Adventures Unfinished

First: (1) All the characters in this story are 21 years of age or older. (2) This story is intended for adults only. (3) Unlike the real world where it's important to know who your sexual partner is and to practice safe sex, in all of my fictional tales, no one has any sexually transmitted diseases. (4) In the world of fantasy your proclivities are just that: yours. In the real world, mutual respect is essential.

About the story: If you're looking for a story loaded with masturbatory material (i.e., "stroke stories") this might not be your cup of tea. It may have more story and less sexual activity than you're seeking.

I've chosen to categorize this story and its ensuing parts in the

Novels and Novellas

section because of its length. This is the second in a series entitled Adventures Unfinished.

If you're interested in this main character there are three previous stories that precede

Adventures Unfinished 1

. They are (in order):

What I Did for Love, Over Cum Addiction

and

After the Crash.

= { O } =

"You're not going to leave me hanging here, are you? Just tell me if sucking this guy's cock every day for a year worked. Did it fix his dysfunctional dick?"

It was not my intention to keep my closest friend Maya in suspense. I did not want to remain silent on the matter. In fact, I'd realized that there were many, many things in my past that I had kept from her.

Was it embarrassment? The realization, or at least the reminder, that I often exhibited wanton behavior? Fear that she'd think so much less of me that I'd lose her friendship? I did not know.

The truth was, however, that I was exhausted. It had been a long day, full of completely unexpected surprises, one after another — all good — but nonetheless overwhelming. In essence, I'd won the lottery.

Maya, however, was insisting that she learn what happened with Mace — the above-mentioned recipient of said daily blowjob — a middle-aged man I'd met by happenstance a couple of years ago when he was exploring an experimental treatment for chronic sexual dysfunction. Her interest was piqued no doubt because the treatment involved a "made fresh daily" capsule whose contents had to include female DNA and his semen in addition to the chemical formula. It all sounds rather complicated but the bottom line — the nuts and the bolt, as it were — was that it required him to be a daily blowjob receiver and I'd opted to be the blowjob giver. That's each and every day. For a year. To a man whom I'd just met.

Of course, given my affinity for such activity, that does nothing to clarify which one of us was getting the better deal, the longer end of the stick.

Earlier in the day I'd discovered that Mace, whom I'd not seen or spoken to in a year since his treatment regimen ended, had suddenly made me a rich woman. In fact, I'd never have to work another day in my life and I'd remain a rich woman. There were lots of other things I could do with my time. Productive things, altruistic things. The world always needed people who cared, who were benevolent, especially those who would actually do something about the ills that are so prevalent.

Mace had given me an elegant, multimillion-dollar house, lavishly furnished with lovely eighteenth century style hand-crafted pieces as well as four ridiculously expensive cars worth about a million dollars. Not only was everything completely paid for (i.e., no mortgage, no loans), but he'd set up a trust to cover all maintenance, utilities, taxes and insurance. Oh, and there was a steady stream of cash that I'd receive every month for the rest of my life too.

The only other thing I might have wished for was an on-call service that would provide cocks and semen when my need for them arose. But, now that I was a woman of wealth, I was sure I could make my own arrangements.

Just trying to grasp Mace's largesse had overwhelmed me. I was exhausted.

After having only received these gifts hours earlier, Maya and I had just returned from a delightful meal in my new half-million-dollar Lamborghini and I was talked out.

So in response to her plea, I just looked at her, paused, and then shook my head slowly.

"Maya," I told her, my eyelids heavy, "I don't want to leave you hanging, but the story can keep."

"No, no," she argued. "You've got to tell me something." She stopped, pondering. "But I suppose if things were so great between the two of you, why would he have left? So maybe all was not perfect. Maybe it didn't work." A beat, Maya's mind working. "But then again, you said you gave him blowjobs so I assume that means he climaxed. So maybe it did work. But why did he go? I mean, I don't think I've ever met a man who, if offered a guaranteed daily blowjob, would give that up. And from someone with your talents and eagerness — and your body. Jeez. I don't know a guy who could keep his hands off those boobs!"

"OK. I'll tell you one thing and then I'm going to sleep," I said. "Although, if I tell you, it might make you even more curious. But I won't answer any more questions tonight."

