Christine's Emancipation

My legs began to shake. My whole body began to quiver.

"Hold position!"

Current was flowing through me, right up to my skull. No power on earth could stop it now. No power on earth could keep my legs from giving way as the orgasm took over….

I was where Morgan had been, embedded in the overstuffed chair, legs splayed, my finger on my clit hood, pressing, squeezing yet more ecstasy from an orgasm the like of which I had never contemplated, that went on and on from one crest to the next. I could not see, nor speak, nor scarcely breathe. My body heaved and bucked in the chair….

When the waves subsided, vision returned and Morgan swam into my field of view. He stood before me, as I had stood before him. My eye reverted instantly to his penis – which had become a bulge inside his pants.

"You did well, Melanie," He said.

I tried to say something, but the words would not form.

"We shall resume tomorrow. At 7pm. Two rules. One; no underwear. Not at home. Not at the office. Two; when you receive me you will be naked. Your body will be unmarked. If you disobey these rules, the game is over."

And before I could utter a syllable, he was gone. Leaving me sprawled in the chair, my body still shaking from the aftershocks.

Chapter 7. Entre act

You're not going to believe this, but its God's truth. My fingers started working even as the door closed on Morgan's imposing frame. I had come more times in four hours than in the past six months. Yet, it seemed, there was still gas in the tank. My vagina continued to drool, my clit was far from dead. I lost myself entirely in lust, orgasm followed orgasm, though none to compare with that monster, 10 on the Richter scale.

I suppose I must at some time have desisted because when the alarm went off I was in bed, naked. This is remarkable only because I had never before gone to bed naked. Harvey did, in spite of the occasional expression of wifely disapproval. I did not. I wore a demure nightgown, and panties beneath. This was the correct way a 'girl next door' should enter her bed. But that day was different. It was so different, I swear, I would have pulled the bedclothes down and frigged myself off yet again.

Time was too short. I had to get to work. Like an automaton, I went through my morning routine. I was on my way out the door when I remembered rule number one. Did he really mean I should go to work without underclothes? Surely not?

I paused. Underwear marked the body? Hell, I could get rid of the marks the elastic of my panties and bra made before 7pm. Maybe? Anyway, who was He to proscribe how I dressed for the office. Indignation mixed with indecision.

It felt like a capitulation, but I did it nevertheless. When I entered my car to head off for the office it was minus panties, minus bra and minus stockings. Underneath my blouse and skirt was --- me. Hell, who would notice?

Halfway through the morning I was convinced that everyone in the entire office had noticed. How could they not? Every casual conversation seemed to hint at my lack of underwear. No-one said anything direct. It was all innuendo. Or was it just in my mind? I knew, and I was not good at dissembling.

Never had I felt such gratitude when the clock showed 5pm.

Chapter 8. Day Two

At 6pm I was at fever pitch. What was I thinking of? OK, 'Morgan' had taught me something about myself. Big deal. I had known there was more to sex than Harvey and I had experienced. Girl-next-door I may have been, but isolated from the world I was not. I had read the magazines, surfed the web. I knew there was more there than a guy pumping into you for two minutes, then rolling over.

"That was great, honey. How was it for you?"

And then falling asleep.

I did not need Morgan to show me my sex-life was crap! But I had resigned myself to it. Maybe I did need Morgan to show me this was a mistake?

7pm approached and with it the quandary of indecision. Did I want to continue the 'game', or did I not. It was so easy to stop. All I had to do was not open, or to open clothed. I convinced myself that this was what I was going to do. I would defy Him. I would open the door fully clothed, and that would be the end of that.

Crunch time.

Jesus Christ!

"Good!" He said. "Turn around please."

"Very good. Not a mark. You do value your gorgeous body. And you have trimmed your pubic hair. You will not regret it."

Godammit, the nerve of the guy!

I had wondered at the full length cloak – this is California, after all – but ceased to wonder when this fell from his shoulders. He was buck naked, as I was. Slipping out of His shoes, he took my hand and led me into the living room, where the rheostat was already turned down as far as it would go. Notwithstanding my mood, my eyes fixed on his penis, which was fully erect. Like my breasts, it bobbed up and down as we walked.

He issued no command, just led me to the center of the room, guided my hand onto His penis and stroked my back and sides with a gentle touch that had me goosey in ten seconds flat.

