Photo Credit: "Hot Pink Lips" by rmhboss on Photobucket
And now the third in a series of excerpts from my erotic memoir in progress. Thanks to Chip Rowe, my friend the Playboy Adviser, for editing down the excerpts.
“I don’t know your name,” I said weakly. “You do too,” he replied, laughing as he led me back to his bedroom We undressed. He was beautiful—strong legs and shoulders and arms, trim waist and hips, balls high and tight, beautiful—as he needed to be to possess that dick. He lifted my breasts out of the cups, but didn’t remove the bra, tweaked my nipples a little roughly, before pulling me down onto the bed.
I felt the cock moving against my bare inner thighs, the skin above the lace, as he massaged my clit and parted the lips of my labia. Foreplay was not his forte, but it didn’t matter. I wanted that cock—wanted it so badly that I didn’t demand, not even suggest, a condom. I wasn’t wet enough, but he shoved into me; and his cock pulled the moisture out. He fucked hard and fast, then slow and easy, alternating positions—him on top, then rolling to his side to pull me on top of him, finally half on our sides, one of my legs up in the air—until I was dizzy, crazy, but I knew that cock was mine. It banged and then caressed places inside me that other cocks had only poked in passing; and I came several times. The headboard rattled as he drove it home.
“Suck my dick,” he said when we could breathe again.
I refused. Surely he wouldn’t be able to come again. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to get it hard. After all that—and however many drinks at the bar—could he possible get another erection.
“Suck my dick,” he repeated, an order this time.
I took it in my hands, guided it into my mouth for the first time and felt it throb thrillingly to life. I swirled my tongue around the head while moving my hands in a lightly twisting fashion up the shaft. It didn’t need the hand job boost.
“That’s your dick,” he said, his voice husky and almost gentle. “Suck it.”
Grasping the base in one hand, I licked up the shaft, swirled my tongue around the corona, sucked the head, licked back down the shaft. I was making him crazy. Him, the man. The Dick and I were playing sex jazz together.
At 6 a.m., I said, “I have to go,” which, I could tell, pleasantly surprised him. He called me a cab while I pulled myself together.
“What’s your name?” I asked on the way out. Stunned, he told me.
“Do I have your number?” he asked.
“You don’t,” I called over my shoulder. In the cab, I held my knees together to keep them from trembling. I realized something: He hadn’t asked my name. Either he knew it or he surely meant this to be a one-night stand.
Love at first sight is actually lust. Act on your lust repeatedly with the same person and it may turn into love—or not. Many women don’t recognize or acknowledge the truth about what attracts and arouses them in a particular man or men. For me, this time, it was the cock.
NEXT WEEK: The Second Time
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