I Sucked A Married Mans Cock

I remember the first time I sucked cock. That boy made me wait for it.

Or, more accurately, that man did.

He was fifty years old at the time. I was nineteen.

It happened in a car. His car. Front seat. Who was he? A married man. I think the fact that he had a wife turned me on more than anything else about him—even more than his intellect or his subtle wit or his aging marathon runner's thighs.

At nineteen, I still lived with my parents. He, of course, lived with his wife. Our respective limitations drove us to meet in the car. The parking lot of choice was that of the botanical gardens, where the shade of overhead trees and the scent of flowers on the breeze made the whole affair seem a little less sordid.

We made out in his car at least twice a week. He touched me, sucked my tits, fucked me with his fingers, but that's where he drew the line. Maybe that seems strange. Maybe you'd expect an older man to take everything he could get. It's not like I didn't offer.

He was the one holding us back. He was afraid of getting caught, for starters. We were in a public place. But I believe guilt was the greater consideration. He'd never cheated on his wife before. Whether or not he'd had the opportunity I couldn't say. All I know is that I offered my body to him and for months he took much less than I wanted to give.

He kissed me. He was good at that. Those kisses got me so wet that I used to slide my thong aside and grab his hand and make him touch me down there. At first he wouldn't even do that. He'd pull away. But I'd grab his hand again and push his fingers between my legs and beg him to feel how wet he'd made me.

I was so juicy for him. I wanted to be fucked, but he wouldn't go through with it. Not in the car. Not when a dog-walker or photographer or school group could walk by and spot us going at it.

Can you imagine if we were arrested for indecent exposure and he had to call his wife to bail him out? She'd probably think I was a whore. That's what I wanted to be. I wore lace lingerie and took what he gave me, but I always wanted more.

I'd never been fucked. I'd never done anything he hadn't done to me. I thought about sex all the time, couldn't concentrate on anything else. Why wouldn't he fuck me? Why wouldn't he let me touch him, even? Being rebuked was driving me crazy, but not getting off together was making me even crazier.

One day, totally out of the blue, he took my hand and placed it on his crotch.

I remember that specifically, because I'd never touched a cock before, not even through a layer of denim. He rarely wore jeans. It must have been a Friday, but there was nothing casual about our encounter. I loved that man fiercely. Still, I was skittish. I hate to admit it, but that's the truth of the matter.

Many years previous to that day, I'd watched scrambled porn on TV and I remember thinking to myself, "Look at those things! They must be fake! Penises aren't as big as sausages, are they?" I held some misguided belief that most cocks were the size of a hot dog.

I couldn't imagine a sausage fitting inside me.

By the time I'd urged my married man to let me suck his cock in the car, I just about knew what to expect. I wanted to be a seductress, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate. I skimmed over his bulge with the very tips of my nails, and then my palm, but I couldn't bring myself to unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper. I asked him to do that, to take out his cock so I could put it in my mouth.

At first, my married man refused. He said kissing was one thing, but oral sex in a parking lot was scuzzy and he didn't want me to feel like a whore. It didn't seem like something two people in a loving relationship should do.

I held my tongue. In that moment, all I wanted was to get his cock in my mouth. After so many months of nothing but kissing, kissing, kissing, it seemed like an achievable goal. I persisted until he relented.

"But I should warn you," he said. "You might get a mouthful."

All these years later, I still remember his exact words! I liked that: you might get a mouthful. It sounded so dirty.

After seeing my married man's cock so many times after this event, I have to admit I don't remember my initial impression of it. I don't recall if I thought it was big or small, firm or flimsy, veiny or smooth.

I do remember the taste of it.

When I first took his shaft in hand and closed my lips around his tip, it tasted sweet and salty. And it had some other gustatory quality I could never quite identify.

What did I love most? The texture of his purple cockhead on my tongue. I licked it, and he liked that—I know because I looked up at his face and he looked into mine with a sense of awed adoration.

I giggled.

I figured giggling and smiling as I licked his cock would make me seem sexy. But with so many years on me, he found the behaviour asinine. He didn't appreciate any reminders that I was more than thirty years his junior. Made him feel like a dirty old man. So I cut it out.

I devoured his cock full-force and pumped his shaft with my hands. I don't know how I knew to do all that. It's not like I'd done it before. Where did my confidence come from? Maybe need? Maybe desire? I really couldn't say, but I knew I was good.

Sucking until my mouth was a vacuum, I held the smooth flesh of his cock between my lips. I lunged into his lap, springing up before plunging back down. I gripped the base of his erection in my fist because I thought that would make him come faster. It's not that I wasn't enjoying myself. I was. I really loved having him in my mouth. But at the same time, I couldn't help being anxiously aware that we were in a car, in a parking lot, in broad daylight.

He didn't want to get caught. Well, neither did I.

Nothing I tried got him off. I thought he'd come moments after my lips found his dick, but that's not the way it happened at all. I sucked that cock forever—at least, it felt like forever—and eventually he said it was time to get going. His wife would ask questions if he surpassed a reasonable threshold of lateness.

So that was it: my first time sucking cock and my married man didn't even come.

He put away his erection, arranged himself in his black jockey boxers, and zipped up his jeans.

I was a little let down that I, the beautiful nineteen year old virgin, couldn't even persuade a married older man to come in my mouth, but I wouldn't say the experience had a lastingly negative effect. If anything, it made me want to learn all the tricks of the cock-sucking trade so the next time we got together in the front seat of his car, he would come the moment my lips brushed his tip.