Chapter One takes place in the summer time; chapter seven is closer to Christmas. Joe is still on the scene, but less obviously; and Cassie has moved on as well. She knows exactly what she is doing!
CHAPTER SEVEN I flinched as Steve’s fingers pulled my lips apart, but then relaxed as the first warm, wet sweep of his tongue. I held my breath as it flicked to within an ace of my clit, but the moment passed, and his enthusiastic lapping seemed to concentrate everywhere but the one place I most needed it.
Gently, I reached down and placed my own finger on the swollen nub, careful not to hit him as I flicked it, but hoping… almost praying… that he would get the message. He didn’t, but when I finally came, the broad smile that lit up his surfacing face made the deception seem completely worthwhile.
“That was amazing,” I breathed as I kissed his juice soaked mouth. “But now it’s my turn.” Sliding off the bed, and pulling his legs down with me, I knelt on the floor, my arms on his thighs and, at last, took his swollen cock in my hand. It looked even bigger in the daylight, but beautiful too. Not quite sure whether I was meant to or not, but certain that’d say something if I did anything wrong, I drew the flesh down, pulling back the foreskin that was stretched so tightly across the tip, until the whole head gleamed before me, a mushroom of flesh that I had to explore. I bent my head towards it slowly, my mouth opening slightly to admit it - and then shrieked as the single dark eye in the tip opened wide and twitched, then spat a great glob of come onto my chin.
Now he was apologizing, desperately, painfully, pleadingly, and I wasn’t sure why – for coming so soon? Or for spattering my face? Either way, I hushed him, not with words or a gesture, but by taking his softening cock in my mouth, clasping my hands against his buttocks, and holding that sticky hot flesh as tightly as I could, feeling it shrink and my head moving forward, until my nose was pressed against his stomach, and his balls hung tight against my chin, and his flavors danced against my taste-buds, some bitter, some salty, some sweet and all heavenly. Maybe, once again, things hadn’t gone as planned. But I was determined to enjoy myself, regardless.
He’d met me outside Borders as arranged – it was funny how, even after the disappointments of Wednesday evening, I was so willing to go back to his apartment again. Unfinished business, I told myself at the time, but after last night with Maureen, there was more to it than that. She’d said I had natural abilities – to do what, I wasn’t yet certain. But if she sensed a power in me, one that I had not yet discovered, then I needed to learn to harness it, and her diary had shown me the most effective way.
Trial and error, she warned, and I knew she was right, even as Steve poured out two cups of instant coffee, then sat down on the bed alongside me, clutching his mug as though his life was bound up in it, and making the kind of small talk (I knew from past boyfriends) that made it clear that he only had one thing on his mind.
I prized the cup from his hand, placed it carefully on the carpet beside mine. The little electric fire was on, kicking out at least a modicum of heat, and I slipped my fingers between his. “At least we don’t need all the covers, this time.” His free arm draped my shoulders. “I didn’t know if you’d fancy going out later? There’s a great takeaway at the top of the road.”
“Later, maybe.” I disengaged myself and crossed the room to where his CD collection lay neatly stacked along one wall. “I didn’t even notice these the other night. There must be hundreds.”
He shrugged. “I need to weed through them at some point. There’s a lot of stuff here I don’t even play any more.”
“Hang onto them,” I said, then pulled out a Fleetwood Mac CD. “Well, most of them, anyway.” I was impressed; he kept them in strict alphabetical order, and yes, he had Garbage. “Can I put it on?”
“Sure, yeah.” He lay back across the bed, his back against the wall, relaxing for the first time since I arrived; I rose and joined him, lying on one side, an arm draped across his stomach. “I’m glad you came,” he whispered. “I’m glad I’m here,” I replied and then, before this could turn into one of those maddening conversations that fill space between two people who think it needs to be filled (I’m glad you’re glad… I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad) I kissed him hard, he kissed me back and, as clothes fell away and hands grew ever bolder, I broke away and gazed down at him.
There’s something so exciting about seeing someone’s body for the first time, and I don’t mean that sexually. Well, not purely sexually. New moles to make jokes about, new hairy patches to puzzle about, new muscles to watch in motion. And, of course, new tastes and sensations, as I discovered about half an hour later, kneeling on the carpet between his open legs, with his now flaccid prick still clenched firmly in my mouth.
I released it, rocked back on my thighs for a moment, then rejoined him on the bed. We lay on his bed, not talking, just hugging, occasionally shifting to offer a kiss. Between my legs, I could feel his saliva and my pussy juice still pooling in my groin, and I rolled over a little to relieve the stickiness. Steve rolled too, and kissed me between the shoulder blades, once, twice, three times… then slowly, he started moving down my back, raining light, insistent kisses on my skin. I lay without moving, just enjoying the moment; sighing gently as his tongue joined the game, tracing tiny circles in my flesh, then flicking down to a fresh spot.
He reached the small of my back, then tentatively kissed the top of one buttock. It tickled a little, and I gasped as his tongue traced a line down one cheek, then the other; paused and then reappeared in the valley between them.
A light flashed on in my mind… “really?”… as the firm, damp warmth traced further down, and his hands gently gripped me and pulled my ass cheeks open. Down, down… I could feel his breath on my ass-hole, cooling flesh that my juices had liberally soaked, and I held my breath.
The moment seemed endless. For what seemed like hours, but was probably just a few seconds, I hung there in unbelievable suspense. And then… a light tickling, a curious warmth, a feeling like something was somewhere it had never been before… inching, pushing, probing, testing. I didn’t dislike it in the slightest… but I wasn’t sure if I liked it either, it felt so strange. “Come up here again,” I whispered, and I felt him move back up the bed. I kissed him carefully; would he smell, or even taste like an ass-hole? No – and that was a relief.
So, nudging against my thigh, was the weight of his cock, as it slowly came back to life. I reached down and stroked it. “I don’t know what you were doing down there,” I whispered. “But you may have to do it again sometime.”
Again that puppy-dog smile. “I’m glad you liked it,” he replied and, for a moment, I wondered if he might have had something else to add (“some girls don’t” would have been my guess), but he remained silent, closing his eyes as my fingers squeezed the tip of his cock, coaxing it towards even greater grandeur. “But now I want you to do something else for me.”
I’d already decided that I wasn’t going to fuck him, although I’d seen the condoms waiting expectantly under his pillow. I wasn’t going to stay the night, either. But I was going to give him something that – I hoped – he’d never forget, and I knew that I wouldn’t either.
Use your mind, not your body. “I want you to close your eyes, and I don’t want you to think about anything. Just relax.” I shifted my position, and leaned to kiss his foot. He twitched slightly, as though expecting a tickle, and I ran my tongue lightly across the sole. “Relax,” I repeated. “Just empty your head.”
I kissed the other foot, ran my tongue around his toes and up to his ankle. Up his calf, to trace circles on the skin, and then back to his other foot and, this time, a little higher up his leg. Slowly, painstakingly, no need to rush, although I could see his erection straining now, rising from the belly where it lay as though beckoning me to come closer. I lifted his leg, licked behind his knee; replaced it and did the same thing to the other. He groaned and I “ssshed” him gently, as my mouth moved to the edge of his thigh.
