0 comments/ 39196 views/ 2 favorites Nightswimming By: HarryC The only solution was killing him. It was that simple. My boyfriend and I were lying nestled together in a sweaty tangle of sheets, sadly formed not through passionate lovemaking, nor indeed through rampant, legs-behind-your-neck, headboard-crashing-through-the-wall-into-your-neighbour's kitchen balls-deep pussy-melting fucking, but which instead had everything to do with the heatwave sweeping the city. Going outside was bad enough – moisture seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air and the humidity leached onto my skin and swept in warm, tickling trickles down my spine and between my breasts. If the liquid had been cooler then it might have been almost titillating, or at least refreshing, but as it was the fat, almost greasy droplets rolled over my body like sweat and it was never long until I was actually perspiring, the salt irritating my skin. Somehow, the heat seemed to get worse at night, as if it built up in our apartment during the day. The city was almost always overcast too, so unlike in the deserts, the heat had no way to escape. The irony was that usually summer in the city meant that the only change to your wardrobe was adding an umbrella to keep off the rain, or switching your thick winter coat for one that, while equally warm, was also waterproof. I guess when it comes to weather you can really only please none of the people none of the time. In any case, the duvet on my bed had been thrown into a wardrobe, and decent sheets had been replaced with the cheapest, lightest material the local supermarket had to offer. And still, despite getting only about half of my required eight hours a night over the last week, my boyfriend and I spent most of the night tossing and turning, fanning the sheets to let cool air into the ecosystem beneath and flipping the pillows constantly, in search of a mythical cold side harder to discover than the Holy Grail or a person who hasn't read a certain awful novel on that topic. So when my neighbour breaks my tenuous hold on sleep with a 3 a.m. rendition of Radiohead's "(Nice Dream)", I'm not inclined to appreciate that at least he picked an appropriate song. I've never really spoken to the guy, though I've run into him a few times in the hall and stood next to him as we both checked our mailboxes. Something about this city – it doesn't encourage you to get to know your neighbours. He's the sort of guy who can look anywhere between the ages of 30 and, when he smiles his so-wide-it's-goofy smile, 20. His hair is jet black and spills round his face in thick, shaggy locks that a lot of the guys in my University classes spend hours at the mirror with comb and gel to achieve, the effect lessened by their artifice. He has these sweetly innocent hazel eyes that have probably parted a lot of girls' legs, even before they hear his sexy, low-slung voice. I've never seen him wear anything but black, loose clothing, so while I can tell he's slim, I haven't a clue what his body is actually like. I don't know what he does for a living, though he keeps really odd hours, sometimes not leaving his flat for days, sometimes being out at nine every morning of the week, sometimes heading out at midnight with a briefcase and wearing a fancy suit. The reason I notice this is the same reason that my rent is so cheap each month: apparently the floors are made out of the cheapest material that'll support a reasonably svelte human being and apparently there's nothing between them. The guy, his name is John Amberson, by the way, lives directly beneath me. And boy does he like music. Played loud, too. It's not normally that bad – our tastes are fairly similar, and I've actually discovered a couple of great albums from hearing them seeping up from below. I'm usually a deep sleeper, too, so if he played music at night before, it was something of which I was unaware. I didn't even mind that he sometimes sung a long. I knew he lived alone – just as I knew that my next-door neighbours were involved in a sad little game of adulterous one-upmanship – and having spent a year all alone myself, I knew the sort of habits you drifted into. Amberson had a pleasant voice, in fact – not great, but certainly a lot better than most of the manufactured stuff that gets played on the radio stations, which seem to pander only to the lowest common denominator. But here I was, balancing right between wakefulness and sleep and just about to plunge into the embrace of Dream, when suddenly Amberson is doing a duet with Thom Fucking Yorke at 3 fucking a.m. Countries have gone to war for less. What was even more infuriating was that my boyfriend had some how managed to fall asleep regardless. I shrugged his arm from off my shoulder, not caring if he woke or not, and untangled myself from the sheets. My boyfriend groaned gently and rolled