Chapter 6: Cooley’s House, continued

I collapsed back onto the bed in a pleasant torpor, reviewing everything that had happened. I would want to remember this for a long, long time. I heard the toilet flush and she trotted naked back into the room.

“Miss me?”

“You have no idea. Wait, don’t get back on the bed yet. Let me look at you.” She went into model mode, imitating every trite fashion magazine model pose she could come up with, accompanied by the famous model pout that was supposed to indicate seductiveness.

A couple of them made me laugh out loud, but every one was even sexier because she was nude and the poses were emphasizing her best features. Actually, all her features were pretty damn good, but I especially liked when she bent over to show her tits and the curve of her butt.

I gave her a come-hither motion with my index finger and she jumped on the bed and wrapped her arms around me and started giving me kisses all over my neck and shoulders. “This was so much fun,” she said.

“Was? You’re not sending me out into the cruel winter storm, are you? You cad,” I said, placing the back of my hand dramatically on my forehead in despair, “how can you be so heartless? I suppose you’re going to call in the mortgage at the bank, too, and drive me away from the old homestead.”

“Don’t be a drama queen. I merely observed that the past few hours have been fun, not that the fun is over. But now that I think about it, it’s getting on time for me to call my parents and check in, so you be quiet for awhile till I’m done.

“Why don’t you put on pants and a shirt and we’ll find something to eat in the kitchen. You want to take a quick shower? There are towels in the bathroom down the hall.”

She jumped up and grabbed a robe from behind the door, and trotted down the stairs in her bare feet. Now that she mentioned it, a shower didn’t sound bad. I was a little sweaty, in a good way, but sweat is sweat, so off to the shower.

Ten minutes in the shower, and five to get dressed again, most of that time spent trying to find where my socks had been kicked under the bed. I padded down the stairs just as she was saying goodbye to her parents.

“No third degree? Any suspicious questions,” I asked?

“Nah, everything’s fine and they’re half loaded after the party. They’re going to dinner in the hotel with the others. I’m glad they don’t have to drive there. Let’s see what there is to eat. Why am I so hungry?”

“Can’t imagine. Perhaps it’s the flu.”

“That must be it,” she said with her head in the fridge. “There’s some casserole that was pretty good I can reheat, and some salad.”

“Sounds perfect. Can I help?” She tasked me with setting the table, a job I completed without dropping a single dish, surprising since I was still a little shaky, in a good way.

She had dinner on the table in ten minutes, and it was pretty good. I washed the dishes since it seemed a little silly to put two plates and glasses in the dishwasher, but I got brownie points for offering to do it. “I think you’re a keeper,” she said, “come back and see me when you’re rich.”

We wandered into the den and flopped on the couch. I was a little nervous about people seeing me there, but then I remembered her comments about her neighbors. She snuggled up next to me and I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, while we had a simple after-dinner conversation about friends, school, and common interests.

I found her very easy to talk with, and I could relax with her which was surprising because every interaction with other girls my age had been stilted and almost confrontational, as if we had been trained to distrust the opposite gender. I hoped we’d all grow out of it, but for now I was really comfortable with Melissa.

She flipped on the TV and we watched The Simpsons for awhile. I liked how she laughed so easily and openly. And while she was squirming around the robe had come loose and I was entranced by the single boob that was peeking out. So I reached under her arm and cupped it in my hand, giving it a little squeeze. She looked up at me.

“It’s not my fault. It was calling out to me,” I said.

“Did you hear me complain?”

So we sat there, me, her and The Simpsons, while I fondled her right tit and laughed at the show. Unconsciously I was also sending arousal signals to her. I really was unaware of it, but the boob in my hand set it off, and before long I became conscious that her own hand had drifted under her robe and was busy between her thighs.

I was curious to see what would happen, so I continued watching the show and rolling her nipple between my fingers. By the closing credits I noticed that her right hand was still busy, and her left was gripping the outside of my leg hard.

“You seem to be somewhat tense there, Ms. Cooley. May I recommend a Swedish massage?”

“Are you certain that will help?”

“I can almost guarantee it. Let’s find a comfortable spot to lie down.”

So, leading her by the hand, we went back up to her room after turning off the downstairs lights. I stepped behind her as she faced the bed, reached around and undid the robe’s belt, and slipped it off her shoulders.