His legs parted a little and I bent my head further, to trace a thin line of saliva up towards his groin. I could smell him now, that musky tang that set my pulse racing harder, and the urge to possess him was almost overpowering now. But I fought back and transferred my attentions to the other thigh, slowing my pace and my movements now, so that every flick of my tongue became a concentric circle, whorls of touch that were driving me crazy, and I could only imagine what they were doing to Steve.
His cock was standing at full attention and I could not resist directing a breath towards it. Another groan. How much more of this could he take? I traced a finger across his ballbag, amazed at its softness, fascinated by its tightness, and this time he gasped aloud. I extended my tongue, licked at the flesh, then pressed my lips closer to suck, to draw the skin and maybe a ball into my mouth.
“Oh my God, Cassie…” he was positively raving now, and I released my prize, sat back for a moment, waited for the storm to pass. “Relax,” I repeated once again. “Like you’re falling asleep.” He moved his lips to reply, but I pressed a finger against them. “No words, no thoughts, nothing. Just quiet and still.” I waited a moment longer, watched as tight muscles visibly softened, and his cock lay itself back on his belly. I gave his balls another soft suck, then released them and traced my tongue up the crease of his groin. His hips shifted a little, but I let it pass. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out either.
Kissing his stomach, tracing my tongue so close to his cock, outlining it in saliva, and now a kiss on the tip as it rose demandingly to press against my face. I touched a finger between my legs. I was dripping and, for a moment, I thought of those condoms just a few inches away. Virgin or no virgin, I was so wet he’d probably slide all the way in without either of us noticing. I thought of something Linton had said, I could make your eyes pop from the inside, and the way I was feeling, they probably would. But not yet. Not today.
Steve’s cock was resting in my hand now and I don’t know if it’s possible for them to grow bigger every time, but he had. I held him gently. I’d come too far to let him just explode in my hand; too far not to feel that exquisite steel deep in my mouth – and keep it there. I licked the tip, let my tongue roam all across it, then down, tracing around the thick meaty ridge, onto the shaft where the veins bulged like muscles and his pulse danced the samba against my kiss.
“Oh fuck, Cassie!” He was sitting up now, his face flushed, his eyes wide, boring into my face. I gently laid his cock back down, slowly slipped one finger between my legs – oh my God, the merest touch and I was almost coming – then placed it between his lips. He sucked greedily, almost swallowing my finger, so hard that I had to fight to retrieve it. “Tell me what you want,” I whispered.
“I want to come,” he panted. “Please.” His hand was grasping his cock now, angling it towards me.
“Wrong answer,” I said, pulling his hand free and laying it back by his side. I kissed him on the mouth. “All you have to do is lie back.” And I began again, kissing down his body this time, through the downy hair and occasional wire that bristled from his chest, tonguing his nipples, so taut and tiny, gentle bites to the softer flesh of his abdomen and stomach, till I was back where I started, his prick on my palm, my tongue drilling patterns into the skin.
“Now tell me what you want.”
“Put it in your mouth.” He voice was barely audible. “Please. Suck me.”
He was slick with salvia and his own transparent juices; they jangled on my lips as I gently enfolded the head between my lips. My hands were on his stomach; I held him upright with my mouth and could feel his strength against my jaw. I inched down a little, to prevent him from slipping away, and then a little more. His breathing was regular now, interspersed with tiny gasps as my tongue lolled beneath his shaft and I continued my downward motion, curious how deep I could take him, and what would happen when I got there.
I thought of earlier, how I’d felt him soften in my mouth and had accepted his full length once that had happened. Now – I didn’t have a ruler, but I was barely holding an inch, maybe two. Slowly I drew my head up, steadying him with two fingers clenched at the root of his rod, then sank down again. He exhaled deeply; inhaled as I slipped up again, squeaked as I nipped with my teeth.
My jaw was tiring; I used my tongue, flicking across his helmet, and the back for me and he slipped deeper this time, giving me more to hang onto, more to suck – how I loved to suck, feeling his flesh ripple as my lips tightened around him, hearing his breathing grow faster and faster.
I glanced around the room for the clock. An hour had passed since I kissed his first toe, yet it slipped by like seconds. How much longer could he possibly keep erect? How much longer before… my head was bobbing faster now, as though it already knew the answer, and my hands were on his hips, my nails embedded into his flesh as they began their own bucking dance and I knew it was time – and still it astounded me, as wave upon wave flooded my mouth, and I was swallowing hard, but there was simply too much. My lips parted around his jerking stiffness and I felt the pressure against my gums lighten slightly, felt the hot come and saliva as it pooled on my hand, but still it came, and I had to let go, to surface for air as his come clung to my tongue and teeth, and I swallowed the last of it, then licked my lips clean.
Steve lay like a corpse, eyes closed, hair wild, limbs scattered across the bed. Puddles of sperm spattered his thighs, dried in his pubes, still dribbled from his prick. I wiped more from my chin, and some drops from my breasts. There’d never been that much when he’d come in the past. “What, do you keep a special reservoir handy for emergencies?”
“Must do,” he answered after a moment. And then, “no-one’s ever done that, like that, before….”
“I should hope not,” I shot back. “Else I might not want to do it again,” and he pulled me alongside him as he lit us each a cigarette. “Any time you want,” he said, “and next time, I’ll try and hold out a little longer before I start begging.”
I love taking quizzes when I first wake up - there is something about that early morning fugginess that renders even the trickiest questions somehow answerable, as if my normal "oooh, I'm not sure" instincts are even slower in waking up than the rest of me.
Here's a BDSM quiz that my friend Secretly Naughty unearthed a while back; and, in an ideal world, everybody who reads this would take the same quiz then post their results in the comments box.
Of course, I don't expect most of you to do that, but ... well, for early morning shits and giggles, here's mine.... And no, I'm not at all sure that I agree with them.
Less a coming of age tale than a cumming of age, Cassie is a novel about growing up in the early 2000s, in an era that saw teenaged sexuality redefined across so many different dimensions that even the most basic parental blueprint was blown out of the water. Or so the sexperts tell us.
It was, these learned talking heads declare, an era of religiously inclined virginal promise rings, and all the hypocrisy that bled out of that movement... legs tight together but mouths open wide because the one thing that the Democrats gave to the Republicans was Bill Clinton’s insistence that blowjobs aren’t sex.
It was an age when sex was thrust down our throat every time we turned on the TV, in a way that even the generation before us could never have imagined; and though we took the Internet for granted, a lot of other, older, people were less convinced about its virtues.
It was an age in which kids needed to relearn the most basic precepts of decency, because the redefinitions were too appalling to contemplate.
It was an age that led us to today, and Cassie already feels anachronistic,. just a decade after the years in which it is set. That may be why it is still “a work in progress”; because I simply haven’t decided where to turn with a story that is already cobwebbed and strange. But this first chapter appeals because it screams out an innocence that itself... well, the sex experts tell us that first-timers don’t feel this way anymore.
But somehow, I don’t think they’re telling the truth.
I didn’t have a clue what I was meant to do next
I didn’t know what I was doing, and I don’t think he was sure, either. Lying back against the peeling wallpaper, eyes closed and motionless, bar the moans of pleasure that escaped his parted lips.
