"my" Coc

I sit on the bed, watching television. My legs are crossed in front of me, and I impatiently flip through a number of channels with the remote control, grumbling to myself why so many channels have commercials at the same time. I'm wearing a sleeveless white camisole and cotton white bikini panties, my back hunched over a little as I aim the remote control in a futile fashion at the TV.

He has just returned from a hard day's work, and has slipped into the shower to skim the grime and dust away from today's adventure. I hear the water running, see a little steam wisping through the partially-open bathroom door. I hear him singing softly to himself, as if he didn't have a care in the world. It's a song I don't recognize, but I smile to myself anyway.

My fingers wander, as they are wont to do, tips gently caressing my mound through my underwear, feeling the curly hair that is nestled within. My mind often wanders, usually to things that can't be repeated in public. I usually think about all sorts of things—the touch of strangers, a forbidden rendezvous, a dark exploration of my body. But right now I am thinking of him. And I am thinking of him for me.

I hear the shower turn off, his voice still cooing softly to some amorphous pop song. He's obviously drying himself off, primping in front of the mirror the way he often does, making sure every part is dry and clean. Fingertips slide under my waistband, parting my curls, finding my button, my lips damp and anxious.

He steps out of the bathroom, naked except for the white towel around his waist. He smiles at me and I return it in kind. He knows something is on my mind. He has a pretty good guess what. I beckon him forward, curling my index finger towards me. He smiles again, and takes a few confident steps, approaching the bed.

I'm on my knees before he reaches me.

I admire his body, I enjoy looking at it. He is toned, but not overly so. Smooth-skinned with few blemishes. Masculine, but not macho. And he loves me, which is more important than all of those physical things. Not that I mind the physical aspects, of course. I bask in our compatibility. But now, at this moment, I'm not thinking about that. I'm thinking about me—what I need, what I want, what I have to have. Right then, right there.

My hands reach forward, palms pressed flat on his chest. I move them down his torso, fingertips well-learned, understanding and memorizing his delicious contours, slowly tantalizing his skin. I look up at him again, and I confirm that he knows what I want. He understands how I work, given our time together. He knows my brain, how it is wired. We don't even need to verbally communicate at this point. I crave him, but I crave him for me.

Soon my hands are at his towel, cinched at the waist and tucked under itself to stay in place. I give it a gentle tug, and in one smooth motion the towel falls to the floor, leaving him standing naked in front of me. My eyes scan his body again, looking first into his eyes then moving slowly southwards towards the prize between his legs. I never grow tired of seeing it. It's not his cock. It's mine.

My girlfriends and I talk about our men all the time. We talk about the things we like most. Their eyes, their bodies, the way they treat us, how they make us feel. How they treat their children, their friends, their co-workers. But my admiration is more simple, more carnal. I so love his (my) dick.

His (My) cock is thick and smooth, and already semi-hard. (My) uncircumcised flesh hides a meaty head, only the tip peeking out of its fleshy sheath. My cock is complemented by heavy balls, shaved and smooth, hanging loosely from the hot shower. This creature gives me much pleasure. My pleasure.

I run a fingertip along its underside, watching as my cock wakes up further, standing on end, the glans willing itself out further from its covering. I circle the head with a fingertip, seeing it twitch involuntarily. I reach for his balls, squeezing, pulling on them firmly, hearing a moan coming from above. But I don't care. This is my cock.

I grasp its thickness in my hands, squeezing it, feeling a pulse. I tug and pull lightly, bringing the foreskin down and revealing the entire head to the air. It is smooth and fat, with a heavy ridge. A thick clear bead forms on the tip, and I rub it in with my thumb. My eyes are locked on my tease. I want my dick hard. I want my dick aching. I want this dick to give me pleasure.

My tongue dances slowly on the underside, a smooth, slow, deliberate lick from stem to tip, leaving a wet trail on the skin. I pause at the cleft, narrowing the tip of my tongue and teasing it menacingly. My hand stays gripped around his balls, squeezing the loose flesh above them, pushing them downward with a moderate amount of pressure. I collect another transparent dollop oozing from the small opening, tasting its saltiness.