over into the space I had vacated, still frustratingly asleep. We had made love earlier, though I hadn't come. I had made him wear a condom. Heh – in this heat, we'd probably have fought for the right to sleep in the wet spot. Without pause, I headed out the bedroom door, through the hall and down stairs to Amberson's flat. I slammed my fist into his door so hard it hurt and then held it behind my back so the jerk wouldn't see that I'd hurt it. Despite it being nearly the morning, he looked perfectly fresh, still dressed smartly in a tight black T-shirt and, naturally, black jeans. He blushed when he saw me. Good, I thought, he does know how rude he was being. "Um, can I...uh... help you?" he asked. "Fucking right you can," I started. "Three in the bloody morning and as if it isn't difficult enough getting to sleep in this heat, I have to contend with you going all karaoke on me." He half-smiled, half-laughed and nodded slowly. "Of course. It's really hot and I'd pissed you off. You must just have stormed out of your flat without thinking. Hold on one second." He disappeared into his apartment, which was fully illuminated, and came back clutching a faded grey bathrobe. "You might want to put this on," he told me. I took it, it was made of silk and so soft and smooth. "Why would I... oh." Then it was my turn to blush. I looked down and realised that in my haste, I had forgotten that during this unprecedented heat wave I had started sleeping in the nude. With the cool air flowing from the hall air conditioning, my small brown nipples had risen to the sharp, painful-looking peaks they formed during sex. The sparse hair I leave just above my bald pussy was jewelled with sweat. My pussy itself was still sticky from earlier. "Look, I'll turn around while you put the robe on," Amberson said. I did so hurriedly, wrapping that stunningly soft fabric around me, feeling it caress my breasts and buttocks with intimate tenderness, letting it rest, tickling, against my slight bush. "Sorry about that," I said. John laughed. "Trust me, darling, no man ever complains about a free show like that." I wasn't blind, of course – I'd seen that big, big bulge in his jeans. "You want to come in?" he continued. I did so and he went to his kitchen to put on the kettle – coffee for him, but tea for me. He brought the drinks in two old, well-loved mugs – the coffee was in one reading "World's Greatest Divorcee". "So," he said, "I play my music too loud at night." Having just indecently exposed myself to this extremely handsome man, I found it hard to be as angry as I had intended. "Well, not everyone keeps your hours and it's so hard to sleep in this heat," I began. He cut me off with an almost negligent wave of one palm. "No, no, you're quite right. I'd forgotten how thin these walls were. I tell you, the couple who lived in the flat before you... well, I used to hear them every single time they had sex. The guy just gave these low grunts like he was pretending to be Tarzan, but the woman! Heh – it was as if she were an opera singer." He ran up and down a scale in a falsetto voice. "Oh," I said, a little peeved again, though his performance had made me laugh a little, "is that your way of telling me that Brendan and I are disturbing you?" "God no," he said quickly, "I've never heard the two of you. I didn't even know you had a boyfriend." I blushed again at that. "No, you're right. From now on at night I'll wear headphones, okay?" "Thanks," I said. "And I'm sorry about coming down here like this." "What, naked? I thought we'd covered that?" I laughed. "You know this has actually been sort of fun." "Well, if you ever want to talk again," he said and shrugged. We were walking to the door when a question occurred to me. "If you don't mind me asking, what is it you do for a living?" He gave a little hitch of his shoulders. "Well, believe it or not, I'm a novelist." "No shit," I said. "Don't think I've heard of you." He grinned widely. "Well you have and you haven't. I write my serious novels under my real name. They tend to get really great reviews and really poor sales – probably dragged down the charts by the weight of all the pseudo-intellectual quotes they force onto the back. What pays the bills though, are the horror books I write as" here he mentioned a really big name. Mentioned, in fact, one of my favourite writers. "I noticed you had my latest book when I ran into you on the stairs the other day." "Oh my god, I love you," I exclaimed like I was still a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush on the safely sexless members of the latest boyband. "I have all your books!" "Oh yeah?" he asked, with the epitome of a wry expression on his face. "I'll sign them for you if you like. Actually, I'm doing a signing in the local Ottakars tomorrow night. Do you want to come as my guest?" "Really?" "Yeah – it's not glamorous, but