Charles Dickens was frowning from his painted perch above the fireplace. Little Nell was gazing down with wide, frightened eyes from an antique print on one wall; sundry souls from “Pickwick Papers” were scampering around in their frames on the other. And I was lying on a four-poster bed, in a four star English hotel, holding the first uncut penis I had ever seen.
I hadn’t noticed it at first… the fact that it was uncut, that is. After all, we’d already made love once that afternoon, and it didn’t feel any different to any other cock I’d had inside me. And when Martin stepped… or, should that be leaped… out of his trousers once we got up to my room, his erection was so full that I really didn’t feel the need to study it.
It was only as he moved up my body, his face glistening with pussy juice and my heart still hammering from the orgasm he sent shimmering through my body; only as I reached between his legs to pull him up further; as I smiled at his galloping return to semi-stiffness, that I noticed… what? A little extra “give” in the way it felt? A little more pliability to its thickness? Or the thin flap of skin that clung stubbornly to the fat purple helmet, a network of tiny veins dark against its opaque sheen?
I held him in one hand, gently massaging his shaft, while I wondered how to phrase my next question. In the end, the silence and stillness just felt embarrassing. “Okay, I’m sorry, but… is it meant to do that?”
Martin glanced down with a little more panic in his eyes than he realized. “Do what?”
“Um, I’ve never seen…” I indicated the bridge of skin. “What is it?”
“My foreskin?” He sounded confused for a moment. And then… “Is that true about American guys, then? That they’re all circumcised?”
“Well, I don’t know about all of them, but most, I think….”
“Not over here, luv. We like to keep our men intact. After all, you never know when you’re going to wake up in a blackberry bush.”
Eh? I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that (I figured it out later… don’t bother asking). “But does it stay like that?” Again I touched the curious flap, and then let out a little “oh” as it slowly retracted onto his shaft. “Just gets a bit sticky, I guess,” he concluded, and I stroked some more, watching in fascination as a thick wave of skin coiled up with my fist, to tap the rim of his helmet.
I looked up at him; he was watching me curiously. “It’s alright, isn’t it? You don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ve just never seen one before”: and then, to shatter the growing awareness that I was treating him like a laboratory specimen, I leaned my head forward and let my mouth slip over his helmet. He sighed and I felt an inexplicable sense of relief. Well, at least that’s the same.
His foreskin continued to fascinate me. His prick was thick, his helmet thicker. But when I rolled that extra layer of skin up over it, it became thicker still, so that my lips strained to engulf it. The taste changed, too; sharp and salty when I pulled his skin back, markedly less so as I drew it forward. I loved the contrast, loved the sensation of the flesh folding back against my lips, then rudely bumping them on its way forward… back and forth, back and forth….
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