I wished I could share his apparent pleasure. I’d heard this was meant to be fun… exciting… exquisite. Instead, once I got past the initial thrill, it was rather boring. The taste intrigued for a moment, and the scent of his balls, as well. But though I was certainly crouched alongside him, my mouth stretched tight around his erection, you could never say I was sucking his cock, because the thing was so thick, or my mouth was so small, that I couldn’t suck, couldn’t move my tongue, couldn’t do any of those things that I thought this might entail.
Quite simply, my mouth was a hole into which he had jammed himself and, having done so, neither of us was certain what should happen next. So I crouched and rubbed his shaft up and down; listened as his gentle moans grew faster and louder; and when suddenly it was over, with a soupy hot explosion that filled my mouth with salty surprise, all I could think was “so now what do I do with it?”
The problem pages in the teen magazines never got this far. The most alarming circumstance they could envisage was spotting a pimple on his chin, right before your first kiss. It probably never crossed the agony aunt’s mind that a girl could be sitting in a tent in the middle of a field, holding her breath around a mouthful of congealing, cooling come, wondering what the fuck to do?
I leaned forward and half-spat, half-coughed it out onto his stomach. In the half light, I wondered how I had even considered doing anything else? It tasted… okay. I didn’t hate it. But it looked like old yoghurt and it had the texture of mud. And I’d seen enough of that this afternoon to last me an absolute lifetime.
August 1999. My first summer out of school, and my last few weeks of freedom before I bow down to the inevitable… get a job, get an apartment, get married, get old, get buried. Oh, and get laid, and that’s what I’m supposed to be doing this weekend. I met Jake and the rest at a party a month ago, and it was like waking up after a sleep that had lasted forever.
At last, a gang that I can hang with, people who understand what I’m saying but, more importantly, who understand what I’m thinking; who don’t need me to spell it all out in baby talk before they comprehend that there should be more to life than playing follow the leader with my parents… they comprehend it because they’ve already proved that. For a while, I wondered what they could possibly see in me, a stubby little boarding school blonde, fresh up from the sticks, seeing everything in the city with the wide-open eyes of an innocent. Then Jake told me that’s exactly what they saw, and they loved it. “Someone,” he murmured in that sexy growl of his, “who hasn’t already been fucked by the system.”
Hasn’t been fucked by anyone, I almost added, but I kept my mouth shut. The boys I’d run with in the past, skipping school at weekends and evenings, or groping behind the bike sheds on the way back from the youth club – that’s all they thought about, even if they never had the hair on their balls to say it. You could see it in way that their eyes flickered nervously, hear it in the hesitant stammer with which they answered even the simplest question; and, most of all, feel it against your leg when you slow danced at the disco.
Jake was different, though. For a start he was older than me. How much older, I never quite worked out. He must have been at least 20, though, and maybe even more. Certainly too old to be chasing tail in the same way that mine had been chased in the past, and too mature to think that I’d ever fall for any of the juvenile subterfuge that the boys my own age thought was the height of romantic derring-do. He won me with words, and just the hint of a challenge, enough that I knew he was leading to something, but never so much that I ever had to answer him. Until last weekend.
“You coming to Ozfest next Friday?”
Ozfest? I looked at him blankly.
“The festival,” he said patiently. “Don’t think much of the bands that are playing, but you don’t want to miss the piss up.”
“Er… yeah.” My mind was already ticking off everything I’d need… tent, sleeping bag, transport, a bloody good alibi for my parents. But Jake already had an answer for all of them. “You can share the tent with me if you like.” He gestured over at Sally and Mark. “They’ve got their own, thank God. I’ve got blankets and, tell you what we’ll do. Sally will pick you up, you can tell your folks you’re staying at her place. That way there’s no anxious parents chasing you across the campsite, waving birth control pamphlets at you.”
I nodded. He’d obviously got it all worked out, long before he even asked me if I could come. And, from the way his arm was draped over my shoulders as we drove, it was clear that birth control wasn’t an issue for him, either. But just in case it was, I had a dozen condoms in my overnight bag, bought from a chemist’s store three bus rides and a long walk away from any neighborhood I’d ever visited before.
Except now I’d gone and lost the lot. I retraced my footsteps towards the Portaloo, then set out again. Past the bikers with their little group of tents encircled by a dozen gleaming motorcycles, and a fat woman already topless and drunk in the arms of three of them; past the first of so many makeshift hippy communes, half invisible behind a thick fug of smoke and patchouli; a detour around the Krishna kids, chanting and rattling their way between the tents, their bright robes already spattered with the mud that oozed everywhere.
A boy with spectacles bumped into me. “Hey, do you know who’s playing?” He inclined his head towards the stage. I didn’t, and he lurched away, then wheeled back around. “Well, do you want to come and find out?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m looking for some friends.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Then you might as well come with me. You’ve as much chance of finding them in one direction as you have in any other.”
I thought about that. “Okay, but you’ve got to help me look for them.” A blue tent, a tall, dark-haired guy in jeans and a Dio T-shirt… shit. Talk about a needle in a haystack.
“Don’t worry. At least you’ll know them when you see them.” He stuck out a hand. “My name’s Joe, by the way. But you can call me Joseph.” He laughed. “I knew that would throw you. It throws everyone.”
I smiled and took his hand. “I’m Cassie.” Then, as we seemed to be behaving so formally, “pleased to meet you.”
We walked, he talked, I half-listened, a litany of band names that I’d never heard of and could probably never keep straight. I hoped he wouldn’t start questioning me about them But he was less interested, it seemed, in finding out what I knew, than in showing me everything he knew. So when he told me I should stick with him, because he’d find us the best vantage point for every band, I just shrugged and nodded.
“Yeah, maybe.” I hated to admit it, but it looked like I was stuck with him anyway, at least until I hooked up with Jake again. Assuming I ever did. Surely they’d noticed that I wasn’t back from the toilets yet? I looked at my watch. Four o’clock. I’d been gone for over an hour.
“Do you smoke?” Joe interrupted my reverie, holding out a packet of Marlboro. “Thanks.” I took one and lit up; of all the resolutions I’d made when I left school, starting to smoke was the only one I’d actually managed to keep. “No,” Joe was saying. “I meant do you smoke? Weed.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” I remembered a night a few weeks ago, when Jake and Mike went into a giggling huddle around a bong they’d borrowed from somewhere. The very smell of it made me feel nauseous, and I’d passed on the opportunity. But Joe was flashing a pinprick of something, carefully wrapped in a few layers of tinfoil. “Once the proper music starts, I’ll roll us one. You’re gonna love it.”
“Thanks.” Fuck, where were the others? Joe seemed nice enough, and there were worse people to be stuck with than a dope-smoking wannabe Deadhead (with a decidedly up-market accent… the more he talked, the more I noticed it. Was someone’s little rich boy slumming it with the plebs, I wondered?). But it was hardly how I’d planned my weekend to begin and… and that, I decided with a sudden flash of fury, was fine. I looked at my watch again. Five-fifteen.
I thought about the contents of my bag, back at Jake’s tent. Condoms, a change of panties and a couple of T-shirts. Deodorant. Everything else – cash, keys, cigarettes and matches – was scattered around my pockets, and I patted myself down just to make sure. So fuck the others. If they’d gone and lost me, then I’d stay lost until they found me again.