you can chat with the manager and staff before they open the door and you can sit up front when I do the reading." "That'd be great," I said, "thank you so much." "Trust me, you won't be thanking me afterwards." "Well... good night John boy" He laughed, "Good night. Come down around six, okay?" I yawned and waved. When I got back to bed, I rolled my boyfriend over and slept with my back to him. I was woken from a dream in which a tall, dark and handsome not exactly stranger whirled me around a massive ballroom filled with both my extended family and the casts of every sitcom I'd ever seen. Brendan, my boyfriend, had his head pressed tight between my legs, his small dark tongue bathing the lips of my pussy in thick spittle. When he saw I was awake, he stopped licking and climbed up to kiss me. I could feel his cock pressing hard into my thigh. "Morning," he said as he guided it into me, lubricated more by his spit than by any arousal on my part. "Morning," I replied and gave a little groan as he entered me fully. I could feel his heavy balls between my legs, the thick hair on them tickling the insides of my thighs. One of his hands played idly with one of my nipples. He braced himself with the other as he began to fuck me, moving in short, fast strokes and angling his shaft so it ground against my clit with every thrust. Brendan pressed his lips against mine, which I parted. He thrust his tongue into me with all the savage hunger his cock exhibited towards my cunt. I flicked his tongue with my own, then ran around it in quick, delicate circles. I lapped at it slowly as I pulsed the muscles in my pussy – a skill learned through hours of kegel exercises. (The pubococcygeal muscles, fact fans). Brendan's hands cupped my ass and he braced his legs, almost yanking me to impale myself on his dick. "I'm going to come," he said. "Don't come inside me, Brendan," I said. I rolled on top of him and pulled back until his cock withdrew from my cunt. It didn't want to let his cock go, it seemed – it came out with a wet, sucking sound. I smiled at Brendan and licked my lips, then knelt between his legs and sucked the head of his cock into my mouth. I've always liked the way my pussy tastes. I know a lot of women don't. Theirs I mean – there haven't been that many women for me! In any case, I relished the taste of my cunt on my boyfriend's hard cock as I sucked his thick head, running my tongue slowly around the edge of his foreskin and flagellating the narrow slit on the tip. I slowly engulfed more of him, swallowing him centimetre by centimetre until his pubic hair tickled my nose and my chin dented his balls. I began to fuck him with my mouth, letting my tongue work his shaft as I suckled on him. I cupped his testicles with one hand and played them almost as if they were Chinese relaxation balls. With the other, I stroked the flesh between his balls and his asshole, giving some of the sensation of anal play without the fact, which made my boyfriend a little insecure. Brendan's hands were knotted in my hair, and he was moaning. Without warning, his pelvis shuddered and a great gout of come rippled through his cock and shot into my mouth. I swallowed it. Brendan's fingers locked in my hair almost painfully and he breathed out slow and deep. Still in the heat of my mouth, his cock wilted almost instantly, shrivelling into its flaccid state. I let it fall from my mouth and watched it, tiny and shiny with my saliva in the morning light. "Thanks, Molly," Brendan said as he got up and walked on shaky legs for the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower." I sighed, and fished around in my bedside drawer for my vibrator. I had it hidden under my panties and it took me a moment to find it and a little longer to untangle it. The instant I heard the shower running I turned it on. There was no time for subtlety – Brendan would only be minutes in the shower – so I gave it one quick baptism in my cunt and then placed it gently on my clit. I had to bite my lip to stifle my moans, as the vibrations seemed to spread through my clit and deep into my pussy, deeper than Brendan had ever reached with any of his appendages. From there, the tingle suffused through my body, fluttering in my feet and shuddering through my breasts to explode from my nipples. My hair seemed to stand on end and my pussy seemed to fountain liquid. It was only through long practice that I kept silent as my orgasm tried to scream out of my throat. My tongue lolled over my lips and, as I switched off my beloved vibrator, my hand bushed delicately over my vulva, carefully stroking my labia and my clit and lightly fluting into my vagina, all in worship of the seemingly simple flesh that brought me such impossible pleasure. Brendan came in. "You look pleased about something," he said. I smiled and lay back on the bed. Brendan massaged his scalp