From the Story in 12 prompt ‘Courtship’
I didn’t know her well. I thought she was very beautiful – from photos, from snapshots of her social media – and witty and clever, but like a popstar or a princess she always seemed unknowable.
He, on the other hand, the most open of open books. I felt like I was on first name terms with his genitals well before we slept together. He talked a good game. He looked incredible. He was kind and sharp and so hyper-intelligent that alone made me a little wet. The first time he made me come he was explaining how I’d misspelt and misused a word in a previous missive.
The first time we fucked was….. sixteen minutes into our first date. This was after a few months of contact. We went out for drinks, dinner. I couldn’t help myself. He leaned in to kiss me and I leaned closer to him on my bar stool – and placed my hand gently between his thighs. He kissed me harder and muttered “Oh?” against my bubblegum pink lips.
Tuesday lunchtime quiet and downstairs toilets – I go down first and slip to the gents when the coast is clear, stepping out of my knickers and holding them in one hand as the other dips between my labial folds, the texture of damp velvet enveloping my fingers. Three, four minutes later I hear his footsteps, I know it’s him I just know.
“Knock knock.” he says.
I opened the door with my skirt around my waist, the knickers still in my hand. He took them off me and stuffed them in his pocket for later – exchanging them for the condom in his hand. So eager to touch him I knelt down on that scummy toilet floor and eagerly unzipped his flies. He didn’t have underwear on either and I could have shown him how good I was with my mouth but my cunt ached more desperately so I only licked the shiny drop of precum from the head of his cock before I rolled the rubber down the shaft. Then he fucked me against the cheap pressboard door of the cubicle, grabbing my breasts and kissing my shoulder.
Later we shared charcuterie, two bottles of wine and recited a solid third of The Lion King verbatim which did not endear us to the waiting staff.
“I want my husband to come on your face.”
She’s so beautiful. So gleeful as she says this to me. This is weeks later. Over dinner. Over the remnants of dessert, a shared bowl of Eton mess which might as well be labelled the official pudding of sex perverts. I watched her lick cream off his fingers. Watched him instruct her to sit on the table and then proceed to dip his raspberries into her cunt before devouring them and devouring her until her shapely legs shook. Actually, this part I only heard. As he pulled her body closer to him, she looked over her shoulder at me.
“Are you going to suck his cock?”
I grinned and disappeared beneath the dining table to undress him – finally getting my mouth around what I’d craved. At first I was gentle; my primary concern was that I didn’t distract him from pleasuring her but really I couldn’t help myself and began to show off – only mildly annoyed that he wasn’t in a position where I could slide my fingers along his perineum, or plug his arse. Still, even with his face buried in her cunt I felt him gasp when I pushed his erection deeper and deeper along my throat until I couldn’t stand it any more and resumed sucking him. Her moans as she came made me suck harder to finish him off but the next thing I knew, she was stood at his side, bent over and pushing the table out of the way.
“I want him to come on your face.” She ordered, breathlessly I looked up at her as she repeated. “I want my husband to come on your face.” I knew from her face that the words had the same effect on her as they did on me.
I withdrew – his cock straining so handsomely before me – and looked up at her, at both of them.
“I want your husband to come on my face.”
We smiled as he curled his fingers around his shaft and she smoothed my hair away from my face to prepare me for my close-up.