by Troy Storm
It was more an appreciation-job of his organ, a love-job-exploration, a tactile conversation with her luscious lips and her adoring tongue. She seemed elated to get the chance to converse, to devour, to discover him. She had stunned his dick into frozen-steel silence.
He reveled in the memory of her total devotion to his throbbing organ, his mind thrown into turmoil even as his body sank into perfect bliss. How was he ever going to match what she was doing with what he had planned to do to her center, he had wondered. He hadn't expected Lucy's technique to be so stunning, so magnetic. So very, very efficient.
When she had first presented her nude self to him was when he had initially been brought up short. She was perfect. Young, but not too curvy, not too fit, soft, firm. When he first put his hands on her he almost shot a load.
All his focus had been on making Lucy feel comfortable, making sure she had a good time. He had expected to have a good time, too, but he had also expected to do most of the work.
He was hard, so hard, so very hard, remembering. He fought against the memories of Lucy, yet was desperate to retrieve them. Turned on, almost violently so, he thrashed in his bed on his back, clenched fists thrown out to his side, trying not to clutch himself, hoping for some slight recreation of what she had done with her mouth and her hands. His dick ground his gears, ordering his thoughts back to the blowjob.
Yes, she had done the lick thing from his big nuts to the engorged purple pre-cum gushing head, gently, tantalizingly, but there was no cute, girly squeaks, no gasps of delight or fake moans or any of the other stuff the porn sites seemed to require of their pouty-lipped suckers.
She couldn't get much of him into her mouth, but what she did get in got the lavishing of a lifetime. Gentle, then more firm, her tongue swirling over him, her lips dragging him deeper and deeper until he felt—even knowing she only had his dickhead and maybe a couple of inches in her mouth—he had the amazing sensation of being totally devoured. His nuts even felt sucked up. Part of the party.
God! He had to jack off! He threw off the covers No! He would not. He would prolong the agony. Nothing, not even his two fine practiced hands could replicate the bliss. He kissed his white-knuckled fist. “Good buddies”, he whispered to the knitted fingers, “you may have just been delegated to backup.”
That was okay, he snorted. Some back-ups had gone on to be stars in their own right, and when he had finally gotten around to fucking Lucy, his hands had done a fine job of rising to equal status with his dick.
She had shaved for him, she shyly admitted, not knowing what he preferred. She was smooth and flawless, the hills and valleys of her vulva, the moist full lips, the sacred slit, the country at the beckoning apex of her firm shapely thighs all but cheering his approach and demanding the firm breeching of her plump portal.
He slipped through the welcoming gates and was surrounded and encapsulated with muscles and tendons and velvet ropes that shocked him with the perfection of the fit. He fucked her slowly and deliciously, his astonished hands roaming her breasts, her bottom, her thighs, her face. She writhed and wailed and gurgled and he felt like the hunkiest dude in creation giving it to his woman with all he had. And he had a lot. He was back in prime time.
She seemed to ennoble him, beef him up, juice his nuts, thicken his muscles, fire up his rocket to achieve amazing heights.
Ohmygod. He came. Rigid on his bed, not even touching his dick, his entire body aflame with memories.
Matt lay panting, gulping air as his dick deflated and his nuts drained. Cum all over the bed. All over his pubes and thighs and stomach. A rush of warmth and comfort poured over him as he sank into the mattress, as his dick retreated and his tightened nuts elongated and hung, happily emptied.
Fuck. Didn't even get around to replaying what a fantastic job he did eating her out.
Sleep, blessed repose, washed over him. He flopped over, smearing his warm seed into the sheets and into his exhausted flesh. Malely, smugly, he wondered, what the fuck had he unleashed in Lucy?
What the fuck was unleashed in him?
He could hardly wait to see Dorothy.
* * * *
Lucy lay on her pillow-top mattress covered with the water-colored flowery printed blue sheets, staring at the ceiling. The window was slightly raised—fresh air important for optimum health—and a breeze fluttered the gauzy curtains and cooled her still-warm body.
