Chapter 11

Things did not get out of control. Well, any more than they’d already gotten out of control. I don’t mean that I fucked Emma (or Ashley) that day. Ashley did have to get home, after all, and while Emma was quite happy sucking on my prong, I don’t think she was ready for the real deal. I probably could have talked her into it, but when she got me hard with her mouth, which took quite a long time, I knew I could not perform as well as she deserved. Plus I didn’t want to talk her into it.

So when Ashley finally stood up and smacked her lips, and said “You didn’t have to call me a bitch!” Emma left off lovingly sucking my penis and said, “You were acting like one. Let’s go. You can yell at each other tomorrow night, at the sleepover, while I’m losing my cherry to Uncle Bob.”

That jerked a knot in Ashley’s hissy. Caitlin didn’t say anything. She was just lying there with a dreamy smile on her face. From her perspective, everything was just hunky dory. She’d gotten fucked a whole bunch, and then got to lie there while Ashley made her feel just fantastic.

Emma bent over and spoke to my penis, just like Caitlin had before this.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she said. “You stay nice and hard for me, okay?”

If she’d have thought about it, she would have known Caitlin wasn’t about to waste a good boner. Not with only four days before I dropped her off at her house in Santa Barbara and she went on enforced celibacy for at least a year.

In fact, I was a little worried that I’d have to cut Caitlin off, if I was going to have enough starch in my manhood to please both Ashley and Emma the next night.

“You can rest tomorrow,” said Caitlin, standing and, apparently, reading my mind. “Tonight, you’re mine.”

I anticipated being with a young woman who had only recently become fully sexual and, because of that, would be driven to try to cram as much sex into the little time she had left with me as possible.

I was wrong.

Pretty much all my experience with women, prior to this, had been with women who were my own age. And we, meaning those women and I, had much in common, in terms of being in the same generation, having been raised in generally the same social atmosphere, and so on. If you’ve ever been to a social function where members of several different generations were present, you might have noticed that people from each age group tend to cluster together. That’s natural. They simply have more in common, and are, therefore, more comfortable talking to people with the same life experience. Obviously we haven’t all had exactly the same history, but generally, we’re more comfortable with those who are more likely to understand what we’re talking about when we complain about life.

That’s what we do in big social situations. We cluster together and complain about things. It could be the weather, or our boss, or putting on weight, or politics or whatever. Most young people (meaning those under twenty five or so) don’t care about the weather, haven’t had a boss long enough to matter, aren’t gaining weight, and neither care about nor understand politics. I know I’m making broad generalizations here, but the point is that the reason generations don’t mix all that much (socially) is because they were raised under different conditions, and have different interests. Each generation simply looks at the world a little differently than the others. That’s why society advances and changes over the years, instead of being stagnant.

I expected Kat to be urgent about getting as much fucking done as possible before she wore me out. I think that’s because, when I was her age, that’s exactly what I’d have done if I was in her situation.

Instead, she wanted to take her time. It was as if she had gotten a present and, after the initial euphoria of opening it, now wanted to examine it in detail.

I discovered this gradually. It began when she finished putting the supper dishes in the dish washer and came to where I was getting Netflix up on the gigantic flat screen TV in the living room.

“We’re not watching TV tonight,” she said. “It’s time to go to bed.”

“Already?” I grinned.

“Yes,” she said, without a trace of humor.

And suddenly, from that moment on, she was in control. She was the one calling the shots. And she did it without saying a word.

For example, when we got to my bedroom and I started to pull my shirt off, she stopped me by reaching to grasp my hands. Then she gently slapped them away ... and removed my shirt herself. And she didn’t just pull it off of me. She squatted a little and pushed it up my sides, looking at the skin as it was exposed, almost as if she was examining me for some flaw, or tattoo or whatever. She kissed random places on my chest and, while my arms were up and the shirt was confining them, she kissed my lips. It was a gentle kiss, not demanding, and not impatient, but full of passion that made my prick stand up like it was made of steel. I actually felt it happen while she kissed me.

