Cock In Mouth Colette

The guy approaches my table like a child wanting to ask his mom for ice cream. He stands there awkwardly for a few moments, then asks, "Is it okay if I sit here?"

Normally, I'd say no - I didn't tuck myself away in the back corner of the library at this time of day because I wanted company. He specifically might be fine, though. He doesn't look like the usuals, for one - he's as nerdy as they come, wearing thick glasses and hugging a thick stack of books like a pillow. For another, he's not

looking

at me like the usuals do - he seems genuinely worried about bothering me. I have no reason to be rude to him, and thinking about it, him being here might dissuade the usuals if they

do

show up.

I nod, and he sits, giving me an awkward smile. He glances at me a few times, as if to confirm I'm not mad, then he buries his face in his books.

I return my attention to my laptop, and for a while, things are normal. I notice him glancing at me anxiously every now and then, but he doesn't do anything weird, and we both study in peace. Eventually though, I notice that he seems distracted; he isn't taking notes or turning pages, and his glancing is becoming increasingly frequent. I try to ignore it, hoping this isn't going where I think it's going. Unfortunately, he dashes that hope.

"Why do they call you that?"

I pretend I didn't hear him, but my thoughts are already turning in a familiar direction, steered by forces far beyond my control. Some of it must be showing on my face, because the guy's anxious eyes remain fixed on me despite my silence.

I strategically don't look away from my laptop. "Call me what?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face turn red. "Um," he stammers, "you know. Uh."

I do, and I don't think I can convince him of the opposite. If I am to study like I'm supposed to, my best bet is to convince him that whatever he might have heard about me, the truth is dreadfully mundane. Preferably while my mind is still my own.

I wear the best poker face I can, and, still not looking away from the screen, I say, "I like sucking dick."

That statement is completely true, though context does make it into a lie. I wasn't given my nickname simply because of my preference for fellatio.

And I think he knows. Oh god, he knows. His eyes don't leave me, and behind a heavy curtain of uncertainty, I can see a tiny spark of mischief.

"You like sucking dick, huh?" he asks. His voice is not inquisitive; it's lost its tip-toe quality. He's trying to sound cool, and although he isn't all that good at it, it's doing to me exactly what I was hoping to avoid.

The word 'dick' had made my heart flutter when

I'd

said it; said by a man, it makes my whole body tingle. My eyes unfocus momentarily, and when they focus again, I find them fixed on a very specific spot on the table in front of him.

Before I can stop myself, I reply, "Yeah..." I am acutely aware of how dreamy I sound, and I know exactly what message I'm sending, but my head is simultaneously too empty and too full to do anything about it. Empty of thoughts, and full of... well...

A familiar sensation begins to fill my mouth - an itch, a

hunger

that only one thing will sate. Unconsciously, I bring my fingers to my face to caress my tingling lips. He likes that, I think; I notice his eyes go wide and his cheeks go red, and a hunger ignites within his gaze.

His hunger only feeds my own. I rub my thighs together, hoping to satisfy the pulse between them, but it is no use.

I need his cock between my lips. Between my plump, sensitive cockpillows, that I'm compelled to paint cherry-red every day in anticipation of exactly this event. I need him to skullfuck me like his life depends on it, and dump his delicious jizz straight into me.

While I was daydreaming of his prick, my hand snuck its way into my jeans; my fingers are now hard at work rubbing away whatever traces of regular Colette might have remained.

He gets up, hands on his belt; my eyes stay fixed on his crotch, and the mouth-watering bulge on his trousers. Time slows as he undoes the buckle, and freezes completely for a moment when his erect prick springs free.

The next few seconds come to me in flashes. One moment, I'm pushing myself to my feet. The next, I'm pulling my shirt over my head. The next, my bra is falling off my chest. The next, I'm kneeling before him, nuzzling his cock.

I look up at him, pleading with my eyes. My hand has returned to my sopping snatch, while my other hand lightly strokes his length. He gives me an excited smirk, and gently pushes his cock between my lips.

Instinct takes over from there. Servicing his member -

worshipping it

, practically - comes as naturally as breathing. And as I do, as I mindlessly bob my head on his erection, I am reminded why they call me Cock-in-Mouth Colette.

They call me that, because I'll never, ever,

ever

be able to resist having a cock shoved down my throat. Because the vaguest innuendo is enough to get me going, and once I'm going, the instructions seared into my brain jump into action and I cannot stop until a cock has filled my mouth with jizz. Because I am a helplessly hypnotised blowjob puppet, and most of all,

because I love it

.

I may complain when I'm normal. I may tell myself that it's annoying, and that it messes with my schedule, and that I should suck dudes off only if and when I want to, but deep down, I know: this is exactly where I belong. On my knees, mouth full of cock, furiously touching myself and coaxing groan after groan out of the man I'm sucking off.

His breathing is getting faster. His cock is twitching; he's nearing climax. I speed up, spluttering and licking and bobbing; at the same time, the fingers in my cunt speed up as well, perfectly matching my pleasure to his. He begins to thrust erratically, and with a grunt, he cums.

The moment is divine. As the first rope of semen touches my tongue, my fingers finish me off, and white-hot pleasure wipes my mind clean. For a few seconds, cock, cum, and the exquisite climax they brought me to.

When the stars fade from my vision, he is pulling his softening cock out of my mouth. I vacantly smile up at him, before swallowing his delicious load. Absent-mindedly, I lick my lips.

"That was..." he says, out of breath. "Wow."

He seems to be expecting a response, but I'm too drunk on cum to form one. I just smile wider, and gently caress my tit.

"So, uh," he says, tucking his cock back into his trousers, "you'll be fine, right?" I sense a hint of guilt in his voice.

"Uh-huh," I nod. My mind is putting itself back together; the blissful afterglow never lasts longer than a minute. I pull my hand out of my jeans, and feel around for my bra.

"Right," he says, "right. So, uh, I probably shouldn't ask, but, uh, can we do this again sometime?" As if he's immediately regretted asking, he says, "I'm Connor, by the way."

I put my shirt back on, and wipe myself clean with a tissue. Internally, I smile a little; it's adorable how awkward he is. It's refreshing that he thought to ask, too - the usuals never do. "Any time," I say, smiling. "There's a reason they call me Cock-in-Mouth Colette."