Go On, Taste Me

I was lying in bed drifting, lost in that wonderful twilit world between wakefulness and sleep, when the bedroom door burst open, my boyfriend rushed in with something in his hand, leaped onto the bed to straddle my abdomen... and shot his load across my tits.

How’s that for a wake-up call?

I drew a finger through the warm white, raised it to my lips and allowed my tongue to taste him.  “Wow.  Good morning to you, too.”

He laughed, a little self-consciously, but delightedly anyway.  “I just read the story you posted last night.  Oh my God... tell me it was true?”

“Okay.  It was true,” I replied, reaching for a Kleenex now and mopping up the mess.  I’m still not one hundred percent convinced that I was wise to tell him about my writing exploits; how, when the mood hits me (and there’s nobody around), I relax by writing erotica for a website I’ve been visiting for almost ten years.  But he’s read all the old stories, looks forward to the new ones, and... well, he’s never done anything like this before.  Interesting....

I was nineteen, maybe twenty, waitressing evenings at a small Greek restaurant in town.    Phil and Andrea were the owners,  husband and wife team who also did the cooking; the rest of us were a mixed bunch made up of students, friends and one old boy who had been the family accountant since Phil’s grandfather opened the original restaurant, back in the late 1960s.  And it really was a family set-up; Phil and Andrea mucked in with the rest of us when we needed them to, and every night when the restaurant closed, there would be a sit-down meal for everyone... and not just the left-overs that other places serve.  This was a serious, specially cooked meal, which we waitresses repaid by taking turns to wash-up after, if only to give the regular kitchen staff a break.

Tonight... it was a Tuesday, funny how you remember such things... was my turn, and the routine was the same as every other week.  We’d finish eating, chat for a while, and then people would start drifting home.  Phil and Andrea had an apartment upstairs, and they’d wander up there while I cleared the table and busied myself in the kitchen.  Except tonight, as I pushed open the door with one elbow and hip, my hands filled with the dishes from the table... they were already busy there themselves.

Busy.  

Busy fucking.

She was up on one of the workspaces, her legs spread wide on either side of him, her long skirt flowing around her.  One foot was up on Phil’s shoulder; she gripped the other in one outstretched hand.  He was naked from the waist down, his pants a bundle around one foot, his muscled olive legs rigid as he rammed himself into her, so hard that every thrust pushed a half-breath, half-cry from her throat.

They must have known I was there; the kitchen door bangs against the garbage bin no matter how gently you try to open it, and besides, it wasn’t as if they had their backs to me.  Far from it; from three, maybe four feet away, I had a grandstand view of Phil’s every motion, and when Andrea raised the leg closest to me, I could see what was moving as well, a cock that looked like it could go on forever, slicked with her juices and reflecting back the light from the overhead strips.

I froze.  An apology was on my lips, but it seemed inadequate.  I could have left the room, but how could I pull the door open again, with my hands full of dirty dishes?  And to put the dirty dishes down would have meant walking right by them, to clatter into the sink.  So I froze.

Have you ever watched two other people having sex?  It’s nothing like the movies.  They don’t look into the camera or pull “ooooh, big boy” faces.  They don’t make choreographed sounds, while making sure their best bits are in the right light.  They don’t do any of those things.  They just fuck.  Lost in one another, lost in their own selves.  Nothing is planned, nothing is scheduled.  When he cums, it’s because it’s time for him to cum.  And when she cums...

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

FUCK, SHE’S BEAUTIFUL.

Andrea turned as Phil disengaged; turned to face me, with her legs still opened wide.  I was staring into her pussy, red and spread, well fucked with just a suggestion of cum oozing through the pink.  Then Phil was taking the dishes from me, balancing the whole pile in one steady hand, while the other touched my shoulder, drew me closer towards his wife.  And then, four words that thrilled me like nothing I have ever heard in my life.

“Go on.  Taste her.”

The slightest pressure on my shoulder, pushing me down.  My knees bent before my mind even processed the motion, my body leaned forward without even considering what I was doing.  And all those things that you think you might think if you ever found yourself in a situation like this were the furthest from my mind.

Go on.  Taste her.

I tasted.