My shorts were next, and she knelt to pull them down, going slowly just like she had with my shirt. She had to reach into my shorts to free my penis, which got caught in the cloth as she pulled it down. She grasped my cock as if it were a kitten that had gotten into trouble while playing with a pile of cloth, and freed it gently.

When my shorts were at my knees, she stopped, and fondled my cock, using feather light fingertips to touch every bit of skin on it. One group of fingers went to my balls and tickled them gently.

Her first kiss on my penis was right on the tip. But in the next few minutes she had kissed every inch of it too. She didn’t lick it, or bite it or take it in her mouth. She just kissed it all over with warm, soft lips.

When I was naked she pushed me with fingertips on my chest, guiding me to the bed, where she made me sit.

Then she disrobed.

“Let me -” I started, as she grasped the hem of the T shirt she was wearing.

She reached to put an index fingertip on my lips. Her meaning was clear. That’s when I realized there would be no talking. It was strange, because I didn’t know how long that would last, and that bothered me. Having speech removed from the equation made me feel like I was stranded on a desert island, and didn’t have the materials needed to start a fire.

She took her own clothes off as slowly as she had removed mine, exposing a few inches of skin at a time.

The swell of the underneath of one breast made me hold my breath in anticipation of seeing the rest of it. But she lowered the cloth there, and raised it to expose most of the other breast instead. My eyes flickered to hers and I realized she was watching me, seeing how I responded to what she was doing.

So I found the patience, somewhere, to just enjoy the show.

When the shirt was finally above her breasts, I let out a long sigh. I didn’t do it on purpose. I had just been holding my breath and finally let it out. She smiled, and pulled the shirt over her head quickly. When it hit the floor, I relaxed, and it wasn’t until then that I realized I had been tense all over, leaning forward.

What she did next convinced me she had planned to do it. It wasn’t a random movement, and I don’t know where she saw it, or learned it, but she turned away from me and bent over at the waist, her legs straight, and her feet shoulder’s width apart. Had she been in a gym, an observer would have thought she was stretching. But she wasn’t stretching. She was showing me her ass. She moved her head to the left and looked at me over her left shoulder, still bent over. It was a stripper move, and yet she didn’t look like a stripper. It’s hard to describe.

She stood back up and thumbed her shorts down, exposing her ass. She was going commando again. Then she turned around and, with her fingertips, pushed the elastic waistband down, exposing her mons. She stopped the cloth just as it was at the top of her split. I could see the skin changing, where it would become folds of skin, rather than a flat expanse.

Her right index finger approached that place I couldn’t quite see and, as if she were searching for something, slipped under the cloth. I knew she was pressing it on her clit. Her head tilted back a little, and her eyes closed. She didn’t rub. She just put pressure on it.

In the only impatient movement I saw for the next two hours, she pushed the shorts down and kicked them ten feet with a flick of her foot. When that foot came back down on the carpet, it was twenty-four inches from the other one. Her knees bent. That finger slid through those bulging, flowering pussy lips, and entered her body. She looked straight at me.

“I’m going to fuck you tonight,” she said, softly.

It was so strange to hear her say those words, which would normally be considered crude, almost a verbal assault, words that indicated no love or caring, but rather suggested only the base instincts of animal mating would be in play. Those same words have been used countless times in the beginning of fights in bars.

But her tone of voice, her inflection, and her subtle emphasis on the “F” word didn’t convey animal sexual desire at all. You had to be there, I guess, because what she meant by those words, was that we would mate ... but as lovers. What she meant was that her actions up to that point, and what was going to happen later, were intentional on her part. She wasn’t acting out of seduction, or emotional overload. She wasn’t in the grip of Mother Nature. She was doing this on purpose, because she chose to.

That said, she took her sweet, fucking time (no pun intended). My penis didn’t enter her vagina for another forty-five minutes. And in those forty-five minutes she did everything except fuck me. She kept me at a fever’s pitch the whole time. She wasn’t the one who was impatient to have sex because it was new to her.

I was.