I told her to lie on the bed, face down, with her head resting on her arms. I clearly had no idea what to do with a massage, but I could fake a Swedish accent as well as the next guy, plus I’d get to rub my hands all over her body.

Anyway, I had a secret weapon, the ability to get her to relax and feel pleasure. Pulling out my best Swedish accent (which in retrospect I think was more German than Swedish), I told her she was very stiff because her muscles were all ferblunjit, which is Yiddish, not German or Swedish, and means mixed up (thanks, Grandma). But it sounded impressive and sorta Swedish, and was only to get her to smile anyway.

So, starting at her neck and shoulders I just started squeezing and kneading whatever I could find, working my way through whatever muscle groups I encountered as I moved down her body, and sending relaxation messages to her along the way.

After a while she started sighing, with an occasional “Mmmmm” thrown in for variety. I was now at the base of her spine, and I changed the relaxation signal to pleasure -- I was getting the hang of this after all -- as I moved onto her ass.

I really hadn’t taken a close enough look at this before, an unforgivable oversight. This really was quite a superior ass, firm and round, with great muscle tone and no fat at all.

I was kneading her ass cheeks from her hips to her crack, squeezing gently and sometimes just grabbing a handful for the joy of it. I was becoming fascinated with pulling the cheeks apart to expose her asshole and pussy. I so wanted to bury my face in there and lick, but this was a massage, after all, and professional standards and all that.

Reluctantly, I bade farewell to her butt and continued onto her thighs. She gave a little whimper as I moved on, so I made a mental note to revisit that area presently. But the inside of her thighs turned out to be its own erogenous zone, especially when I made sure to brush the outside of her labia as I massaged.

By now she was breathing heavily, with an occasional catch in her throat as I hit a sensitive spot. When I moved down to her knees -- surprise! it turns out that the backs of her knees were very sensitive, so I had to be careful not to touch too lightly, but a firm pressure turned out to turn her on! Who would’ve thought? Another note in the mental file.

Her ankles, well, nothing surprising there, but her feet. Yes, her feet.

Ms. Melissa, it turns out, has very sensitive feet, especially the soles and the toes. I almost got kicked in the face before I learned my lesson. But grabbing her foot firmly and pressing hard with my thumbs turned out to be not only relaxing but by lightening the pressure slightly was extremely erotic, to the point where she started moaning. Then, her toes ... well, we’ll come to that later, perhaps.

But there I was, having worked my way from top to bottom. Should I proceed upwards again? She was already breathing heavily, and I, having been in the vicinity of her naked body for some time was already half-aroused. So I started back up, pausing at the back of the knee again and sending a pleasure burst which brought a gasp, then continued upwards to her ass again, because, after all, why not, it’s gorgeous.

A few minutes kneading her ass cheeks had me with a hard-on and her whimpering. I slid my hands up her back and said, “Und zo, Fraulein, ve are feeling more relaxed, no?”

She turned her head to look at me, eyes half closed, and said, “I’m so relaxed I could fall asleep right here and you could do whatever you wanted to me.”

“A tempting thought,” I said, “but I think it would be a lot more fun if you were more ... actively involved.

“Why don’t you take those things off and we’ll experiment with some active involvement. I see part of you is ready.”

There wasn’t much to take off, and in seconds I was next to her, my arm around her and fondling her ass. “Did I mention,” I said, “how much I love your ass? It really is a thing of beauty. As a matter of fact...”

I swiveled around so my head was above her ass and started kissing and licking it. “Don’t mind me,” I said, “just continue doing whatever you were doing. I’ll just be a moment.”

I pulled her ass cheeks apart and ran my tongue down the crack, over her asshole and into that sensitive area between her anus and the opening to her vagina, the perineum, and she went, “Oooooohhhh.”

I said, “This is just a wild guess here, but you like that?”

“Yes, please.”

It was actually a little hard to reach because her thighs were in the way, but we can do this. I said, “Swing your leg over me so you’re squatting over me. Yeah, like that.” And now I could reach around to grab the cheeks of her spectacular ass and pull them apart, exposing the sensitive area.

By lifting my head I was able to get my tongue onto the perineum and lick it, fast licks, and she went, “Yeah, oh, yeah, oh, that’s it.”