roughly with the towel, his penis dangling uncovered. I looked at it appraisingly. Of course, its flaccid size had nothing to do with what its dimensions were hard. Brendan was a shower, as they called it – he had a fairly big cock when it was soft, but he barely grew any when he was hard. I remembered the biggest guy I had ever been with – when we had stripped, his cock had looked decidedly below average and then, as I marvelled and he watched with the wry amusement of someone who had seen this countless times before, it had grown to about ten inches in length. Brendan was about average. I'm not a size queen in any way – I'm firmly in the "it's not the size of the boat but the motion in the ocean" camp – so my inability to come with Brendan had nothing to do with his endowment. He just didn't know what he was doing and didn't want to learn. I didn't usually have a lot of trouble coming, in fact, though I was never lucky enough to be one of those women who come just from having their nipples touched for long enough. The guy with the huge cock had known what he was doing. That had been a one-night stand – I suspected all his relationships were – but during that night he had pleasured me with consummate skill, playing expertly on nerves I hadn't know I had it. If it were possible with something as intimate as sex, it might have been too professional, but when you have as many orgasms in a row as he gave me, complaining is worse than meaningless. Then there had been my first serious boyfriend, Chris. Then neither of us had known what we were doing and we stumbled towards ecstasy like two blind people. More often than not, we found it too. There had been others as well, far more than I would admit to, and none of them had been as selfish and unskilled as Brendan. I wondered why I stayed with him – it's not like we had any emotional connection. We were one of those makeshift couples – forced together by mutual friends looking for an easy double date on a Saturday night. Brendan looked at me with the sort of shrewd look a pig gets when he's figured out how to get more slop than another pig. "Come on – you look like you're sneaking something." "Nah," I said, "I've just been trying to make a decision." I walked past him, my naked body almost exalted by the cool air, which moved deliciously over my breasts and chilled the damp heat between my legs. I set the showerhead to its strongest setting and gave myself another orgasm and this time I didn't keep it quiet. When I came out of the shower, Brendan had already left for the day. I met him for lunch, grabbing us a pair of sandwiches from the local bakery and then going to our standard rendezvous in the park. I handed him his diet coke and ham salad sub, left my own lunch sitting in the bag. "Brendan," I said, "we need to talk." "Right," he said, sneering. "How did I know this was coming?" I thought about responding, "because I never did," but it seemed facile to describe a symptom of our relationship's problems as the cause. Pretty fucking cruel, too. In any case, as Brendan was wont to do, he kept talking. "Is it that jerk off lives below you? I heard you with him last night you know." "I thought you were asleep," I said, regretting it instantly. "I fucking knew it you bitch! Carrying on – I mean fucking getting out of bed after we'd screwed, like I wasn't going to wake up..." "So you weren't asleep?" "Fuck no! I was just trying to get to sleep – then I started wondering what my fucking girlfriend was doing leaving the flat with her pussy hanging out." "Jesus! Keep your voice down," I hissed. People on the other benches were starting to stare at the foul-mouthed guy and his slutty, unfaithful girlfriend. I continued before he could start talking again. "That was a mistake of mine. His music was keeping me up, I was mad, just didn't realise." "Yeah right." "You know what – hell with it. We're through. I don't have to explain myself to you anymore." He grabbed my wrist. "No, Molly, don't go. Were you sleeping with him?" "Why do you want to know?" He shrugged, but he looked so defeated, like a little boy who's lost his toy, so I sat down again. "No, I haven't slept with him." "You want to, though?" "I... I don't really know him. I only met him last night. And no, before you ask, I'm not breaking up with you because of him. You and I, well, we both knew from the beginning it wouldn't work out. We're too different." He didn't say anything, but he let go off my wrist, let it almost fall from his grip. "Bye, Molly," he said. "Goodbye, Brendan." Behind me, thinking I wouldn't hear, he said, "Maybe we're too much the same." In the end, after much deliberation that was really more a means of justification, I decided to go to the book signing with John. I took a shower and dried my hair, but didn't really style it, then selected my underwear. I was going to wear my fancy little