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Food of Desire

By: sexy_sandrey



I was nineteen, almost twenty. That magical, sensuous age. I'd heard men say it was the sexiest word in the English vocabulary. Nineteen. I was lithe, fertile, and sexual, with glossy skin and lustrous golden hair. No longer a girl but still not a woman, I was of that age when men young and old desired you, and I could spend my hard earned holiday time in Ireland without my parents permission.

A summer in Ireland! I couldn't imagine anything more glorious. Especially when I would be pursuing my interest in cooking. My parents could not understand my obsession with food, even though they occasionally had to eat themselves. They were both lecturers and were too busy working or researching to spend too much time thinking of food. That's how I learnt to cook, with a little help. It was either feed myself or starve. My parents preferred cigarettes and bourbon, so to eat well I had to cook for myself. It surprised me when they had been so ready to agree to fund my trip to Galway, but I reasoned their decision was partly inspired by their recent discovery of a sex-tape of me and Greg, one of their students, indulging in clumsy oral sex on the kitchen floor. I guessed they would rather see me waste my life pursuing unfulfilled culinary dreams than with an unwanted baby. 

I had wanted Greg to be as excited about me as of the food I cooked for him, so I concocted a plan that involved dipping various fruits into chocolate and taste-testing the results. My plan worked well, and one thing had led to another, and the tasting and testing had moved to various parts of our bodies. I had forgotten about the security camera my parents had installed, so when Greg and I ended up naked I never imagined my parents would get to witness the sight of their daughter, bare breasted and covered in chocolate, sucking the cock of their favorite pupil. I will never forget the humiliation I felt when I walked into the lounge the following morning and found my parents watching that video. I immediately proposed my trip to Eire and they unsurprisingly agreed readily. 

I couldn't wait to leave! I wasn't nervous or scared leaving the family home, just desperate to leave behind the humiliation and shame I was feeling., so when I waved goodbye to my parents at Bristol Airport it was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I'd hoped the whole shameful episode with Greg would be forgotten by the time I retuned, so was feeling optimistic about my trip by the time I had settled on the Ryanair flight to Shannon. My optimism was also raised at the thought of having Uncle Simon greet me on my arrival.

Simon wasn't really my uncle. He was my dad's best friend from their college days and, because he had spent almost every summer at our cottage in Wiltshire, was as good as family to me. He really thought the West Country the best place to get the full benefit of the English summer, which I could understand as he lived in London throughout the remainder of the year. The memories of those times are as vivid now as they ever were. I cannot taste the scent of red wine and mature cheeses without thinking of Simon. They were lazy, heady months of sun and hedonism. My parents are naturists, so we always spent our time at home naked, and Simon always got into the spirit of things when he holidayed with us. He was, and still is, a very attractive man, and as my flight to Ireland made it's steady assent into the faultless blue sky I recalled the memory of seeing him without clothes for the first time. He was like a god in my eyes. Tanned, muscular, and supremely endowed compared to the other friends and family I had seen nude, he was my first girly crush. I adored him. My mother, I remember, was also impressed with his masculinity, as I caught her more than once showing her appreciation of him when my Father wasn't home. But I could not be angry at my Mother for her betrayal for I understood what drove her to be unfaithful. Simon was irresistible, and instead of malice I discovered the joys of masturbation whenever I caught them alone. 

So having spent so much time in the Southern countryside I was not surprised when he turned his back on the rat race and moved to Galway. The relaxed, arty pace suited him. I imagined the impact he would have on that unsurprising city, that god of men and of the kitchen. Within hours of Simon's arrival at our family home we'd all begin seeing ourselves in a different, more sophisticated way. Our everyday lives took on a bit of glamour. My parents would climb down out of their ivory towers, and Dad would whistle old Stones tunes. Mum would giggle and blush and take to wearing chic scarves and dark red lipstick. And I would be just about the happiest I would ever remember, because Uncle Simon and I shared a passion that belonged to no one else. Food. He was a chef, and one of the best in the country, and swiftly became my mentor. Everything I knew then and know now I learned from him. He was my educator, in every way. We spent hours in the kitchen trying out new recipes, and over the years I blossomed from a shy, awkward girl into a passionate, determined woman. And all because of Simon. 

