Is it true that the most erotic organ in the human body is the brain? Some pundit must have arrived at this revelation decades, if not a century, ago, and perhaps it's a valid conclusion. Yet, it appears as though researchers in psychology have spent so much time investigating and decomposing data that they have somehow precluded the innate ability we all should have to appreciate the excitement, the pleasure and the simple enjoyment of sex itself. Whatever happened to fantasy and the fulfillment thereof?
These heavy and heady thoughts were circling my brain like airplanes in a holding pattern as I was enjoying coaxing a cock to deliver its cherished cargo to the landing strip of my tongue. (Granted, an obtuse metaphor, but it is truly amazing how one's actions can so dissociate with one's thoughts.)
I had not had a relationship with a man in months, perhaps a longer stretch in my life than ever before. Here though, I was not in a relationship with this man, just having relations. Besides, he was half my age. What was I doing?
Clearly, I knew exactly what I was doing: I was slowly and forcefully making firm ovals with my tongue just underneath his balls, getting tickled by their hair, separating them with the bridge of my nose. It was a pleasure to be doing this and I was really looking forward to him coming in my mouth for the second time that afternoon. Admittedly, that didn't happen the way I had expected, but what did was even more entertaining and enjoyable.
Three things surprised me that afternoon: First was the information I discovered about this young man's sexual fantasies. Second and even more thrilling, given his quite average appearance, was his possession of an extraordinary sexual gift. Third, like an internal swat upside the head, I could not figure out how I could have gone without sex for so long.
Come One
But I'm getting ahead of myself, so let me provide some background. My name is Carol. This past summer I began taking college classes, something I'd begun regularly over the years but rarely completed. Now, at the age of, well... I know it's a poor attempt at self-deception, but it's easier for me to say simply that I was born in 1955. I'm height-weight proportionate. I work out every day diligently and rigorously. (What is this? I sound like I'm writing an on-line dating ad. Sheesh.) And, if I may say so myself, I know that many assume I'm in my mid, all right, late thirties. Personally, I'm flattered when it's assumed I'm still forty-something. A little neurotic? OK. But, bottom line: I'm not unattractive. (I'm proud to say that I have already learned in my Speech class that that's an example of "litotes." And I haven't even completed my first semester!)
For years it's been clear that I needed to get a college degree, but somehow it was never possible. Recently I made it a personal mandate and enrolled in a local college. I just finished my first semester, my grades were good, and I feel much more self-confident than I did when I began.
Murphy, the fellow whose hair was tickling my nose, was in one of my classes. He and I, as well as some other students have been studying together in the library. Today, after an early morning test he asked me if I'd like to join him for a cup of coffee.
It was a pleasant surprise, but a bit of a shock in light of our generational disparity. (This was more comfortable to tell myself this than, "What are you? Nuts? You're old enough to be his mother!") Nevertheless, I was quite flattered by this young man's invitation. He's in his mid-twenties and, while neither handsome nor terribly well built, he was appealing and, from my experience in this class, pretty sharp. He was always supportive of other students and had a warmth about him that summoned me.
After the exam I needed to track down and speak to another professor, though. He told me he wanted to go work out to relieve some stress and we decided to hook up in a few hours at a coffee shop a block from campus.
When I arrived he'd actually set a table near the fireplace with a tablecloth and candles. It looked so incongruous in a Starbucks, but I was delighted. He got up when I came in and helped me into my seat. For a twenty-five year-old, or actually for any man, all of this was a generous and appreciated gesture.
"So, Murphy, do you do this for all of your dates?" I kidded him, sipping my cappuccino, and, for the first time in several long days and nights of studying, feeling peaceful and enjoying myself.
"Can I be honest with you, Carol? I am more than a bit intimidated by you. I mean, I know I'm probably too young for you. And, you are a woman with such class I didn't even know if you simply 'had coffee,'" he replied.
"Well, I am flattered that you pulled out all the stops. I've never seen such an elegant table setting – in a Starbucks."
Fifteen minutes drifted into an hour. It began to storm outside and our cozy mid-day table by the fireplace was just the thing I needed to relax and forget about the pressures of school.
As I sat there enjoying this much younger man's attention I realized that I hadn't had sex in months, not since the spring, before I moved to this mid-sized town to focus on my education. As far as I knew Murphy was unattached and I began to wonder what it might be like to suck his cock.