black dress, and I really hated those strapless bras, so I didn't need to worry about that, but I spent a while picking out my panties, certain comments of Brendan's echoing snidely in my head. In the end I settled for a fairly unembellished pair – but ones that were both black and made of silk. Nightswimming The signing was fun. John – though not going by that name obviously - read from his new horror book. I'd already read it, as had presumably everyone there, but hearing his deep and witty voice reading out passages brought out the best qualities in his prose. He answered every question they asked, always courteously, often humorously, and was willing to sign however many books a fan had brought. While waiting for a friend still queuing, one woman came up to me. "So are you," she said his name, "'s girlfriend?" I shook my head, "No, I'm just a friend of his." The woman almost purred. "You sure about that? He's very cute." "Yes, yes he is," I said, smiling. "But really, there's nothing going on between us." "Well he wants there to be. I saw the way he looked at you tonight." I was going to say something self-deprecating, but she stopped me. "Don't worry about what I think. A forty-year-old divorcee shouldn't be handing out relationship advice." When she said "forty" she leaned in close and hissed it for my ears only. "In any case," she continued, "you should tell him to put a photo on his book jackets." Her friend came and we made our polite goodbyes. John walked me back to my door. "Well," he said, "I hope you weren't too bored." I leaned my back against the door and briefly wondered if he would kiss me, if I wanted to kiss him. I decided, looking at him in his casually chic clothes, catching the fine line of his shoulders, the slender length of his legs, that enticing weight at the front of his trousers – I wanted him to kiss me. "Would you like to come in?" He paused, hearing the question I was really asking. "I thought you had a boyfriend?" He almost whispered it, leaning in towards me, his breath cool on my face, his chest only millimetres from my breasts. His mouth was so close to mine that if either of us moved... "I broke up with him today," I said and he pulled back a little. "It wasn't because of you," I said, worried that he thought I'd turned into some genus of demented stalker. "No, I didn't think it was. I saw how you reacted last night when I said I hadn't known you had a boyfriend, that look of singular disaffection that flashed across your face like a bad memory you wanted to dismiss." He laughed. "That's a good line. Think I'll work it into the next book somewhere." John grew serious again. "This might sound strange, Molly, but I think I could really like you. I think I'm already starting to really like you, and it's been too long since I felt like that. I don't want to spoil it by rushing into anything with you." I could feel a flush spread across my body that I hadn't felt in years, and I realised that I, too, might want this to be something more than just a casual sexual relationship. "Okay," I said, only a little disappointed, "but next time you are coming in – even if it's only to sign my books." He laughed. "Good night, Molly," and then he did kiss me, barely brushing his lips over mine, but getting the pressure just right, his hands resting on my hips. He had left before I was able to unknot my tongue enough to say bye, and turned and waved as he headed down the stairs. It still wasn't that late, and after that kiss I wasn't going to sleep anyway, regardless of the weather. I tried to read, but the words seemed to slip from my mind. I tried to watch TV, but the channels were drowning in a glut of reality shows filled with contestants that managed to be simultaneously utterly moronic and monstrously egotistical. Being a research student, my finances weren't exactly rivalling Croesus's, so my stock of DVDs I hadn't watched more than ten times was non-existent. In the end, I put on a Shivaree CD while I drank a mug of raspberry tea, then tried to get to sleep. Goodnight, Moon indeed. I was lying there for two hours, enjoying, at least, being able to fully expand and annexe every corner of my bed, but no closer to sleep. It didn't help that my pussy was tingling with thoughts of my dark gentleman below. "Are you sure?" he asked. There was no accident this time. My rounded breasts were on display for his eyes, my small dark nipples firm at the thought of his touch. My pussy steeped in nothing other than my pure desire for him. I didn't even need to nod my head - my answer was clear in every line of my body, in the look in my eyes. He pulled me through his doorway and into his arms and kissed me one, swift time. "I'm glad you came down," he said, his breath short. He circled me, now behind me, his hand resting on the question mark curve of my taut belly. He placed his head next