We met in a dark bar. Her dress was short. “I’m glad you had me wear boyshorts,” she said. “Otherwise, I’d be getting some contact with this couch.”
We shared a drink. Admired the unimaginably hot, if painfully self-involved, lead singer of the band that was about to play. Listened to her as she regaled her audience (their table was next to ours) with banal tales of her childhood, her career. She was in her early 20s. Her speech was unlistenable. Surely, her audience wasn’t listening; they were watching. And I felt for her – her experience of life must be confusing: people constantly appearing to be very interested in her, when in fact, they’re simply dumbly taking in her physical beauty. Maybe this is wrong. Maybe I have her wrong.
Anyway, we finished our drinks, we walked out. It was a short walk to the party. We chatted as we walked. “I’m going to enjoy feeling your mouth on my cock,” I said. You know, stuff like that.
We arrived at the party. Was there anyone hot there? Anyone she wanted? Anyone I wanted? Not really. A Russian couple was seeming promising until we spoke with them. The wife inhaled, and spoke for ten minutes without stopping. When she finished, any enthusiasm we had was gone.
The ritual proceeded: our host instructed us to introduce ourselves by first name. “N,” I said. “Jen,” said my date. She’s not a redhead. But she’s almost an almost-strawberry blonde, with fair skin and lovely, round breasts. Her nipples are relatively freshly pierced – a disappointment to her, not increasing her sensitivity in any good way, but providing significant unwelcome discomfort. Four months in.
I was prepared to declare my recently discussed redhead hunger fulfilled after this evening.
We sat on a couch. I lifted her cotton dress, and teased her. Her boyshorts were damp. My tongue, my fingers, pressed against the inside of her thighs. I pressed above her pussy, on her mons. I reached under her, grabbed her full, round ass, pulling her cunt toward me. I pulled the panties to the side, and I found her clit. I didn’t expect her to cum. Her orgasms are elusive, mostly self-provided, mostly in solitude, at her own hands.
In some ways, though, a woman who doesn’t cum is the most fun for me: I can devote myself to her pleasure in a manner entirely devoid of expectation, of goals. I removed her panties, and began my first of three marathon pussy-eating sessions that evening. We had an audience: she’s hot, and I’m good. She was vocal, physical, bucking, writhing, moaning, pulling my head into her, pushing it away, squeezing my ears with her thighs. I was physical, lifting her legs in the air, sucking her clit loudly, rimming her languorously, lowering her legs and fluttering my tongue everywhere.
After some time, we paused. We got up, and walked to another corner of the room. (There’s a man, call him “Jay,” who frequents these parties whom I loathe. He is both physically unattractive and personally disrespectful. He touches women without asking, and he is particularly ungracious – and resistant – when he hears “no,” or sees a shaken head indicating the same. He was looming.)
Our next spot was a bed with others. I lay back, and Jen kneeled before me. She rubbed my cock through my grey boxer briefs. (This is news: until a few weeks ago, it had been exclusively black boxer briefs for me for more than a decade. This lot of grey represents significant change.) She licked, flicked, and looked at me steadily in the eyes as she worked. “May I remove them?” she asked.
I nodded, and off they came.
Her style is patient, and varied, and awesome. Her tongue and hands worked for quite a while before my cock actually entered her mouth for the first time. I thrust up into her face, pulling her down, and then held her up, near the head. I instructed her – go slowly, use your tongue. But she didn’t need much instruction. Whatever she was doing felt… amazing. Her eyes seemed somehow never to leave mine as she went at me, even as my own eyes were rolling back in my head, or closing.
Jay approached. I looked at him and shook my head no. He continued to approach. I shook my head more vigorously. He started to kneel, to reach for Jen’s ass, to stick a finger into her pussy. “NO!” I said, And he backed off. Fucker. (I really should say something to the host about him – it’s just not necessary.) I don’t know that Jen was sensitive to what all happened. I had told her about him, warned her. But she was distracted while this mini-drama played itself out.
We switched back and forth – moved to another bed where I went down on her, once again, at length. A hot young couple, the woman with copious ink on her back, short black hair, and glasses which never came off, the man small, wiry, geeky, hirsute, cute as hell. His head was between her legs as mine was between Jen’s. Once more, I went at her, not stopping, for some time. Then we switched – she went down on me again. I came, copiously, down her throat. As she walked to grab a cup in which to spit (don’t judge, haters), a man rushed to the bed to grab his shoes. He was apologetic, but almost frantic. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I really have to go,” he said.
I apologized – “Sorry for slowing you down,” I said.
We stood, put our underwear on, mingled. Standing over crudites, we chatted with an Italian couple – “Italian and Sicilian are totally different,” the man said. “Not if you’re Jewish,” I pointed out.
“I want to watch you make yourself cum,” I said to Jen. “Do you think you can, here?”
She’s a bit over-optimistic: “Sure!” she says. We move back to the bed on which she had sucked my cock so expertly. She lies on her back, next to a cute 30-something couple. We had talked with them briefly and the man had been utterly shitfaced. But he was piledriving his date on the bed, and it was hot. (She was another one who kept her glasses on. Some day I’ll write about the phenomenon of women fucking with their glasses on.) As the inflatable mattress rocked, Jen began to stroke and squeeze her clit. I touched her breasts, gently, tickling her sensitive, pierced nipples as she worked on her pussy. The other couple finished, left the bed. I lay where they had been, next to Jen, and stroked her. “Tell me hot stories you’ve written about,” she said. I did. I told her about the Historian. About my distant rendezvous. About my most memorable sexual experience. As I talked, she lay back, moaning. But she was too engaged with the narrative – she would ask questions, she wanted to know more. She wasn’t going to cum this way.
But I was hard again, and I could cum again.
“Would you suck my cock some more?”
And we started to switch places, but saw that the host had deflated the other three air mattresses, the clean-up was underway, we were the only couple still going at it.
“You can come to my apartment,” she said.
“Ok,” I said.
And we left.
I hailed a cab. “Would you play with yourself for me?” I asked.
The story continues here.