"Stroke my cock and balls, and tell me if what I am doing to you is not what you want."

What could one say? His fingers roamed over my body, back, sides, breasts, stomach, thighs, stroking, pressing, caressing. I was putty in His hands.

Following his lead, I fondled his penis and his balls.

"You may use your fingernails."

As he said this, I felt His own fingernails strafe my back, then down to my thighs, up again to my stomach and breasts.

I drew my nails up the underside of His penis, to the tip, then down the upperside. I grasped His balls tight at the base, digging in with my nails and drawing out. Then back to His penis, digging in at the base and drawing up the shaft to the tip.

Early in our courtship I had occasionally given Harvey a 'hand-job'. This consisted of pumping on the shaft of his penis until he came, invariably in minutes. Harvey was content with this, well, more than content, if the subsequent kisses and words meant anything. But I did not like it, and after a while I refused to touch him 'down there'. When we were married we would have sex the way one was supposed to, the proper way, I said.

You could not call what I did with Morgan a 'hand-job'. The experience was utterly different. For starters, it was mutual. As I stimulated His penis, so His fingers stimulated me. There was not a moment of imbalance. His desire, expressed by His penis, rose with my own.

His fingertips and fingernails edged up my thighs closer and closer to my vulva. I grasped His shaft from beneath and began to pump in earnest. His fingers found my vaginal lips, and the moist innards. And then moved up to my clit.

Jesus Christ! He was going to do it to me again! My body began to shake as His fingers explored every inch of my vaginal lips and clit hood. I pumped furiously on His shaft. 'Come, you bastard. Come before I do!'

'Morgan' did not oblige. Aroused, this He was. But I had the feeling that pumping on his shaft all night would not make him come. Whereas the effect of those fingers roaming, pressing, rubbing but always gently had me again at the brink. My body began to shake, my groin begged. Harder, faster. His fingers did not comply. If anything, His stroking of my vagina and clit became gentler, which had the curious effect of drawing out my desire and increasing it at the same time. Eventually, the orgasm consumed me.

God knows what utterances went forth from my mouth, I remember only that my body sagged against His, that my hand gripped his cock, nails dug in tight, and that those roaming fingers never ceased to work my vagina, my clit hood, and my clit even as my body jerked this way and that, supported by His strong arm.

When I came to, I was on the sofa, legs everywhere. Morgan stood before me, proffering a vodka martini. My eye could not decide whether to focus on the martini or the penis behind it, still proudly erect. I settled for the martini.

When my heart stopped pounding, I said, thinking as I spoke that this could not be me,

"I want to make you come."

"Why do you want this, Melanie?" was the response. He had mixed himself a drink and now sat beside me on the sofa.

"You've made me come so many times. I feel bad. Can't you understand this?"

"Certainly I can understand it," came the reply. "Good sex is not about one party pleasuring the other. It is about each party pleasuring the other. And that is what we just did."

"But…" I indicated in a way I cannot recall Morgan's erect member.

"Pleasuring is an individual thing," He said. "I do not need to come to experience pleasure."

I thought about this. Was this guy for real? I took the bull by the horns.

"If you don't come I feel inadequate."

The tables were truly turned. With Harvey, who came on contact, I felt frustrated, cheated. Now I felt cheated because the guy who had made me come didn't. How ridiculous!

"I understand," Morgan said.

"So how does the 'game' continue?" I said, gaining composure. "Do you keep on making me come?"

"Melanie, I do not make you come. Your body does what it wants to do."

"Sure! OK. Don't pretend it isn't you. I'm not an imbecile. I don't know what it is about you, but I never came like this before."

For a while nothing was said. 'Morgan' fetched new drinks. His erection had wilted somewhat.

"The game is oriented around our mutual pleasure. If your pleasure is to pleasure me until I come, and if you mean this sincerely, then it shall be so."

"I mean it sincerely," I responded without thought.

"Bear one thing in mind. The act of 'coming' does not in itself bring pleasure. Pleasure is the way one is brought to orgasm. Do you want to pleasure me, or do you merely want to make me come?"

How could one answer a question like that? The man in my life wanted to 'get there' just as fast as he could. Two minutes, max. It had never occurred to me that men cared how they got off.

After a moment's thought, I said,

"I want to pleasure you until you come."

"Do you know how?"

"I'm not sure."

"Experiment. I will tell you what pleases me and what does not. Begin by sucking on my balls."

