You might call the timing perfect. One beautiful day of lovemaking, followed by almost a week while she sailed the Caribbean on a cruise, where I couldn't speak to her or see her or touch her, only dream about her.
You might call the timing awful. One beautiful day of lovemaking, followed by almost a week while she sailed the Caribbean on a cruise, where I couldn't speak to her or see her or touch her, only dream about her.
Upon my first re-reading of the draft of this story, I noticed that the above sounds as if I stole it from Charles Dickens' opening words in 'A Tale of Two Cities'. That may be the fact, I don't know, but if so, it happened unintentionally.
Other things being equal, I'd rather eat pussy or suck tit than have someone do the same to me. Nothing but nothing compares to the singular taste and aroma of a leaking cunt or, special of specials, when on those rare occasions that I can get milk from the nipple of a young mother who's still willing to bed another woman. Don't get me wrong. The Big O – no, I'm not talking about some College football team – defines sex, and I love it when it hits me, makes me scream, inwardly if not aloud. And I feel so sorry for those oh so many of my sisters who've never had one, never experienced that wonderful release. They let themselves be fucked in eternal hope for an orgasm, or out of affection of some sort for the man – or woman – trying to make them cum, and I guess that a person can understand that.
But when I eat pussy, I know that it certainly will be accompanied or followed by my own orgasm, so that I get it all. Yet if I have to use my fingers or my – ancient history – pink plastic battery-operated toy, I can't get the oral satisfaction of pleasuring someone else. Even back in my hetero days, when I would surely get to cum before the end of the date, I craved exercising the muscles of my cheeks to get a mouthful of warm sperm.
I'm Candace, most often called Candy, possibly because I'm so tasty and delicious! I once happened to see a map of Greece. Written in English characters, it named that island Lesvos. You may therefore call me a Lesbian, as do most people who bother to classify others, or if you wish to show off, a Lesvian. Your choice.
My husband, or maybe I should call her my wife, goes by the name of Georgina, shortened to Georgy. Our marriage took place within a few days of it becoming legal in Massachusetts. Both of us look and act feminine, neither of us being 'bull dykes' or otherwise masculine. No doubt we leave a lot of hard cocks behind us as we walk down the street holding hands. Some of them would love to fuck one of us, others simply think of us as two luscious cunts going to waste. Georgy and I have been together since college, close to twenty years now. I loved her then and still do, but I must admit that our sex life has slowed down a bit. Simply put, I've had to become the aggressor; she no longer craves a tongue wrapped around her clit as much as I do.
I sell life insurance for a living. My partner (business), Mike, started out the same time as I did, and we incorporated ourselves years ago. We've found that double-teaming prospects seems to work, with me selling the wife and he the husband. Though sometimes I might give the man the idea that I'm straight and, if his wife can't see my face looking at his, available. Whatever, it never goes beyond that, and Mike and I make very good money.
Mike dreams of fucking every woman he meets. He hit on me when we first met but gave up quickly when I let him know that I had given up cocks back in high school. Actually, it had been the night that the star quarterback on the football team had, without a hint of permission or even foreplay, shoved his cock up my ass. You don't want to know the pain! Anyway, we can get rid of Mike in just two more paragraphs.
Early on in our partnership, around Christmas time, he and I went out for lunch with his secretary; mine stayed in the office to mind the phones. We chose a Chinese restaurant. When we got into the booth, he slid in on her side, next to her, much to my surprise. While I ordered a glass of white wine, Mike asked for something on the menu called a Lovers Punch. Another surprise. They split the drink, using two straws.
Now, I may be dumb but I'm not stupid, or vice versa. That's when it hit me that Mike had a habit of only hiring nice looking secretaries with great bodies. That had never bothered me, because I personally have an affinity for the beauty of the female form, but actually I'd never given it a thought. Obviously they had been rubbing body parts together. OK by me, because if some women didn't prefer men, the species would die out. After both secretaries left for the evening, Mike and I got to be talking about the lunch and its implications. He said that since both he and his secretary had spouses at home, they always went to a particular motel down-county, naming it. I knew the place – by windshield only. Since I have a habit of sticking all sorts of information into the back of my head, I filed away the location of his trysts.
Some years later, I drove up to that motel with Sheri in the passenger seat next to me. The car had a bench front seat, for three people, and she sat in the middle, her hip pressed against mine. From the parking lot I could tell that I would never be using that place if I intended to spend the night. Maybe it had gone downhill from the time of original construction or maybe it had been that way from day one. I had the impression from the cars in the lot that it catered to a lot of welfare recipients. But my only goal for that visit called for a few rip-roaring orgasms. Unfortunately, most women, even lesbians, when it comes to sex, have emotion on their minds. Happily for her, I guess, Sheri had married a man. Love? No thanks, I had enough already.
Sheri had caught my eye, about fifteen years earlier, while she walked down the aisle in an auditorium at a training conference held by one of the life insurance companies for which I sold policies. Not really walking, I seem to remember, but more like bouncing. As chair for the program, her job required her to be all over the place. Seeing her blonde pony tail wagging behind, hanging down the neck of her short body, she looked very cute. Not knowing who she might be, nevertheless, since I've always formed first impressions by looking at someone's face, I immediately liked her.
Despite her well-proportioned body – I hate big tits – my mind, my eyes and ears concentrated only on the sales techniques that I might learn, and I put her out of my concentration. Lust would not enter my mind for some time. In fact, though we spoke occasionally on the phone, we never discussed anything but business. We met maybe once a year at business functions, always with a few general 'how are you' questions, nothing more.
Still, over that period of time, however long it might have been, my thoughts about Sheri gradually turned lewd as my bed life with Georgy grew more tepid. Finally, after much thought, I gave her a call, being as circuitous as I dared. She gave me no encouragement, and I shrugged. I had heard of the old expression but never considered that it might apply to my lust for Sheri: if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I limited my thoughts of her to masturbation aids when Georgy left town on her business, computer programming.
Only months after our first afternoon in that grungy motel did Sheri tell me that she had intuited the reason for my first tentative call but that she had chosen not to encourage me. We both wondered what would have happened in our lives if she had risen to the bait that day, or if I had persisted.
Years after that first fruitless call, she heard back at the home office that I had been hospitalized for a few days. She called to see how I felt and we made a date for lunch. It occurred to me that there might have been some glitch in her relationship with her husband, but I never asked. We had lunch a few times, nothing profound, some light personal talk, getting to know each other better. And then it happened. After lunch, as we parted, she asked me to give her regards to Georgy, whom she had met with me at some seminar. I took a deep breath. I said 'No', a pretty risqué way of telling her that I had no intention of mentioning our lunches to my spouse. Her head bounced up in surprise, but she said nothing.
In all this time, even though I gradually thought more and more about getting her into a bed, about having my tongue inside her, I never thought about the specifics of her body, the hips, the tits and ass. Mechanically it didn't matter which parts I might devour, nor whether she would use mouth or fingers to make me cum. I wanted that orgasm but her sweet face that enchanted me, her bubbling personality that fascinated me. Those two features made me wet, no, make that soaking wet.
The day after Christmas, a few lunches later, a few months later – damn, call me a slow-poke; fear of rejection, I guess – I told her, as we waited for the waitress to come back with my credit card receipt, that I would like to get together early one day for a cup of coffee. She asked me why I suggested coffee instead of lunch. My reply could, in a courtroom setting, be described as non-responsive but I saw no lawyers or judges at our table. (FYI, the guy who stuck it up my ass in high school went on to become a lawyer. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?)
Anyway, I took a deep breath. "Because I'd like to make love to you."
.... There is more of this story ...