Daddys Best Advice

I didn't want to go down on him.

We had met in Switzerland, where I was taking a summer course after high school in Germany to improve my French. Did we sleep with each other the second or third time we were together? Sooner than I would want to admit, but I had liked older boys since I started high school, when the boys my age were weren't as far along as the girls were. The first person I did sleep with was already a student, a few years older than me, when I was eighteen and still in high school.

The man that summer also was older, and like the first one, he was better than the couple of classmates I had slept with. I knew about oral sex, really loved what they did for me - not the classmates - but I didn't want to do it, and neither of them suggested I should, thank goodness. Why should I want their cocks in my mouth, when it felt so good in my pussy, and they liked to have it there and could give me orgasms?

Oh, I knew a little more about oral sex. My parents allowed me and a girlfriend to spend two weeks on Corsica. We were both a year older than most of our classmates, eighteen before our last year in German high school. It still surprises to me that they let us go alone and to Corsica. We both had brought along books. One of hers was "Salt on our Skin." We took turns reading it. Had she known how much sex there was in it? She didn't admit it, seeming to be as surprised as I was. To make it short, we got turned on. I knew that the first man liked to lick my pussy. Soon both of us knew why. It seemed as though the woman in the story should have wanted to do it to him. She did, but never all the way and it didn't sound like she really like to do it. Maybe I would have had a different attitude about it, if in the story she had been more enthusiastic and let him have his orgasms in her mouth. Or maybe I would just have been shocked. If in such a story she didn't want to, I didn't want to do that.

The fall after being in Switzerland, I started at university in France. He and I were corresponding, telephoning, and he would visit me and enjoy more good sex. That continued for my second year in France. I don't know how much I told and wrote in letters to my parents about him, enough that they knew we were seeing each other and could assume that we slept with each other. They had to have known when I slept with the first one; I had simply said that I wasn't coming home one night.

Then one day I got another letter from my father. He must have written about other things that were happening at home, but I only remember that somehow he led up to the statement: "Try to be the best lover he ever had."

Was I surprised! It didn't seem like he was talking about my friend, that it was just general advice, if I was serious about a man. After my initial surprise, I understood that it was good advice, that the man I might want to marry shouldn't be able to think that sex with a former girlfriend had been better. Then I wondered if he could be thinking that, that Mother wasn't as good in bed as other girls or women he had slept with. There must have been a few; they didn't get married until they were in the he was over thirty.

How to be the best lover he ever had? I could only think of one way to do more than I had, to do what the woman in the book did, and better. My older friend couldn't have been celibate before we met, not as good as he did everything he did. Had girls done that to him, better than the woman in the book? Was that what Daddy meant, and didn't Mother like to do it? I couldn't envision her doing that, couldn't envision his doing with her what my friend did so good with me. But if that was what he was implying, he must know, must have liked what someone had done to him better that what Mother did, if she did anything like that at all. That had to be what he had been thinking to have so surprisingly ventured to write that.

With these thoughts, I convinced myself that I had to do it. Maybe I didn't want to marry him, but when I thought that I did want to marry someone, I would have the experience, then recalling that I had heard that French girls did it. Maybe it wouldn't be like I had been thinking, since we had read that book. Had she not wanted to go all the way because it tasted so strange, like I had heard somewhere? If she knew that, had she tasted it before the story started?

I had to try, at least. The next time he visited, I got up my nerve and did. I had been envisioning what his cock looked like and how it would feel in my mouth. My imagination had been good, it did feel like I had imagined, so nice and firm and smooth, just wanting to be licked, caressed by my tongue, making him moan. He didn't say anything but did tousle my hair, as though he had done that before.

Yes, some other girl must have done it to him. Daddy had been right: I had to try to be the best lover he ever had, at least try to be as good. I did, beginning to enjoy having his cock in my mouth, the feeling of it, and then that it twitched. I was arousing it and making him moan; I was doing it right!

Oooh! I was tasting something salty, but that tasted good. Besides, I knew that he couldn't be having his orgasm yet, since he then groaned and his hips jerked. Was that going to happen when I continued? Was I going to let him come in my mouth? I had never seen what happened, since his and the other cocks had always been in me, when they did. I knew what it looked liked, however, whitish liquid in condoms, and since I had started taking the pill, whitish liquid oozing out of my pussy.

I fondled his balls, like I did before we fucked. He had liked that, and did now, chuckling, but then his skin was drawing up, and his hips were slowly rocking up. I was making them do that, like they did, when I was sitting on him. This was being as arousing for his cock - and him - as its being in my pussy. I suddenly had a feeling of power, control. I could arouse him as good with my mouth and tongue as with my pussy. I felt it was going all wet; sucking his cock was arousing for me too. Of course, like his cock was always aroused when he rose up after he had licked and sucked and had his fingers in my pussy.

