Men with Pretty Cocs

The day was slowly creeping to an end, and it was beautifully warm in my home.

The windows were blowing ever so slightly and I languished by the Bay window, which sprung up from the rug of my landing. I watched the tops of the tree sway in the music of the night. I touched my breasts, as I looked far, far beyond the expanse in front of me.

My nipples were hard, and my breasts, which stood very strongly and attention like, caught a wisp of the wind, which was now blowing longer and louder. I was struck with an overwhelming feeling of seduction and cream.

I needed so badly to feel a man’s skin. I celebrate nothing more than palming a man’s stomach, reaching behind him, and gently grabbing his buttocks in both hands, pulling him deeply toward me so that his cock pushes against my stomach.

Mmmmh! I closed my eyes, and moved my head back and forth, and then in the form of an eight; constantly licking and wetting my lips, with a tongue that was dreaming its own dreams.

My eyes, I later learned, were moist and stunningly distant, seeing a scene that was reserved for my own pleasure.

I could hear rain pitter-pattering on the driveway, below me. And I remember the grand love scene in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, when the aristocratic lady made love to the peasant gardener, while the rain pounded down on their backs, everywhere and where it meets the back meets the bum (a most seductive point on a person’s back) -- and puddles gathered around them, as they sloshed about in orgasm.

Oh, fuck, my cunt is moistening; I have never known a wetter woman then myself. This I say with confidence as I have slept with over 1000 woman and licked more clitorises than anyone I know.

Oh fuck.

I’m fingering myself with my index finger and splashing in raindrops. Oh, fuck, that feels sooooo good. I can only see a dark, handsome man coming close to me.

Fuck. That’s good. Mmmmmh. I have two fingers in me. Mmmmh.

His body is so well formed, that he appears to be made out of Michelangelo, his chest muscular looking like the flat rocks lying in my aunt’s garden. His upper arms are so lovely; I think I will touch them first.

And he has such a lovely cock. It is already awake, and involved in its calisthenics.

Mmmmmh, women giggling in the bathroom would call his cock - very nice. It is clean, looking, bereft of a foreskin (my druthers are such), and it is not as long as porno producers want us to think would be our choice. Its thickness was thankfully less than Ron Jeremy’s or Big John’s, or the policeman’s nightstick.

It is much better than having your cocked referred to as: little, ugly, gargantuous, ugly. I have seen some god-awful cocks in my life, which for some reason had made its owner cocky. I don’t quite understand why men with the ugliest cocks always think that they have the nicest cocks.

Homosexuality, I believe is inevitable for one simple reason – so that men have the chance to see other men’s cocks, close up. Men are far more curious about other men’s cocks, than woman are. You watch. Bring it up when you are among friends, men and women. Say, “I saw the most intelligent cock on a man last night, that I had ever seen.”

The women will be inquisitive, but the men will quietly lust to know what an “intelligent cock is”. They need to know because, if it is a good thing, than they will strive to become the same, because each and every man needs to have the “nicest cock in the world”.

With the aloofness of a model, as she peddles her wears, this gorgeous man stands in front of me, his expression signaling me to suck his penis. And I did, with no hesitation at all. My well manicured hands, soft with very long fingers like Maya’s, traveled the length of his torso, from his lips, to his stomach, to his cock, and further until I had tongued his feet and toes.

I shoved his cock into my mouth, with the adeptness of a prostitute, not a hoar, sucked on the entire length of it. I lathered it and spit at it; like a pitcher warming up the ball, I massaged the underside of it finding that exact, exact, spot which elicits a sweet, prompt orgasm. I have seen men cum with the explosiveness of a beach ball popping; spewing cum across my face, hair and in my eyes – when I had discovered that spot.

His body stopped living for a moment, his groin muscles the tightened in pleasure. His cum shot out of his cock with great speed into my throat. Ich! It tasted so good. I hate anything with this consistency, and this saltiness –but his cum tasted so good.

My fingers squeezed every inch of his cock, crown and all, searching for ways of divesting him of all of his cum. If I could have, I would have bathed in his cum and spread it all over me, drinking and licking from my hands and fingers, because a man’s cum will likely make me do anything I am asked.

I am removing my fingers from my cunt, and if I like I can clean them with my tongue. I am a woman, and indeed can do this or any other perceived perversity, which is what I love about adulthood. I can lick the cum off my fingers, or piss on a man’s face, or spread chocolate cake all over another woman’s feet, legs, cunt, ass, stomach and breasts, and then eat it.

I am woman, I am strong. And nobody can tell me not to.

The rain has effectively subsided, and my derriere hurts from pushing so aggressively up against the window as he came inside of me.

Half awake, I strolled to my bedroom. My bed rested inside of a tank of warm water. I closed the panels, which propped up my body, so that I could not slip into the water, and lay quietly -- as the water lightly rolled, and made waves, which caressed my sex.

Sometimes I would pee while I slept, but you’ll notice every sexual occurrence in one’s sleep is accompanied by an equally thrilling dream. I dreamed some marvelous dreams when I slept in my bed, and once I even made love to a very wet and lost traveling salesman. But that is another story.

Am I a man or a woman?

THE END