My neck was beginning to ache from the exertion so I lowered my head and started licking her clit again, while my thumb continued massaging the perineum. She didn’t seem to mind at all.

She also seemed to take notice that my dick was waving just inches from her face, trying to catch her attention. I guess she was focused on her own responses, but she did eventually pay attention and moved over so she was positioned above my cock.

She gave it a few tentative licks, then wrapped her lips around it, which elicited a whimper of my own.

She started bobbing up and down, which felt wonderful. I went back to her clit and started nibbling and licking, which sent her hips twisting as she tried to push in closer.

It was time, so I sent one of those big ocean pleasure wave signals, this time modifying it so you could see the wave approach from far off, getting bigger and bigger until it broke on shore and washed over the beach.

I kept attacking her clit with my tongue and felt her climax build. She stopped sucking my cock and started repeating “Oh, God, oh, God” in a choked voice. Choked, I think, because my dick was still in her mouth.

On the last held syllable, which came out in a kind of wail, I also stuck the tip of my middle finger into her ass, massaging the inside, pushing it in and out, while her body was shaking and thrusting.

Suddenly her body tensed and was still, rigid for several seconds, then she collapsed onto her side, making my finger pull out from her asshole with a distinct ‘pop’. “Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.”

I twisted around again so we were head to head. She had pulled her knees up into a fetal position and as I lay down she pulled me in close to her with my head below her chin. She laid her hand on my face and sighed, still breathing rapidly, and was silent for some minutes.

“Is that normal? Do other women cum like that, and so many times? That can’t be normal.”

“You’re asking me? Who am I, Dr. Ruth?”

She said, “No, I’m serious. How many times have I cum since -- when did we start? Five o’clock? -- I don’t know anymore, it seems like a dozen times. And not little orgasms, like a glass of white wine, huge crashing orgasms, like a shot of hundred-proof whiskey, that leave me shaking. That’s not normal.”

“I’d be cautious about those blanket statements. Some women have a hard time reaching orgasm, that’s why there are so many books about it. Other women can cum seemingly whenever they want. They take a package of celery out of the fridge and they cum. It takes almost nothing to get them off. I mean, I haven’t personally taken a poll or anything, but I read, and like most everything else in the science world, this falls under a bell curve.”

“But my friends say that most women have to fake orgasms, and if you want one you have to give it to yourself.”

“Well, that seems to be quite a different question. They’re saying that most women don’t have an orgasm from regular intercourse with the average guy, and I think that’s actually true. Most guys have no clue about women’s bodies and what turns them on.

“Their focus is getting in, getting off and getting out, the prevailing male theory being that if a woman can’t cum during the two minutes they’re pounding their dicks into their pussies, then it’s the woman’s fault. Most guys don’t know and don’t care about getting a woman off.”

“And you, Tom? You do?”

“I like learning what a woman responds to, what they like. I really like watching a woman get off, it turns me on. But I will tell you that I believe I am an exception. That’s not bragging or anything, just what I’ve observed around school and hanging out with guys.”

She was silent for a while longer, then, “So if I do this with anyone else I’m going to be left hanging?”

“I wouldn’t say that. You have good instincts, you know the kind of guy who is likely to care about you and what you feel. Anyway, making love is supposed to be a learn-as-you-go proposition. You tell them what turns you on and gets you off, they do the same with you.”

“Okay. It’s just that I’d hate to think that this is the high point of my sex life and that everything else is downhill from here.”

“That’s a very cynical view, Cooley. I’m sure it will work out fine.”

“You really do have a touch. That last one just now I thought I was going to faint, I came so hard. It’s like you were finding three or four different buttons to press all at the same time and each one made me fall faster. And what was that thing with the finger in my ass?”

“Oh. Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me, it was just unexpected and ... well, to tell the truth I didn’t think I was going to enjoy it, but it felt good and I rather liked your finger rubbing against my asshole. Does that make me kinky?”

“We’ll have to consult our panel of experts. Panel? Is Melissa kinky for liking someone playing with her asshole? What’s that? Four votes no, one vote yes. And so, Melissa, the consensus is you’re not kinky.”

“Tom, you can be a wiseass, you know.”

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s a character flaw. I’ll start therapy soon. But really, you’re not kinky. If it feels good and doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, and your partners buy into it, it’s not kinky. Them’s the rules.”