Besides, by the time night fell, I was actually enjoying Joe’s company. We smoked the joint, and then bummed another off a couple of guys who he spotted by the stage – they turned out to be neighbors of his, which in turn gave credence to a lot of the stories Joe had been regaling me with as we sat in the mud. He did know a lot of interesting people.
I’d been right about one thing, though – he was slumming it, and he admitted as much, somewhere between a heart-wrenching account of his mother’s death when he was seven, and the ghastly recounting of an over-bearing father insisting his son and heir follow in his city banker footsteps. Now he worked in a supermarket, lived in a rented single room that stank of curried goat and damp, and spent every penny he could on dope and music. “So, what about you, Cass?”
A shrug. “Nothing. I mean, there’s nothing like that. I live with my parents, I’m looking for a job…”
I frowned. “I thought maybe Jake and I… he was certainly keen for me to come this weekend, and I kinda expected that we’d end up together.”
“So you’re not going out with him? Not officially, I mean?”
Another shrug. “He doesn’t really talk… think like that. I asked him once, and he just looked at me like I was still a schoolgirl, with a silly crush.”
Joe snorted. “I’m sorry. How old did you say he was? 20, 21? Believe me, that might seem old to you now, but when you get there, you’ll realize he’s as much a silly schoolgirl as you ever were. Sillier, in fact, because he’s so busy acting cool around you that he hasn’t even put out a call for you.” He paused as a voice boomed out over the PA… “will Frank and Pat please come to the front of the stage, because Steve wants his cigarettes back.” “I’ve been listening to the announcements all afternoon,” Joe continued. “Not a word about you.”
I took another hit off the spliff. It was funny, the first few sent my head spinning, so hard and fast that I thought I must pass out. But now it was more like nestling deeper and deeper into a huge mound of feathers, warm and snug and comforting. “Fuck Jake,” I giggled. “Fuck the lot of them. You’ll look after me, won’t you, Joe?”
“Yeah, well I need to talk to you about that,” he said, retrieving the joint from my greedy lips. “I’m only here for the day, till the show’s finished. I have work tomorrow.”
“Huh.” I knew I ought to say more than that, but the words weren’t there – or, if they were, I couldn’t be bothered to look for them.
“But, if you don’t mind curried goat and damp, you can always drive back with me tonight, then take the bus back tomorrow and carry on looking for your friends. At least that way, you won’t be stuck out in the open all night.”
“And the mud, mud” I added enthusiastically, and only just stopped myself before I threw in a chorus of “glorious mud.” Instead I raised myself out of my bed of the softest downy feathers, not even pausing to wonder why it squelched and sucked and soaked my hair, threw my arms around him and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. He smiled and the light from a nearby bonfire illuminated the dirt that streaked his face. “You’re all muddy,” I smirked.
“I am now,” he laughed back. “But not as muddy as you.” Which, of course, was the most hysterically funny thing I’d ever heard in my life; even funnier than the forceful splat with which I toppled back onto the ground, and certainly a lot funnier than the realization that a long day, an empty stomach, and an evening spent sucking on a full-blown joint are not the kind of combination to indulge, if you intend staying upright for the foreseeable future. The next time I opened my eyes, it was to find myself half-seated, half slumped in the passenger seat, as Joe negotiated his way into the narrowest of parking places, while around us loomed the decaying terraced houses that had long ago been converted into the meanest of apartments. “Home, sweet home,” Joe chuckled as he saw me stir. “Do you think you can manage the stairs?”
I nodded. “How did you even get me to the car?”
“Oh, you weren’t so bad. Not sure what I’d have done if you hadn’t woken up, though. I’m not exactly in the basement apartment, and half of the lights have blown out. In fact, you’d better give me your hand now. It’s not the easiest maze to negotiate.”
Six floors, three barked shins and a bicycle handlebars-shaped blow to my left hip later, Joe was letting us into his room and, no matter how appalling the picture I’d drawn from his descriptions, it was worse. Damp, decay, despair… the one ring stove, the dripping tap, the single bar electric heater, the worn-out armchair, the unmade bed. He’d done his best to brighten it up – a few posters, colored light bulbs, a pile of CDs. But the ashtray overflowed to the floor to meet the unwashed laundry, and dirty dishes tottered in the tiny sink, as though wondering whether they should join them there.
“Grim, isn’t it,” Joe shuddered. “But at least there’s no bugs. I’ve heard the worst stories…”
“It’s alright, you don’t need to tell me,” I told him. And then, “where’s the bathroom? I’m bursting!”
“Back out in to the hallway, first door on your left. And this time, don’t get lost on the way back.”
I laughed and promised I wouldn’t. The less time I had to spend in any of these dingy rooms, the better, and then the realization hit me. Obviously I’d be spending the night here and, equally obviously, Joe was expecting me to spend it with him. With him. That wasn’t so bad – we’d spent so long together already that I felt I knew him at least as well as I did Jake. And, once you got past that kitten-like boyishness, he really wasn’t bad looking. But he also didn’t look like the sort of fellow who kept piles of condoms lying around the room, in the hope of half-stoned young blondes dropping in unannounced… in which case, then what do we do?
“What we do,” Joe whispered as we lay together, and I blurted out my panic the moment I felt his hand on my breast, “is stop worrying. We lay here. What happens is what happens, but just because we can’t do one thing, it doesn’t mean that we can’t do anything else.” He was pulling up my T-shirt as he spoke, exposing my stomach slowly, then dipping to kiss round my navel. It tickled and I giggled, then gasped as he uncovered my breasts and began kissing them.
Again that unreasonable voice in the back of my mind… why did it sound so much like my mother? “One thing leads to another, and nice girls don’t, you know.” Yeah, well sometimes nice girls want to, and we’ll see what leads to what. His lips closed around a nipple, sucking gently as it erected itself, drawing it deep into his mouth and playing the tip of his tongue across it. I stroked his hair, then remembered the state that mine must be in.
“You know I’m getting mud all over your bedclothes?”
He released his grip. “So? I can always change the sheets. But maybe we’d better get you out of the rest of those clothes. No point in messing up the blankets as well.” He was fumbling with the button of my jeans; I swung my legs onto the floor, out of his reach. “I’ll do that. You…” I looked at him sitting there, his eyes bright and expectant behind his glasses. “You should get out of yours, as well.”
“I suppose so,” he said softly, then reached out and switched off the lamp. A street lamp outside still illuminated the room, and like a scene from an old American detective film, a neon across the street flashed a repetitive pink reflection off the TV screen. I scrambled out of my T-shirt, pulled my jeans and panties down in one movement. My mud-caked socks peeled away, and I sat back on the bed, watching as Joe removed his own trousers. Then he was alongside me again, his mouth back at my breast, while his fingers traced lightly down my abdomen.
“Have you ever…” he began.
I waited for him to complete his sentence. Instead, he buried his face into my cleavage, kissing and sucking at the flesh as I sank back against the pillows, luxuriating in the warmth of his kisses. He was moving now, his mouth sliding back towards my belly button, to my waist, to either hip – first one, then the other.