By now her heart had settled to match the rise and fall of the gently billowing fabric. The shadows of the trees outside cast by the apartment complex’s sidewalk lampposts fluttered on the ceiling of the dark room.
Everything peaceful and calm, she mused. No fraught thoughts. No panic attacks. No scary scratches and creaks reaching out to disrupt her rest. No monsters under the bed. No tossing about in a sleepless stupor.
A slow smile spread across her face. She had thrashed about, all right. She had more than thrashed under Matt, over him, inside him, inside her.
Her hands gently stroked her naked breasts. Naked in her bed. Caressed by gentle breezes. Her fingers touched her most private parts, private no longer. Shared now with him, with the world, by all the other women he had touched—only two degrees and now she was a woman of the world—shared with all the other women he had placed his beautiful mouth against, stroked with his strong tongue, devoured with his hungry lips.
Oh. My. God.
Her fingers were everywhere now, pressing into her worldly pussy, dipping deep inside where his miraculous tongue had ventured, plucking at her innervated clit…
Ah. Ahhh. Thank goodness. She was slightly sore. She needed gentling. She reluctantly pulled her hands away, smoothed them up her body, and stretched to rest her intertwined fingers behind her head. Her breasts pulled up to meet his memory. Her nipples tingled in greeting.
She hadn’t been surprised when he moved his mouth away from hers, trailing kisses down her front. His kisses, his deep throating had been wonderful, but breath taking—she needed a fresh supply of oxygen and he had realized that. He nibbled at her navel and his rough cheeks enlivened her tummy. Then his warm breath was at her center, her shaved and prepared most private place, but not prepared for his mouth. She had never really thought about that happening.
Yes, they did it on the porn sites, but roughly and rapaciously. Only on a few was it gentle and loving and not so…mechanical…so outside observing. Anyway, she didn’t think that cunny…cunnilig…whatever, was, like, part of the agenda, and for a moment she was annoyed with herself that she hadn’t spent more time looking into how to respond.
And then…then…it was hard for her to think at all.
She knew about his mouth. His wonderful lips. He kissed her fully and deeply, tongue and all. Lovingly but firm. Taking possession yet playfully jousting. So, briefly, she expected the same thing down there, once she had determined he was going to “eat her out.” What a strange phrase, she thought. But then it wasn’t strange at all.
His tongue pressed her firm labial lips apart, his breath hot on her freshly shaved skin, his jaw slightly scratching. And then, after roaming and searching, he delightedly discovered her clit, and her head exploded.
It was nothing like the images on her computer screen. She wasn’t outside objectively watching, she was inside being devoured, being lavished, being totally loved. Her ears sang, her nipples chorused, every limb electrified. She fought for rationality, for remaining cognizant, coherent, but she was being sucked under, sucked in, her breasts alive, her butt buzzing.
She couldn’t believe how much her entire body was turned on by such a small area, such a tiny, tiny bundle of nerves her lover knew how to play like a full, fucking symphony orchestra. She tried, she really did try to stay aware of what was happening, but her entire body hooted her simple little rational mind down. She came blisteringly, like she had never come before.
He chortled and renewed his attack. And within blissful minutes she had come again. He was easy, he was hard, he was demanding, he was…symphonic. S
he came again.
Multiple orgasms were a wonderful, wonderful thing, she blissed, almost incoherently. Thank you, evolution.
He muttered sweet incomprehensibles into her begging maw as he ravished her with his mouth, something about nectar and femaleness and deliciousness and other silly allusions that swam in and out of her consciousness as she came again. She realized her throat was raw. She had been screaming. Shouting. Lord, what must the neighbors think? It was okay. They were a quarter-mile away. Sitting up in their beds, smiling at each other and smirking at each other and then going at it too. An entire neighborhood of shrieking, delirious with joy women. And all from Matt’s amazing mouth.
She finally could stand it no longer and pushed him away, giggling, keening, murmuring with utter exhaustion. Ohmygod! They had just started.