It was being too arousing to think about trying to stop before he came. Oh, his hand - now both of them - were urging me to move my head up and down. Of course, I was fucking him with my mouth, and his hips were rocking fast and further. I grabbed his cock below my lips to keep his cock from going too deep in my mouth - after it had once. How was it going to taste? It didn't matter; I wanted to make him come, wanted to be the best lover he ever had.

He was groaning. I knew he was about to. Then he grunted with a sharper thrust of his hips, and I felt it shoot through his cock, where my fingertips were, and hit the back of my mouth. Before I could taste it, another spurt was in my mouth, and then another and another, and then a couple of weaker ones. I had done it! He held my head still.

"Strange" wasn't the word to describe how it tasted, more than strange, but I had wanted it, wanted him to give it to me. Despite how it tasted, my tongue wanted to slosh it around, maybe to let him know that I didn't mind how it tasted. Did girls spit it out? Where, most inconvenient, and it wasn't going to remove the taste. I swallowed what I could with my head down and then raised my head, trying to keep it from leaking out of my mouth, as my lips closed around the head of his cock. I swallowed again, looking up at him.

He moaned with slight smile, and then his hands urged me to rise up and drew me over him. I did, lying on him. Did he want to kiss me with that taste still in my mouth? He did, and with his tongue exploring deep in my mouth. He wanted to taste it too, as though he were confirming that he had really wanted me to do it, maybe finally after our years together.

I was surprised then, when his hand wanted to get between our hips. I raised mine, and his hand found his cock, and then, like it had many times before, guided it to my pussy. He had to hold it straight to force its head into me, but my wet, aroused pussy didn't offer any resistance, welcoming it with a squeeze, when it was a little deeper in me.

He moaned with a nod; he wanted to fuck after I had just made him come so good. That had never happened before, couldn't have, but he knew I that wanted to, as wet as my pussy was, and from how he was always aroused when he had licked my pussy. If other girls had done it to him, and they had then fucked, he must know that he could again.

He could; we did, and how we fucked! I rode him, moving my hips every way I could, longer than I ever had before, since he had always drawn me down on him and wanted to move his hips. But this time he let me continue longer; I assumed, because I had just given him such a good orgasm. Funny, for a moment I recalled riding ponies and then horses, but it had never been like this. But only for a moment, my pussy was going crazy from my hips churning his cock in it. I couldn't help it and came without his hips moving.

That had never happened before, and I had never had my orgasm independent of his. He knew it, recognizing my noises and how my pussy was clutching his cock. He moaned, as I gasped and whimpered, and then he did draw me down on him and began to fuck. My pussy could want more?! It could and got it. My hips just had to move, slapping down on his, when they thrust up. It felt almost as though my orgasm was continuing, but then - when he grunted and felt his - I really had another one, better than before.

I collapsed on him, gasping and moaning, my body still twitching, aware the my pussy was still contracting. It had never been like that before. For what seemed a long time, I wasn't conscious of anything. Then I felt our stomachs rising and falling, not in the same tempo, sometimes against each other and then out of phase, his rising as I sighed. When we had recovered, he sighed with a long moan and murmured in French, the language we used:

"My God, that was good!" and hugged me.

I could only nodded on his shoulder, then recalling what my father had written and wondering if trying to be his "best lover" wasn't just about sucking his cock but also about that resulting in how we had fucked. After a moment, he rubbed my back and snorted silently. I felt his stomach draw in sharply. Then he hummed and murmured:

"You could have done that before sometime."

I chuckled and moved off him, lying with my arm around him and my thigh draw up over his, then shook my head on his shoulder. He turned his with quizzical expression. I chuckled again and replied:

"I needed some encouragement."

"Hmm? From whom, something you read?"

"Hm-umm. No, well, from someone."

"And did it?" he asked in very surprised, almost accusing tone.

"Oh no! That was the first time."

"And the 'someone'?"

I chuckled, knowing that I was really going to surprise him, and answered:

"Daddy."

He caught his breath and held it, then took another one, before he murmured:

"Your father? ... He told you to do that?!"

"Didn't tell me to do that, of course, and didn't 'tell' me, just in a letter."

"He writes you about ..., well, what you - we - do? Do you?!"

"Of course not, but they know we've been seeing each other since we met and can assume that we do; they met years before they got married."

"Of course, but what did he write? If I may ask?"

"It really surprised me that he did, and I can't remember how in the letter he got on the subject, but then he wrote: 'I should try to be the best lover he ever had.'"

"You are!"

* * *

I don't know if it was really like that, since I am only the father telling the story, but I sure like to think it was. Who knows, maybe she didn't need my advice, was already the best lover he ever had. My daughter, already better than whomever a man several years older had known? Maybe, but not in my story. The story would have been 16 or 17 years ago. They married and have three children, so I sincerely hope that she is the best lover he ever had.