept in, so I was separated by too many levels and layers to catch any sounds of nocturnal activities. However, on this evening, my now-divorced father whom I was living alone with was clearly getting some pent-up frustration off his hairy chest.
The two of them went at it hard, and pretty soon I heard the unmistakable sound of Stacy moaning and gasping, starting quietly, but growing in intensity in a way that began to distract me from my book and then swiftly arouse me. Fairly soon I felt something new… an urgency to *do something* about my erection.
I quietly left my bed, checked in my lower drawer and retrieved a Durex condom I had been keeping in there, just on the off-chance I should ever wind up on the way to something racy with a teenage girl. I lay naked on my bedclothes, fiddled with the packet and opened it up, finally getting to handle one. It was thinner than I had expected, and smelled of rubber and lubricant, a rather singular odour I had not encountered before. As the sound of the bedstead thumped against the wall and Stacy began to whimper in pleasure, I experimentally began to roll this condom down over the end of my cock and down, savouring the feeling of tightness and friction until it felt like I was being insistently clasped.
I imagined Stacy’s body, devoid of clothing, her breasts bare and wobbling, her hard, suckable nipples, her legs spread, and her head thrown back, her body moving with me. That was it, just a few more strokes as I heard her orgasm, an intense feeling that had been building in my frame, akin to the preliminaries of an itchy sneeze begging to be released from every fibre of my being suddenly peaked and was thrust out through me. I gasped along with this magical lady as cum flooded into the condom, before my astonished eyes, filling the reservoir with pearlescent fluid from inside me. I remember laughing, biting my fingers with surprise and delight. This was something I now wanted to do all the time.
And I did. For several years of being a frustrated young man with so much energy to spend and nobody to spend it with.
That had now changed.
I am nose-deep in Green-eyes, my tongue making love to her impeccable nethers. Her clitoris is like a little, round, soft fingertip, and she responds amazingly well as I apply pressure and movement, teasing out that sensitive nerve-cluster from under her hood. Her outer lips are beyond luscious and her labia minora has a sweet lime undertone that spurs my passion as much as her hands caressing and gripping my face. This is an experience adjacent to kissing on the mouth, but with a different kind of powerful intimacy.
I am well aware of how ashamed women are encouraged to feel about these parts of themselves. How they are told they are unclean, and that this thing is nothing but trouble, and at the same time, it (and everything attached to it) somehow *belongs to men*. Purchased in the distant past and theirs to decide upon what goes in and what comes out.
This is the most grotesque of long-cons. Women possess these astonishing bodies, whether average, wobbly, wrinkled, firm, capacious, petite, squat, lofty, lean, muscular, every possible skin tone, every birth-designation righteously defied. It is a privilege and an honour for us to go down on them. And over the years of dreaming and imagining this activity, I have always thought of what might run through a lady’s mind when someone like me is so diligently worshiping at the temple between her legs. I would wish for this to be passionately welcomed, and enjoyed with wild enthusiasm, all thoughts of shame expelled as waves of pleasure ripple through her mind, body and soul.
Green-eyes cries out and her hips buck against my jaw. I have been trying to determine how to breathe while maintaining the movements that she desires and expressly asks me to keep going with. I slow myself down and breathe through my nose as I start to tease her. This, as it turns out is well-timed, as after climaxing, she becomes rather sensitive and holds me off for a moment. Just a few seconds as she catches her breath and gets herself comfortable again. We have moved to the living room area now, and she is lying on the wide, leather sofa, beads of perspiration upon her brow as she looks down at me, kneeling between her legs with an expression of surprise.
“Oh…” she is trying to catch her breath. “I think you’ve been fibbing. There is absolutely no way this is your first time tending to a lady.” A little burst of pride fires off and I betray it with a grin.
“Like I said, I’ve studied,” I say, and her eyebrows arch as her hands reach out and she guides me back in between those legs. The next words come out of her as a harsh, roll-on whisper.
“Oh yes, just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop.” I bring her to the edge again as a long, hoarse moan relinquishes and evolves, leaving her actively laughing, which of course reminds me of the first time I came. Her hands are covering her face, partway between relief and what might be the first signs of embarrassment… she lost control. This is very interesting. She breaks off from the little moment she was having on her own, composes herself and becomes catlike, sitting up and looking me straight in the eye again.
“Let’s do something for you,” she purrs, her fingers on my chest, pushing me gently back towards the carpet as she parts the dressing gown she lent me, exposing my waist and legs. Her hands descend as she pushes the cloth aside and I feel her fingers touch and close around my straining cock. She breaks her gaze with me and looks down, turning her head slightly to examine what she is holding.
