Author's note: This willing-wimp tale is probably fictional. Nobody under 30 has sex. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's. Enjoy
***** Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun *****
-- Late 1995 --
I'm Randy. That is both my name and my condition. Pretty funny, hey?
My consulting business (details of which do not matter here) lets me control my itineraries. I am based in Portland, Oregon; my clients are strung from Seattle to San Diego and beyond. I like to drive and sight-see so I try to plan my in-person client consultations as stops in long road trips.
My clients are mostly in larger cities which I see as necessary evils. I personally prefer smaller, more individual places, especially university towns, especially those on the coast.
Why uni towns? For the culture, of course. And good places for jogging and fitness training - I keep in damn good shape. And for the sex. Interesting sex.
Scoring in college towns is easy. Go to an older bar near the campus, any older bar with older patrons and an older bartender. Ask the barkeep when and where younger faculty wives go to get laid. If the answer is, "Right here, right now," then great! Or the answer may be elsewhere. A good answer deserves a good tip. If barkeeps will not answer, ask taxi drivers. Maybe ask cops if you are brave.
(You may wonder why I don't suggest googling for this information. Because it is 1995, that is why, and Google does not yet exist. Duh.)
Anyway, be at the designated place and time. Mingle. Talk. Be personable. Score. And always use condoms. ALWAYS!
I remind myself to be tested for STDs and whatever as often as possible.
I could give a spiel here about wives of younger faculty as especially good targets. Their husbands are overworked. They are under-appreciated but not stupid, usually. If they have time to be out in public, they have time to be bored. Yeah, I could tell you that, and more. It might even be true.
Whatever the truth is, I played the Who's-Hunting-Who game with pleasure.
I won't bore you with details. Most pickups are pretty similar depending on time of day. Afternoon fucks are fast; evening fucks, discreet. Overnight fucks are rare but tiring. And a few are strange.
---
It was a university town on the coast; try to guess which. The evening pickup 'scene' as usual was in a generic corporate bar in a generic corporate chain hotel somewhere between downtown and the freeway on-ramp. The woman was maybe late-30's, sexy without being all "fuck me". No, make that 'sensual'.
She stood beside a swivel barstool when I walked in. Our eyes met. We both smiled. She nodded. I walked to her. We sat.
The tall black woman wore a color-shifted variant of the Little Black Dress and Heels theme - not inky, but a soft mauve highlighting her ebony skin without glaring. Very elegant. Very taut and curvy. Her light northeast-accented voice told me she was Sara.
She drank light bubbly stuff. We made light bubbly talk. She slipped me a card printed with only an address and sketchy map.
"Wait ten minutes," she said, and walked out the generic corporate door.
I waited. I drove, tracing the little map. A classy, well-treed neighborhood housed the very substantial home, an ancestral McMansion. This was a place of money and position. Should I have been nervous?
The house front was dark; a lone light marked a side door next to a grass-and-rock driveway. I parked beyond the door and knocked. It opened into a kitchen entry.
Sara had ditched the slinky clothes and wrapped herself in a thin soft rose-red robe. Even without heels she stood up to my eyes. I like tall women.
She stood beside a high counter next to a champagne bottle and tall flutes on a round French tray.
"Still thirsty, Randy?" I heard a quality Boston education in her voice.
"For sparkling wine, a little, as much as you are. For touch and love, a lot - same as you are." Oh, I was being the clever one!
"Right answer," she smiled. She picked up the tray. "Follow me."
With bubbly drinks, her bubbly ass bounced before me. I gladly followed.
She led me to a small but striking bedroom. The outer wall was glass bricks. Mirrored doors closed a full-wall closet - wow, the visuals would be wild! A wide portal revealed an en-suite bath with big open shower. The last wall held abstract paintings between closed mirrored doors. A king-size bed backed against the glass-brick wall. A small round table and two simple padded chairs were in a corner. Sara set the tray on the table.
"Grab a seat, have a glass, and then we'll shower. Can you handle that?"
"No problem," I said. She poured we sat. We sipped and chatted.
The room was warm. I tugged at my collar. "Mind if I...?"
"That's what we're here for," she chuckled. "But let me..."
Sata stood and held my chin. I rose with her. She unbuttoned my shirt. I reached for her robe.
"Uh-uh. You first." She finished with my shirt buttons and unbuckled my trousers.
"One moment," I said, kicking off my loafers. Yeah, I wore leather loafers and argyle socks. Call me a perv. But they beat lacing and unlacing.