Perhaps I should explain something: I'm a cockswoman. Without boring the reader with the details, I love cocks. I enjoy seeing them, touching them, playing with them, feeling them on my skin and inside of me. But even more exciting for me is when they come. And here, for me, it's the event itself. I get off on the male orgasm. Watching the cock of a man who hasn't come in days explode and shoot high up in the air is exciting, but so is simply watching a man who's already had a couple of orgasms in an evening create just a tad more of that lovely white juice for an encore.
You see, as much as I am fascinated by the male orgasm – so much so that I almost always climax watching a penis come – I think it's the semen that has the unique appeal. (The proof being in the product of the pounding of the pud. (Can anyone say, "The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true?")) Its unique smell, its oily texture, its shiny whiteness, and especially the slightly salty and tingly taste, are all part of my love affair with the male climax.
I can still remember the first major boyfriend I had; I was eighteen. We were on his bed in his dormitory room (I was a townie.) and watching television. We'd just had sex and were both naked. He had his head propped up on a pillow and I was resting mine on his chest. As he was caressing my shoulders and back, I was stroking his cock back to life.
He got another erection and I continued to stroke him, faster and harder. I could feel his heart pounding in his chest and, by his heavy breathing, I knew he was going to come soon. As I considered whether to get up and slide him back into me, I knew it was too late to take any action: at that moment he came. He began shooting what seemed to my relatively inexperienced eye like a large amount of semen up towards the ceiling. Surprising myself, while I kept on pulling his cock and enjoying the show it was providing, I began to climax. It was a strong roller and it overwhelmed me. I began to shudder as the muscles in my thighs clamped tightly and I continued to watch his cum jet out over my hand and onto his abs and chest. Watching him cum gave me a larger orgasm than any I'd had from fucking or even masturbating.
At that moment I would have pushed away any attempt by anyone or anything to come near my pussy. I felt as though its thermostat had been pushed up to "high" and it was sending its warmth throughout my one hundred and eight pound body. My breasts began to tingle, my nipples getting even harder than they had been.
By now his orgasm had slowed to just a trickle and I began to get control of myself. Fortunately, my somatic system was apparently smart enough to concomitantly slow down so that I was not overly stimulating his cock at this tender time in the male orgasm process.
Looking down at his dwindling erection I continued to bask in the waning minutes of my surprising and rather outrageous orgasm. To my limited and naïve knowledge, girls always came via some sort of clitoral stimulation. At least that had been true for me. I'd never really thought much about semen before. I'd had a few boyfriends to whom I'd given blowjobs, but for whatever reason, I'd just felt like it was something I was supposed to do. Should they come in your mouth, you hastened to swallow (since I'd been told by my girlfriends that it was not something you wanted to taste) and then you made a beeline for the bathroom for some gargle and to brush your teeth if you wanted him to kiss you. That was my experience up to that moment.
But, it had been – at least partly – the sight of that cock and its fireworks display that had given me the biggest orgasm of my young life. Compelled by the glistening semen, I brought my hand, covered in the beautiful white fluid, towards my face. There were strands of white hanging down and draping across his chest. Stopping my hand a few inches above my mouth, I let the largest, pendulous strand slowly drip onto my outstretched tongue. As I continued to rotate my hand, a large amount of the semen fell, covering my tongue, my lips, and part of my cheek. Its texture, smell, and taste excited me anew.
This time an orgasm appeared to form in my mouth and emanate down to my nipples, to arrive forcefully at my clit. As I licked up the juices from my hand and my cheeks I began to come again. At that moment I was desperately in need of that semen. With the orgasm continuing I cleaned up my hand and face; then I moved down towards his now-small cock, licking and slurping up all the delicious juices along the way. I finished cleaning his cock and balls and lay back to enjoy the vestiges of these two huge climaxes.
So, back to Murphy. Remember Murphy, the fellow student with whom I'd been having cappuccino before I went into my ancient history? I wanted you to know why I might have permitted myself to have coffee with him. It had been a long time since I'd tasted any of that wonderful male juice, too long. He was amiable, bright, had a bit of charm about him, and the whole tablecloth and candles thing made me think: He's just so sweet. Why not pursue this?
When it felt like it was time to wrap up our coffee conversation the weather had worsened and, though just early afternoon, it was rather dark and dreary outside.
"Would you like to come back to my room?" he asked me as he stood, my eyes surreptitiously glancing at the bulge in his jeans now at eye level. Was I seriously considering sucking his cock at that moment? A man half my age?
