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."
Involuntarily, she blushed and at the same time began to twist her engagement and wedding rings around her finger. I had lied, of course. I didn't really want to make love to her, I simply wanted to have my mouth on her pussy, my tongue wrapped around her clit, to taste her wetness, to inhale the heady aroma of a cunt in heat. And to have her doing the same to me, either at the same time or one after the other. But raw unvarnished truth is not something one uses when trying to get a woman into bed. It had never worked on me, no matter which gender had tried it, and I knew better than to try it on a gentle person like Sheri.
Silently we walked the short block back to the parking structure. She had found a space on the ground level and she offered to drive me up three levels to my own car. Or might it have been the other way around? I'm not sure; it doesn't matter. (I'm not sure who drove whom; I am sure that it doesn't matter.)
Some of you who love old movies will think of Gigi and the song 'I Remember It Well' with Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold. He sang 'we met at nine' and she responds 'we met at eight'. He continues, 'I was on time', she says 'no, you were late'. After many such lines, they conclude together with 'I remember it well.' Sweet and romantic, I think of it whenever I think of Sheri.
We made a date for lunch a week later, the day after New Years, at a much nicer restaurant up-county. Actually the restaurant described itself as an inn, with a half dozen rooms upstairs, but that had not been the reason for my choice. Forgive my play on words, but I was on time and she was late. I remember it well.
I had given her explicit directions from the place where she would be that morning. A quarter mile off the main road, and with not a very large sign at the turnoff, it would be easy to miss. I arrived there on time and shortly began to get nervous. I felt embarrassed standing out near the entrance for so long. People might think that I had been stood up, and I actually feared the same thing. After it, this would not be any ordinary business lunch, and she might very well have gotten cold feet. By the way, I did mean 'lunch'. I had real appointments that afternoon and did not fantasize any sex that day. My emotions ranged all the way from angry to being crushed. How would I handle such rejection? I mean, we still had legitimate business interactions, and could they continue? For me, yes, I felt almost certain, but for her? Finally, FINALLY, she drove up and jumped out of her car, huffing and puffing. Work related delay, dead battery on cell phone. Whew!
What did she wear? I don't remember. We ate; I don't remember what. We spoke of various things; I don't remember about what. Did I hold her hand? I don't remember, but I kind of doubt it. I do remember that we didn't dawdle over coffee. She said that she wanted us to leave, to go for a ride. I paid the bill, leaving a larger tip than usual. The waitress surely would remember it. I drove for a while, randomly, no place in mind. Eventually I pulled over at the side of the road, a clear area, not a hidden lover's lane. I leaned over and kissed her. Not our first kiss ever, but the first one that used lips, not just the social rubbing of two women's cheeks that means 'hello' at a cocktail party. She kissed back, with a hint of tongue.
After what seemed like an appropriate length of time under the circumstances, and with our lips still connected, I slid my hand under her sweater; that much of her clothing I remember. Holy shit, she wore no bra. I cursed myself, silently but angrily, that I had left myself no time for anything but lunch.
Claiming that I couldn't sleep, I got out of bed that night, leaving Georgy alone. I sat on the couch, my eyes watching something on television while my fingers inside my soaking pussy brought me off three times, all the while thinking of Sheri's soft breasts and sweet mouth.
The next afternoon Sheri and I arrived at the motel that I had mentioned in the beginning of this little saga. Though I had never been in that one, I had been in one just like it. Back in high school I'd been shall we say a bit aggressive sexually. Word of that had eventually reached the quarterback who made me into a lesbian, but he couldn't have found my regular cherry if he had tried. One day, on a lone shopping trip after school, I had met my best friend Sue's dad at the local mega-mall. Precocious little me, Candace, offered to help him with the size issues of a sexy present that he wanted to buy for his wife. It quickly degenerated, with my volunteering, into a comparison of my bust size with hers and then some discrete modeling in the dressing room. I know that we got some sidelong glances as Mr. Bowen and I went back together into the dressing area, but I chose to ignore them. He blushed quickly but not enough to want to turn around.
Of course, the best way for him to properly compare my tits with those of his wife, when she wasn't available for a tape measure, seemed to be for him to use his fingers on my bust and try to remember what his wife's rack felt like. He couldn't be sure and so I unsnapped my bra and brought his mouth to my nipples. Still he couldn't be sure, but he kept sucking until my panties were wet. I had met Sue's mom quite often and knew that both of our busts were about the same size. When I said that, her husband said that he doubted me and kept sucking to try to figure it out.
Permit me please to digress about the suggestion that the quarterback had 'made me into a lesbian'. I have no intention of getting into a debate about whether a person might be 'born' to be attracted to persons of the same sex or whether the rubbing of body parts with someone similarly constructed could be a deliberate decision. I used those words only to indicate that the prick quarterback's action turned me off to all males beyond the age of puberty. And no, that does not mean that I 'like' little boys either.