Without even being aware of it starting, I felt my body straining against his face, as though trying to guide his lips towards some place that it wanted them… some place that I had never really, consciously thought might want to be kissed… tasted… licked. For a moment, I was shocked at my own brazenness; wondered what he must be thinking. But his movements did not slow, just deftly sidestepped my own baby shifts and stretches, as though he could read every wriggle, and could draw this out forever.
A finger brushed my inner thigh; I gasped as my nerve-ends grabbed at that fleeting contact, and again as he repeated the gesture, a little firmer this time, and for a little longer. I was soaking wet down there; I wondered if he could smell me, and what the scent was doing to him? I once read that the smell of sex is the greatest aphrodisiac there is – did that mean his cock was hard? I strained my eyes through the darkness, but could see nothing; I thought of raising my foot and trying to touch it that way, but held back. The last thing I wanted to do was move too quickly and kick him there.
Oh my God. Now his lips were on my thighs, and his tongue, warm and rough and wet, sliding across the skin, breaking me out in goose-pimples as he traced towards… around… he licked up my groin and I jumped with the shock of the sudden glorious tickle. His hands on my hips held me down. “Ticklish, eh?” he murmured, and he did it again, but slower this time, as though his tongue was reluctant to leave one spot of flesh, though there was another just like it immediately above.
He bit me, gently but firmly, and I jumped again, but this time he allowed me the movement, as he clamped his hands beneath me, clasped my butt cheeks and, as he squeezed, he drew my pussy to his face. I know I gasped, I think I squeaked, and I still recall the sudden stab of pain as his finger drove into me without a care in the world – later, I realized I’d lost my virginity on a rumpled bed in a filthy bedsit, to a man whose cock was three feet away.
But I didn’t care, because something else was happening, building up within me, gathering force and rising fast… and it wasn’t the things that he was doing that were driving those sensations, but the thought of it, the fevered realization that I was lying on my back with my legs around his neck, while he sucked on my cunt like it was candy. That’s what really excited me and, when I came, this time it wasn’t a squeak, it was a full-blooded scream, one that could wake up the pigeons and stir all the neighbors, and which shocked Joe so much that he would have stopped what he was doing if my hand hadn’t pushed him back there, to taste the grinding epicenter of my soul.
“Wow,” he murmured as he finally got free. I kissed him, tasted my juices thick on his face. “Wow yourself,” I breathed. This was not the moment to start acting all lovey-dovey, although every fiber in my being cried out to say something, anything, to let him know just how fabulous I felt. No, actions speak louder than words, and the only way to repay him for what he’d done for me was to turn around and do it straight back to him. Now, before I changed my mind; now, before I chickened out.
I reached for his cock, the first I had ever held. Velvet soft and hot metal hard, it reminded me of the evening, long ago, that a boys school came to use our gymnasium, to warm up for a local sports meet they were taking part in. A group of us sat watching as they leaped, jumped and hurled things around and, afterwards, a couple of us ventured over to talk. One of the boys flexed his biceps and invited us to touch the muscle. Joe’s cock felt exactly like that, but the thrill that passed through my body as I contemplated what I was planning to do was something I had never experienced before.
I looked up at him. His eyes were closed… I’d swear he was holding his breath, as well, while he waited to see what might happen next. I squeezed his shaft and moved closer, breathing in his scent and realizing, with a sudden start, that no matter how much my conscious mind continued to question my actions, every instinct in my body was crying out to taste him. Fear and hunger. It’s a potent combination and my only conflict was, which would win out in the end?
My tongue flicked tentatively out and whipped quickly across the head; he gasped aloud and I paused. The world did not end; I was not violently sick (both thoughts had rushed through my mind). I licked again, slower this time, coiling my tongue around the alien fruit that I held so tightly in one hand. Around and around, in ever wider patterns, accustoming myself to his thick, salty flavor, preparing myself for what I knew should come next.
I was perfectly aware of what I was preparing to do in theory. My girlfriends and I used to laugh all the time about how (once we got past the “if”) we would go about it. But there’s a big difference between talking about it, and actually doing it, between the idea of sliding a hot cock into your mouth, and the reality of the hard flesh passing deep between your lips, of your jaw stretching wide to accommodate its thickness (whoever knew that a cock could feel so huge?), and between wanting to “suck him off” and even being able to suck. As I lowered my mouth over him, felt my jaw screaming stop, and my breath cutting short, a single, awful thought hit me around the head.
continuing an occasional series looking back at the greatest XXX films ever made... the CLIT-erion collection of adult jewels, unsung gems and stone-cold-crazy cunt cult classics.
Is it really almost six months since I posted Erika Lust's Handcuffs movie, with the recommendation that it was the most erotic film I'd watched in a long time? Yes it was, and I can thank "heightened security measures" for the fact that it's been a month since Christmas, and a gift that I was expecting on December 25 only arrived yesterday. Accompanied, of course, by the giver's profuse apologies....
Five Hot Stories for Her is a collection of, indeed, five hot stories written and directed by Erika Lust and, according to her website, it won Best Screenplay at the Festival of Erotic Cinema in Barcelona 2007, Best Film for Women at the Erotic E-Line Awards (Berlin 2007), obtained an Honourable Best Mention at the CineKink Festival (New York 2008) and was awarded Best Movie of the Year at the Feminist Porn Awards (Toronto 2008).
Five stories. JODETECARLOS.COM is hilarious, the vengeance-dripping tale of a wife who comes home to find her famous soccer playing husband in bed with another woman. She gets her own back by filming her own specially arranged liaison with two of his team mates, and then posting the results on the internet. SOMETHING ABOUT NADIA is an extraordinarily beautiful lesbian twosome, set around the fantasies of two different women, and MARRIED WITH CHILDREN is a BDSM epic highlighted by what might be the most arousing image in the entire package... collared and leashed, the girl is on all fours while her masked lover fucks her ass. Whatever your feelings about the physicality of all that, the visual itself is amazing.
THE GOOD GIRL is - well, she is good! And BREAKUP SEX... I have to admit that I'm not big on gay male porn, and any hopes I had of picking up some blowjob tips from the two male leads (well, there's always something to learn) were shattered when I realized that their enthusiasm was not matched by their expertise. But the filming was as beautiful as the rest of the disc, and if the dubbed English dialogue doesn't always convince... well, that's my fault for not speaking Spanish, the movies' original language.
What do I love about Erika Lust? The fact that she shoots good porn. We are so accustomed today to the best film-makers trying to "push limits," by introducing increasingly bizarre - and, very often, decidedly non-sexual - scenes into their work that, at first, it seems strange to be watching a modern movie which doesn't insist on its heroine orgasming whenever her Tattooed Love Muffin hawks a loogie into her asshole.
Lust looks at lust in its "natural" state... MARRIED WITH CHILDREN is as far as it strays from "conventional" sex, and there the beauty of the situation outweighs any unfamiliarity that might be present. The cast are generally good looking but not so much that you sit there looking for the surgical scars; the sex is hot but never loses sight of enjoyment. And I went to bed last night without any doubt at all as to what I'm going to do this evening.
It was no use. If I didn’t say something, I’d burst.
“Honey… Lawrence… you don’t have to pull it out quite so fast.”
He was still jerking his shaft, milking the last few droplets of cum onto my bare breast, his face contorted with pleasure. But his eyes opened and looked down at me, uncertainty flashing in their dark blue depths.