What in heaven’s name was being fucked going to be like?
His face was on her pussy, gently stroking with his tongue. Not enough to set her off, just enough to quiet her down. To reassemble the microns of her sharded mind.
What would, in all that was holy, being fucked by this awesome man going to be like?
She vowed to give this man the blowjob of his life. She’d never really given spectacular head before—what she had previously performed had been child’s play, chickenfeed, furtive piddling behind the barn. She was going to give Matt all the blowjobs she should have given all those years.
Now she was ready.
And she did.
And then she got fucked like she had never in all her life expected to be fucked.
And as she lay in her bed blissfully recovering…mending…
…she could hardly wait to tell Dot.
* * * *
Dorothy was livid, thunderous, enraged. She stormed about her apartment bellowing at the gods about her lack of having a pet she could frighten with her fury. A normally self-contained and self-sufficient cat all fuzzy and self-satisfied which would take one look and spring to the top of the wardrobe in quivering apprehension.
Except she didn’t have a wardrobe.
Or a cat she could turn catatonic.
A dog then. A dog she could kick who would turn on her with bared teeth and an instant transformative attitude from total loyalty to self-preservation.
Self-preservation.
Self.
Not for Lucy. Not Christy.
Self! Dorothy!
She slammed a door closed or a drawer shut or something in place of a living, suddenly imagined fleeing animal and tried to focus. She had to finish dressing. She had eaten, badly. Her stomach was in turmoil.
Damn, Lucy.
She had called at the crack of dawn.
In love!
How dare she.
She didn’t know the meaning.
In her little mewling, puking voice. Prattling on like a grown-up about what an amazing man Matt was, how the date had been so unbelievable, but the evening afterwards, when they were “you know”. Intimate. When they had fucked their eyes out! Dorothy translated with a tongue sharper than a bored and angry U.N. interpreter. The innocent darling knew he loved her, too, he couldn’t not and have been so amazing in bed.
“He was wonderful, Dorothy.” The tiny little urgent pleadings crackled over the tiny little instrument. “He was everything, Dorothy. I know he’s older, but I don’t care.
“I’m in love!”
How could she possibly know?
“True, honest, real, after-all-these-years love, Dorothy.”
All these years! What was she? Twelve! The giggling, hormonal splatterings of a twelve-year-old.
He was the fucking shit, Dorothy, the furious tigress interjected in her roiling mind. Everything she had asked him not to do, begged him not to mesmerize poor little Lucy into. Dorothy knew—better than anyone—what he was capable of when she had told him not to drag the stupid little…okay, not stupid…no! Yes! Stupid little numbskull into his “loving” circle. Then made her believe. Built her up, up, up…and God! She seemed to have reached the fucking heavens.
So awfully far to fall…
Dorothy checked herself in the mirror before she slammed out of the disheveled apartment.
She looked mean.
Good.
Christy would be delighted to know dear sweet simple little Lucy had all but usurped her lead in this tawdry little competition.
Christy would just be thrilled.
Her thumbs did the dirty work as she stalked toward her car battering in Christy’s number.
“Good morning, Starshine,” she cooed. “Guess what?”
Chapter Six
Matt stormed into The Crowning Glory and came up short. The overwhelming scent of the beauty parlor produced waves of nostalgia that shot through his hot head enough to instantly put the brakes on his temper.
The women inside turned toward him expectantly.
“Well, hi there, Matt,” the head of the shop called to him from her station as her client looked up surprised and obviously not too thrilled at having been discovered by their handsome male guest with a head full of sliver strips writhing through her knotted hair.
“Uh, hi, Amelia. Ladies.” He had an initial distinct urge to back out, thoroughly chastened.
“Is my Oldsmobile okay, Matt, dear?” Brunnie Mendle looked up from conferring with Marta Dalaport over what looked like a glossy fashion magazine. “I hope there’s no problem.”