For while my father and mother could take it or leave it when it came to food, Uncle Simon and I would both practically swoon over a particular sauce or a perfectly grilled steak. Mushrooms were never just mushrooms, they were chanterelles, morels, porcinis, Portobello's: all music to my ears and a symphony in my mouth. With Uncle Simon, fruits and vegetables became an odyssey of pleasure, and a snack of an apple and cheese became an experience infused with magic. Because it wasn't just an apple, it was a perfectly ripe Golden Delicious and it wasn't just cheese, it was perfectly ripe, soft, rich Brie. Simon taught me to taste, savor and linger over a meal or a glass of wine. I quickly grew from having little thought for what I ate to appreciating every morsel that passed through my lips, so that when I gave Greg oral pleasure, it was with the same passion as I gave when devouring a bowl of luscious strawberries. Sex and food had become almost the same, for they were pleasures to be enjoyed with the fingers, mouths and lips. The senses and tastes were heightened as equally in the bed as in the kitchen. Simon had shown me this about food, and after the episode with Greg I realized he had unknowing taught me about the sensual side. 

At the time of his last visit I had been fifteen and Uncle Simon thirty-two, and though I hadn't fully realized it, he had become the standard by which I judged men. It had proven a difficult standard to bear for I found most men lacking. Greg had come close, mainly because he loved food and had been almost like a brother to me, but as my culinary skills had increased at the same rate as my libido I thought no man could ever truly satisfy me. Simon had proven a tough act to follow, for when you're fifteen and lonely a man like he is hard to beat, so when I saw him at the arrivals lounge of Shannon airport the look on his face almost had me on the next flight home to Bristol.

I recognized him immediately. He was still tall and dark, though some silver had worked its way into his temples. His eyes were still a sensuous, chestnut brown and his mouth still almost too beautiful for a man, the lips giving way to a sensuousness that hinted at his true nature. I realized with one look that I'd been half in love with him for years and now, catching sight of him anxiously checking the line of disembarking passengers, I felt the full impact of my feelings. He hadn't caught sight of me or if he had, he didn't recognize me. But I sure recognized him, as the thudding of my heart attested. As with most momentous occasions in my life, I did what I usually do when overcome with emotion; I lost my balance and promptly tripped over my carryon luggage, landing in a heap on the airport floor. There ensued a loud tangle of unintelligible cursing from my fellow passengers, some of which sounded unpleasantly rude. And that is how Uncle Simon finally noticed me. A quick look of annoyance crossed his face as he took in the spectacle and then he turned to walk away, obviously still not recognizing me.

"Uncle Simon" I called out, "It's me, Alana. Alana Sandrey!" He turned back around and stared at me. I willed myself not to start crying but I was close to tears. I was tired. I was far enough from home, but not far enough to still feel the humiliation of the sex tape. I was embarrassed. I was in pain. And I was fast becoming aware that my beloved Uncle Simon looked pretty disgusted at the first sight of me he'd had in four years.

"Good lord Alana, what happened to you?" he asked, looking me over in an odd way.

"I tripped... I know, how stupid, I mean I'm not even in Ireland for ten seconds and I'm..." He didn't let me finish. 

"No," he said, looking me up and down, staring in what was a pretty good impression of surprise at the sight of my newly formed plump breasts. "I mean what happened to you? You grew up... Christ!"

I could feel the heat of shame rise up in me instantly. I knew my face was as red as a rose and I made a ridiculous attempt to cross my arms over my suddenly awkward breasts. I have no idea then of the exact measurement of my assets, but as my ass complemented the size of my breasts and I had a relatively small waist, "Deliciously Curvy" was the title I gave my generously endowed shape. I was especially ashamed as this was the first time Simon had seen me as a woman. At our last meeting I had been a flat chested girl with no ass and no sex drive. Now I was a curvy woman with a young woman's libido, and as Uncle Simon stared at me in a bewildered way I felt like I had betrayed him. I remembered myself as the fifteen -year-old he must have been expecting. I had never been skinny, but at fifteen I had been stick-straight, with braces and braids and a seriousness that often passed for mental maturity. Uncle Simon had often told me that I had "an old soul." Apparently, I was no longer the cute "old soul" that he remembered. 

"Yeah" I replied in a resigned, almost apologetic way, "I grew. I'm not fifteen anymore. Sorry to disappoint."