Still gripping his sack tightly, I coat his balls with my spit, sucking one into my mouth, then the other, nibbling, biting, enjoying. More muffled sounds from above me, but I ignore them, focusing entirely on my cock. I take another long lick northward, up every delicious inch of meat, before pressing my lips to the head and slowly engulfing it, the head hitting the roof of my mouth and my adjusting accordingly, pushing him down my throat.

I swallow every inch, the entire length, holding my breath, my nose pressing against his abdomen. My tongue snakes outward, licking the underside of his balls while keeping my cock enveloped in my warm, hungry mouth. I then release, a brief gasp for hair, stroking the shaft with my hand as I momentarily recover, watching the foreskin pull and recede. Then I do it again, throating, swallowing, holding, teasing.

I get into a steady rhythm, hands-free, just my mouth and my cock, swallowing, withdrawing entirely, and swallowing again. My hands reach around his hips, holding his ass, pushing him towards me, a slippery battle of wills. Drool begins to collect around my mouth and lips, multiple long, sinewy strands of spit dangling down my chin, swaying like plumbobs looking for water. I moan on my cock, the heat from between my legs working its way up my spine and through my extremities, my body tingling, buzzing with delight.

Withdrawing, I once again grasp the firm flesh in my hand, slippery and shiny from my attention. My free hand reaches between my legs, fingertips curling into my panties, finding my opening wet, warm, and willing. The fingers dance and explore, testing my cunt, finding the perfect spot to linger. My other hand strokes his (my) cock, mouth quickly following behind, bathing it with my tongue and lips.

My body shudders as I touch myself, and I close my eyes and release, crying out, droplets of my dew escaping my core and dribbling down my fingers, pooling on the hardwood floor with an audible gush and splatter. My sopping hand then curls around his (my) circumference, coating it with my own fluids, and I watch myself work, both hands stroking, twisting, engaging. He reaches down to run his fingers through my hair, to caress my cheek. But I am having none of it. I slap his hand away, irritated that my concentration was temporarily broken. No one bothers me when I am pleasuring my cock.

I'm noisy. I slurp and suck, moan and purr. I love taking care of my dick. I take it in deep again, every inch disappearing, holding it agonizingly long. One hand releases, slipping under his sack, fingertips pressing firmly against his perineum, drawing tight, firm circles. It throbs in my mouth, the pulse clear and evident against my clamped lips.

Still holding, my fingers wander further, finding his ass, already wet with my drool. My finger traces around his star, pressing, teasing the delicate, sensitive skin. I'm out of breath and pull out again, exhaling deeply. I can feel my mascara running from my watering eyes. I then look up at him. He is vulnerable. He is anxious. He is ready.

I stick out my tongue and begin to jerk him again, my slippery hand stroking his length, pulling his loose skin. My tongue tucks under his foreskin, circling around his glans. My wrist twists, my pace increases, and I open my mouth, resting (my) cock on my tongue, eager for the gift.

He begins to twitch, his body language changing. His balls, resting on my palm, rise up, my hand following. I look at him. He looks at me. I'm stroking, urging out my reward. He calls my name, but I don't care. It's my dick. Not his.

A throb. The beginning. And on queue I insert my finger inside him, pressing inward, flush on his gland, milking him. Still stroking. Mouth open.

My cock explodes, sending a thick stray jet over my head, stray droplets hitting my forehead, across the bridge of my nose. I quickly control it, guiding the release into my open mouth, and feel spurt after heavy spurt of my gift coating my tongue, the back of my throat. I engulf him with my mouth again, all the way down, his warmth still pulsing out of him. I swallow, and swallow again. My finger wriggles and gesticulates inside him, urging him to complete his task.

I hold (my) cock there, feeling it soften, eyes still locked on his, then withdraw, purposely slow, until he clears my lips, falling southward, a pearly bead still clinging on defiantly.

Our eyes speak volumes. He nods, I nod back. We acknowledge what we both know. This is my cock.