C. 1971
Ken pulled out of Carol an inch or so, baring the base of his cock forward of his dark pubic hair. He pulled back even further, affording me the room to lower my lips to his glossy shaft. He had a thick one, flat as a blade across the curving upper surface but with a beautiful aqua vein running down its length. I could feel this vein, this narrow, softer, compliant part against my lower lip as I kissed and kissed his perfect cock.
When he pulled out altogether, whether accidentally or on purpose I don't know, and his penis sprang up like a Jack-in-the-box, Carol said "Hey! That's for me!" They both laughed as I began sucking the wondrous, arced thing. My mouth's recoiling time with the whole, or nearly the whole, of Ken's cock was brief, however. After telling me "That's enough" he bent his rod back down and pushed it all the way back into Carol in one thrust, eliciting from her a gasp, and another joke.
"Welcome back," she said.
Ken's re-entry was my cue to shift my naked body up the bed to my right. I, too, was hard, but compared to Ken's monster my penis, though long and curved like his, was insignificant. Years later I would sometimes be told, flattered, by lovers male and female, that I had a beautiful penis. And I would think to myself, thanks, but you should have seen Carol's lover Ken's back in the day.
Carol's smallish, but firm and perfectly formed tits were the kind that turned out to the sides. Now, as Ken began, in earnest, his motion, my lips, which so recently had slid down and then up Ken's cock, circled Carol's rosy-brown left nipple. As Ken fucked her Carol suckled me, the combination of sensations drawing from her, invariably:
"Oh you two...You drive me crazy. Christ!"
When Carol orgasmed, each time, her body shuddered involuntarily with such force it pulled her tit from her mouth, and I had to seek it out again, chase it as it were, like some kind of bobbing-for-apples contest at a church picnic. Carol was the church organist, Ken, several years her junior, a newly elected deacon. When not attending to church business, or not at home with his wife and two young children, or not with Carol, or Carol and me, Ken practiced law. In fact he'd just started up his own firm with an old law school buddy of his, who also attended our church, though irregularly. Their speciality was a new field: auto accidents.
After Ken finally came, and pulled out, Carol kept her shapely, muscular legs high in the air, holding them behind the knees. This was my cue, now, to awkwardly roll into the 69 position with her. Bolstering her pretty head with another pillow, she would take my relatively slender cock in her mouth while I plied, with my lips and tongue, her just-inseminated vagina.
"Gentle," Carol would always remind me. In fact, one of my duties, later in the day, was always to run Carol a warm bath, with Epsom salts. "I get these little tears down there, you know?"
"Because he's so rough?"
"He's not rough, he's always gentle. A sweetheart."
"What then?" At 19 I was still a virgin, and women's bodies, their workings, were still something of a mystery to me. Sex something illicit and titillating—the kind of thrill I got sneaking a pack of Lucky Strikes down the front of my pants while behind my mother in the check-out line at the grocery store. The evil daring of it: delicious! And then smoking them, the sheer pleasure of it, late at night behind our house!
"His size, honey. The size of his penis."
"Oh." Adding, "I knew that."
There is a fantasy, a fallacy I've since discovered, that husbands, wannabe cuckolds engage in when thinking about their wives with other men. Eating one's wife in the immediate aftermath is called a creampie, the connotation implying that cum, freshly deposited in a pussy, a vagina, will be as thick and sweet and fragrant as a slice of just-baked pie at a roadside diner. Yum. But as I learned early on, with Carol and Ken and even the lovers she took before him (they did not last long), this is wishful thinking, a misconception.
A newly inseminated vagina, though it may be creamy (runny is more like, as if the slice of pie had melted on a window sill, in the southern heat) does not taste sweet. The opposite is more true. It tastes, smells of the funk of sex: the friction of flesh, a woman's juices, cooked meat (or sometimes raw), even stale urine in some cases. Any sweetness attached to the occasion comes not from a man's sperm, lost hopelessly in the mix, the stew of sex, but from the residue of lubricant used to facilitate smooth and painless copulation. This is a fact. I knew. I know.