Then he smiled and said how good it was to see me. He reached out to hug me, but then evidently thought better of the idea, for he pulled back as if to rethink the idea. I think he was baffled at what to do because of my breasts. He offered me his hand to shake, but he went to hug me again and I mimicked his movements, bobbing back and forth in an awkward sort of dance, never quite hugging though the intent was there.

Finally we reached a point of exasperation and he turned and picked up my carryon, never having the hug, and walked off with me following at a fast clip to match the his long legged stride.

After locating the rest of my luggage we were finally bound for Galway, where Simon had settled after his divorce. We were late arriving at his beautiful home as we stopped off at the City Hospital on Simon's insistence, for my wrist was quite sore following my fall. There was a long wait, and when I was finally examined by a handsome young Doctor I was told I had a sprained wrist and would need to wear a sling for a week or two. Unfortunately, I had sprained my right wrist and I was right handed. Being dangerously uncoordinated even when all my parts were in working order, my plans for earning some of my keep by working on Simon's farm were suddenly in need of revision, and Simon seemed to have similar thoughts, mumbling about having to be a nursemaid or something or other, just as the busy season had started. I was dangerously close to tears, again. I realized I hadn't come to Galway just to learn more about cooking and wine. I'd come to see Uncle Simon again in the hope that we could recreate the closeness we'd had, and it had been a disaster from the moment I'd landed.

As we left the city and drove through the Irish countryside I did my best to concentrate on the scenery we passed and not recreate the scenes of failure that played in my head. OK, I thought, at least I've got to travel to Ireland, and I'm getting the most glorious tour of the beautiful West. So what if my host is disappointed with me, I'll stay for the weekend and then go back home. Worse things have happened. I can get a job in a restaurant in Bristol. Some of the best chefs in the world are in England. And Greg might actually break down and fuck me proper. Who needs some cranky, middle-aged square? So the voice in my head soothed me into a calm enough state by which I could actually take in the beauty before me. It was just about as beautiful as anything I've ever seen. I think it's the sky I remember most. The bloody, scarlet hues as the sun settled behind the Connemara hills was a joy to see. It was of so many different shades and moods, it was almost too beautiful. But then it goes dark and the stars come out, and wow!

In my prayers I often remember Anna and thank her for her many kindnesses. In a way, she is responsible for helping me create the life I now live and savour with such joy. When Simon and I arrived at the farm and Anna, the wife of the man who managed the house and grounds, came to greet me, she found me in tears and Simon sternly lecturing me about not having time to look after me and not to bother with the luggage as he'd be taking me back to the airport in the morning. Anna grabbed his finger as it pointed at me and shook it. She then let loose with a stream of Irish that I couldn't begin to understand. But when she ended with a word I could translate, "idiot," and put her arm around me, I caught the gist and knew that for at least one night, someone was on my side. Anna led me upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms and magically, as I was trying very hard not cry any more, my luggage appeared and Anna had found my pyjamas and toothbrush. She beckoned me into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom where she helped me wash away the grime of the journey, all the while murmuring odd bits and pieces of Irish mixed with English. 

I felt mothered in a way I had never felt with my own mother. When she insisted on helping me out of my clothes, my wrist permitting only limited movement and obviously causing me pain when I tried to use it, I protested and tried to push her away. But she would have none of it. She laughed. She pointed at my breasts and hip region and then to her own and shrugged, as if to say, "Yes, we both have female bodies, now get into your pyjamas." Somehow, I understood that I was in need of help and Anna was going to help me, that she meant me no harm. And when I was standing naked before her, she looked at me with approval, pointing to my large breasts and whistled cheekily. Dear Anna, with her deep understanding of life and sex and love and appetite, she helped me into my pyjamas and then into the lavender-scented sheets and into a summer of magic that would echo in me for years to come. 

It was Anna who found a place for me in her kitchen and taught me the intricacies of country cooking. She shouted down Uncle Simon and simply pushed him out the kitchen door and then placed a potato peeler in my left hand and I was on my way. Somehow, with Anna, I found a grace of movement I never knew I had. I learned to use my left hand for millions of tasks and by the second day, I was picking basil and berries in the morning and kneading bread in the afternoon. By the end of my first week I began helping out in the herb garden, packing the fragrant mix of dried basil, lavender, rosemary and thyme and summer savoury, that Uncle Simon exported in small clay pots. I was frequently exhausted but had never felt so included in any venture. Because Anna accepted me, the workers, all of them female and all big, sturdy farm women like her, accepted me also. Though I still could only use my left hand, I managed to do at least enough to cover my room and board and I also managed to stay out of Uncle Simons way, and he returned the favour, only appearing for meals at which he remained polite but distant.