“Believe me, Jenny, that was the last minute.”
“No,” I corrected him. “The last minute is…” I paused, as one final glob of white oozed across his shiny helmet. “Round about now. Anything that happens before that is simply the build-up.”
“But…” I think he was lost for words. “It’s in your mouth…”
“So? It’s not as though I don’t know what happens in there.” I gave his ballbag a light squeeze. “Plus, if I was worried about that, I wouldn’t have put it in there in the first place.”
Again, he was searching for some kind of response. “I just thought… no, I didn’t think you’d want…. Most girls don’t like…”
“A mouthful of hot cum? Don’t believe it. Most girls love it.” I paused, and thought about what I was saying. “Okay, so it can take a bit of getting used to. But even then, it’s only the idea of it that’s icky… when it actually happens, and you realize that it’s really not so disgusting, there’s nothing else like it.”
He kissed me. “I’m sorry… Next time…” and then; “is there anything I should do? Like…” this obviously wasn’t easy for him to talk about and, quite frankly, I was wishing he’d stop. But he pressed gamely on. “how deep should I be when I… and is there anything I should be eating, to make it taste better…”
I stopped him right there. “ Why do guys always have to plan everything out? This isn’t painting by numbers, you know…. If something happens, it happens. It doesn’t matter if the stars are correctly aligned, or whether you had broccoli for breakfast, or which sock you took off first. We’re making love, not a model aeroplane.”
I spoke a little harsher than I intended to, but it’s true. Guys spend so much time worrying about how to have sex, they often forget that they’re having it; and, by the time you’ve finished answering all the questions (“how does that feel… am I doing it right… was it good for you?… oh, you know what I mean. Having sex is one of the few occasions in life when we can actually throw away all our little rules and regulations, and act like little animals. But how wild can you be, with the Spanish Inquisition drilling holes through your head?
I leaned forward, took his soft, sticky cock in my mouth and gave it a long, lingering suck. He was drained, I knew it; and would be heading back to his place before he built his strength back up. But I wanted to give him something to remember me by… or, should that be something else? I knew from experience, the moment you tell a guy you want to taste his cum, he won’t be able to think about anything else. Ha-ha; join the club.
Once he’d gone, I slipped out of bed, dug my journal out of my sock-drawer, and hopped back under the covers. Lawrence and I had been seeing each other for precisely a week… seeing each other again, that is, 25 years after our teenaged romance was soured by him meeting his future wife. And every time we’d slept together since then… tonight was the fourth… it was better than the last; and better than anything we’d experienced last time around.
The first thing that struck me… and still struck me… was that his cock was an awful lot bigger than I remembered, which surprised me. After all, I’d not seen it since I was 18, at which age even the teensiest nub can seem enormous if you’ve nothing else to compare it to – and, at that age, I hadn’t. Wrapping my hand around it again, for the first time after all these years, I was expecting to encounter the same little fistful of gristly cocktail wiener that popped my cherry when I was a teenager. Instead….
I crouched down for a closer look. It was beautiful, fat and thick, pulsing his heartbeat the length of his shaft, before bulging into an enormous, meaty mushroom, its one eye already moist with pre-cum. I held it, squeezed it, licked it, sucked on it. He was moaning; he was close. I stopped for a moment, then lay it flat against his belly, and started pressing my fingertips slowly and rhythmically up and down the thick line that ran the length of the underside of his shaft, all the way up to his glans, following my fingers with my tongue, then pursuing my tongue with tight, tiny nibbles. With my other hand, I squeezed his balls to the same gentle rhythm.
For a moment he lay there without moving; but only for a moment. Then, as I kept going, picking up speed but never breaking the routine, I heard his breath coming faster, and felt his cock twitching beneath the weight of my movements… twitching and then blasting out a thick pond of white that flowed into the hairs of his belly, trickled towards his belly button. I ran a finger through it, whirlpooled it into his skin.
I dabbed some on one nipple; he leaned forward and gently sucked it away; when I dribbled some more on the other, his tongue was almost there before my finger. “Wow,” be breathed. “You never did that before.”
“Which part of that?” I asked sweetly, but I knew precisely what he meant.
My mind flashed back to the last time we’d laid together like this, in the tiny apartment that he shared with two friends, with the stereo pumping old Pink Floyd, and Johnny Carson flickering mute on the TV in the corner. By the following weekend,, he’d have ditched me, but for now he was all mine and I was all his. And I would have done anything he wanted me to. Probably.
In all the time we were together – 13 months, give or take the occasional weekend bust-up – Lawrence never once asked me to suck him. So I never did. I thought about it a lot… an awful lot, if you must know. But rarely when I was with him and, even then, I’d never acted on the impulse. Part of it was fear… and this is what I was just talking to him about… fear of what it might taste like, fear of what it might do, and fear of taking an unexpected mouthful of his muck. “What’s the biggest lie any guy can tell you?” my girlfriends would laugh; “I swear I won’t cum in your mouth.” And the way they said it, I was convinced that that was the most disgusting thing in the world.
But I was also worried about what he might think about me if I did do it. Back then, there was a word for girls who gave blowjobs too willingly, and it wasn’t an especially pleasant one. A few years later, of course, I realized that most guys would give their right arm to be with – oh, let’s be brutal – a dirty little cocksucker; and most girls would give theirs’ to be considered one. At 18, though, you don’t think about things in that way, and sex itself is one long procession of potentially icky, usually sticky, and sometimes downright terrifying new experiences. So I held his cock, I jerked it and played with it; and, when it was time for him to ejaculate, I’d slip him sweetly between my legs, then lie back and wait for the bang. It didn’t usually take long.
This one night, though, my head resting on his stomach, his stiff cock bold and upright in my hand, I wondered – was tonight the night? I did kind of owe it to him, if only for the number of nights he’d spent with his face buried deep between my legs; if only for the spectacular orgasm his tongue had induced this very evening.
“But surely,” a voice in my head insisted, “if he wanted it, he’d ask. Or, at least, push your head roughly towards it, so there could be no doubt of his desires.” Lawrence, though, just lay quietly, calmly… if it wasn’t for his hand idly caressing my ass, and straying into my pussy every so often, he could have been asleep. He certainly wasn’t hanging on tenterhooks, throbbing with anticipation, desperate to sink his hot, hard prick into my soft, warm mouth….
“…That’s how much you knew,” he told me, as we lay in bed talking, on the second night of our grand reunion. “Every night I saw you, I’d be hoping; every night I didn’t see you, I’d be dreaming….”
“Oh, poor Lawrence,” I chided him. “You should have said.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to,” he replied – and here we go again. Who gave men the right to decide what their partner might or might not think? I let it pass this time; decided to play coy instead. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
“You just didn’t seem the sort of girl…”: I knew that was coming, and I slapped his leg playfully. “And now I am? Tell me, Mr Lawrence Bacon, precisely what you mean by that remark?” – of course I knew exactly what he meant, but it was such fun to see him squirm. And now I wanted to feel him squirm. I slid my lips firmly over the firm velvet of his cock head, and began slowly… very slowly, but very firmly, too… to suck it, unable to believe that my teenaged self had ever been able to resist at least giving it a try. Whatever was she thinking?
