Chapter 4

I reached to put my hands on her waist as she looked up at me and moved her face out of the spray so she could actually look at me.

“What is your question?” I asked.

“Why didn’t you make me give you a blow job last night?”

I pulled her against me and let her know that, despite the fact that she’d only been in the shower with me for maybe thirty seconds, I had a full blown erection already.

“I got the impression you don’t have any good memories associated with blow jobs,” I answered.

She swayed sideways and returned, rubbing the area just above her mons and just below her breasts against my bone.

“What if I wanted to make some good memories associated with that?” she asked, looking directly into my eyes.

“You’re not usually this bold,” I said.

“I didn’t do anything to get punished for,” she said. “What’s a girl supposed to do if she doesn’t need to be punished?”

I was astonished. I didn’t know much about the BDSM scene, but I definitely had the impression that the sub’s pleasure was tied to pain, and that, without the pain, there was no pleasure. I realize now that’s like saying if someone isn’t vegan, they’ll have to have steak at every meal or their carnivoristic impulses won’t be satisfied. There are many ways to experience pleasure, and most of us use multiple avenues to get to it.

Back then, though, I was still stereotyping Mandy. That said, it was pretty obvious what she wanted. My problem was in figuring out how to give it to her.

She’d said she didn’t do anything to get punished for and that seemed loud and clear. She could have manufactured a reason I should punish her, but she hadn’t. The only other way I could think of to engage with her was as if she was a normal, everyday girl, of the type I usually dated.

“I would love to help you make some happy memories,” I said.

She dropped to her knees immediately and I felt her hand wrap around my shaft, halfway down, and her hot mouth wrap around the head of my penis.

She might not have liked doing this to her husband, but she’d become an expert at it. Of course I’m probably biased about that, because she made it crystal clear that she enjoyed sucking my cock very much. She made mewling noises and basically slobbered all over it. We were in the shower, so that was fine, but within minutes I felt the urge to cum.

“Mandy!” I panted. She pulled off and looked up at me with green eyes. “I don’t want to cum, yet. I don’t want it to be over this fast,” I panted.

I felt her hand grip a little tighter.

“You’ll get hard again,” she said.

Then she went right back on. She tried getting a lot of it in her, pushing until she gagged. I wondered if shit-for-brains Barry had tried to make her deep throat him. I already knew (assumed) he wasn’t in the same size department as I was. I decided to think about that for a while, in an attempt to distract myself from blowing my brains out through my dick. He made her suck him when he was angry, and if she didn’t like that, which was admittedly an assumption, why would she want to suck me? And if he tried to make her deep throat him, and she didn’t like it, why would she try to deep throat me? Was it an attempt on her part to expunge the memories of sucking him by replacing them with memories of sucking me?

It didn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate. This woman was a world-class cock-sucker.

I didn’t warn her. I assumed she knew what the logical conclusion was, involving this particular practice. And we were in the shower, so she could spit and clean-up would be a breeze.

“Oh, man,” I groaned as sweet jolts of pleasure streaked through my cock, and into her mouth.

She didn’t spit. If anything she sucked harder and became almost frantic in her attempts to empty me into her mouth. She kept sucking until I was so limp she could get most of me inside her oral cavity. I realized her hands had been gripping my ass cheeks the whole time, squeezing them with surprising strength. Now her fingers loosened and slid down the backs of my thighs, until she finally pulled off of me and stood up.

“I am speechless,” I panted.

“That’s a first,” she said, casually.

I wondered if she was trying to get punished for being rude and decided, quite intentionally, that I wasn’t going to treat her in that manner.

“We’re clean, and I’m famished,” I said. “I’m famished for pussy pie.”

“Pussy pie?” She actually giggled.

“Mandy pie?” I suggested. “It doesn’t matter. I want to eat your pussy.”

“Okay,” she said and reached, herself, to turn the water off.