We saw each other at dinner every evening. Simon was always unfailingly polite and frequently commented on the food. Anna accepted his praise with her usual shrug as if to say, of course, and what did you expect? I usually blushed and smiled. I was still shy in his presence, but little by little I was learning to adapt to our distant sort of relationship. If I noticed how his fingers stroked his wineglass or how his mouth looked so succulent and kissable, I tried not to let my gaze linger. I tried to keep my inner emotions to myself. Or at least till I was alone in my bedroom and could give myself the pleasure I longed to feel from his fingers and his mouth. I had grown very adept at left-handed self-pleasure. 

Once, Uncle Simon and I had bumped into each other in the moonlit upstairs hallway, long after everyone was asleep. I was tip-toeing my way down to the kitchen to make myself some warm milk and lavender honey, a sure-fire cure for insomnia, according to Anna. Simon was just coming to bed, it seemed, and it was obvious he'd been drinking more than his usual glass of wine with dinner. He swayed gently on his feet in front of me, a slow smile spreading across his face and he stared at me as if he didn't recognize me. And then he seemed to see that it was me, and made an abrupt turn around. Without a word, he headed back down the stairs and went out the front door, slamming it shut behind him with a bang. I just couldn't understand why he disliked me so much. But as he was civil at every other occasion and Anna and everyone else seemed to like having me around, I just figured it was something I'd have to live with for the summer. If Uncle Simon was to be just a fantasy, well, it was still a pretty damn hot fantasy. 

My summer might have passed quite happily that way, working with the women in the garden and helping Anna with the cooking, if Anna's daughter hadn't had her baby six weeks early. The morning I came down and saw Anna and her husband driving off I almost cried, again. Uncle Simon reluctantly translated Anna's parting flurry of Irish. I still was slow in learning to actually communicate in her native language, my only language skills being those of the kitchen. I found that I was in charge of the cooking and the kitchen garden for the next few weeks. Uncle Simon looked positively morose and I'm sure I looked pretty much the same. Still, I felt fairly confident that I could handle the responsibilities. I would only be cooking for Simon and a few of the vineyard crew, and I still longed to show Uncle Simon that I was worth the trouble of my visit. And I'll be honest; I thought maybe he might warm up a bit toward me if I could coax him into it with his favorite foods. It was a great plan, but it turned out much differently than I had ever imagined. 

Breakfast had been easy. That first morning after Anna had left, I served the usual croissant with lavender honey that Uncle Simon ate every morning. I made several pots of coffee and a spinach quiche as well. I packed a lavish lunch and dinner for the four remaining farm workers and Uncle Simon, as they would be staying out in the fields all day. I was heartened somewhat when I learned that it would only be Uncle Simon returning for dinner, as his farm hands would be out late hoping to bag the foxes that had been causing havoc amongst the fowl sheds. There was also some wine-making venture that they wished to partake in, and this, I must say, cheered me no end, for the wine they produced was really wonderful. I had grown quite partial to red wine during my stay, and found it a constant companion at dinner. So I went about my day in relative calm and happy industry, till just before dinner, I reached for the bottle of cordial and promptly spilled the sweet, sticky, deep purple liquid all over myself. I had planned to serve perfectly ripe blackberries and custard, topped with the cordial, for dessert. But somehow, I had managed not only to cover myself with the entire bottle of cordial, but I also knocked over the bowl of blackberries and stomped all over them while trying to locate a towel for my cordial-coated face. My temper lost, cursing at the top of my lungs in utter fury, I must have looked quite a sight when Uncle Simon came in from the vineyard, ready for wine and dinner.


Food of Desire



If he hadn't burst out laughing, I might have made it to the outside garden hose without throwing the custard sponge cake at him. But the sight of him all red in the face and shaking with laughter, once I'd wiped the fucking cordial off my face and eyes and could actually see, was absolutely infuriating. Cake and custard went flying and I was reaching for a wooden spoon to throw at him when he grabbed my hand. It was the first time he'd actually touched me since I'd arrived.

