How Did You Learn to Love Fellatio?

"How did you learn to love cocksucking?" That is an indiscreet question to ask a woman, as I discovered when I asked the first young woman who sucked mine - but it didn't keep her from doing it again as long as we were together many years ago. She always said it tasted strange, but she must have enjoyed it. I certainly did. A couple of others didn't say that. One only tasted it once and never let that happen again. Another one must have known that she didn't like it, stopping me, when I started to lick her pussy with my cock in front of her face.

Recently, I wondered what some of the answers to the question could be, what women would reply. In all my stories, the girls and women do love to suck cocks, and in most of them, the question would be superfluous, since the stories tell about girls' first experiences. What if I imagined, however, how other girls and women would reply to a later lover's question? I had fun, and hope readers do.

This story starts with the question and immediate response, then shifts to the scene of her first cocksucking, returning to the questioner's response. She gets carried away in her story, telling much more, unplanned food for the long conversation in the last part, when the questioner's, further questions entice her into telling much more.

* * *

"How did you learn to love cocksucking?"

"Who said I do?" my then companion replied with a grin, a young assistant professor in French.

"My cock."

"Hm-hmm! He's right! Didn't know he could also talk."

"Sent me a coded message up my spinal cord. So how did you, now that you've admitted that you do?"

She chuckled, smirking slightly, then replied:

"In France, of course."

"From a Frenchman?"

"He didn't teach me, just made it easy for me to learn by myself."

"Yeah, well, of course, but a Frenchman?"

"You really want to know? I haven't told anyone - I don't think. Oh, I've told a couple of people a little about him, but not that."

"I won't let you, again, until you tell."

"Wasn't that good enough to last for a while? I love it, but I don't have to do it every five minutes."

"He's sending messages that he can't for a while, anyway."

"Hmmm! I didn't think so. But then you'd better do it to me; I love that too."

"Hm-hmm! I didn't know you also liked to do that."

She smirked and replied:

"I didn't mean that, and if I had, I wouldn't tell you."

I scowled, she grinned, and then told about her postgraduate year in Paris.

* * *

I needed somewhere to stay while I looked for a room. Someone in the French department at college knew a man with a large flat in the area west of the Arc de Triomphe, old, high rent neighborhood. I knew that he was a widower, but not yet fifty. With that introduction, I wrote him in French. He replied in English - with a couple of errors - saying that he would be delighted to help me and to return a favor to his friend, telling that he had stayed with him in the States.

At least, he spoke English. Despite all my reading of literature, I wasn't very fluent at speaking French. I wrote him again, this time in English, thanking and telling when I would arrive. He replied that he would pick me up at the airport, saying that he would have sign with my name.

So there I was early one Sunday morning, a little apprehensive, curious, tired, and there he was: looking his age, but fit - no paunch - smiling. We shook hands and got my bags. He spoke English with a nice French accent. We drove to his place. I hadn't seen that part of Paris before, impressive, turn-of-the-century apartment buildings with the old kind of elevator one has seen in movies.

He opened the door and gestured formally for me to enter, a front hall. Then it was funny. When he followed, about to show me into the living room, he exclaimed softly to himself:

"Mon dieu! I forgot!" in French.

Forgot what, I wondered, but then saw a towel on the armchair I could see. He rushed ahead of me and picked it up, and then hurried out of my sight, suggesting that there was another towel somewhere. He came back with abashed expression and remarked:

"I got up too early this morning."

"Thank you, that you did."

I suddenly remembered my aunt's and uncle's place in Florida, in a naturist community. They also had towels on chairs. Was he a naturist, in the middle of Paris? He was still smiling a little wryly. I was going to cramp his lifestyle, or was I? I had enjoyed visiting them. I had to say something:

"Reminded my of my aunt's and uncle' place in Florida - the towels."

"Oh?" he replied, then shrugged with an apologetic expression, then asking:

"You visit them?"

"Have, a couple of times."

I hoped we were talking about the same thing and added:

"Oh, it was a little funny the first time, of course, and I was only a teenager."

"Of course," he replied with a nod and more relaxed expression.

We were talking about the same thing. I chuckled and said:

"Got a bad sunburn."