We dried hurriedly, doing only half the job, and went to my bed. She lay down on it and pulled her knees up, before letting them fall apart. There was a casual element to it, as if she had spread her knees for me dozens of times. Her obvious comfort at exposing herself to me made things twist in my groin. I felt my balls ache a little bit as they tried, in vain, to encourage me to get stiff again.

I got between her legs and slid my hands under her ass. She lifted it to help me do that. I was eager, but I knew that each woman’s pussy is unique, and there is no one way to lick a pussy and make a woman cum. You have to get to know her and find out where her buttons are, so to speak. There had been one woman who couldn’t cum, no matter what I did with my mouth. With that woman penetration was required. It could be digital or penile, but she had to have something stiff in her before she could cum.

I had the advantage of knowing that Mandy could cum from oral attention. She wouldn’t have been so eager to get her pussy sucked if she couldn’t. In all likelihood all I had to do was bite the shit out of her clit and she’d pop. But I wanted this orgasm to come from a place that was not associated with pain. Maybe I had some delusion that I could “cure” her by showing her that making love was just as good as getting her ass beat and then basically raped. I hoped to show her that sex didn’t have to be weaponized to be enjoyable.

It was for that reason that I decided I would take as long as it took to coax an orgasm out of her with my lips and tongue. Whatever it took, I was in it for the long haul.

I started by just licking her vulva with the flat of my tongue, sort of a soft massage. Her knees widened and then came back together, which I took as an indication that she liked this. Then I stiffened my tongue and plowed her furrow with it, from bottom to top and then back down. It was easier to go up than down, for some reason, but I didn’t try to analyze that. I probed her hole with the tip of my tongue and mashed my upper lip and nose into the area where her clit was. I had to pull back and look to find it, but there it was, standing tall, daring me to bite it.

I sucked it, instead, and her hips lurched up off the bed. I treated it like it was a pacifier and I was a hungry baby and she started making sounds. I liked those sounds so I just kept doing it.

“You’re killing meee,” she whined, as her fingers gripped my hair.

I lifted my head and put my chin on her clit.

“No I’m not,” I said, not realizing how hard it is to talk when your jaw can’t move properly.

I found the key (or a key) accidentally. I had been gripping her ass, pulling her pussy against my face, and my right thumb brushed across her anus. Her reaction to that was to jerk her hips almost savagely upwards. Whether it was just a reflex action or an attempt to get away from a potential invader, I couldn’t tell. So I started brushing my thumb across her rosebud intentionally. I wondered if anybody had punished her by ass-fucking her. I had never been a fan of anal sex, really. There had been one girl who told me I could do that and she took my anal cherry, so to speak. She liked it more than I did. All I could think about was that I was getting shit all over my boner. I had seen no evidence of that, of course, but that’s all I could think of. It was an educational experience, of sorts. I learned that the human rectum is exceptionally strong and can contract tightly enough to actually cause pain in the human penis.

“Bob!” gasped Mandy as I pressed firmly with the tip of my thumb.

I was still rubbing her clit with my chin. I didn’t think about the fact that my chin bone might be grinding my beard hairs into her tender clit. Hair can be a cutting edge, sometimes.

“Don’t stop!” she whined.

Now, this left me in a quandary. When she said not to stop, was she referring to my previous tongue action, or my thumb pressing her anus ... or both? Was I halfway through a successful orgasm search, and needed to intensify my efforts? Did that mean suck and nibble her clit just with my lips (no teeth allowed!) and maybe pushing my thumb inside her rectum? Should I ask for instructions?

My mind supplied a little fantasy in which I asked my lover, “Did either Professor Fuck Face or Ex-husband Shit-for-brains ever fuck you in the ass?” Instantly there was one of those graphics consisting of a circle with a red line through it and the word “FAIL”, like you see on all those click-bait ads where they want you to download a game on your phone so you can show the world how much better you are at it.

