Jimmy's story
She isn't even pretty. Of course, I would never say that aloud; I may not be the smartest, but at least I'm that smart. She's skinny, plain face, very small breasts, although when she gets aroused, or even just excited, her nipples pop up from tiny little nubs to pencil eraser tips. And they are incredibly sensitive. I've seen her a few times, I think when she didn't know I was watching, running her fingers across one nipple and then the other, and then flicking them with her fingernails. I don't think that could make her come, but it might.
Her hair - really just brown, although she likes to call it dirty blonde. Maybe she's right. She says she has never colored it or sprayed it or used any kind of chemical on it; she only washes it with baby shampoo. That may explain why her hair - she keeps it shoulder length -is thick and shiny. I love to hold her head with my hands in that lustrous hair, especially when we're .... But that's for later.
Her ass - not much to it, not one of those fine curvy asses some women have. Except ... except she does have curves in her ass. The cheeks of her ass curve away from the cleft like a new moon, not the full moon cheeks of a big assed woman but small cheeks shaped like a new moon. The result: when she is naked and bends over just a bit, her puckery little rosebud is visible, and I can see just a bit of her pussy lips. Of course, as she bends over further, more of those pussy lips come into view.
Ahh, that pussy! I've said she -- Geraldine is her name, and who names a little girl Geraldine anyway? She does go by Gerri now and that's a little better. I'm totally conflicted about Gerri. I said she's not pretty and she really isn't, but I am totally in love with her. How can that be?
Her pussy is the answer. Before you think I'm - my name is James, but I'm Jimmy to the whole world, since I was born. Even to myself, I'm Jimmy. Before you think I'm a plain looking guy lucky to have anybody, even a plain looking girl like Gerri, let me describe myself. As a teenager I was a male model. Of course, that doesn't say anything about me as a person. I mean, I had no control over the looks I was born with. I did work out a lot as a pretty good, not great at all, football player in the fall and baseball player in the spring. I did look pretty buff, and I did have model features. The result: I did swimsuit modelling the summer I was 16. Nothing risqué at all; I appeared in mass mailing catalogues and a few magazine ads. A great summer job, which I repeated a few times, but not a career path. I did go to college, but only for a few semesters; too boring and, I confess, I wasn't smart enough to do well in college. Today I sell cars, but not just any cars. I sell high-end Mercedes cars and SUVs, and make a damn good living doing it.
That's how I met Gerri. I sold her a nice, almost new BMW that someone had traded in for a newer, nicer Mercedes-Benz. I had dated a lot, usually girls and women who looked really good on my arm, which meant we looked incredible as a couple. But no real vibes with a woman until ... until the vibes from Gerri just about knocked me out. I can remember asking myself what there was about this plain looking chick that totally hooked me.
Answer: her pussy. My experience had always been: Finger, lick her, fuck her, and pay attention to how she's responding. It makes me, and I think most guys, feel good to bring pleasure to a woman, and that makes my own pleasure even better. With Gerri, pleasure doesn't even begin to describe the experience. Yes, the first time we had sex, I did my usual finger, lick her, fuck her. But when my cock slid inside her pussy, she tensed up and told me to stop. At first, I thought she was telling me to stop having sex with her. I was on top, traditional missionary position, and she rubbed my back a little and told me to relax and hold still. Then ... then I'm trying hard, I mean really hard, to hold still because her pussy started massaging me. Her pussy muscles, I swear, were rippling against my cock.
"Ahh, ahh, I can't." I tried to tell her I couldn't hold still, not against those waves of pussy walls pushing and pulling against my cock. I admit, I didn't last long. I'm embarrassed to say I don't even know if she came. Later, she said she hadn't.
"But that's okay," she said. "I was trying to get you so excited that you would lose control. I promise, if you will practice with me, we can get both of us even more excited, and even more out of control." And that's what we did.
