He's Dick, I'm Jane, but this story is not for children.
The sweet taste of his cum lingered on my tongue. I reached between my legs and felt the last of his little swimming sperm dying inside my cunt. Even before my brain began to reconstruct the night, I knew that I had given my best friend at least two orgasms.
With the blackout shades open just a drop, the morning sun had finally reached the point where its bright rays had caught me squarely in the eyes. I stretched my arm out to the other side of the king-size bed, expecting to touch Dick's warm body, but he was gone. My body sat bolt upright, the sheet falling off my naked breasts. My nipples were instantly hard, remembering the frantic sucking of his lips as he had tried for the ancient adult male Holy Grail, the quest for milk from a barren teat.
My fingers massaged between my legs, attempting to rub away the soreness in my cunt. I had known when I first saw that gorgeous, immense cock that he would dilate my vaginal walls as neither man nor boy had ever done, yet I hadn't expected him to ravish me like an animal. An animal, yes, but such a wonderful, beautiful and gentle animal, one who had in an instant made me forget every other cock I'd ever known.
Which I guess is normal when friendship finally turns to lust and then, in the millisecond of that first carnal insertion, turns to romantic love.
I removed my fingers from inside me and brought them to my mouth, to taste again the sweetness of his grunting discharge.
The bathroom door was open, the light off. Definitely he wasn't there. My ears strained to hear any noise from the other part of the suite. Nothing. Maybe, probably, he had gone downstairs for coffee. Maybe, hopefully, he would bring me back a cup. Regular, black, two sugars, as he well knew.
Or maybe he was belly up to the rail of a Craps table, hoping to get as lucky at the table as he had gotten lucky last night in bed. But of course last night hadn't been a question of getting lucky. We had known, wordlessly, for what had seemed like weeks that this trip to Las Vegas had not been to gamble but merely as an excuse to be alone, to consummate our lust, to fuck and suck and to make love.
The suite was one of those run-of-the-mill accommodations for regular guests who gave the tables good action. Just a living room and a bedroom, keyed-elevator upper floor, two baths, decent view. In no way did it approach those penthouse monsters reserved for those (mostly) foreigners who bet the equivalent of the average person's annual salary on a single card or roll of the dice. Those were the suites that came with champagne, flowers and clean whores. Or with pretty young boys (over 18, of course) for those so inclined.
No, my Dick (Richard, really) was always comped for room, meals and shows, but he didn't get a free flight from Big-D-little-a-double-ell-a-s or a free limo from the airport. Nor did he get his personal Casino Host to cater to his every whim and lust. That was my job, and it would always be my pleasure to please him in every way humanly possible.
I leaned back against the headboard. As I reached for a cigarette, I felt wetness under my ass cheeks. Ah yes, it reminded me that I must have made him cum at least three times, not twice. He'd been surprised when I'd offered him my back door, but I'd been fucked anally often enough that I could survive it. I closed my eyes to relive the night, the kissing, the fondling, the sucking and fucking. I knew that when he came upstairs, with or without coffee, he'd be naked when he came into the bedroom, his cock pointing the way. And that we'd be repeating the 'I love you' chorus in the same romantic way that we had first exchanged the previous day and evening.
But more of that stuff later.
Although I had known him for a long time, he became my best friend when I started high school. Oh, of course I had the usual collection of female BFFs who came and went, but he stayed on. And as we now know, he has stayed forever.
He became my best friend when he asked for advice about a first date. Like should he wear a tie, where was a restaurant that she might like. And circuitously, very very circuitously, and almost with a whisper, what he should do or say in order to get into her pants. I didn't know who he was talking about, other than that I knew he didn't mean me. Still, I was flattered, what with me still being a virgin and instantly fell into serious like with him.
When I saw him the following day, he was obviously in a depressed mood. He didn't go into the gory details about how far he had gotten, but definitely he had not hit a 'home run'. Second base or third base, depending on your definitions, but that was it. Yet him trusting me with that information, though still not her name, left me feeling very warm.