He chuckled with a grin, and I did. Did I want to join his lifestyle? At least, I wanted him to know that I didn't mind it. I added:

"After that I was more careful, and, well, it was fine, enjoyed it. Might have been different if had been boys my age around, but there weren't."

He nodded again with an understanding smile and replied:

"Yes, like that. We - the rest of my family and I - have vacation like that, after my wife died."

"Oh, sorry about that. Your friend told me."

He nodded with solemn expression, then smiled slightly and said:

"Well, I guess you understood the towels."

"Um-hmm. Sure, why not?"

He looked at me quizzically. Had he understood that I was suggesting I would join his lifestyle? Even when people speak a foreign language well, they sometimes understand an expression differently than it was intended. Or had I intended it that way, subconsciously? He saved me from answering my question:

"Let me show you your room. It has its own bathroom. You probably want to freshen up."

I agreed, and we carried my bags to my room, down a long hall with a couple of other doors to rooms. Before he left me, he said that it was best after a long flight to stay up all day to overcome the jet lag, and said that he would make us good breakfast.

He also left me with my question - maybe his too? I took a good shower, wondering what I should wear, something that suggested I could easily take it off? No bra? Was I wanting to spend a week with him going nude? With a strange man - just alone - in his apartment? But I was his guest, shouldn't upset his normal lifestyle. I must have taken too long. As I was pulling on clean panties, he called that breakfast was ready. Okay, no bra, that summer dress with breast pockets. I hurried to join him.

The table was set. It looked more like brunch than just breakfast, even with a half bottle of champagne. When I looked at it, he shrugged and said that we didn't have to open it, that he just didn't want to disappoint me, if I expected a festive start of my year in Paris. Could I refuse?

I didn't. We had a delightful breakfast with the champagne. He told me that he had already looked for rooms for me, and something about his work schedule, that he could find time to talk to landlords. I told him that he was being too helpful. I think I told him that he was being "too good."

I wasn't tipsy, just tiredly relaxed. When we had finished the meal, I insisted on helping clear the table. In the kitchen together, when I couldn't do anything to help, without looking at me, he said:

"Sorry about the towels. We didn't have to talk about that."

"But it was funny that we did, that I immediately understood. You would have had a lot more to explain, if I hadn't."

"I sure would have!" he agreed, giving me a smile.

"That would have been funny too. Maybe I should have just stood there and let you try."

"I liked it better the way it was."

He smiled at me again, and I smiled back, agreeing:

"I did too."

We both nodded, and he turned back to what he was doing, while I wondered if we were agreeing about more. He could only be pleased and surprised - very surprised - if I told him that I wanted to join his lifestyle. He couldn't ask me. He saved me from my question again:

"You should get out in the fresh air and sunlight to help overcome your jet lag. We can take drive, maybe to Versailles or the Bois de Bolougne and take a walk. Then I'll fix dinner. I'm not a French chef, but I get by."

I agreed, of course, relieved at being able to postpone the question about being nude with him. It was a nice day together. Doesn't matter where we went. He was good company, and seemed to enjoy my company. I had never been with an older man. It did occur to me, that maybe he enjoyed being with a young woman, with a couple of thoughts of what people who saw might think, certainly not that I was wondering about whether to be naked with him. Or maybe just that?! Was he wondering the same thing?

We returned to his flat. When he suggested that I might want to freshen up again, I agreed, then surprising myself, and said:

"I'm just your guest. If you want to - like that - I don't want to upset your lifestyle, said that I have too, can too, will too."

He was surprised, not flabbergasted, but wordless for a long moment. Then he replied softly:

"You don't have to. Don't think you have to."

"I know, thank you. But if you want to?"

"Really? Not unless you really mean it. I don't have to, either."

We exchanged quizzical expression, both then shrugging. Suddenly I began to laugh, just had to, and said:

"I'm never going to be able tell anyone about my first day in Paris!"

He laughed with me, pure nervous release. When we had caught our breath, grinning at each other, he replied:

"I sure hope not, if you mean it that way?"

"I do! Really have to freshen up now."

"Me too," he agreed with a grin.

Had he understood that my panties were all moist? We both had to go to the hall to our rooms, mine at the end of it. We chuckled with smirks. Then he called after me:

"I'm not one of those teenaged boys you were worried about."