"Wait, wait," he said, having caught his breath and managing to stifle the giggles that seemed to rise up in him like bubbles, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh at you. It was just such a surprise..." and then he was off again, almost choking with laughter.

But I had had it. I was fed up. "You know what," I said, as the blackberry cordial seeped into my underwear, "you can go fuck yourself, Uncle Simon." And in my incredibly mature way, with my brilliant command of the English language, I yelled "Fuck you!" again and stomped off to hose myself down. 

Soaking wet, shoes hosed off and free of blackberries, I made my way upstairs to get out of my wet clothes. I'd long since stopped wearing the arm-sling and only wore the wrist brace that wrapped down over my hand, leaving my fingers free. I'd kicked off my dripping shoes and thrown them in the bathtub. I managed to get my shirt and bra off but, when I tried to unzip my jeans, the zipper wouldn't budge. No matter what I tried, lying down on the bed and pulling at it, soaping it up with a bar of lavender soap and pulling, I couldn't get it to unzip. In my desperation I began hopping up and down around the bathroom as I tried to pull my unzipped jeans down over the considerable swell of my hips. Naturally, I knocked over the wicker bath cabinet with a crash that normally would have brought the whole house. But it was Uncle Simon who arrived at the bathroom door. He was the only one home, besides me.

I stopped hopping and just stood and stared at him. I was panting with frustration from trying to get the zipper down. I was still wet from the hose and now sweating with exertion. I had actually forgotten I was naked from the waist up till Uncle Simon's eyes lowered from my face to my breasts. I was so sure he had been disgusted by me I couldn't figure out why he didn't just walk away as he had the night we'd accidentally met in the hall. But he just stood there, staring. And I felt myself blushing crimson as my nipples began to harden under his gaze. I felt the ache for him I'd been burdened with for days begin to creep into the pink tips of my breasts and seep between my thighs. I was about to yell at him to get out but he took a step toward me. I automatically raised my arm to cover myself.

"No, don't," he said, "don't cover yourself, let me look at you." I was dumbfounded. 

"You want to look at me? I thought you couldn't stand the sight of me."

"Christ, Alana, I've been wanting to look at you like this since the day I picked you up at the airport. But Christ, you're my best friend's daughter! You're supposed to be a shy fifteen year old! When the hell did you get these?" And as he spoke he reached out and cupped each heavy breast in his hands. 

It was there in the bathroom that Uncle Simon first kissed me. But it wasn't on the mouth, the way I'd imagined. The first time I felt his warm lips was on my breasts. He kissed my aching nipples, first one and then the other. He sucked and kissed my nipples till I thought I'd faint with pleasure. And then he kissed my mouth. Oh god did he kiss my mouth, gently giving me his tongue as he held me. And then he bent to suck my nipples again, as if he found some sort of relief for a terrible thirst.

"Is this OK, Alana?" Uncle Simon asked as he tweaked one nipple between his fingers and then bending down again to gently take the red, wet tip between his teeth, biting just thrilling little bites that sent shivers through me. "Do you want this? Do you want me?" 

"Oh god, yes, Uncle Simon..." I moaned.

"For Christ's sake, don't call me Uncle Simon," he said, pulling away. "Jesus, it makes me sound like a pervert! Oh God, I am! What am I doing?" He looked momentarily confused, and I sensed the moment would pass if I did not respond. So without hesitation I thrust my warm, naked breasts back into his face.

"OK, no Uncle Simon" I panted. "Just Simon, OK? Sexy, gorgeous Simon. And I'm just Alana, and there's nobody else here. It's just us, ok? Simon and Alana." His eyes were shut, his face buried between the space between my breasts and his hands gripping me firmly at the waist. "And I want you so bad it hurts. I thought you couldn't stand to look at me!"

"I couldn't, I couldn't stand to look at you" Simon admitted. "Not knowing how much I wanted to just grab you and... God, I haven't wanked this much since puberty."

"You were wanking and thinking of me?" I said in amazement. "But I was doing the same thing! I've been masturbating over you for years!" 

And then Simon kissed me again then, and went back to sucking my now swollen, red nipples. 

"Let's get you out of these jeans," he said, coming up for air, his fingers pulling at the zipper which still wouldn't come down."

"It won't budge," I said, "I've tried everything."

"Then we'll just cut them off you" Simon announced lustfully. "They are coming off. I will have you naked."