to mine, his forehead nuzzling my long hair, his lips gentling nibbling on my earlobe. His breath coursed through the channels of my ear, tickling me and, combined with the tugging of his lips, sending a potent shiver through my already wet cunt. His hands stroked my stomach, rising in long slow strokes to just under my breasts, dipping to just above my well-trimmed bush. He teased me, his hands not yet straying to those centres of pleasure. I moaned his name quietly, "Oh, John." His lips left my ear, after whispering – the cool gust of his breath again sending chills through my body – "You're incredible, Molly." Both his hands closed on the undersides of my breasts, his palms gently raising the ripe swells of my flesh gently as they caressed me. He planted soft kisses on the side of my throat, sometimes being almost innocently delicate, sometimes sucking gently or harder, occasionally giving a perfectly judged nip with his teeth. Again I groaned with the pleasure he was giving me, and I ground my ass back into his crotch, feeling the big, hard swell of his cock contained only by his trousers. He ran his tongue over my shoulder as his fingers circled inward to my nipples, gently rubbing the small, pin-sharp points with just one fingertip, then taking long, slow strokes over my areola and nipple between finger and thumb. I looked down to watch his expert hands at play and saw that I was randomly scattering shining beads of my arousal on his carpet – beneath my pussy, a pool of my juices was forming on the floor. Every exhalation of mine now was a moan, a wordless prayer to the astonishing pleasure he drew from my body. I had forgotten this, with Brendan, forgotten the marvellous, impossible alchemy that only this – that only a loving partner could bring. That incomparable sensation of aching flesh being answered with equal fervency. How trivial even the orgasms my designer appliances had given me compared to the primal magic of one body loving another. The ecstasy I was feeling had driven from me all sense of time. I bathed in the sensations he was giving me until my consciousness almost drifted away. Then I felt his hands leave my breasts and drift in slow, caressing waves down over my torso until his fingers coiled in the small amount of curly, black hair I didn't trim. He let one hand dally there and with his other, turned my head so that our lips met. I pulled back a little and let my tongue slowly part my lips, miming the spreading of my pussy lips that had already happened at his wondrous ministrations. I slowly ran my tongue round my lips – the cupid's bow of my upper lip, the plump, ripe mound of my lower – then lapped at his closed mouth until it opened to me. I assaulted his mouth with my tongue, set a blitzkrieg until I had him subdued. As one of his hands traced slow circles around my dripping pussy and the other moved over my breasts, my tongue traced the roof of his mouth, draped itself over his tongue, explored every inch. As I fucked his mouth with my tongue, John began to rub the lips of my pussy with his index finger. He had first dipped it in the liquid bubbling from me, and his touch was so light... so light. He allowed himself to stroke my hard little clitoris and I almost came. "Stop," I said. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, not worried about his attributes as a lover, but concerned about my emotional state. "John, I've never felt like this before. Really." I couldn't believe the sensations running through me. I was just standing while he made love to me like no man had before, with dazzling flair as well as desperate passion, and yet I was flushed as if I had run a marathon. Sweat shone on my body under the lights and my breath came in gasps. "But," I continued, "I want to see you." I rolled in his arms so that my breasts were squashed against his chest. My cunt was forming a liquid impression on his trousers. I lifted the shirt over his head and murmured appreciatively. John kept in shape – his body wasn't sculpted, though probably no-one who wrote all day looked like a male model, but his chest and stomach were slim and well-defined. He had a sparse scattering of hair running between his nipples that trailed off as it travelled down his body, finally thinning to nothing just before it would meet his pubic hair. His nipples were much bigger than mine – about the size of quarters, an American would say. I sucked on them as my hands first stroked his big dick through his trousers then tugged on his belt buckle. The belt finally came apart in my hands and I whipsawed it through his trousers and threw it into a corner. Before it landed, I had undone the button and yanked down his fly. I pulled down the trousers and his briefs and he stepped out of them as I marvelled at his beautiful cock. It was fully hard, of course, and jutted out perfectly straight from his