He tried to answer my question, but his thoughts and words were choked in the jungle of sensations blazing out from his glans. I sucked noisily, loving the slurps and squelches as I worked him. His hands either side of my face, his hips began to move, drawing his thick stiffness in and out of my tight mouth, and I felt his balls began to tighten as the cum began to build. I squeezed them with one hand; clamped the other to his ass, forcing him deeper into my throat; I felt him tense; heard his breathing quicken; clamped my lips as his cock spasmed wildly – and then “pop!”; out he slipped, with a gasp and a cry, as he jerked himself to a glistening climax.
A few drops spattered on my cheek and chin; my tongue snaked out and snatched them up. But I wanted more than that… so much more. And I had to smile as I thought about that, because it wasn’t really that different to what I’d been doing to him, all those years ago. And he was just as unaware as I was.
Now, however, he knew what I wanted and, when he came over the following weekend, from the moment he walked in it was obvious he’d only had one thing on his mind for days. He’d barely taken his jacket off, and I was pinned against the wall, locked so tight in his arms that I could barely breathe, with the bulge in his pants jabbing itself against whichever part of my body it could reach.
I didn’t mind – his excitement was electrifying, not to mention contagious. Before he came over, I’d toyed with the idea of making him wait… maybe for a few hours, maybe even a few evenings. After all, it wasn’t as if he was going to run out of cum. But I wrapped my body around him, feeling the blast-furnace heat that erupted in my lions, and all my fine plans and teasing schemes were forgotten… like I’d said to him (and come very close to forgetting!), this wasn’t painting by numbers. If it’s going to happen…
It happened. And not in a way that either of us were expecting. Breaking his embrace for a moment, I half-steered, half-shoved him towards the nearest armchair, wrestling with his pants as I did so. His cock sprang out, slick with pre-cum, twitching like fish. I grasped it, knelt before him, pulled the skin back tight… and three hot, sharp jets of seed slapped my cheeks, my chin, my eye.
Later, I thought of all kind of responses that I could have delivered… “close, but no cigar” was my favorite. When it happened, though, the only sound I could make was a dull and palpably disappointed “oh,” which immediately set Lawrence reeling into a paroxysm of apologies and regrets that finally collapsed into a mournful “Oh God, I so wanted to”
“And you will,” I reassured him. “I told you, this isn’t only for your benefit, you know.”
He smiled. “I guess I just got a little too excited today, thinking….”
“I guess you did.” I wiped the cream off my face with a tissue; mopped a growing pool off his belly, then resumed my position between his legs, my head resting on his thigh.
He spoke. “Can I ask you something?”
I raised my head. “So long as I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to.”
“That’s okay. But, remember what we were talking about the other night, about how I never asked…. Well, what if I had?”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know.” And I really didn’t. Lawrence had been out of my life for a year… at least a year… before I sucked my first cock and, when it did happen, the whole thing was so natural, so unplanned, so exquisitely spontaneous, that it wasn’t until afterwards, as I was lay back savoring the final traces of cum that still tingled in my throat, that I realized exactly what I’d done – and how much I’d enjoyed it.
“I might have…” I kissed his softness …”done that, just to see what it was like. And if you’d really been insistent…” Yes, I’d have done it, because I’d have done anything for him. But do I wish I had? No, because then I’d have missed out on my real first time. “Yes, I’d have done it,” I half-lied; and then, because I couldn’t help myself, “but do you think it would have made any difference to how things worked out between us?”
He shrugged. “Do you mean, would I still have gone off with Tina?”
“I suppose so. But you don’t have to answer…”
“No, I don’t mind. To be honest… okay, I’ll level with you. I was… Tina had a certain reputation around some of the guys…” I almost interrupted, to tell him I remembered, but didn’t. “And, when I first started seeing her, that’s all I was interested in. But you know what? It turned out not to be true – she wasn’t a virgin, but she wasn’t… well, she wasn’t what the others said she was, either.”
Okay, now I couldn’t resist. Did he leave me because he fell in love with someone else? Or did he leave me because he was getting his dick licked, and the love and babies came later? “Did she….” I kissed his cock “… do that?”
“No. Not … actually, not until I asked her to. And we were already engaged by then.”
I wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so I didn’t. Instead, I hugged him. “You see, ask and you shall receive.”
“I’ve learned that now,” he replied. “It’s just a shame it often takes so long to understand it… you know, you’re a kid, or in your 20s, running around, full of these really hot fantasies, and you’re either too embarrassed, or too insecure, to actually mention any of it. And then, usually when it’s too late, a light goes on in your brain and you suddenly realize that it’s only when you actually talk about what you need…”
I completed his sentence. “That the other person has any hope of actually knowing. And can then turn around and tell you what they need. Because the rest of the time, you’re both stumbling around in the dark, convinced that you’re living with the Sexless Puritan from Hell. Although I’m not sure that’s something I need to worry about with you….” All the while we were talking, I’d been holding his cock, gently squeezing it, feeling its heat build, its weight increase, its firmness grow.
“Now, if you have no other questions…” I would hate myself for this next remark in the morning – it was so crass, so corny, so unnecessarily vulgar. But I needed to lighten the mood a little, and I knew it would do the trick. “I hate talking with my mouth full.”
He sighed as my mouth closed over his glans, gasped as I began slowly to slip him deeper inside me, drooling my saliva over his hot skin as my lips skidded over his flesh. His hands were in my hair, guiding my movements. Raising my eyes, I saw his were closed, his expression a glow of relaxation and pleasure.
This was so easy, so lovely, so utterly, unbelievably wonderful. I slipped a finger between my legs, began working my clit as my head bobbed and my mouth skimmed over his hardness… and then I heard him speak; not a request, not a command… I’m not even sure if he was aware that he’d said anything, that he wasn’t just thinking aloud. But his words were distinct and his meaning was clear. I bit down.
He gasped; I bit again. He hissed… “more.” I obeyed, as his hand grasped mine, wrapped my fingers around his shaft, and began pulling my fist up and down. I picked up the motion myself, jerking him hard but biting him harder, and sucking, too, until I felt as if my cheeks were folding inside my face, and my eyes were squeezing themselves shut with the effort. My free fingers plunged in and out of my cunt, Lawrence’s breath was coming in loud, ecstatic pants – and then he cried out and his sperm exploded, wave after wave, flooding my mouth, swamping my tongue, pouring down my open throat as he wailed an orgasm that seemed to last forever.
I relaxed my jaw, relaxed my grip. He was going to have some spectacular bruises there later on… as spectacular as the ones that he left on my pussy sometimes. But he also knew that I’d happily kiss them better… and all he had to do was ask.
Another of those remarkable images that my friend the Naughty Professor seems to find with such ease, and a reminder that there is so much more to sucking cock than simply sucking cock. And this specimen is an especially handsome example, even if the makers' name on his briefs takes the whole scene out of the erotic and into the realms of human billboards.
So that is today's challenge. You are in the penthouse office of some big Madison Avenue ad agency... think Madmen if you must... . Or maybe in conference with Darren Stevens and Larry Tate. The client loves the imagery; all you need now is catchy slogan.
In fourteen words or less... one of which must be the makers' name... how would you use this photograph to sell the world these so-stylish briefs?
