It wasn’t quite our first date. We’d already spent a few evenings dancing round the local beer and burger bars, and there was that night out in the city where something might have happened if it hadn’t been so late. So no, not our first date. But it was definitely the first one where I knew in advance that it was time to have some fun, and as I dressed in the time before he picked me up, I made sure that it would be as easy to undress if I needed to.
Mark was, as a friend pointed out, quite a catch. Good job, good looks, good taste. Tall enough that I could listen to his heart when we danced close, and when he met me from work one night and a colleague remarked what a big car he had, it was fun to reply with a knowing pause. “Yeah, he has a very big... car.” I’d felt that while we were dancing, too, straining to get out of the garage, its engine roaring and the oil already boiling. I like a big... car.
I sat on the bed and opened the drawer, the one where I keep my motor maintenance tools. A packet of condoms, because you never know. A cock ring (unused, haha) because... again, you never know. And a tube of Good Head because, whatever else happened, I had made up my mind that that would.
The first time I encountered an oral sex potion, it struck me as one of the world’s most redundant inventions, a sex toy for people who just didn't want to play. I like (strike that... I love) my cock raw. I like it real. I want to taste the sweat and the flesh and the thrill. The idea of wrapping my mouth round a strawberry shortcake and expecting to get off on that was - well, think about it. You may want to orgasm every time you go to Dairy Queen, but I’d rather save some things for later. Plus, there’s a lot of things I look for when I’m giving a blowjob, but a sugar high is not on the list.
And then I worked out that it’s really not for me, is it? The flavor is just a bonus (or not) and the real thrill lies in the tingle and torment that the potion pours onto him. And so I shopped around discretely, and tried them all out curiously, and I’m sure glad that AmEx don’t itemize every purchase. Because my bill sometimes reads like a candy store. And I dread to think what the garbage man thinks....
Anyway, I tried a lot and tested more (guys sometimes come prepared as well), but finally settled on this one. Doc Johnson's Good Head. Cinnamon flavor. There’s a passion fruit flavor as well, but we’re getting back into the realms of food tasting there. Cinnamon, on the other hand, dances just close enough to the right earthy taste, with enough of a tang to accentuate his, and just a hint of exotica to keep your mind focussed. And I don’t know how long a tube is supposed to last, but I’m onto my third. Yeah, it’s that good. I weighed the tube in my hand and figured it was good for a little while longer, then dropped it into my purse. Okay, I’m ready.
So was Mark. A thirty minute drive, a homely Italian restaurant, and then onto the dancefloor where he held me so close that it felt like he was fucking me through four layers of clothing. He knew it, too, his eyes holding mine every time that I opened them, and his hand pressing gently into the small of my back, in that spot that always makes me gasp “yeah.” I was impressed. Most guys aren’t even aware of that one. Then out into a completely unforecast rain-that-comes-sideways for a run across a mall-sized parking lot to where he’d left the car. And we sat in there steaming for a few laughing minutes, as he apologized for not having an umbrella or a towel, and I berated Chevrolet for not including a clothing-sized heater among the car’s basic features. It seemed to have everything else.
Mark leaned over and kissed me, and a proper kiss tonight, not the tentative peck or the softly probing tongue tip that had wrapped up our other evenings, and I kissed back, my hands bunching tightly on his shoulders, then breaking away as I wrung out a handful of rain water. “Wow, we really did get soaked through,” I laughed, and then a little more seriously, “we probably should get out of the wettest.”
He laughed. The image of us driving naked back to town probably hit us both at the same time, but he wriggled out of his jacket as I removed mine, then seeing him pause to watch what I did next, I scooted my ass off the seat a few inches, and unbuttoned my skirt, laying it flat across my lap but relieved to no longer be sitting in a puddle. Well, not a rain puddle, anyway.
He still looked uncertain, but even in the dark I could see his pants were sopping, dark patches of damp that reached up to his knees. “I won’t watch,” I giggled and I turned to face the side window, as he sighed and I heard him begin to wriggle, unclasping his belt, popping the fly button, then squirming to tug wet cloth from his flesh.
A truck turned into the parking lot, the lights bright in my eyes and I instinctively turned towards an interior that suddenly was bathed in light, with Mark frozen in mid rearrangement of his briefs. They’d hoisted themselves down with his pants and right now, he was wrestling to pull them back up. But even once he’d succeeded, and though the moment barely lasted more than maybe ten seconds, one sight was seared into my mind. He was magnificent.
I leaned across and kissed him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his tummy, and I felt his cock strain towards it as he shifted in his seat in that way that guys instinctively do when fresh flesh gets that close. Another flash as a car came into the lot, and I saw his eyes flicker, first down and then outside. “Maybe we should move to a less populated area?” he asked, and as I kissed him again, I let my hand slip, a few inches down but not quite all the way. “Yes, let’s.”
I sat back in my chair as he buckled his seat belt, reached into my purse as he ran the wiper blades for a moment, clearing the windshield of puddles and glare. I fumbled, but I’ve done this before; flick the top off with one finger, then squeeze with my fist; replace the lid with a thumb, then raised his hand to my mouth as he finally put the car in gear and eased his car gently out of the parking space. His big... car.
I held him now and my tongue danced with flavor, and we were moving so slowly as we headed out of the mall, out onto a slip road that ran down the side. And my fingers followed his driving, circling then straightening out, and as he looked around for somewhere to park, I opened my mouth and garaged him.
His foot hit the pedal as the good old, good tasting Good Head hit his nerve endings, and he cried out a “fuck!” as I started to suck. And I don’t know where he ended up parking one car, but I’ll say one thing. When he finally unloaded the other one... the big one... well, I never dreamed it had so much trunk space.
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