And naked he had me. Grabbing a pair of scissors that had fallen out of the wicker cupboard, he expertly cut me out of my jeans, sliding them down over my hips and helping me step out of them. My panties had come off in the process and I was, just as he'd wanted, naked. He pulled me to him and I could feel the stiffness of his cock under his pants as he pushed himself against my belly. I don't remember how we got to my bed, but suddenly we were there and he was kissing me everywhere: breasts, shoulders, neck, belly, thighs. And then he was spreading my thighs and dipping his hot tongue between the swollen lips of my cunt. I had not felt a tongue there since Greg, and at first I was a little put off by thinking that maybe he'd find me somehow undesirable or sweaty from the day's labor. 

But then I thought of my Mother's response when he had gone down on her all those years ago and I let my body relax as Simon began to lick and lap at me, moaning in what I could only assume was pleasure. Then he rose suddenly before we went too far and quickly undressed so that he too was naked. I caught my first glimpse of his cock and balls, all swollen pink against his sallow skin. He lay down again next to me but this time in the opposite direction, with his cock pointing directly at my face as he pulled me to him again, positioning me on my side and opening my thighs once more to lap and lick and slide his tongue deep inside me. I looked at his beautiful, bursting cock and, licking my lips first, took the head into my mouth. I had actually never sucked a cock properly before. With Greg, he had come almost as soon as the tip of his cock was between my lips, his essence jutting in thick spurts across my face. I wondered now if I was doing it right, but I needn't have worried because Simon was quite adept at fucking my mouth. The head of his dick was round and purplish red, like a cross between a very large cherry and a plum, the rim of which reminded me of a mushroom. 

The length was just perfect for me, not too long so that it choked me but long enough so that I had to swallow a bit to keep from gagging. And Simon let me have as much as I could take, resting the throbbing head against the back of my throat and then pulling out to let me suck and tongue the head. I tasted sweetly salty liquid leaking from the head, and in my ignorance, I thought that was his semen. I couldn't figure out why, if he had cum, was he still hard. As he licked me toward my own quickening release, I felt his cock swell and begin to pulse. As he licked and sucked my swollen clitoris, he slid a finger deep inside me and began fucking me with it while he sucked me. 

This drove me wild and seemed to excite him as well. When I reached my hand up to play with his balls, squeezing them gently, he seemed to grow bigger in my mouth. I felt myself explode against his lips in a syrupy climax, as he continued to tongue me. And then he really began to fuck my mouth with more rapid movements. Not deep, but quick, and then he yelled to me to suck it, suck it hard. I did as he asked and was rewarded in a very unexpected way. The little trickle of salty sweet liquid that I had thought was cum, became something more along the lines of a geyser. Spurt after hot spurt of thick, milky juice pumped into my mouth and I swallowed as much as I could without thinking. I was amazed that under the saltiness, I thought I actually tasted honey, lavender honey to be exact. Slowly I felt the spurting cease and he grew soft in my mouth. We lay there, catching our breath till he crawled back up from my soaking thighs to kiss me, just as I was wiping off the sweet cum that dripped from my lips. I hadn't managed to swallow it all, he had pumped such a deluge between my lips. 

"Don't," he said, "let me." And he licked his drops of lavender honey cum from my lips and then he kissed me, letting me taste my own musky, sweet spend as it mingled with his. I was in heaven, or vaguely aware of some heavenly place I had entered before I fell asleep, with his head on my breast.

Sometime later, I awoke. I don't know the exact time but I know the moon had come out and was pouring her light into my bedroom window, making it seem almost as bright as day. Simon began to kiss me again, working his long finger deep into my cunt as he sucked my lower lip and then gave me his tongue. Then he would rub the swollen button of my clitoris and slide his finger back into me. He took my hand and placed it on his hard cock.

"You've never taken an erect cock before, have you baby?" he whispered his question to me. "But you've taken something, haven't you? I can feel your little pussy deep, deep inside you and you're not a virgin. What have you taken here?" Simon asked again, pushing two fingers deep inside me, making me squirm with pleasure.

"Do I have to tell you?" I whispered languidly. 

"Oh yes," Simon said, "it's essential. You must answer all my questions. You've had your own finger up inside you, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Anyone else's?"

"No."

"Some toy perhaps?" he continued.

"No." I replied.

