Chapter 3: a Soft Cock

Skin is very useful to at least the higher animal forms. First of all, it keeps all of our insides, bones, blood vessels, testicles, ovaries, etc. from falling out all over the place. Secondly, it exists as a surprising (to some) trivia answer to the question of which is the largest organ of the body. But most important to me and others, the sight, the touch of skin around certain other organs, specifically cocks (to those of us with cunts and tits) and cunts and tits (to those of you with cocks) causes people to become sexually aroused and their brains to cease functioning. That's in addition to those people who prefer people with organs similar to their own. However, this is not a story of political philosophy, so we'll keep it to heterosexuals.

Speaking of cocks and sex, everyone knows that the basic descriptors are those relating to size and also the word hard. For it to do its intended task in the reproductive cycle, even when reproduction is not desired, it must be rock hard. Otherwise it would be flaccid, which is the polite word for useless – except to piss.

But in my mind – and mouth – or hand – soft is also good. No, not good, make that exciting and delicious.

And yes, that ninety percent of the cock that you never see, that blood-filled sheath that goes 'Boing' in the cartoons sometimes found on late night cable shows or creates 'tents' in stories like these, or even the real thing raw cock that one sees in pure porn flicks, plunging and thrusting and then spurting its creamy white sauce onto face or tongue or cunt or ass or stomach or tits to help one masturbate, that ninety percent is required for the cock to be useful at all.

But the other ten percent – I'm guessing at the numbers – should be soft, smooth, silky to the touch and feel of hand or mouth or vaginal walls, like a glove made from the skin of a kid, and spongy at the crown. The way that the thin skin moves against the blood vessels that rapidly fill to hardness under the gentle touch of my hand is a major part of the pleasure that I receive from his cock. And in fact it doesn't even require my touch, for the cock may fill of its own volition as its owner views my body, curvy under my clothing or with my hard nipples sticking out or wet between my legs as I expose my most important – and attractive - opening.

And I guess some similar thoughts go through the mind of the male portion of the writhing, coupling, moaning duet, for why else would he do his best to convince me – though if I know him it takes no convincing – to let him take me bareback, sans condom, risking conception and/or infection merely to make the quest for ejaculation more comfortable, more exciting.

So yes, once we've gotten past the kissing and his hands under my bra, squeezing my tits – 34C, thank you Mother – and I've decided that I'm going as a minimum to make him cum somehow, somewhere in or around my body, my hand goes past his zipper to begin a hand job, be it as foreplay or as far as he will get, fate will decide.

By fate, I mean how will he proceed? Will he attempt, by tongue or fingers or even maybe by cock to make me cum, to allow me my own orgasm first, or does he plan to use me simply as a place to dump his cum, piss and go home? Suffice it to say that I've ended many a date after having given some guy only a hand job, and have had to use my own hand for relief before I slept.

So yes, Carlos' cock was soft and hard at the same time, and that was just perfect for me. You'll meet Carlos and his cock in just a few pages.

FYI, the entire previous portion of this chapter was written to be a separate story, but once I finished writing about the needed softness of skin, I couldn't figure out a way to complete it as a story. Rather than discard it, I decided to put it in here.

Our cruise line charges top dollar, and in return offers the optimum passenger to crew ratio, less than 3:2. Since the ship is so small, however, some of the crew members do double duty. In my case, it means not only entertaining the passengers but also plugging the 'favorite' stores at the various ports. And because our passengers can afford top dollar, the stores kick back top dollar. Happily, in addition to the checks made out to the cruise line, it also includes pictures of dead U.S. presidents (i.e. cash, U.S. currency being the industry standard) to the Shopping Coordinator. It is also an industry standard that the owners (like Daddy) are aware of it and consider it a bonus that they give to the Coordinators without the need to reach into their own pockets.

All of which explains why I go ashore, purse in hand, at every port. We have ten or twelve stores on each of our 'favorites' list, advertised in the brochures we leave under stateroom doors as we approach each port. I get to meet old friends in these stores, sometimes meet new ones. My purse grows heavier as I leave each store, but as an old song goes, speaking about love, it's a 'pleasant ache'.

But please forgive the following. I know that I am fair of face, that my form curves in places that please the viewer's eyes, that my mouth is always formed in a smile. Both my Daddy and my beloved husband refer to me, in my presence, as 'some wild piece of ass'. And you, dear reader, know essentially that the front of my panties is rarely dry.

And so it is not uncommon, during the eight or so hours when we are in any port, and I've left the supervision of swimming pool games to my assistants, that I may treat myself to various pleasures of the flesh. The retailers on our list are large enough so that a manager can disappear into a storeroom for a while with no disruption of the business operations. They even allow clerks that same privilege, knowing that keeping me satisfied will result in a rave speech to the passengers on Lollypop's next visit.

We docked in Acapulco. I left the ship and made my rounds, saving one particular jewelry shop, no more overpriced than any of the others, for last. First of course, I had called to make sure that Carlos was working that day and that he would 'somehow find time' for me. That was just our code expression for 'I can't wait to see you and fuck your brains out'.

When I finally got to his store, Carlos greeted me with the smile that every customer gets plus a chaste air kiss with touch of cheeks, something for a sister or aunt.

"Maria," he said, "a half hour."

Unconsciously I gave him a sharp look.

"Maria," he corrected himself, "I meant an hour." He knew that I would not be happy if he thought of me as a quickie.

Maria nodded from behind the counter and gave me one of those knowing smiles. I didn't care that she knew what that hour would accomplish. My Daddy knew, my husband knew. I didn't care whether or not Carlos' wife knew. And besides, Maria and I had already made a storeroom date for the next time Lollypop would be in port, because Carlos was scheduled to be on vacation – with his wife, and she would be handling the envelope. And the sex!

Aah, I thought, that sweet aroma of Maria's cunt, the taste like nectar, her soft lips and tongue. But let's forget about that for now. That requires a different story.

I was wearing a white sundress, perfect for the heat of Acapulco and yet prim and proper enough for a crew member who might be recognized by passengers while on shore. I followed Carlos into the back room, heard the lock click as he protected us from accidental exposure. My body melted into his arms. I didn't love Carlos; I just loved his cock, his fingers, his tongue, and yet I felt that our kiss was a little too romantic for a happily married woman.