Here is where anxiety sets in for me. You see, I was born with one single testicle, the other undescended, leaving me always a little nervous about comparing my wedding tackle with that of other men. Would it look smaller and less appealing? Thinner? Of course, flaccid they never look particularly impressive. There are only so many things you can do to dress up something that looks like it should be hanging out of the side of a shark’s mouth (thank you Dylan Moran for that one). But mine is probably -and at this moment in time my internal needle is creeping towards *definitely*- lacking. I have never been in a scenario where a lady could pass judgment and now, I am under the microscope… or magnifying glass, either way it isn’t flattering.
The look on her face goes from curiosity to adoration as she descends and takes me in her mouth. I feel her sensual lips delicately kiss the head and pass around it and she slowly swallows my length. The sensation of her sliding down the sides and her tongue fluttering against the underneath is blissful and shiver-inducing, but as she draws back upwards, taking her time, guarding me from her teeth, that sensation gets even more intense.
“Oh god,” I warn her. “You are so monumentally fucking sexy.” I make sure I slow this statement down and keep my voice partway between smooth and rough. I cannot let her feel like I am not enjoying this, when it is quite the opposite scenario. “But if you carry on like that only a bit longer… I am definitely going to cum!” At this she disengages her mouth and looks me in the eye with a playful smile.
“Oh my darling,” she croons. “You are young, virile and have exuberance to spare. And I have use of you for this entire night. So, I am absolutely *counting* on you cumming right now, this very moment, just as a… *taster*.” And something about the way she says this last part, flashing me a wicked grin and extending the tip of her tongue to lick all the way from my perinium, over my tightly straining sack, all the way to the base of my glans, which she flicks with relish.
I see stars!
I shudder and groan with pleasure, and a single spurt of creamy white cum leaps across her cheek and drops onto her right areola, the droplet half-coating her erect nipple and hanging there. In triumph she opens her mouth and receives the second arc with a sigh of pleasure as I shout an unintelligible word as she closes around me. I feel jet after jet haul out of me, into her mouth. She closes her eyes and gently bobs her head up and down, massaging and lubricating me as I continue to twitch and shake. My fingers clutch at her bare shoulders and I stroke her back, running my hand through her hair as she opens her eyes once more, pulls her lips free, and visibly swallows with a glow of intense satisfaction.
“You’ve been eating pineapple,” she murmurs. “You’re sweet, through and through.”
I wilt and flop on the carpet, the towelling robe acting as a welcome rug to pass out on. I start laughing again, thinking about how wild this day has been so far, and my own edginess about getting even a speck of effluvia on her nice, cream carpet. She plonks herself down beside, stroking my chest, asks me what’s funny and I tell her honestly, which makes her chuckle too. I love this sound so very much already.
She is so beautiful, laying there, those cares she seemed to be carrying absent for the time being? Yet that total confidence she always exhibited potentially challenged. We are naked now, beside one another. Frankly anything could happen next.
“I hope you don’t mind about the er…” I begin, unsure of how to put it. I glance down at myself. “One plum?” Is that poetic or childish? There had to be a better way I could have-
“Actually, it makes your cock look longer and bigger,” she smiles magnanimously. I feel her little finger playfully stroke me from the outermost point of my left hip, down to the base of this mono-bawbag. The sensation is so pleasant, ribald and reassuring that I find my member quivering into vertical action once more.
“Oh… well,” she exclaims. “That didn’t take you long at all.” She rolls onto her side, so I am surveying the length of her body, props her head up on her arm and gazes at me with a quizzical expression and an agile, punctuating leap of her eyebrows. “What do you think we should do next?”
*****
*****
-Part 5 / The Finale-
We are still in the living room, sat quietly together in the curves of the wide couch, rehydrating. I am stroking her bare arms as she huddles closer to me than I would have expected from someone so obviously guarded.
It is around about this time when I realise, I have indeed developed a fetish, and not one I would have predicted, considering the filth my brain defaults to on a daily basis. I could of course be wrong, and this might simply be a proximity-hyper-arousal because Green-eyes is just blowing my mind, amongst other areas, but something borne of experience with my own habits tells me this will be a lasting predilection.
My fetish is for *boundaries being broken*, lines being crossed, steps being taken past lines, propriety and decorum. I think back to what seems like hours ago, when I was facing her lacy, black knickers. I think of that moment of anticipation I was savouring. And then I reflect back upon all those horny, frustrated situations I’ve blown in the past by being a motormouthed dickhead, juvenile or unintentionally hurtful or clumsy with other people’s feelings. I resolve on the spot to always be considerate, not for the benefit of my conscience, but because I just don’t want people to be sad or angry because of me.