"What, then?"

"You won't laugh?" I moaned as Simon continued to expertly finger me. 

"Never. Tell what you slid up your sweet, juicy cunt."

"Well, I had the hairbrush over there on the dresser, the one with the most amazing handle. It was very phallic. I have used that to...oh, and a candle." He touched me somewhere deep inside me and I climaxed onto his thrusting hand.

"Oh my luscious baby! How I'd love to see that, watch you bring yourself to a juicy spend," Simon whispered, and then kissed me again. "But you want to take my cock, don't you? You want to be fucked, don't you? Oh, that's good, stroke me, make me nice and hard."

I loved the feel of his cock, and the purplish red plum-like head. Even in the moonlight, I could see the shiny drops forming at the tip. I wanted to suck him again, but I wanted to feel his root pushing inside me. I slipped my hands down and cupped his tight, full balls. That brought a delicious groan from him.

"Ah baby, I'm so full again. I can't believe I'm so full of cream again but I am. And I'm going to give it to you."

"What's the honey stuff that drips from the little hole?" I asked, dipping my finger gently into the center of his swollen cock and rubbing the slick juice around the head.

"Oh you are such a sweet girl, aren't you? That's pre-cum baby. That's what first comes out when I get excited. And it helps get my cock get all wet, just like you get wet. It helps me slide into you easier. You want me to slide into you? You want me to give this to you now?" he asked, squeezing my hand as it was wrapped around his cock, causing even more beads of pre-cum to form.

"But I think it looks really big, Simon. I know I'm not technically a virgin but I still think you're pretty big."

"Don't worry, don't you worry," he whispered, "I know how to give cock." He continued to whisper as he rolled on top of me and pulled my legs open. "You're so wet," he crooned, kneeling between my open thighs, "you're just dripping, aren't you?" And he slid two fingers in me again and then pulled them out, all shining with my juice. He brought them to his mouth and licked, mumbling about how sweet I tasted, and then he parted my swollen labia and found the nub of my clit again. He began to rub rhythmically, back and forth.

"Do you like that?" Simon asked, knowing full well I loved it. "Is this how you pleasure yourself? Does it feel right? Tell me, show me." And I was way past being shy and virginal. I was only conscious of the growing need in me to reach wherever it was he was taking me. I placed his fingers exactly in the spot that I liked and moved them just how I moved them when I pleasured myself. Then my own fingers stole their way to my nipples, which I began to pinch and squeeze. In the moonlight, though I knew he could see me clearly, somehow I found that I was just as uninhibited as I was by myself.

"Oh that's gorgeous. You have no idea how hot you look. So fuckable. Beautiful little cunt, so wet, you want cock now, don't you? I can tell. You want cock now don't you?"

"Oh god please, please..."

"Please what?" he demanded.

"Please Simon, please. I'm going to cum if you don't stop. Please push it in me. Please."

And he fell on me, kissing me as he searched for the entrance to my cunt with his dripping cock. I spread my legs wider and instinctively reached for his hard erection, placing the head between the swollen cunt lips. He began to work the round, fat head of his cock into me, and bit by bit the length followed. I felt myself opening as he pulled out and then worked back in, till I had taken all of him. He lay still on top of me, the entire length of his swollen cock embedded in me, letting me get used to the feel. I was so close to coming I felt like any movement either of us made would send me over the edge, and I had the feeling I just wanted to stay like that, full of his cock, just on the verge of exploding into orgasm. But in the end, the throbbing of his cock-head, pushing against the very depth of me, was just too much. I raised my knees up and grabbed his butt cheeks and pulled him in as deep as I could. 

He thrust maybe six or seven times, I don't know how many times he slammed his full length into me before he began to spurt. But I felt every jab, every thrust, and every hot jet of his cum as I lost myself in my own pleasure. I think, in the throes of my first cock-filled passion, that I did some more begging and possibly even demanded that he fill me up. He obliged, like the true gentleman that he is. He filled me up. And he reassured me afterward that I was not to worry about arriving back in Bristol with a "bun in the oven" because he had been "fixed" before he'd married his second wife and all that delicious cream could fill me up just as quickly as he was able to manufacture it. Before falling asleep, I told him I thought that was a perfect arrangement and he agreed, as he settled in to sleep, spooning against my backside, mumbling something about other virgin territory needing to be explored...