"Good thing," I called back cheerfully.

A moment later, I was questioning my cheerful response; I was just going to take of my shirtwaist and panties and meet him again, both of us naked. Yeah, I was going to feel very "naked." "Nude" is when it doesn't bother one in the least.

After a few minutes, my pussy and armpits washed, I returned to the hall wondering where I would find him. He wasn't going to be surprised that my nipples were so stiff. Rubbing my arm over them didn't help. Had he noticed that I hadn't been wearing a bra? They had popped out a couple of times during the day, and then really, when I had told him that I was just his guest.

He was in the living room with a handful of towels. We both smirked. I remembered naturist etiquette and tried to only look at his face. If he wanted to look at my boobs, that was fine; they didn't really need a bra, hardly a crease under them. We both had to chuckle. He shrugged and said:

"I guess you really wanted to."

"You see that I did, but I sure hadn't anticipated that I would."

"Nice, ... that you do, too."

His eyes had dropped down before he completed the sentence, letting my think that "nice" referred to his glance at my body. I murmured:

"Um-hmm, been thinking about it all day - the towels."

"Um-hmm! And if I had remembered them in time this morning?"

"It wouldn't have been so 'nice'."

"I think so too," he agreed.

We smiled and didn't hesitate to look at each other. Had I ever seen a relaxed cock before? Not the couple I could remember. He said that he would start cooking, and I followed him to the kitchen, asking if I could set the table. He showed me the drawer with the silverware and cupboard with plates. Limoges porcelain I discovered at the table.

Then I was back in the kitchen with him, now feeling more relaxed, this was like with my aunt and uncle. He had also glanced at my body, of course, but I liked that, tight nipples and all. Once, my thighs had twitched together. They did again at the recollection. Without looking at me, he said:

"No one knows about this, that I like to be like this."

"My good luck then."

"Mine too," he agreed, then after a moment added:

"No, that's not quite right, my niece knows."

"Your niece?"

"Hmm? Shouldn't have remembered that she was here."

"If she was on vacation with you like that, like this?"

"Oh, she was, of course, so not so surprised about the towels."

"I hope not."

"I remembered them in time, when she came, but, well, as she said, we've seen each most often like this, with the rest her family, of course, and that of my other sibling."

"Of course. But then she discovered the towels somewhere else?"

"Hmm? Sort of. I shouldn't have mentioned her. Can you open the bottle of wine I put out?"

He pulled open a draw, and I found a corkscrew. I managed to screw it in, but then he turned and took the bottle, holding in between his knees to pull the cork out. A naked man doing that, just below his cock; I could look. Those Americans had all been circumcised. So that's how the other kind looked. The cork popped out, and he looked at me. Had he seen that I had been looking at his cock?

He handed me the bottle and suggested that we could have drink while he cooked, gesturing at another cupboard. I found glasses and poured.

"Too full," he remarked as he took one, raising it, and we drank.

"About there," he added as he set down his glass."

I took another drink to bring the level in my glass down to where it was in his, and then said:

"So your niece was here. I guess she just sort of assumed that it would be like on your holidays together."

"She did."

"Nice, like with us. How old was she?"

"You shouldn't ask. That was a couple of years ago, after her baccalaureate, probably nineteen."

"Old enough. Why shouldn't I ask?"

"You shouldn't. I shouldn't have mentioned her."

This was intriguing: he had mentioned her, but kept saying that he shouldn't have. They seemed to have seen each other naked for years, so why not? I didn't have to wonder for long to imagine what an uncle and niece could do together. Really?!

"I won't then," I replied: "sorry. You mentioned her."

"Hmm? I guess so."

"Favorite niece?"

"You weren't going to ask, and favorite uncle, well, the only one."

"More nieces?"

"A couple, younger."

"Hm-hmm! I have an uncle, by marriage, that one in Florida."

"Hmm! He must have liked when you visited."

"Just thought of that. I think he did, and I kind of liked that he did, looked."

"When you were a teenager? Who wouldn't have wanted to? ... Not just then."

"Don't embarrass me."

"Didn't want to, just a compliment."

"Thanks."