My trousers slipped down, then my boxers. My shirt was already off. I stood naked with pants puddled around my ankles. I stepped out of them and peeled off the socks.
"Now you," I said, reaching toward her.
"Now me," she agreed, untying her flimsy robe's sash. I moved close to unwrap her.
The robe fell. I stood before a perfect living statue gracefully carved from purest obsidian. I noted wonderful muscle definition, zero body fat, and a face like Benin carvings in museums but framed by a tight afro. Her gleaming white teeth and eyes, copper overtones on catenary-curve breasts and blueberry nipples, lovely inny navel, and close-woven pubic curls entranced me. She was among the most spectacularly beautiful women I had ever seen.
"You can take a breath now," she advised me. I stopped to breathe.
"Follow me again," she said, tugging on my involuntarily-straining cock.
She easily led me across the room through the wide arch into the bath and its big open shower.
A twist of dials engulfed us in a warm soft spray.
"No fucking in the shower," she said. "Let's get real clean. Here, start with this." She handed me a squeeze bottle. "Right here," she said, pointing at her hair.
I squirted goo on her tight curls and gave her a slow, deep scalp massage.
"Oh fuck, that's nice," she breathed. Her hands were actively sudsing my ass and back and chest and belly and cock and steaming scrotum during this. I do not know why I did not cum at that very instant.
"Now the rest of me," she said. I happily complied. I ran soapy hands over those strong shoulders and arms, down her firm back and tight buns, across and around handfuls of breasts, down her flat stomach and inset navel and soft-Brillo pubes. I knelt to soap her taut thighs and calves, down to her almost prehensile feet. She twitched and giggled when I rubbed her soles.
Sara gasped when, still kneeling, I kissed my way up her spread thighs and tongued her navel and teased her mons.
"Oh damn, boy, oh damn..." She gripped my scalp hair and pulled me up. "You are DAMN good, boy. But enough of that. Let's rinse and dry and fuck, okay?"
We rinsed. We dried. We embraced tightly and kissed. Our hands moved. My cock stood out, exuberant. Her pussy dripped. I could smell her.
"That's a damn good start," she croaked. "Come here."
Again my cock in her hand. Again leading me, to bed this time. She lay back in the middle of the bed with her legs spread open.
"I am the horniest woman you have ever seen. I want sex. I want to cum like a monster. Eat me. Eat me damn good like I know you can. Eat me now."
That sounded like a decent invitation. I dove in.
But not too fast. I started low, at the bottoms of her writhing feet, toes and tendons twisting and arching as I massaged the surfaces and tongued the interstices and hollows. I sucked toes on one foot, then the other, as my hands moved up to stroke and rub her straining calf muscles.
"Oh fuck," she murmured. I took this as a good sign.
I crawled between her legs and kissed one knee, then the other, my hands sliding up from shins over and under knees to inner and outer thighs, and returning inside, preparing a path for my lips. I kissed past her pussy on the right, over her mons, down the left side.
"Oh damn," she sighed. Yes indeed, another good sign.
I moved further up to kiss her navel. My hands reached to her amazing breasts. I gently stroked areolae and nipples, not too hard, not too fast. I pulled myself up further and locked my lips on the tip of one tit. I suckled briefly but not too briefly, and moved to the other but not too fast, then back to the first but without haste.
Fingers on one hand worked the nipple unoccupied by my mouth. My other fingers probed between her legs, softly, insistently, around and into her luscious labia, teasing cuntal juices and responses, lightly pushing deeper, and finally into her depths, stroking the soft wet velvet birth canal. I nibbled a nipple harder.
"Damn you, boy," she breathed. Another auspicious signal.
"But quit fucking around." Just barely whispered. Not annoyance. Good.
I gave both straining nipples good sucks and then moved south, tracing a line of kisses between her heaving breasts, across her pulsing belly, into her gyrating navel, down across that patch of hair, and back to her inner thighs. A kiss on one side. A whoosh of air directed at her pussy. A kiss on the other side.
And then a slow lapping-up from bottom to top, from taint to clit and return with my tongue wagging across her outer and inner labia, back and forth, in and around, before plunging deeply for a firm penetration.
"Oh yeah, oh yeah, uh huh, uh huh," she grunted. I was happy.
But not quite happy enough. I was royally stimulated. I was ready to jump up and fuck this immaculate creature, fuck her like a rag doll, wrap her legs around me and piston like a mad machine. But that would spoil it all. No, I needed to savor her more, much more, while she also pleasured me.
I reached forward and pulled her upright.
"It's not just me. We've got to do this together. Yeah?"