And this may well tie in with that incredible feeling of acceptance and welcome that comes with sliding those panties down a lady’s legs. That brief window as they reach her ankles and she steps out of them, shedding the separating layer, standing, lying, spreading naked before you. Vulnerable, apprehensive, inviting, excited. And this applies to so many borders travelled across before that. Hands roaming beneath clothing, feeling one another’s literal most private parts. And before that, over the clothes, dry humping, pushing yourselves together, straining at the fabric. Before that, kissing one another’s necks, then lips, rewinding back to that moment when your faces are near and you are both wondering how the other is going to react as you move in. Always that possibility of a No, or it not feeling right or being broken off for some far-reaching personal reason.
And before that is the complex dance that leads you into a kiss, the flirting, the talking, sparring, the movements, the eyes on and off one another. Today has been a succession of these moments, and every one has electrified me. Just to be wanted and desired. Just to be lusted for and *needed*. But again, something prickles at my mind, telling me this encounter means more than just using a young man for kicks.
My stroking has become softer as I have pondered this. I can feel the goosebumps on her skin as she leans into me, catlike. All of a sudden Green-eyes checks herself and seems to pull away from my touch, readjusting her body into a dominant, jutting flex and whispering in my ear…
“Let me take you upstairs.”
I nod emphatically, and follow her from the living room, watching that gorgeous, curvy rump of hers as she climbs the steps to lead me onward. It is darker and less modern on this upper floor, with antique bookcases lining the hall, midnight-blue, roughly-textured walls, doors of oak and a different aroma, smoky and organic. She leads me through a maroon door into a room straight out of Lord of the Rings. It has a four-poster bed in the centre, ivy climbing the buttery yellow walls. Candles already it, throwing out a soft, amber glow. She climbs onto the delicately embroidered, forest-green sheets and pats the area beside her as I approach, closing the door behind me. This is one of those moments. The giddy heart-leap of that walk into a strange lady’s bedroom.
“Now,” she begins, taking my right hand as I climb onto the bed, and guiding me into a crouch in front of her. “I am going to teach you a few things.” She raises my fingers to her mouth and takes the tip of the middle one between her lips. I feel her tongue caress me gently and her incisors impishly bite down. Then, locking eyes with me again and kneeling up with her legs apart, she slowly moves my hand down towards her cunny. “Feel how wet I am again for you,” she breathes. And as my middle fingertip arrives, I can indeed feel her slippery opening blossoming. Her eyes close and she bites her lower lip, before pulling my hand gently but insistently upwards swallowing my entire middle finger. My cock twitches and I feel her internal walls tighten around me. My thumb brushes her clitoris and she gasps softly, lets go of my hand, slowly arching her back and moaning as I begin a guided rhythmic stroking inside her at the same time adding my light, tickling rub across her sensitive, rosy hood.
She straightens her back up, moaning and pulling me ever-more tenaciously, inviting my ring-finger to play alongside the middle. I reach deep inside her and curl my digits, exploratively. There inside, brushing at the very tips, almost out of reach I feel a soft, clustered pad behind her clitoris. This contact makes her eyes widen and she stops kissing me as her mouth falls open. I push and tickle inside and she gasps louder now. Of all things my brain goes to Spider-Man and the finger-gymnastics required to make his web-shooters work. Mary Jane is a lucky lady. I smile with familiarity, now that I have the positioning worked out, maintain the pressure until before long her whole body is shaking and I bring her to an unexpected climax that leaves her flopping back on the pillows, cackling, and once again covering her face.
“You… *have* done your homework,” she vouches after composing herself.
I do NOT mention Spider-Man.
When she gets back up, it is with that assertiveness again, as she turns me about and adamantly pushes my head back upon the same pillows, she had been nestled in. As the fabric and feathers compress under me, they release her fabulous scent. I lie there, gazing at her as she smiles, turns her back and throws one leg over me, straddling my face and giving me a close-up view of her gorgeous bottom.
“I’m going to ride your face,” she announces as her open, slick pussy moves within reach of my mouth. I flutter my tongue obediently around, tasting her nectar. She shivers and grinds herself down. I lick around her lips, thrust inside her and try in vain to reach her clitoris until she works out that’s what I’m reaching for and obligingly bends, letting me hungrily lap at her. I feel her mouth on my cock as she loops us into my first 69, and my hips start to buck as I grip at her waist. I am so massively turned on that I am about to cum into her mouth once again.
Sensing this, she sits up above me once more and pauses, disengaging her gorgeous backside and holding it tantalisingly, mere inches away. I take a breath as she looks down at me, shyly.
“What?” I ask mischievously. Then she murmurs six words, threaded with an uncertainty and embarrassment uncharacteristic for her. Ironically, she absolutely does not need to feel any of this, considering this request is so unbearably hot that it almost make me ejaculate on the spot.
“Would you please lick my asshole?”
“Oh yes,” I sigh and my hands travel back up to her hips, me guiding *her* this time. I catch a glimpse of her tight little balloon-knot, quivering with antici…
…
…
…
-pation.