Jesus Christ! In the early days of our courtship, Harvey had pestered me to suck his penis. I had resisted. Nice girls did not do that. I made it very clear. After a while he had given up. And in our marriage he had never expressed the wish. Our 'sex life' settled instantly into brief bedtime encounters with Harvey lying on me thrusting his penis in and out of my vagina until he came.

And here was this man, 'Morgan', about whom I knew nothing, slouching back on my sofa in the dim light, thighs spread, asking that I suck His balls!

"While you are sucking my balls, you may stimulate the lower shaft of my penis with your fingertips, but gently," He said. "When I am erect, you may be more vigorous. Use your fingernails. But always on the lower part of my shaft. I will tell you when it is time to move on."

The nerve of the guy!

"You hesitate," He said. "You are not ready. Let your body be the judge. If it does not urge you to pleasure me as I would wish to be pleasured, then let the game take a different course."

"And that would be?" I asked hesitantly. I wanted to make him come. But some inner force prevented me from doing as he asked. I could not bring myself to kneel at his feet and suck his balls.

"You must decide. One way or the other."

"Without knowing the nature of 'the other'".

"Decide."

OhmiGod!

Chapter 9. Cloud nine

Some minutes elapsed. I said nothing. I made no move. 'Morgan' decided for me.

"Spread your legs and begin to masturbate."

Still I made no move. 'Morgan' rose, stood directly in front of me and began to massage His penis. In no time it was as stiff as a pole. He continued to stroke it, flaunting it at my eyelevel.

"You have five minutes, Melanie. If your vagina is not moist, the game is over. But your vagina will be moist."

Goddam the bastard! My brain said 'enough is enough'. My body could not resist focusing on that erect penis.

Obeying some inner force, my hand descended to my groin. A forefinger stroked my vaginal lips; around, up and down, around, then in, out and up to my clit.

I recall thinking 'Jesus! Here we go again', when a hand descended on mine and removed it gently to rest on my thigh. I looked down, at the top of Morgan's head! That would be His tongue then, I recall thinking vaguely. 'Licking pussy', 'cunnilingus', abstract terms I'd heard: the sensation was anything but abstract.

Instinctively my left hand stroked my right nipple, then began to squeeze it as Morgan's tongue flicked around my vaginal lips and walls, darting, light, unpredictable, a single caress, a longer stroke. Gentle fingertips stroked my inner thighs, which stretched wider as the tongue probed deeper, between my pussy lips, up and down their inner walls.

My hips began to move, guiding that silken tongue up to my clit. It did not comply. And when my hand went down it was gently and patiently removed. 'It's not time yet', the hand said. My clit disagreed! But the tongue was adamant. Long strokes from the base of my vagina up the cavity, flicking between the walls of my pussy, darting in and out. Again, again and again, impervious to the movement of my hips and the moans that escaped my lips as the tension mounted.

A fingertip edged into my vagina, exploring. It withdrew, but returned as two, inching upwards and pressing gently, then more urgently. Fingertips inside, the flat of His tongue edging up outside.

My back arched, my body began to shake, and shake, and shake. My thighs tried to close around his head to draw him into me, but only one made it. The other was restrained.

I was gasping now, all control was gone. My cunt began to hum, then to vibrate. Over the edge I went, wave upon wave, an orgasm that seemed it would not end.

And the fingers worked on. And the tongue began to work my clit….

Tongue, lips, fingers, teeth, all worked in unison keeping me on a high plateau somewhere above the Himalayas. My body shook, trembled, thrashed about, words that I never used, 'Fuck' 'Cunt' 'Shit' emerged in incoherent sequence from between my lips….. I wanted only that it never end.

Inevitably, it did. My cunt throbbed, but my body was still. Stimulation had gradually died away, and now had ceased. From somewhere in the ethos His voice sounded, deep, resonant.

"Tomorrow, at seven."

I did not answer because I could not speak. But it didn't matter. He was gone.

I lay, prone, trying to collect my thoughts. But there were too many. When I tried to rise, my legs refused to comply. Every part of me shook.

The clock read 11pm. Four hours? Had I really been that long up there on cloud nine? It had not seemed so. But why should my clock lie?

The alarm destroyed my dream -- a line of men with massively erect penises snaked out of the door, waiting their turn to perform cunnilingus on me. Bitch! I hung onto the dream as long as I could. Reality slid in. The rest of them would have to wait for tomorrow.