Had I ever been with a woman before?  Never.  Maybe a little horse play at pajama parties, inspecting our own pussies in the handheld mirror that we passed around, and sneaking a peek as the girls on either side did the same thing; and once, caressing my best friend’s breasts when we shared a sleeping bag together on a cold, rainy night at camp.

This was nothing like that.

She tasted of sex.  She tasted of cum.  She tasted of passion.  She tasted of so many different things, and my tongue wanted to sample every one of them.

I licked slowly at first, the very tip of my tongue tracing one lip, then the other.  Phil’s cum was oozing faster now, spreading into the moisture of my mouth, sticky-sweet against the teasing tartness of his wife’s cunt juices.  I drove my tongue inside her, into the heart and the heat of her pussy, and his cum tasted stronger now, clinging to my mouth and pooling there, too.  I swallowed, then sucked out more, fascinated by the texture, spellbound by the taste.  

Cum combined with cunt juice is like nothing else on earth, a blend so profound that you can no longer tell where one flavor ends and the other begins, where the thickness of one becomes the fluidity of the other.  But your entire body screams for more and more.

My own pussy was flooding, but I ignored it.  Somebody’s hands were in  my hair, caressing my scalp and gently squeezing the back of my neck.  I barely registered them; nothing mattered except the pussy in my face, as I licked and sucked and suckled and nibbled, and Andrea’s hips caught the rhythm of my tongue and began grinding back into my face.

My hand reached up, fingers spreading her cunt even wider, exposing her clit for me to gorge on.  She cried out and the hands on my head pressed me deeper inside her.  My teeth caught her clit and I bit down gently, as she rode me harder and faster.  Rough hands on my breast, reaching up beneath my uniform and blouse to pull at my nipples, and my free hand reached around to grope in mid air till it located what it was searching for, Phil’s cock hard and hot again.  I started jerking him, and heard Andrea gasp as (I imagined) she opened her eyes and saw what I was doing.  

I pulled him; he shuffled forward and... even in my mind’s eye, I cannot quite imagine how she did it.  Maybe she learned to do the splits at school; maybe she just had very supple legs.  But Andrea’s leg rose high up around him, and now Phil’s cock was in my face as well, nudging his wife’s cunt while my tongue danced between pussy and penis, 

starving for both, greedy for everything.

My head bobbed back and his cock was in my mouth, the head thrusting into my cheek as he started to fuck me.  Andrea shifted a little; I could sense her eyes on me as I sucked off her husband, and then her one hand drove my face back into her cunt, as Phil’s cock stretched her wide, wide open, and he pushed in as well.

They fucked, I sucked.  My mouth was everywhere; on his cock, on her clit, in her cunt, over his balls.  He muttered something in Greek; she said something back that could have been anything... but I knew what she meant by the tone of her voice.  “Now,” she whispered; “now,” she cried.  “NOW!” she screamed, and together they exploded in orgasm, together they flooded my mouth with their cum, his thick and white spurting inside her and over me, hers a fountain of clear that soaked my face and filled my mouth.  And I was laughing and lapping and swallowing, bathing in their ecstasy, bathing in their waters.  And when we sank back exhausted, Andrea still draped across the kitchen counter, Phil and I slumped against the drawers beneath it, not one of us could even speak.  Until Phil, recovering sooner than either of us, laughed, “I think we should leave the washing up until morning.”

Ten years later, on my own bed with my boyfriend, and his cum still drying on my tits.  “Yes, it’s true.  Most of my stories are, you know that.”

“Did anything happen again?  With Andrea and Phil, I mean?”

“Nothing like that.  I guess we hung out together a little more than we had, but we never slept together again.”

He was silent for a moment.  And then... “but you liked it?”

“I loved it.”  I looked down, saw his cock standing to livid attention, and reached for it.  I pulled, and his body followed; I nestled down onto the bed and parted my legs around him, gasping as his thickness slipped inside me.  “And I think you would love it, as well.”

He looked at me, his expression wide and maybe ghosted by just a shade of uncertainty.  I kissed him, then fixed his eyes with mine.

“I want you to fuck me,” I whispered, “then I want you to taste me.  Go on, taste me.”