I got back to business and captured her clit between my lips again. Pulling her pussy firmly against my face, I covered my teeth with my lips and kind of gummed the little fleshy appendage, pulling and releasing. While doing this I pushed at her rectum with my forefinger, instead of my thumb, depressing it but not actually trying to get my fingertip inside.

It worked. She cried that she was cumming and pulled my hair so hard I was afraid she might pull some of it out. I changed from nibbling to sucking, as if it were a nipple and I was trying to get some milk. She alternated from lifting her hips off the bed to opening and closing (slamming) her knees as she wailed her way through what sounded like a doozy.

I was proud.

I was also hard again. It had taken me fifteen minutes to get her there, and that had been long enough for my poor, tired prick to take a power nap, or whatever.

She fell limp as I crawled up. I didn’t think about the fact that my face and beard were wet with her juices. I just kissed her, a kind of loving peck, actually, and said, “I would very much like to put my penis in your vagina and make love to you right now.”

I know. Corny, or at least lame, but she lifted her head and blurted, “Yes!” in a tone of voice that made it very clear this would not be rape in any sense of the word.

I eased into her, but I didn’t need to. She was slippery and her channel was already relaxed. Instead of groaning as she was split, she went, “Mmmmmm,” and her arms snaked around me. I couldn’t reach her lips, which were just below my chin, so I kissed the top of her still-damp hair.

“You feel so good,” I said, slowly going in and out of her.

“Uhhh,” she replied, noncommittally.

“I could do this for hours,” I moaned.

Her hands pulled me more tightly.

“I want to do this for hours,” I said, “but I won’t be able to last. I want to cum when we do this. I have this strange urge to cum.”

Her knees bumped my hips, tapping them with a kind of Morse Code that I couldn’t decipher, for sure.

I knew she was ripe. I did not understand how her attitude about being fertilized during punishment worked. It made no sense. Why on Earth would she want to have my child, or any man’s child, for that matter? Getting pregnant would complicate her life immensely. Adding a child to her little family would stretch their resources to the limit, even with the raise I’d gotten her. It just made no sense of any kind for her to let me spurt in her fertile pussy.

I thought about blackmail, or a paternity suit, in which she’d request the court make me pay child support for the next eighteen years. That didn’t seem like Mandy. She had said that if her punishment included becoming pregnant, then she deserved it. That was a piss-poor reason for having a child.

“You can cum,” I panted. “No guilt. Just enjoy what’s happening.”

She moaned again, but I still couldn’t decipher what that moan meant.

“I’m not going to cum in you this time,” I murmured. “I don’t want to force you to have a baby.”

Her response to that was clear. Her legs wrapped around me and pulled. I didn’t understand. It was crazy! Why did she want this?

Again, I had thoughts unbidden and unwanted. Had the professor made childbearing part of her punishment? Had she been brainwashed in that way?

“No, Baby,” I breathed. “We need to talk about this.”

“Stop talking!” she grunted.

Suddenly, it was going downhill. It had been so beautiful, and now, somehow, it had soured.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to inseminate her. She was the first woman I actually did want to breed. I didn’t understand that, either. Somehow she had captured me in a way no other woman ever had. Our relationship was completely non-standard. We hadn’t dated, hadn’t gone through the normal steps of seduction and relationship-building. So how could I feel so much commitment to a woman I barely knew?

I realized these thoughts had distracted me when she said, “Bob! What’s wrong? Don’t stop!”

I was in her, but not moving.

She wasn’t distracted. She was trying hard to enjoy this. And she was enjoying it on her own terms.

I moved in and out of her a few times and then stayed deep to crush and maul her clit.

“Oh yes!” she yipped. “Oh, Bob!”

It was that familiar, somehow intimate form of address that broke the logjam of my own emotions and thoughts.

“Mandy!” I gasped, wanting to return her verbal intimacy.

And then it was there, that squeeze and release tattoo in her pussy that told me she was cumming. She wanted this and was welcoming it.