"Um, so you'll tell me one thing that's going to drive me even crazier?" she said. I nodded. She paused for a few seconds and then said, "All right, lay it on me."

"We all know most women are their own worst critics. Well, generally, except for

those women

, you know the ones who criticize everyone else." She nodded. "Yet, we also have a few things about us... I mean every woman I know, if pressed, will admit to things she thinks are nice. Like her hair, eyebrows, toenails, her elbows, her laugh or smooth skin on some specific place on her body. You know."

Nodding, she agreed.

"And this is even true when it comes to sex: moves, actions, responsiveness, assertiveness, playfulness, maybe even things she can do with her tongue or some other body part." Maya raised her eyebrows questioningly but then slowly acknowledged the statement. I continued, "So, I've got three things that mesmerize men, and usually women too. But I'll tell you those things in the morning."

Maya looked even more frustrated as yet more questions obviously queued up in her brain. But still she doggedly went back to arguing out loud the possible reasons for Mace leaving and/or staying, mostly much to herself. As I was drifting off she started to blurt out things that might mesmerize men. Then she returned to the subject of my breasts.

"If I had 'em that big I don't think I could keep my own hands off them."

"Maya, please," I protested.

"You can't just tease me like this and then go to sleep. This is like a guy going down on me and doing a smash-up job, really taking his time to get me just where I need to be — then, right before I have the biggest climax of my life, he just stops. You can't be this kind of a cock-story teaser. Please. Please tell me," she begged.

Feeling only a tad guilty and needing to sleep, I said goodnight. Somehow I made it up the stairs in my new and still mostly unexplored mansion. When the lights turned on automatically at the door of the master bedroom I was again stunned by the overly generous proportions of the place. My weariness even caused me to fantasize what it would be like if there were perhaps a shuttle to take me from the doorway to the bed.

Of course the beautiful master bathroom was replete with thick, rich towels as well as an array of fragrances, soaps, lotions, bodywashes and shampoos. Some of the brands were unknown to me, although I was sure they could only be found in elite boutiques.

After my now very late-night ablutions I found that the closets and wardrobes were brimming with expensive designer apparel (from the likes of Louis Vuitton, Prada, Dior, Chanel, D&G, Armani, et al) as well as just plain comfortable everyday items. Everywhere I looked Mace's thoughtful gifts continued to astonish me. So, I wasn't at all surprised to find a lingerie cabinet full of several thousand dollar's worth of bras and panties that were all in my difficult-to-find and mismatched sizes. He had a thing for my boobs — and bras for them.

Eventually I found some Hanro cotton pajamas (thoughtfully purchased as a mixed set: L and XS), pulled back the comforter and climbed into bed. After telling the room to turn off the light I stretched out on the most comfortable bed and linens I'd ever felt in my life.

As I began to drift off to sleep, I had something occur to me, something familiar, although not necessarily a positive thing. Unfortunately, I didn't know what. My mind began to try to figure out what this déjà vu thing was all about. After a few minutes, I gave up. Maybe it would come to me, I thought.

Now I could only think about Mace and our time together. Then I began to try to figure out how he could afford this. How anyone could afford this. What had I done to deserve this?

Did I get all of this because I was a really great cocksucker — and loved doing it?

That's not necessarily what you'd be proud to have on your tombstone. I could see the outré obituary:

Patrice __________ passed away peacefully in her sleep at the age of 97. In her youth Patrice developed early notoriety as a uniquely talented oral sex practitioner. She set a documented (amateur) record for the most blowjobs given in a one-year period, 2,985. Patrice also broke the daily record, having sucked 338 cocks to climax in a 24-hour period. On at least three occasions she's known to have swallowed more than a quart of semen in ten minutes or less. Her legacy also extended to deep throating talent. She first entered the Guinness Book at the age of 26 by deep throating an erect penis whose length was... Patrice leaves three children, five grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren. One questions when she found time to even get pregnant. The family requests that in lieu of flowers, a donation be made to your local sperm bank.

Seriously, I was reminded of all the times I'd sucked Mace's cock. That reminded me of Steven, the parties he'd arranged for me and all of the cocks I'd sucked when I'd known him. There was no doubt that even with the focus Mace and I had on improving his sexual function — one could also phrase that "with all the blowjobs I'd given him," although it was actually more complicated — I had still sucked Steven many more times. In fact, I actually did begin to wonder how many gallons of cum had passed over these lips and down this throat in the course of my life. (Could it really be gallons? I didn't even want to think about that.)