My nipples had popped out. He turned and gave me a smile, and we had another sip of wine. I hoped that he had seen them. Jet lag and a long flight, but now it was midday in USA, and I was wide awake, plus a good half glass of wine. I grinned and replied:

"Want me to tell you that you look better than all those fat men in Florida? You do."

"Oooh! Well, I hope so."

"You do."

"You do too, better than my niece. No! That's unfair! She has lovely figure, just, well, more slender than you."

He was looking at my breasts and again erect nipples. I glanced down at them to show that I appreciated that they had popped out.

"Hers are smaller," he murmured.

Her breasts or her nipples? If he could mutter that, I could say something about her:

"Nice that she has a favorite uncle. Why did she visit you?"

"Also looking for a room, first year at the Sorbonne."

"We have something in common - besides enjoying your lifestyle."

"I've got to stop letting young women visit me."

"I don't know why? Seems like ..., well, maybe just not ones that ... appreciate your lifestyle."

He snickered, nodding with a grin, and said:

"Should I ask them first?"

"Hm-hmm! Maybe I could send you a couple from the States."

"Oooh! Which kind?"

"I can just warn them: 'He is very nice, but likes to run around naked."

We both chuckled, grinning. He nodded, but then shook his head and replied:

"Enough, that you and my niece know."

"Don't know why you don't want me to ask about her."

"Don't! If I told you, you would get the wrong idea."

I shut up and let him finish cooking, but his last remark burned in my mind. What wrong idea could I get? Not just about going naked; we had settled that, now I was quite comfortable with it. There wasn't much else that an uncle and niece could do, than what I could imagine. Why shouldn't they have, favorites and she nineteen? Lucky if she had; probably - surely - better than what I had done at that age. Of course, he couldn't admit that.

He finished cooking, and we sat down to eat. He served, and we raised our glasses. My nipples popped out again, and he nodded with a slight smile, before we drank. If he and his niece had done what I could imagine, ... My thighs twitched together under the table.

He led our conversation to other subjects, and we ate and drank. I wondered if he was also trying to avoid further mention of his niece, and if he was, why? Before I emptied my glass, I smiled at him and said - in as harmless a tone as I could manage:

"You don't want to tell me about her, but you have a little, as though you really wanted to. I won't get the wrong idea."

He snorted softly, nodding slightly, a little smile play at the corners of his lips. I nodded. He nodded and then shrugged. After long moment's silence, he nodded again and almost whispered:

"We shouldn't have. You probably already thought that."

I just nodded understandingly. He nodded and took a deep breath:

"It was her idea. She was looking for a room, but she eventually told me - I guess it was the second or third day - about her boyfriend, admitting that they slept together. That didn't surprise or bother me. All girls that age probably do. But she had another problem, he wanted to do something else with her. Hmm! She admitted that she really liked that, but, of course, he wanted her to do it to him."

I nodded again, understandingly; I could so well understand her problem. He nodded and continued: "Well, after she had finally managed to tell me that, she asked if she could try it with me, explaining that if she really didn't like it, she didn't want to have a bad scene with her boyfriend."

I nodded again, understanding her problem, then venturing to murmur:

"What's a favorite uncle for, if a girl can't ask him something she can't ask her parents."

He almost chuckled with a nod, continuing again:

"Sweet of you to say that, my only excuse. I let her. Hmm! Don't have to tell you that it was good for me, and she liked it, delighted."

"Lucky niece!"

"Sweet of you again,"

"Don't have to tell me more."

"If I've admitted that? Of course it wasn't only once, and, well, I couldn't resist wanting to, too."

"Very lucky niece!"

"She thought so, and I did; I had forgotten how lovely a young girl's is. Oooh! I really shouldn't have said that!"

He was almost blushing as he looked at me, shrugging with an embarrassed smile. I raised my glass, and he did, and we emptied them. I hummed with mild smile and replied:

"I have more in common with her than I thought."

He had a quizzical expression. He had told me about his niece; I had said that I wouldn't get the wrong idea, now understanding that I shouldn't think he was trying to seduce me. I didn't, and even if he did? I tried to diffuse my thoughts, murmuring:

"In America, people think - like to think - that all French girls do."

"Hm-hmm! I haven't slept with all of them. Maybe some of them don't. Not all of them really like to, not as much as my niece."