Chapter 1: Elizabeth And Michael

"Mmm."

The sound of his humming told me that he was enjoying it; he always enjoys it when I have my mouth wrapped around that big, strong piece of meat that hangs down between his legs. Or sometimes that sticks straight out, like whenever I'm around it. I inhaled deeply; I love the odor, no, make that the aroma of that man's crotch, the scent drifting up from between his balls. He had no doubt showered maybe two hours earlier, and had been wearing a neatly pressed business suit until just a few moments ago, standing calmly. Yet even so, perspiration had formed between his balls and his thighs, under his cock, behind the nuts, all creating the deep scent of manliness that always gets me wet.

Of course, anything gets me wet lately; cock, fingers, tongue, pussy, porn - especially movies, day-dreaming, anything.

My ears were attuned to the sound of that hum when suddenly an iterant thought crossed my mind. Is that why a blow job is called a hummer? Who in their right mind would name an expensive car after the act of fellatio, even if the car does give some people orgasms? What is wrong with this country? And who would ever have thought that I, Elizabeth Underwood, prim and proper suburbanite, would be on my knees sucking the cock of the very same minister who only an hour earlier had been ranting about the immorality of present day America.

He was sitting back comfortably in the easy chair, his eyes closed, mentally at peace while his body satisfied its lust. His jacket as usual hung over the back of the chair by his desk, his trousers neatly folded atop the desk itself. Otherwise he was fully clothed, if you ignore the fact that those important eight inches of male arousal were sticking out the fly of his shorts, pointing directly into my face. The throw pillow, the one embroidered so lovingly years earlier by his delicious looking wife, the one I think about when I masturbate - Melissa, not the pillow, was under my knees, giving them even more soft support than the carpeting and protecting the knees of my pantyhose from tell-tale damage. I was fully clothed, save for my shoes, neatly standing there at attention alongside his desk chair, like samples in a department store.

He sighed audibly, his right hand alternating between caressing my dark tresses and then pulling my head farther onto his turgid weapon of sexual release. That last was unnecessary, for my head was willingly moving up and down on his shaft. My hand held the base of his cock so that it would not invade my throat; I had never experienced a cock past that barrier, and had no desire to learn that sensation, not unless it was a long thin piece of meat seeking entry in there. His other hand was wrapped atop mine; whether to help me to masturbate him or to keep me from moving it away, I didn't know.

His cock was wet, both from my saliva and from the pre-cum that formed at his piss slit. I have never understood the reason for pre-cum; certainly it isn't enough to lubricate any woman being fucked. Oh yes, it is tasty, perhaps only mentally, because it signifies something so wicked. And so wonderful. But it cannot have developed by evolution, for the pleasure of a blow job is not a necessary step of procreation. Unless you count foreplay. I do know that it wasn't the pre-cum that I craved; rather it was the full load of the cum pouring from his balls, through the cock and into my jaw, those delicious sperm floating in thick creamy semen, to swirl in my mouth before being swallowed, sometimes to be shared with the donor - who wasn't always Michael.

And I also craved the thrill of knowing that I was giving him pleasure with my ministrations, my licking on his crown and shaft, my gnawing on his balls. I wanted it every time to be the best blow job that the owner of the penis had ever had, and I knew that at the instant of his ejaculation, when his cum blasted its way out of the womb of his testicles, he would think it was in truth the best, even if he later compared my efforts unfavorably to those of someone else.

And I especially wanted the exciting touch of that wonderful cock spreading the walls of my cunt as I bent over his desk, being fucked doggy style after I had cleaned his pipes. That man had the quickest recuperative power I had ever known, being able to stay hard and keep it inside me, stroking away while he waited for his nuts to regenerate a shot of cum. I lifted my head off him.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Michael?"

He smiled and nodded.

"Do we have time to take care of me today?"

"Yea, verily."

I squeezed his cock and looked up at him angrily.

"How many times have I asked you not to talk like that, damn it? You're not on the pulpit now, Michael; we're in your office and I'm sucking your cock! Do you understand that? Now stop it, please."

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth; I'll try harder in the future." He looked sheepish, but his hand pressed the top of my head, as though to remind me to put my mouth back to serious work again.

As usual, I had left the church as soon as services were concluded, only to double back fifteen minutes later, making sure that his was the only car left in the parking lot. What was I doing? I knew that he didn't love me, that I didn't love him, that it was just plain sucking and fucking, and pussy licking of course, all of which I need and love, but how long could this go on? Should it go on? I knew I could get all the cock I wanted without risking being tarred and feathered if I was ever caught with Michael, but yea, verily, I really did love his eight inches of satisfaction.

Shit; talk about being tarred and feathered, what would the congregation do to me if they ever found out about me and Ernie. Damn, I could burn in hell if they ever learned that I was the one who had taken my own son's cherry, and that we haven't stopped since then.

Of course, like so many illicit assignations, there was much fucking and very little talk. Neither one of us had very much time, so often we just mixed our fluids and went on our ways. On one of those occasions, however, we had time to relax and unwind. We had sat in his office, he in the chair and me naked from the waist down on the floor, my back against the desk, facing him with my legs spread, both of us basking in the afterglow of orgasms.

"Do you think I'm a good lover, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, yes, Michael, very caring."

"I owe that all to you."

I gave him a blank stare. "How is that?"

"Do you remember the first time that you gave me a hint that you might want to have sex together?"

I had the good graces to blush.

"Well, no one ever taught me to properly make love with a woman. My only experience was with my wife, and the first time was just weeks before our marriage. I didn't know how to please a woman, to give her an orgasm; I didn't even know that it was a necessary part of sex. I just mounted her, thrust into her and spent myself in her body without caring whether or not she was satisfied. And she allowed me to please myself that way. But that first time, you had me so aroused that I went home in the middle of the day and put my hands on her breasts. When she asked me what provoked that, I told her about you're having seemed to make advances toward me."

I blushed again, this time adding a smile.

"For some reason, she took me in her mouth, something I had never known enough to be interested in, and then she used the opportunity to teach me to do everything that I should have been doing all the time. I couldn't believe it the first time I brought her to an orgasm. I owe it all to you."

I smiled again, this time without the blush, although I was truly touched by the confession, if that's what it was, and a little proud of my contribution to the sexual education of this man and the sexual pleasure of his wife.

"Well, you're welcome, Melissa Johnson. You're welcome too, Michael Johnson."

My mind returned to the present and my mouth returned to the purple crown of Michael's manhood, teeth teasingly rasping across the sensitive skin. He pulled me up even with his face and our lips touched, pressed against each other and then parted to admit searching, probing tongues. His hands touched my poking breasts, nipples erect, but he made sure not to wrinkle the clothing that covered them. Our lips separated and my head went back to its sucking position, resuming and accelerating my quest for his sweet cum.