There's a string of short "loop" style movies that were made, I think, in the late 1960s (or very early 1970s), all of them starring the same very distinctive blonde girl... Billie, according to their various titles, and I mention her because - well, I was watching them with a friend the other evening and it dawned on me that these were among the very first porn films I *ever* saw, that weekend when my best friend's parents were called away to a family emergency, and she and I wound up in her father's den, rummaging through his closets, when we stumbled on some old VHS tapes.
At the time, it what we saw that impressed us. But what stuck with me was the sheer amount of fun that the titular Billie was having. It's a cliche to say that a lot of women in porn look dour and unhappy, or at least bored off their tits. But it's true, and you only have to spend an evening watching them to realize that.
Billie, however, is having the time of her life and, what's more, she made her own fun; playing to the camera, but doing so in a way that actually drew you into the action, rather than holding you at arm's length like a lot of the girls who try that wind up doing.
Plus, she is beautiful... plus, she has a body that anyone reading this would probably die for. Plus... well, if anybody here has seen the mid-70s movie version of Autobiography of a Flea, and feasted their eyes on the lovely Jean Jennings... I don't know for sure, but I'd swear that Billie too.
(Her other movies include: Auto-Erotic Practices, Case of the Full Moon Murders, Defiance of Good a.k.a. Defiance, French Kittens a.k.a. Hollywood Goes Hard, Sharon, Solo Girls, Sweetheart, Virgin Dreams a.k.a. Beginner’s Luck and Virgin Snow)
We were out of milk in the dorm room refrigerator and it was way too late to go out to buy more. Plus, I was busy. This boy I'd been eyeing for what seemed like weeks had finally plucked up the courage to say hello the week before, he asked me out on one date, I asked him out for a second, a third one quickly followed and well, here we were, back in my room with my room mate away for the weekend and not a soul to disturb us.
I have a rule. I'll kiss and cuddle and maybe pet on the first couple of dates, but that's all. Make it to the third date, though, and anything goes. And it did. We'd already fucked twice when we broke for refreshments, and I don't know why I wanted coffee so bad, but I did. So I spooned out a couple of cups of Folgers... precious cups, because we were low on coffee as well... boiled the water, filled the mugs, and then opened the fridge and disaster. No milk, no half and half, not even any of that revolting powdered stuff that you drop into the coffee and stir, and it looks like you've just dumped... but no, let's not go there yet.
"we'll have to drink it black," I said, and I put the cups on the low table beside the bed - then forgot about them as I noticed him rising once again. For the third time in an hour - boy, I love 21 year olds! And he'd had his fun, so now it was time to have mine... I love screwing as much as the next girl, but what I really love is - I read some place that Marilyn Monroe's favourite sexual act was fellatio. Well guess what? I did a Facebook quiz a few days back, "which pin-up are you?", and I turned up as Marilyn Yum.
He tasted great, and not only because he was still smeared in my pussy juices. He tasted great because he was young and strong and healthy and cute, and he was so into me that I couldn't help get him really into me, as deep as I could and then some. I hate watching those porn films where the girl deep throats and starts to make noises like she's going to be sick. Do it right and it slips in like butter, and that's exactly what he did. My nose was on his balls, and I wanted to suck them as well, although that would have meant me letting his cock go and I had no intention of that. I licked and bit and spat and sucked, and I knew he wasn't going to last much longer. What I didn't know was that the next time I moved my head back, just to give my jaw a tiny rest, was the moment he'd choose to do it, a sudden jerk and then an arc of come that... and I swear I'm not exaggerating here... flew straight over my back, and splashed down into one of the coffee cups on the table. Yeah, remember the coffee cups?
He gasped, I laughed, and when I looked in the mug... well, you know when I started to say what non-dairy creamer looks like? Well, there's your answer. It looks like you've just dumped a great load of come in it. And guess what? It tastes like that as well. Believe me, I know....
It was the first truly "dirty magazine" I ever saw.
By my mid-teens I'd already flicked through the usual stockpile of adult mags that various friend's fathers kept ineptly locked away some place; and had already mused aloud to various trusted friends that I wished there was more to the art of porn than another nicely airbrushed lady spreading her legs for a tasteful cameraman. Even Hustler wasn't impressing me.
And then a friend of a friend returned from a break year in Europe and, smuggled back in their luggage inside a pile of more innocent continental reading... a copy of Private; probably the single most important truly adult magazine ever published because, in terms of content and explicit imagery, it was the first.
The various stories of Berth Milton Jr's decidedly anti-climactic battles with Swedish censorship are ancient history in the world of erotic legend today... and a search for Private magazine on the web will bring up a wealth of content and images.
But if you really want to get to the meat of the matter... and maybe discover why I still rate my discovery of Private among the key events in my own sexual journey, then a couple of box sets that Santa dropped in my stocking this year will be compulsory reading. Or viewing, because there's not much text and what there is is pretty lame.
One of my all-time favorite writers and artists, Kristen Shigh, sent me this as a New Year's gift... and then gave me permission to share it with you.
Read more of Kristen at Eroticstories.com... but read one of her best short stories here. And Kristen? Thanks! You're the greatest.
…In the passenger seat of his car, his underwear smelled faintly of urine. His cock was small but warm and hard. Hungry. Like he could probably fuck all night. Salty, like maybe he had sex recently and not washed his cock. I imagined that to be true as I took him in. FUCK I like it dirty.
His car smelled of stale cigarettes. It turned me on.
Everything about it turned me on. Maybe, I am just in love with sucking cock. I thought about every poem Jenny has ever written. God, I love her! God, I love sucking cock! I wished she was watching me. Would I impress her? His body began to twitch. The thought of impressing her calmed my gag reflex. I took him all the way in and flailed with my throat.
"Damn, girl. Your good."
Fuck, I AM good at this.
"Slow down there little girl."
"Little girl, FUCK you! I don’t wanna slow down. I wanna make you cum, you mother fucker!" I thought as I inhaled him whole. "I'll show you what a little girl I am."
His body began to twitch. I knew it was coming. I knew it. I was going to make this mother fucker cum.
He was exhaling quickly. His cock throbbed in my mouth. Any second now… Give it to me… Gimmie. He let out a loud moan – warning me he was going to cum. Like. I didn’t know that.
He twitched a final twitch and shuddered a final shudder as he released an ample load. I swallowed without hesitation -- nothing to it -- just enough to make me want more. I looped my finger round the door handle. The dome light flashed on wholly breaking what mood there was. I leaned in and gave him a breathy thank you, so he could smell the cum on my breath. He looked dejected by my sudden departure. I felt triumphant. Make an exit, girl.
I'm a writer, not a photographer. So just be aware that the pics on this site were not taken by me, and aren't owned by me either - not even the ones that I'm in. If you are a photographer and find your pics on this site, please get in touch - I'd love to credit you (if you wish), and even use more of your work. If you're here it's because I love the photo!
MISS AMERICA - A BDSM VAMPIRE TALE
An ancient cult, a modern secret society and one of the most extreme erotic adventures you have ever read. Buy it now from Amazon.
The Nympho Librarian & Other Stories
Eleven scalding tales of lust and love in the halls of public learning - the town library!
The sex is hot, but the librarians are hotter, as authors Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows reveal the lip-smacking truth about what goes on behind (and on top of, and around as well) the bookshelves.