Chapter 10. Day Three

"This is Mandy."

I had opened the door for Him, but fell back when I realized he was not alone. Instinctively, I tried to cover my nakedness with my hands. A futile and unnecessary gesture. Discarding cloaks and footwear, Morgan and Mandy stood before me, as naked as I was. My eye latched onto Morgan's fully erect penis.

"Mandy? Who is – er -- Mandy?"

"Mandy is my sex partner. She will join us for this evening's session."

Mandy had black hair, cut short, a long, elegant neck, a slender, if slightly boyish figure, long legs, and a fully shaved pubis with a prominent mound of Venus. I had seen naked women in the shower at college, but never one who wore her nudity so naturally. What did one do? Shake hands?

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" I managed, my eye flitting from the ivory white of Mandy's body to Morgan's throbbing penis.

"That will not be necessary. Mandy knows who you are. We have no secrets from each other."

"Are you two married?"

It sounded stupid even to me.

"We are sex partners. When we are together we have sex. Occasionally we experiment. It is healthy for us both."

"You don't live together?"

"We do live together."

"So that would mean….?"

There was no way my head was going to get around it but it didn't matter. No further questions!

Leading Mandy by the hand, Morgan had advanced to 'our room', which I had taken great pains to prepare – candlelight, a hint of jasmine. The previous evening had dispelled all doubts. I trusted Morgan. I would go through with this, wherever it led.

Morgan gave a nod of appreciation. He advanced to the center of the room and stood straight, legs slightly parted, arms at his sides.

"Sit on the sofa. You may stimulate yourself, or not. Do as your body instructs."

Talk about confusion. One thing you could say about Morgan, He was not short of surprises. Still trying to get my head around Morgan and Mandy, I sat meekly on the sofa, tucked my legs beneath me, and watched. Mandy collected two cushions and placed them on the carpet close to Morgan's feet. Her movements had a grace and poise, a naturalness that I sensed mine lacked. She lowered herself to her knees, one on each cushion and raised her arms, stroking Morgan's penis with the fingertips of one hand, fondling his balls with the other. She did this with almost a reverence, not so much stimulating His genitals as 'making love' to them.

So also when her tongue joined in, grazing the sides of the penis and edging upwards to flick around its head, unhurried, inquisitive. She took the base of the penis between two fingers and thumb and massaged gently. Her tongue lapped the underside of the tip in syncopation.

If Morgan appreciated her ministrations, he gave no sign of it. He stood straight, eyes forward, arms at his sides as if the pleasure was not his, but Mandy's. His penis, rigid, tilted upwards, was offered for her pleasure.

She leaned back leaving His penis free and began to fondle his balls, loosening them in their sack. She did this for a long while, then leaned forward and began again to lick his cock tip and massage its base.

This sequence was repeated so many times I lost count. I became conscious of a tingling in my nipples. And I was sure my vagina, hidden primly beneath closed thighs, was beginning to moisten.

When Mandy ceased licking Morgan's penis and instead took its head into her mouth, my arousal was palpable. Her fingers still worked the base of the penis, and her mouth sucked gently on its head. As she sucked, her cheeks hollowed out and her lips closed over the top of the shaft. Occasionally, she held the head of His cock in her mouth for several minutes while continuing to massage the base of His shaft. I sensed that her tongue was working the tip inside her mouth. Then back to the sucking and massaging.

The cycle continued on and on. Mandy withdrew her fingers from His shaft and began massaging His balls, which had risen up, but now loosened. Mandy let her hand fall to her side and straightened her back. So her thighs were folded neatly over her calves. Morgan had edged slightly forward so his cock head remained in Mandy's mouth. They were now quite still, save for the hollowing of Mandy's cheeks as she sucked Morgan's cock.

Although Morgan showed no obvious sign of arousal, Mandy's nipples had stiffened and the areola surrounding them had begun to swell. I remember noting this with surprise. I had always thought of a 'blow job' as a woman pleasuring a man. It was something women-folk did because it made their men-folk happy. That the reverse could be true had not even crossed my mind. But then again, you could hardly call what I was witnessing a 'blow job', with which I associated a five minute affair in the back seat of a car. Mandy had already been working Morgan's cock for an hour, with no end in sight and the signs were indisputable. She was enjoying what she was doing.