My own explosion consisted of a sequence of events that happened so quickly I wasn’t ready for it. There was the tickle, followed by the insane urge to cum, and before I could do anything physically on a conscious level, semen was flowing through my penis and deluging her sexual channel. They call it “the little death” for a reason. I felt paralyzed for the few seconds that my penis and other organs involved in this act required all my body’s attention and energy. Then I was suddenly in control again. I had stopped moving as I pumped my essence into her, and now I moved again to assist her in the completion of her orgasm.

She went completely limp. Her hands fell from my back and her legs became weight on the back of my thighs, rather than a vice squeezing my butt.

The act was complete. We had mated. That was the only word I could think of to describe what had just happened. We had made love, mating as two consenting adults, welcoming fate to do whatever it was going to do.

“I’m crushing you,” I said.

Her hands came back up to my back, pulling. This code I could understand. She either didn’t mind being crushed, or welcomed it.

“I can’t kiss you this way,” I said, and scooted down. My penis pulled out of her and she made a sound of unhappiness.

But she kissed me with lips that said she was quite happy to do so.

It was a long kiss, the longest we’d ever had. It was filled with a muted passion, like molten lava in a lake, rather than that lava jetting up into the air and splashing all around.

It was during that kiss that I realized I needed this woman in my life for the foreseeable future. I wasn’t thinking in terms of permanency. I just knew that I had to have Mandy Potemkin in my life ... whatever it took.

A moment to reflect on her name: Potemkin. I was aware, from one of my courses in college, of the meaning of that name. I remembered something about a village North Korea built within sight of South Korea, just north of the demilitarized zone. It was a complete town, with apartment buildings, stores and everything, except no one actually lives there. It was just for show, to make the south think their northern brothers were doing better than they actually were. It was a façade. The U.S. military complex calls it Potemkin village.

The irony of her name was that Mandy presented a façade to the world, too. She appeared to be a normal, every-day single mom, who was good at her job and had no visible issues, other than perhaps being on a tight budget. In reality, though, she was an incredibly complex being who lived her life on a number of levels. It was as if she was an actress, doing a one-woman show, in which there were different and sometimes opposing characters. Scratch the surface of Mandy Potemkin and you might find yourself in the rapids of a maelstrom. If you weren’t prepared for that, you could be buffeted and beaten by thoughts and situations you had never anticipated having to deal with.

I had beaten her. I had come very close to what many would think of as raping her. On the other hand, I had made love to her and she welcomed it all. She was like a sponge that would soak up whatever liquid was there.

In the aftermath of that early evening, I had made her happy. I knew that. I felt it in my bones. She had exulted in what we shared, and that had contained no hint of violence, intimidation, or coercion. I rather preferred that kind of interaction with her, but even as I finally rolled off of her and her breasts rose as she gulped air, I knew that there would be times in the future where she would want me to hurt her. She would need me to hurt her. And if I was committed to her happiness, I would have to do the hurting.

“It’s never been like that,” she sighed, staring at the ceiling.

“It can be like that a lot,” I said.

“I don’t understand,” she said, still staring at the ceiling.

“I like you. I presume you like me, unless submitting to me is some kind of punishment, in your mind.”

“It’s not punishment,” she said, rolling her head to look at me.

“Okay, so we like each other and we like being intimate. It doesn’t always have to involve pain or guilt or catharsis, or whatever it is that Professor Asshole taught you.”

She didn’t respond.

I just lay there for a while and then sat up.

“You might not be hungry, but I am. Do you still want to order room service?”

“What I want to do is what we just did, again,” she said. “It’s already fading in my mind and I don’t want it to.”

“I am at your service,” I said. “But I have to eat something first. You drained every erg of energy out of me.”

“What’s an erg?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“It’s something one of my college roommates talked about. He was on the college crew team.”

“What’s a college crew team?”

“They row boats,” I said. “It’s a sport. They compete.”

“There’s a sport where you row boats?” She laughed.