Before I first started seeing Steven five or so years ago, my sex life frequently involved men obsessed with large breasts, but with the few men I'd actually slept with I'd had nice vaginal and/or clitoral orgasms. They weren't anything spectacular, but they were satisfactory and I had them almost every time I had sex. Once Steven reoriented my below-the-waist sexual focus to an above-the-waist one I had become a one-trick pony.

My mind began to race (Not what I needed: As I've said, it late and I was exhausted.) as I recalled some vivid memories of the hundreds of cocks I'd sucked or that at least had given me their creamy bounty. I was dumbfounded by the staggering amount of blowjobs I'd given. It was easily into the thousands. Jeez!

Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I tried to relax. Maybe it was guilt about having the immeasurable good luck to now be the possessor of a fortune.

I thought about the car — that sleek sexy Italian beast resting somewhere below me just dying to show what it could do — as well as the others (Who knew Bentley even made an SUV?), plus the house, the grounds, the virtually endless supply of money. For life.

Where did Mace get all of this money in the course of the year since I'd last seen him? Is it even possible to get rich enough to give tens of millions of dollars away in one year? What had he used for seed money?

As a former Wall Street big shot, Mace and I often used the term "seed money" as a play on words, an immature and not very subtle joke about cum.

So the term got me thinking about Mace and his semen — and my obsession with the stuff. Thinking about his cock and cum in general, I became really horny.

Imagine my ridiculously ironic dilemma. There I was in a huge — and surely outrageously expensive — bed.

My

huge bed, all alone. I suddenly wanted Mace's cock. I'd had a relationship with his cock.

But actually at that moment I would have sucked almost any cock, blowjob addict that I was and still am. Then I realized that I wanted to see one come. I wanted to feel one on my tongue, to run it over my lips. I wanted to see the stuff shoot out. Although, it didn't even have to shoot. I'd known quite a few guys whose cum just kind of spilled or even oozed out. That would have been just fine too. And the aroma...

1. Salvatore

Thinking about past relationships reminded me that one of the last ones I'd been in — albeit short-lived — was months ago. It was with a guy named Salvatore whom I'd met while my old car was where it spent too much time: in the repair shop. In fact, I even purchased a slip cover for one of the more comfortable chairs in their waiting room. If I was going to spend that much time there, I figured it ought to be in a more comfortable chair, one that was less hirsute.

Salvatore and I only dated a few times, but he was interesting — or so I thought — and he seemed nice. He was even a professional, some kind of engineer. There were no real sparks, yet I did enjoy his company. So one night I felt a bit lonely and remembered that it had been some time since I'd been with anyone: I surprised myself when I made the decision to sleep with him for the first time. It also turned out to be the last time, but what can you do?

We were at Sal's place and we went into his bedroom. It was a little weird: my sudden eagerness for intimacy surprising both of us. We lay down and kissed. He touched me. I touched him. It was nice. After a little bit we started to remove each other's clothes.

When I felt his cock it was hard and velvety in my hand. Just touching it gave me a thrill. I was glad I'd made the decision. I could feel the excitement building deep inside of me. His erection made his excitement obvious to me.

I went down on him. It was the natural thing for me to do and to be honest I truly

needed

to go down on him. Fondling his hard dick only reminded me how much I had missed the feel of one in my mouth.

After a while of doing the things that other men had seemed to like, though, he appeared to be only bordering on the cusp of responsiveness, just not enjoying it a whole bunch. Soon it dawned on me that Sal simply was not liking anything I did. I had brought my A game: my mouth, my tongue and my hands in just about every combination possible. Nada! I took him deep into my mouth.

I stopped at deep throating him. I'm not sure why, but that felt a little too intimate for a first time experience, at least this first time experience with Sal. This was a bit of a shock even to me, given the abandon with which I'd deep throated groups of thirty, forty or more guys in one evening, just for fun.

All in all, though, that night's cocksucking experience was a disappointment for me: He was nicely proportioned. He smelled and tasted good, the way a recently showered cock should. But after several minutes of trying almost all of the things that had worked for other cocks, he gently pulled me up.