Her puckered, pink little star like the dot of a lower case i above her labia. And I extend my tongue and drag it upwards from her cunt lips to that folded little dot. She tastes different here; nutmeg and aniseed. I can feel the texture of nerve-endings in her furrows and she throws her head back as I administer exuberantly to her most cloistered of areas. My hands hold her sides as hers grip her cheeks. She pulls them apart, inviting my tongue to delve inside her. It is extremely tight, but every movement seems to produce a positive result. I have imagined this so many times and yet the reality is even more deliriously pleasurable.
“Oh god,” she is crying out. I don’t know how long I have been here, manacled against her, but every imprecise second has been heavenly, and as she reaches her peak, I feel her whole body spasm as her back arches with tension and release.
There is a moment of falling calm.
Quailing, she gently disengages, and almost as though in slow-motion, she settles herself curled like a croissant upon her front, bunching up the sheets and watching me.
“Was that fun?” I ask coquettishly. She nods emphatically.
“Do you know what the French call an orgasm?” She asks, huskily.
“I actually *do* know this; Le petite mort.”
“La, petit mort,” she corrects. “It’s feminine, as you might imagine.”
“The little death.” I translate. She nods again.
“We are always one step closer,” she intones, her expression ambivalent. “-but it is a comforting step, and oh so welcome.” We sit with this as her gaze runs over my body, until she finally asks the question I have been dying for. “Would you like to make love?”
“Yes,” I breathe, and a little wave of accordance passes between us. She uncurls herself, goes to her bedside cabinet and retrieves a condom, bidding me lie back. Tears it open with her teeth and asks me for permission to put it on me. I take a deep breath.
“Please.”
My cock is standing rigidly, sensitive and ready as she approaches, bending to lay the tip of the condom over the head, pinching the reservoir. Then in three slow strokes of her hand she rolls it down my shaft. This sheathe is peach-coloured and indeed scented, and I am of course reminded of my first La petite mort.
She sits back to admire her handiwork before instructing me to get in a kneeling position, leaning back away from her. As I do this, she throws her left knee over me, straddling my waist. I feel my cock touch her soft skin through the peach latex, and shiver as she wraps her right arm around my shoulder to hold me close, adjusting her legs around me.
Meanwhile, her left hand strays between our tangled limbs and I feel her fingers guide my cock. I glance down and see the pink outer lips of her pussy opening for me as a dark, warm wet, tightness slowly envelops. She groans as she takes me into her and slides forward, pushing her pelvis closer and closer to mine as the pressure intensifies.
We are so close. She gyrates her hips and looks me in the eye as the two of us move together. Her countenance is multifaceted, biting her soft lower lip with pleasure, arching her expressive eyebrows as she surveys my face, studying every movement and response. She holds me close and breathes with me as I sigh. Our faces are damp with sweat and our bodies undulate in the candlelight. When she asks me where I want to cum, I tell her the truth.
“Inside you.” Her eyes widen with excitement and for a brief moment the years fall away and there is no gulf of experience between us. “Is that alright?” I ask tentatively, feeling my climax rise, barely controlled, like an animal throwing itself against the door of its cage and feeling it buckle.
“Oh yes,” she croons. And the stars come out above us, as I am lost in her arms, shaking and jolting as I empty myself into her. She drinks me in clutching at my back, crying out long and loud… before she settles in tandem with me and the harmony descends. She rests my damp head upon her shoulder and strokes my hair.
***
It is 1997, I’m seventeen years old and on my way home. I’m sat in a train carriage doing what I always do; listening to my Discman and thinking about sex. The train stops at East Croydon and my music reaches Caught a Lite Sneeze. I close my eyes and my mind drifts back to the evening of my dreams. And when I rouse myself and survey the carriage, she… is there.
Sat across on the far right, she does not acknowledge me. Opposite her is a slender girl maybe a few years older than I am, with dusky skin and striking cinnamon-red curled hair cascading over her shoulders. The girl is listening to what I recognise as a MiniDisc, and I sit in a tantalising agony of apprehension. I am trying to work out a way to strike up a conversation about what she’s listening to, because frankly it takes someone very serious about their mixes to invest in one of these things, and I am genuinely interested.
However, the redhead’s gaze has strayed from the digital readout she was studying and flits to the lady sat in front of her. Green-eyes luxuriates in her seat, as though in a steaming herbal bath, crosses her powerful legs and opens a thumbed paperback of A Spy in the House of Love by Anais Nin. It is only when her right hand strays into the pocket of her cream jacket to retrieve a bar of dark chocolate and lay it down gently on the seat beside her that she finally meets my gaze. She has angled her knee in the direction of the redhead who is definitely looking at her now, and seeing a tremorous thrill race through me, Green-eyes allows herself a clandestine smile.
The End… For Now.
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