A short story, written for Ellie of bedroomradio.com, in response to the contest in episode 8 of her podcast.

Preface:

Ellie, this story is for you. I realize that setting myself the task of writing a story to please a woman, about whom I know nearly nothing, is stark hubris, but I attempt it nonetheless. Thank you for all the times your voice has made me cum.

This story is also for your listeners, if you should find it acceptable. I hope they enjoy hearing your wonderful voice tell it as much as I have enjoyed writing it for you.

Finally, this story is for my own small group of readers. As it is not very similar to previous stories I have published online, it may not be terribly well received, but such is the risk of departing from well-traveled territory.

It wasn't until recently that I noticed it, a bass note, underneath, a tone with which my sexual life had always been in harmony.

There was Manfred, the boy who took my virginity. We had shared three intense sessions of exploration with finger and tongue before he got the courage to ask for consummation. It was dark in his father's garage that summer, dark enough that my memory fails to conjure his face, but it vividly recalls the scent of his sweat and sex, and the tactile contours of his cock.

I remember his soft whispers in my ear, asking me if I would, if I could, do this unnamed thing. The word remained unsaid, but I knew what he wanted. I remember the sound of my zipper sliding down, the sound of his pants, heavy with wallet and keys, hitting the concrete. I remember the soft nylon-on-nylon sound as we lay down on the pile of sleeping bags. I remember his soft grunt as my body yielded to his, and the satisfying warmth as his seed filled the condom.

In college, my desires became more diverse. I sought out Monique, the exchange student from Belgium. She sang a solo of lust on the stage in my mind, guided by the strokes of my fingers and the music of my mouth. I imagined the feel of her skin, soft and smooth, and the sharp taste of her juice.

After a month I had become obsessed with her. I decided to either fulfill the demands of my imagination, or find some other target for my private lusts. In the back of a theater showing of "The Hunger", my inhibitions lowered by the smoke she and I had shared, I confessed my secret. I leaned in close, and whispered, "I want you."

She turned and looked at me, surprised at my boldness. She took my hand and pulled me from the theater, to the privacy of the fire escape. She asked if I was playing a game. She asked if I was serious. I looked into her eyes and saw that my desires were not unreciprocated.

I spoke with the sincerity of unalloyed desire. "I want you. I want your body. I want to touch you."

We ran to the car. I drove to a quiet side road. We shared a moment, in the moonlight, looking again into each other's eyes, before my need overcame me. I lifted her shirt, and found her small, unencumbered breasts with my left hand, and her lips with mine. My right hand held her to me by the back of her neck as my tongue explored her mouth. I felt her first soft moan pass into my body.

I moved lower. My lips replaced my hand. My hand lifted her skirt. My fingers pulled her panties down. Her breathing was accented by pizzicato gasps, rising slowly in pitch as I drove her closer and closer to culmination. Her hands played in my hair. Just before her first climax, I paused for a moment, releasing the catch on her seat and gently setting her on her back.

I gently raised her left leg, and bent down underneath it, to echo my fingers with my tongue. I inhaled the perfume of her arousal, and tasted her essence. My strokes were unpracticed, but sincere, and the sound of her rising passion urged me to redouble my efforts. I found her tiny node and focused my attentions upon it. Her hands became more insistent, pushing my face into her cleft, while her cries rose to a hovering crescendo.