By the time we married a few months later, our sex life was - no brag, just fact - maybe the best in the whole world. Okay, okay, I don't really know that, and it does sound like I'm bragging. But you be the judge. We couldn't make love every day because the sex was too exhausting for both of us. Guys, and girls, who work out seriously, know you must give your muscles time to recover. That's the only way to get better. Same with our sex life. We needed recovery days.
After a recovery day, we might start fooling around in the evening after we both got home from work and had dinner. Kissing, fondling, sixty-nine sometimes, but not often. I liked to concentrate on enjoying her rhythms of sucking and licking my cock - selfish I know. But Gerri liked to be selfish also. She enjoyed concentrating on my licking and nibbling on her pussy, but only after I had brought her little nipples to stand-up attention. When I moved down to her pussy, she would sometimes take over the nipple play - pinching and pulling on them while I was attending to her pussy.
I loved liking and nibbling that pussy, fucking it sometimes with my tongue. I did have to be careful with Gerri's clit. It was almost too sensitive. If I flicked my tongue across it, Gerri would twitch and thrust toward my face, but that often resulted in too much pressure on her clit, and she would back off. We sometimes did what we called the 'clit dance.' I would flick it with my tongue and then back off. She would thrust her hips to try to connect her clit with my tongue. Sometimes successful and sometimes not - a dance between clit and tongue. We both loved it.
We also loved intercourse, doing it our own special way. After months, and now years, of having sex with Gerri, she had trained me well. Usually missionary or cowgirl position; if cowgirl, usually with her facing me, but sometimes reverse with Gerri facing away from me and leaning a bit toward my feet, so I could enjoy the visual of watching her rosebud clenching and unclenching and my cock spreading the lips of her pussy. When we did doggy, we ... but wait, back to our usual progression. Cock inside pussy, check. Not pushing too hard inside, check. Flex my cock a couple of times, check. Try to relax a bit, check (but not easy to do). Then Gerri's pussy would start its magic - rippling the muscles of her pussy walls against my cock, massaging my cock with the wet silkiness of that magic pussy. I would try to remain still. I might recite, not out loud of course, the names of the apostles: Peter, Andrew, James .... This was, after all, a religious experience. Then I might recite the starting line-up of the 1968 St. Louis Cardinals: Bob Gibson pitching, of course, Tim McCarver catching, Dal Maxvill .... I was a kid then and the Cardinals were my team. But ... my attempts at distractions, at prolonging what Gerri's pussy was doing to me, never lasted. I would start making unintelligible noises.
"Uggh, ahh," like that, and then praying, "Oh god, oh god." My cock was so hard it was hurting. All the muscles of my body were tensed, trying to delay the inevitable. Then Gerri would do one of two things. She might stop, hold herself perfectly still, not even breathing I think. I would remain still too, not able to breathe, knowing what was coming. After an eternity or two, both of us poised on the brink, Gerri would twitch her pussy, just a tiny twitch, just enough pressure on my cock that I would erupt. Pushing into her pussy as hard as I could, I would come with everything I had. No sliding back and forth, just pushing into that pussy, coming so hard I would lose my mind for a while. Gerri would come too, sometimes so hard I would have scratches on my back from her fingernails clawing me. And, I think, sometimes losing her mind for a while also. We might recover enough to have another round, or we might roll on our sides, still connected, and go to sleep.
That, I said, was one of the things Gerri might do. The other, ah, that other thing! After her pussy had been massaging my cock to the point of incoherence on my part, she would stop moving. Then she would tell me, "Pound me." Old fashioned, pound in and out of her as hard as I could. This was always in missionary, so I had plenty of leverage. When I was pounding, Gerri would move back and forth, just a little, until she got the angle right: until my cock was rubbing across her clit, sometimes on the in-stroke, sometimes on the out, and sometimes both. Then she would go crazy - yelling, calling me names: "Fucker, fucker, fuck me, fuck me," until she collapsed, often in tears.