OK, I thought to myself, maybe he wants to have intercourse. I remembered one guy who told me that it can sometimes be frustrating when a woman just starts to suck his cock because he was always unsure of her ultimate goal. He didn't know if he should expect to come in her mouth or if it was just foreplay. I guessed I could understand, especially given the limitations of the male sex organs. There were only so many orgasms a guy could have in an evening. (Or so I thought...)

That made sense to me: If a woman is going to suck a cock she should probably let the guy know if, for that hard-on at least, it's the warm-up or the main act. Since Sal and I hadn't really talked about the evening's plans I could see him deciding to take charge. This way, from his viewpoint, there'd be no guessing about where he would be depositing his load.

Personally, I would have preferred to suck his cock and to get a mouthful of cum. But having traditional sex seemed so sane and healthily conventional. Maybe I could return to the fold, as it were. Maybe having a hard penis in my vagina — something it was not very used to and unfortunately was often painful — would be just the thing I needed. Sucking always made me wet even well before I came so now I had the chance to put all that lubrication-making equipment down there to some practical use for a change.

So I reluctantly moved up from his crotch. We kissed for a few moments. He then focused on my boobs. No surprise there. Since I began developing — before I was even a teenager — my chest had been a magnet. I'd always tried my best to hide it, but there really wasn't much I could do. I was tall and thin and I should have proportionately sized breasts. In my mind that was somewhere between two fried eggs and a pair of plums, something a ballerina would have. Instead, I was cursed or blessed — depending on your viewpoint — with extremely large breasts, to stay in the fruit category: more like honeydew melons, nudging up against watermelons. They don't go with my body type and probably most women's body types. In public when I would occasionally let the staring get to me, my breasts made me feel like I was a freak. Few companies even make bras with large enough cups and small enough bands. My breasts are absolutely out of any proportion to the rest of me. Nevertheless, there they were. Eyes went to them no matter what: even completely covered under a layer or two of loose tops and a jacket. No matter what I wore, people could only see them. My height, making me taller than many guys and most women, only compounded the problem by putting my bust high enough for all to see. It was as though there were but two parts of me: the plinth (from the ground to my waist) and my breasts, the object on display. Sometimes I felt like the rest of me (from my clavicle up) was invisible: I was an acephalous pair of breasts on a pedestal.

It reminds me of a bit of dialog from the film

Notting Hill

, every word of which I remember, where they're in bed and the Julia Robert's character says:

What is it about men and nudity, particularly breasts? How can you be so interested in them? Seriously, they're just breasts. Every second person in the world has them ... They're odd looking. They're for milk. Your mother has them. You've seen a thousand of them. What's all the fuss?

Well, the reality is that when you're this big

you

are the fuss!

I infrequently wore anything that showed much cleavage or even much skin below my neck. It always seemed that those things were even more attention grabbing. On the other hand I had learned that keeping completely covered also had a way of emphasizing the mass of my bust. I'd settled on modest V-necks for much of my wardrobe. On my trip to France a woman in a bikini shop in Nice gave me some guidelines on dressing for my shape. Now that I could afford to get a new wardrobe I was going to try out some of those fashions.

But returning to my torso, it seemed like it didn't matter what I wore, my bust was like a matter of public record and even open for discussion.

I'd found over the years that just about all guys fell into three categories when it came to my chest. The first were the

Cantwaiters

. Then there were the

Nowwatts

and last were the

Skools

.

The

Cantwaiters

just wanted to get my top and bra off. It was like a lifetime dream of theirs, their own personal Mt. Everest. Now they'd reached El Dorado or Nirvana or whatever — to me they were just breasts and even with all the hassle they caused sometimes they gave me a great deal of pleasure — and they

Can't Wait

to get to them. The question always arose and I could see it in their eyes once my chest was on display:

They're so big, what do I do with them? Should I just grab them or should I stroke them? Should I caress the nipples or the sides? They're so big, I can't even hold one with both my hands. I don't even know where to start

. Sometimes they knew what to do with them or they learned from my sounds, guiding hands and informative words what I liked. Much more often, though, they played with them the way they wanted to with little regard to the suggestions I gave.