No, I do not mean sexually warm, I mean just plain platonic best-friendship, a friendship that was to continue for a number of years – high school, college, grad school and beyond. And up until just before the present time, all talk about sex was about sex with other people, not with each other.
A few words about us. He's tall and slim, but without the abs of an athlete. He's adequate at swimming, tennis and badminton, but not good enough for any team. He does occasionally play some touch football, but like an old man. The best that he can see without specs is 20/100, but even without them, he thinks that I'm beautiful. He looks like a nerd, but it balances out by him being brilliant. His cock, as I've recently learned, is like his body, long and slim. But it fills me like none other.
I'm decent looking, but not the beauty that he calls me. That adjective must be triggered by his friendship and love. My face should better be called perky, what with the red hair and tits which evoke the same word. I'm five foot two and a teensy bit overweight, on intermittent diets. Since I graduated from college, men whom I've dated have taken to referring to my hips as made for carrying babies. I quickly took that to mean fuckable, which appellation I appreciate. I have a good bit of experience in proving my fuckability.
Have I mentioned that he's my best friend? Or how much I wish that we had become lovers so many years ago?
He hadn't been a virgin that first day he asked me for dating advice. I knew that; it was obvious. And every once in a while, since our 'seduction' began, I've wondered if that very first plea for advice might have been simply an attempt at an ice-breaker to get me softened up for a discussion of sex. Well, I didn't take it that way then, even though many of our talks did cover the subject.
He did tell me whenever he scored, and did exhibit a bit of pride in doing so, yet always as someone who had to talk about it and didn't want to share it with any male friends of his. I reciprocated. I remember telling him the following morning after having surrendered my cherry. He smiled and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. After I had more experience, I gave him some pointers on how to eat a pussy, not that he was a novice, and he gave me instructions on the sexiest method of sucking cock.
But we spoke of much more than sex. Our talks covered money, politics, sports, art, even love, the whole gamut of human interaction.
He's a doctor now, a surgeon. It's the old familiar story. His first wife worked her ass off to put him through med school. Then, as his practice began to prosper, he dumped her for some bit of fluff who had gone to Nursing School for the sole purpose of stealing some woman's doctor husband. I know her. She's a good looking piece of arm candy, but I think she's a cunt. Too bad that he was thinking with his cock instead of his brain. He knows better now.
As for me, I'm a lawyer now. I'm on the Partnership Track at one of the major law firms in Dallas. That means that I work like a slave. It feels like 25 hours a day, 8 days a week. I exaggerate of course, but not as much as I'd like. In fact, I'm on call 24/7 and I know, everyone in the field knows, that a large part of my future at the firm will be based on how many billable hours I can generate. I like litigation for large clients because then it's easier to pad the time sheets with 'legal research' or 'drafting' hours.
I've been able to make it a habit of fucking the clients' house counsel so that they don't question my hours on the firm's bills to them. Hey, don't judge me. My wonderful lover does the same thing with coding bills to Medicare and the insurance companies, but he has a staff trained how to do it. He doesn't have to get his own hands dirty.
That's another element of our closeness. He knows what I do with my time sheets and also that I fuck for some clients. And also that I fuck around with any man who tempts me, married or not. I know what he does with his billing and which nurses and patients whom he's balling. Oh yes, he does cheat on that second wife. Not surprising, since after a year of marriage, he started referring to her as 'Queen Bitch'. As you can see, neither of us judges the other.
I've never married. No husband should have to put up with the hours that I honestly put in at the office, nor with my constant search for the perfect cock. Now I think I've found it, but my Richard knows me well enough to accept the fact that I'm liable to keep looking.
He and I speak almost every day, almost like an old married couple. 'How was your day? What are you doing now? Etc. We don't do any of that 'What are you wearing?' shit. Not yet anyway. All this is thanks to the invention of the cell phone, so nothing goes through receptionists or inter-coms. Of course, with both of us having hectic work schedules, sometimes it's difficult to get each other on the phone, but we manage.
.... There is more of this story ...