She reduced me to a moaning wreck. She masturbated me to orgasm, and then stopped at the critical moment. Because I was about to spurt, and didn’t want to without her hand, or mouth, or pussy involved, I made the mistake of pinching my cock off at the base, to stop me from ejaculating.

She was a smart girl. She figured out what I had done.

And she did it herself after that ... three times!

She used her mouth two of those times, and her hand again the last.

Again, I don’t know whether she saw this in some porn video or what, but when she finally decided to let me inside her, she got off the bed and pulled me off too. Then she crawled back onto the bed, stopping with her knees at the edge, about a foot apart. She looked over her shoulder at me, and then let her head fall down onto the covers, presenting her pussy to me like a gift.

I moved forward. The height was perfect. I swabbed the tip of my cock between wet swollen folds of skin, and she purred. I wanted to ram into her and spurt. But her patience up to this point called for me to step up.

So I slid in slowly, listening to her groan of satisfaction. I gripped her hips and gave her a few experimental strokes. I couldn’t resist. I slapped one tight butt cheek, stinging the perfect skin there, and reddening it.

“Owww!” she yelled, and in a maneuver that showed how flexible she really was, she raised one leg and rolled, landing on her back. I had anticipated that, though, and moved so I was between her widespread legs. I reached down and grabbed her hips, pulling her butt to the edge of the bed. My cock hung just above her recently abandoned entrance.

I reached and swabbed her loose pussy folds with the tip of my cock again.

I looked at her face. Her head was raised, and she was just looking at me. She raised her heels, and put them on my pecks, as if she was going to push me away. But her hand reached for my prick ... and pulled.

As I slid into her, I leaned forward and her feet rose to rest on my shoulders. I leaned down to suck her nipples, and her hands came to play with the hair on my head.

In that position, I could get into her, but not as deeply as I wanted to. I leaned into her and abandoned her breasts to push. It still wasn’t enough, and I was at the wrong angle to rub her clit with my cock. So I shrugged her feet off my shoulders and, as they fell, I slid my hands into her arm pits and pulled. I sensed that if I tried to do what I had in mind slowly, it would fail. So I clamped with my hands and jerked her up. She gave a startled “Awwp!” and reached for my neck with her hands instinctively. That was perfect, because that let me slide my hands down to grip her hips and pull while I stood up.

I was amazed when it worked perfectly. Instinct also caused her legs to wrap around me, and suddenly I was standing, with her impaled on my prick. I was so excited there must have been some adrenaline involved, because she felt like she weighed almost nothing.

I did a little adjusting and suddenly I was as deep as I had wanted to go. She gave a groan of satisfaction as her clit was crushed.

I bounced her a few times, but it was better to simply let her weight down on me, and flex my penis inside her. I had no urge to cum. It just felt good to be balls deep in my lover.

Her face came up and it was impossible not to kiss her. We just stood there, frozen in coitus, as that kiss lasted a good two or three minutes.

Eventually I felt it in my lower back, and I knew I’d held her up for as long as I could. So I walked toward the bed. There was no gentle way to transition to the bed without coming out of her, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. So I gave a little leap and, to avoid crushing her, turned us sideways so we crashed down on the bed, still joined at groin and face.

It didn’t work, of course, and as we hit, the kiss broke and our falling bodies pulled me out of her. She laughed, though and with incredible speed she pushed me onto my back and crawled on top of me. Seconds later I felt the heat of her sexual furnace all around my member again and she sat up to sink down into her favorite position. That involved her wiggling such that the tip of my cock pushed and massaged her cervix. I don’t know if she knew what was happening or not, but that was what she loved to do the most.

A fleeting thought whipped through my mind and I remembered an article I’d read about the mucus plug women have which protects the womb from the entry of foreign matter. Nature has made that mucus plug resistant to anything except sperm cells, which work their way through it, weeding out the weak ones, so that only the strongest and best get through to fertilize the egg. I wondered if the tip of a penis, rubbing against the cervix, could dislodge that plug. If so, that would allow millions more sperm cells to enter the womb, and if there was an egg anywhere near, it would be swamped.