Back to the loss of my cherry. One ice cream sundae and another fifteen minutes later, a roadside motel loomed in the windshield of his car. Clearly, as I soon observed, its clientele consisted mainly of married men, with women of either marital status, renting a room for an hour or two.
I'd had experience sucking cocks before that, but never with someone, a grown man to boot, who pulled out of my mouth before he shot his cum down my gullet. I quickly learned his intention: to keep his cock hard so that he could use it to pop my cherry. Since I'd actually been looking for someone to do that, his age and maturity made it a pleasant surprise, though I knew enough never to brag about it to my friend Sue. Nor to anyone else, unfortunately.
So I knew that the room I rented for me and Sheri would be bare-bones, with a clanking air conditioner-heater combination, an ancient television set, one double bed, two night tables with the laminate chipped and peeling, two table lamps and one standing lamp in the corner, two of the three actually with bulbs, one chair, a dressing area with a sink and a bar with three wire hangers, and a teeny bathroom with a molded plastic shower and a toilet that reminded me of a hole in the ground in some far-off country. It smelled of detergent, a plus in that it meant that someone had tried to get rid of some of the germs. The thin blanket cover had cigarette burns in it. No amount of laundering could get rid of the pecker tracks decorating the sheet. Don't those fucking philandering men use rubbers? Jeez, what a crummy place to take a nice woman for our first roll in the hay.
The man behind the counter in the office could see outside and knew that I had another woman in my car. The leer he gave me had made me shudder; it contained an unequivocal offer to come back some other time when I wanted real sex, meaning his cock. I wondered if Sheri had ever been with a woman before that day. I expected some day to find out.
I took Sheri's coat and threw it over the chair before my own coat joined it. We turned toward each other. Our eyes met, hers tentatively showing a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity. Did the curiosity mean that she wondered how I would compare with other women she had known, or did it mean that I would be her first? As I said, I didn't know.
As for me, my concern took the shape of worrying whether I could restrain my lust and keep our coupling as love-making, so that, if all went well, there might be another such time for us to share our bodies. We kissed; her eyes closed before mine but I joined her just in case she should open hers again. Our tongues met, but not in classic duel style, more like two strange tongues shaking hands, getting acquainted with each other.
Without breaking the kiss, my fingers began to unbutton Sheri's blouse. With the last button finally opened, she pulled the bottom of the blouse out of her skirt. I reached behind her to pop open her bra – sexy pink lace, yesterday she had been bra-less - and pushed the cups up over her soft breasts. They stood out in perfect form, soft yet proud. I bent and began to suck on her left nipple.
"My husband never sucks on my nips," she said. "He just paws them."
"Then I'll bet that he never eats you either," I ventured.
"You're right," she admitted. "All he ever does is just shove it in."
"Prick," I said.
"Mostly he just wants me to suck his cock until he cums."
I refrained from reply, quickly realizing that Sheri would be a willing sexual partner for a long time to come. Her eyes twinkled, her mouth smiled. I saw nothing but beauty. Perhaps I'm prejudiced now, but I like to think that I'm objective about her looks. I've seen other eyes focus on her as we approach them on the street and I feel confident about my taste. But back to that dingy motel room. Our eyes locked on each other. I stepped back and pulled my sweater off over my head I threw it onto the lone chair, and followed that immediately with the deliberately virginal white bra that I had chosen for this profound event. Meanwhile, Sheri, ever the lady, walked to the dressing area and carefully hung her blouse on the wire hanger, hooking one bra strap over that bent metal piece that holds the hanger onto the bar.
Bare-breasted and having survived whatever shyness she may have felt, Sheri stepped out of her skirt and placed it gently on another hanger. I feared that the bare wire would put a crease in the skirt, and then realized that we wouldn't be naked for that long. She put her thumbs into the waistband of her matching pink lace panties, about to peel them off, but I stopped her. In my mind, seduction, ever an integral part of sex, required that I be the one to remove that last garment, that flimsy barricade protecting her loins, the very essence of woman. And the time for that removal had not yet arrived. For that reason, while my skirt soon joined my sweater and bra, my panties, my soaking panties still kept me 'chaste', so to speak.
I pulled the coverlet off the bed, trying not to look at the dried sperm of innumerable men who had shared that bed with my fellow females, and possibly some other men. Not that I expected that there would have been too many male couples but what the hell, if we can do it, so can they. But strangely, society seems to accept the coupling of two women more quickly than that of two men. Perhaps society doesn't stop to realize how much the sight of two women making love can be the ultimate turn-on for a man's porn viewing. Or maybe it does.
Sheri allowed me to lead her to the bed. Far from being my first extra-marital venture, yet never before had it taken so long between first lust and conquest. We began, like teen age boys hoping to score with teen age girls, with kisses, long and quiet kisses in which our tongues soon joined. Face to face on our sides, neither one on top, we moved from simple French kissing to a war as each tongue fought for control. With that, hands moved to breasts, feathering, caressing, squeezing finally in the no-need-to-articulate that breasts were but a first step on the road to orgasm.