body. It was dark olive in colour and smooth except for one thick blue vein running along the top. He wasn't circumcised – but then I'd never been with a circumcised guy, so I only knew what those were like from the Internet. His shaft was very thick around, but his head was even thicker. I don't know what length his cock was, but I could wrap both my hands around it – though they couldn't close – with plenty of shaft left for my mouth to play with. I was ready to kneel before him and suck him deep inside right then, but he stopped me. "Later," he said and picked me up. As he carried me, one of his hands still playing with admirable dexterity on my breasts, the other only able to stroke a small section of my thigh, I stroked his beautiful cock with long and graceful motion. He placed me on his bed, and I luxuriated in his soft sheets, wiggling my ass on them. He crawled from the foot of the bed until his head rested above my pussy. His breath, much faster now, gusted through my bush, the short hairs swaying. His hands stroked my thighs, running up the inside until they met my pussy, then circled round to experience the outside. He cupped my ass and lowered his lips onto my pussy where he slowly traced my lips and then planted his tongue on my clitoris with light, fluttering touches. Mumbling, his mouth slick with the juice gushing from my cunt, he spoke: "You're amazing, Molly. I love the way your pussy tastes." I had been moaning out his name more or less constantly, but figured he wouldn't mind me being repetitive so long as I was complimenting him. When he planted one slow, sucking kiss on my clit, though, it put me over the edge and my first orgasm – not caused by a vibrating plastic rod or a pulsing shower head or my own fingers – in far too long exploded in me. I felt as if a colossal electric shock had been applied to my cunt. It ripped through me, tensing the muscles in my legs so that my pussy raised off the bed; taking control of my arms from me and curling my fingers into shaking hooks; making my breasts ripple with the force of air I expelled from my lungs as I screamed "Oh, John. Oh John," over and over. Sweat burst like heavy rain on my brow and rolled into my hair as my head lolled back on his pillows. He hadn't stopped his attentions, and a second orgasm followed like the aftershock of a forceful earthquake. He wouldn't have stopped there, either, if I hadn't lifted his head. "Yes?" he asked, as my fingers stroked his chin, feeling my juice hot on his beautiful face. "I need your big cock in me, now," I told him. He obliged, slowly making his way up my body. He placed the thick head of his cock between my spread lips and looked deep into my eyes. I bit my lower lip in anticipation and nodded. He eased it into me, and I could feel every inch of his girth as he stretched me, feel every inch of his length as he penetrated deep inside me.. "Oh... my god... you're so... big," I gasped. "I love... the way... you feel... inside me." "You feel... incredible, too," he told me. "You're... so...tight." We both paused for a moment when I had completely engulfed him. Then, with perfectly judged strokes he fucked me. I guided him, my hands on his buttocks telling him to speed up, to slow down, telling him longer strokes then shorter, telling: give it all to me. His hands made love to every area of my body. I gripped and released him with my cunt. I came again and again. I lost count of the orgasms he gave me – big and small. His big cock ground against my g-spot and I had never experienced pleasure like it before. Finally, after an impossibly long time, he gasped out that he was going to come soon. "Come inside me," I said. He did, and I felt his cock spasm in several big, heaving jerks. The rippling sent me over again and we rode out our orgasms together. His cock softened within me, but I didn't move, not wanting it – him - to withdraw from me. I could feel his come slowly trickling from my lips and pooling on the bed. I ran a finger between my legs, tickling his balls almost accidentally, and scooped up a little of his come and tasted it. It tasted good, and after John kissed me deeply. We talked for a bit, both of us, still breathless, gasping agreement as to how amazing our first time together had been. There was something I had to ask him, though. "How the hell could you last so long?" John laughed a little sheepishly. "Um, well, shortly before you called I...um... masturbated." I laughed. "Were you thinking about me, at least?" John grinned. "Yeah. Well, you and Angelina Jolie." I slapped him playfully. "She was introducing you to the joys of bisexuality," he continued. Inside me, I could feel his cock beginning to harden already. Much later, the sun casting the pattern of his curtains on the opposite wall, we were free to talk again. "Did we rush it?" John asked. "No," I said. "We took our time."