“Uh, yes ma’am. Brunnie. No. I mean, it’s…we need a part that's proving hard to come by, but we’ll get there. Buddy's a beaver about things like that. And you know Waco. If he has to fabricate that part himself, your Oldsmobile is going to feel as spry as I'm sure you do.”
He took a deep breath. Eye-stinging memories of going with his mom to this very place and waiting in this very room while she had her hair “done”, until he got old enough to go off on his own free as a bird for two or three hours wandering the wonders of his beloved small town and its nearby environs swirled round him. He had his first haircut here. He thought it might have been Amelia's mom. And then he grew old enough for his dad to take him to Leo’s barbershop.
Where his life had never been quite the same. He had gone from being fussed over by sweet-smelling brightly chattering ladies laughing and gently batting their incomprehensible secret female codes over his head like an elegant badminton game to being gruffly and loudly integrated into a spicily scented male environment. It seemed that in traversing a couple of hundred yards of CoveHaven’s Main Street he had gone from being a protected boy to instantly becoming a vulnerable young man filled with manly instincts. The transition had unnerved him for years.
Brunnie laughed raucously, glancing wickedly at Marta, using the glossy pages to hide what might be loosened dentures. “Matt, you are back to your old utterly charming ways. And I for one couldn't be more pleased. Not that you haven't always been a perfect gentleman, but it's nice to see that perhaps your loss doesn't lay quite as heavily as before.” She sighed, probably remembering her own loss years ago, and most likely many others during the intervening interval. “We all have to move on. Our loved ones would want that. We owe it to them.”
Matt nodded in agreement but at the same time also strengthened his resolve, trying to direct his attention toward the traitorous Dorothy nervously working over a customer at her station on the far side of Amelia. At her first glimpse of the raging Matt, she had instantly turned her back, girding her loins. She knew he was aimed for her. And he was.
“Hope you’re enjoying the loaner,” Matt said pleasantly to Brunnie, his fury settled, more or less, into a dull throbbing anger. “It's the latest model.” But at least he was being civilized. That was good, because now came the test.
“Oh, it's a beautiful car. Perhaps a bit subdued for my tastes. Automobiles seem to have gotten so much more...blocky...instead of that lovely smooth line they were once on. But it rides well, I'll grant you. Thank you, Matt. Not quite as secure a feeling as my beloved Olds, but then they don't make them tha
t way anymore, I don't suppose, do they? So many buttons and things to switch and punch and screens to touch. And it all seems so...plasticy. Way too many choices for my poor old brain. But it does get me where I want to go.”
She gave their handsome male interloper an appraising look, especially around the hips. “You’re looking very svelte these days, young man. Nice to see you’re taking good care of yourself.” A big engaging smile and she and Marta went back to conferring over the fashion spread.
“Hi, Dot.” His greeting came out much more loudly than he had intended, feeling anything but svelte, having obviously been discombobulated by the evaluating women. “I wondered if I might impose on your time for just a minute?” That was also much more subservient than he had planned, but at least he sounded almost humane. Almost charming. And not like he was out to strangle her on the spot. What a shame he didn't have a white hat he could gallantly whip off and hold respectfully in front of him while he toed the floor shyly with his boot.
Dorothy froze, wide-eyed, staring at him over her client, a young woman half-smiling, peering at Matt trying to place where she might have seen or known him from.
“Sorry, Matt. As you can see, I’m working.” She sounded brisk...and terrified. Good, you deceitful bitch, he thought, unapologetically. “Maybe…maybe in a few hours…” she finished, turning back to snipping the head of hair.
The others in the shop heard the change in her voice, but took it differently.
Marta, looking gorgeous and stunningly put together, spoke up. “Matt, it’s so good to see you out and about, among us ladies. Finally. We’ve missed your handsome presence.”
Damn, that woman could always get under his skin. Speaking of plasticy. Way too pulled-together for the middle of the day. She always made him feel dusty and rumpled. “How’s Milton, Marta?”
“Still bringing in the big bucks,” she smiled smugly. “Your place seems to be holding its own.”