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(Midterm Maelstrom, continued...)
“Why don’t we find somewhere a little more private?” you say, eyeing his athlete’s body hungrily. Blue jeans and a white button-down shirt. They’d look nice in a crumpled heap on your floor. “Like my dorm?”
“Ah, I’m not sure that would be such a great idea,” Mike says, “I’ve got a girlfriend back home in Oshkosh, and we’re trying to stay monogamous.”
“But you’re allowed to eat pussy?” you say skeptically.
“Yeah, as long as I tell her all about it. We have phone sex and play on webcam together. I can pretty much do whatever I want, but she’s the only one who’s allowed to touch my dick.” He smiles sheepishly. It’s a cute look for him. “Come on,” he says, “we can find somewhere more private here in the house if you want.”
You try the upstairs game room, an oversized closet with a carpeted floor and an X-Box, a Playstation, a Wii, and a tricked-out PC; but it is already spoken for: Sacchidananda and Paul are naked on a bean bag on the floor, a twisted, sweaty confusion of brown and pale appendages. You should have realized, but had never really comprehended, that she had such big boobs. Really nice big boobs.
So you end up locked in the upstairs bathroom. Fortunately (and surprisingly as Schrödinger’s Cat House is populated almost entirely by male undergrad physics majors) the bathroom is clean.
“Are you allowed to kiss girls?” you ask, pressing yourself up against him. His cock is sticking out the front of his jeans like a uranium fuel rod.
“Not really, but I’ll make an exception.” Mike pulls you to him, kissing your lips hard, grinding his crotch against you, squeezing your butt. You kiss him back, grinding right back against his hardness.
You step back, pulling your grey cami off over your head, exposing your breasts. “Didn’t you say something earlier about eating me out?”
Mike puts his huge, meaty hands under your armpits and with no effort whatsoever, lifts you up and sets you down on the sink. Your legs spread apart and your skirt rides up. He grins fiendishly, and kneels down, sticking his head between your thighs. You can feel his hot breath on your pussy through your panties; his stubble tickles your bare flesh. You lean back, resting your shoulders against the mirror, and idly run your fingers through his close-cropped brown hair.
He tugs, you skootch up your butt, and your panties are off, lying in a green-and-red striped little heap on the tile floor. Your pussy is open and drooling, and he proceeds to torment you, sweet torture, barely touching you with the tip of his tongue, traversing up and down and back up again, flirting with, but not actually touching, your swollen clitoris.
Finally, he relents, dragging the flat of his tongue up your sopping-wet pussy, spreading your lips, burrowing up inside you. Your clit feels like a carbon-oxygen white dwarf star about to collapse into supernova. You rock forward, offering yourself up to him, pressing your overheated cunt against his face. He responds eagerly, licking faster and more aggressively.
Now your fingers are curled up in his hair, struggling for purchase, trying to pull him in harder. Your legs are kicking over his broad shoulders, your toes are flexing and curling involuntarily. He is concentrating on your clit, flicking it with his tongue like a baby cat greedily lapping up milk, one big finger is pressed up against your asshole, and his thumb is invading the entrance to your pussy, and you are coming, coming hard, all over his face, and you could give two shits if the whole house hears about it. The orgasm is so intense, if it weren’t for his strong hands, you would be shaken off your perch on the sink. You back arches, and your body shudders again and again, as waves of pleasure wash over you, spasming your cunt and making your clit twitch delightfully. Your nipples are hard and pink, your chest is flushed, and your breath comes in gasps.
He stands up, smiling, pleased with himself. Your wetness glistens on his lips, chin, and nose. He unbuttons his jeans, lets them slide down before stepping out of them. His erection is bulging out of his tight-whities. He gives you another grin, cocky almost, and pulls his underwear off. His cock springs out, quiveringly hard and pink, drooling clear, sticky pre-come like a leaky faucet.
“I’m not allowed to touch your dick, right?”
“That’s right.” He grasps his cock in one hand, pointing it at you like a gun, stroking himself pensively.
You get up off the sink and maneuver yourself behind him. You are both reflected in the mirror in front of you. His cock is standing rigidly up; it isn’t the biggest one ever, but it does look delicious. He is still wearing his white button-down shirt. You put an arm around his broad chest and press your still-wet pussy against the back of his thigh as he slowly jerks off.
If you move your hips just so, you can stimulate your clit against the back of his muscular leg. You let one finger explore down the base of his spine, down into the cleft between his buttocks. His ass is strong and taught. When your fingertip finds his anus, he groans softly, masturbating faster, pressing himself back against you.
You withdraw, bringing your finger to your pussy, which is once again wet as an over-ripe peach. You slide your finger up inside, getting it nice and slippery, then return to his butt crack.
Your finger invades him. He is moaning out loud now. His asshole is tight, hot. Your finger is buried up inside him, fucking him from behind. He is jerking off now like he means it, lost in ecstasy, his balls jiggling, his ass humping back against you, and you are riding his leg, slick with your juices, approaching a second orgasm of your own.
He comes with a shout, pumping and pumping and not stopping, his pearly-white come splattering onto the mirror. His asshole spasms, squeezing your finger tight, impossibly tight. His orgasm sets you off and you ride the back of his leg blissfully as he milks the last drops of thick, viscous semen from his wilting cock.
“Is your girlfriend going to hear all about this?” You ask as you pull up your cami and retrieve your panties.
“Every single juicy detail” he says, “Thank you for everything.”
You shake hands, an oddly formal gesture, and then part ways. You head back to the dorms, where your midterm paper awaits, stubbornly unwritten.
The End
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