One Shot Deals: the Blanket

Having reached the age of fifty-five and grown invisible to young women, I find myself reminiscing more and more about my former sex life. It was a good one. The list of women I had intercourse with numbers thirty-six, unless I've forgotten one or two. As I created the list, I realized that more than a third of those were "one-night stands." Seven of those relationships were just bad mistakes, "thinking with the wrong head," and quickly remedied. Seven others, however, were among the most spectacular of my life. This is the first of them.

If it is destined to happen, it will. Sixteen million people won't win the lottery, but one lucky slob will walk into a store, let the machine pick the numbers, and retire for life. I suppose I helped my luck by being a voracious reader. She helped it by being so gullible that she believed me when I said the Theory of Relativity was about incest.

My parents' best friends lived on the opposite side of our city. They had one child, a daughter, who was a blond angel as a child and only got better looking as she grew older. She had long, almost platinum hair, blue eyes, very large white teeth, a perfectly shaped set of breasts, a well-rounded ass, and shapely legs. The mother had a nasal voice with an edge like nails on a chalkboard, and the daughter had partially inherited the bad trait. Other than that, she was a walking wet dream, and I had masturbated to fantasies about her more than once.

The family was Roman Catholic, and they sent this gorgeous daughter, who I'll call Morgan, to a private Catholic girl's school. They did not let her date and were very protective of her. They behaved like the Spanish, even though they were in fact English. To my unintentional advantage, I was one of the very few males her age who she knew. Morgan was actually two months older. When our parents got together, which was about four times a year, they would go on and on talking for hours. Since I was an only child as well, this left us to our own devises. At my house, we'd go up to my room and play board games. At her house, we'd go into their cellar, generally to play two-person spin the bottle, which I won every time. When we were about thirteen, suddenly Morgan started getting very curious about the male physique. She was always after me with "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine." Eventually, I decided there was no down-side to this game. But it was Look Only. Even after we got into our late teens, Morgan would initiate kissing and feeling outside the clothes, but I was never allowed to touch real flesh other than her face and arms.

In our senior years, we both took up tennis. Whenever our parents met to sit on their butts and jaw, we would walk down to a court, play for about twenty minutes, get hot, and then go off into the bushes and get really hot. Once I had my driver's license and we had both graduated from high school, I called her to see if she wanted to play tennis one last time before we went our separate ways to college. I was not even thinking ulterior motives other than bringing along my 35 millimeter camera to take a few shots of Morgan so I could pretend to the guys at college that she was my high-school sweetheart. I figured in spite of her curiosity and natural hot blood, the nuns and her parents had done too good a job on Morgan for me, as much a virgin as she was, to ever get beyond "second base." I was wrong.

As their best friends' "honor roll kid" who grew up with Morgan, I suppose I was the only male her parents trusted with her. What they did not know was that their daughter was not to be trusted. The minute Morgan got into the car she told me to forget about the public courts near her house or those at the nearby college. She had a better place, she told me. It was on the grounds of her private girls' school.

The school had about one hundred acres, with perhaps a third in woods and bushy plantings. It was all but deserted for the summer. Rather than drive through the gate, Morgan directed me to a residential street around the other side. I parked, and she told me to leave behind the tennis equipment but to bring the old comforter I kept in the trunk of the car for picnics and make-out sessions. Such promising words had my cock growing hard. I did, however, have enough blood left in my other head to remember to grab the camera and conceal it under the blanket. Morgan led us to a place in the far back corner of the school grounds, where some accident or perhaps some motivated kids with a rope and a car bumper had pulled a section of the iron fence part-way open. Just inside were planted several rows and heights of bushes. Pulling me along parallel with the plantings, so that we were never exposed to the school buildings or their windows, Morgan led the way to a little space where the vegetation had been trampled to extinction. Evidently, the spot had become well known as a good place to neck. While my back was turned spreading the comforter, Morgan quietly pulled off her tennis shirt. I turned to see her smiling at me with only a pink, rather low-cut bra covering her chest.

"You know where I'm going to college this fall," she said, leaning back on her hands and thrusting her decent-sized, lace-encased breasts at me. I knew that she meant she had purposely only applied to women's schools to please her parents but also only to women's schools near Ivy-league universities. Morgan was determined to get her Mrs. degree and to land an Ivy-leaguer born to money and promising to make a lot more...which is precisely what she eventually did.

I told her that I did know the school.

"I've been worrying," she said. "What if I meet a really great guy right away, a really wonderful catch?"

"So?" I replied.

"But I don't know anything about how to please him and make him my slave. How can a virgin make love well enough to..."

"Trap a guy?" I asked.

"If you must be so blunt," she returned. "And then I thought about you. You have the experience to help me."

It wasn't true. What I had was a handsome older male cousin who had had plenty of experience. He also had pornographic literature (including the works of Henry Miller) and even a clinical but thorough manual on "the art of making love." He delighted in impressing me with minute tales of his personal conquests, in answering my many questions, and in lending out his library. I, in turn for the past year, had lied to Morgan and told her that I was no longer a virgin. At first, I had shared what I had learned second-hand in the stupid hopes of getting her so hot she'd lie back on my bed and let me climb between her legs while our parents were downstairs talking about "the Communist threat" and "that trouble-maker Martin Luther King."

When she continued to rebuff my attacks on her flesh, in retribution I decided to torture her with detailed descriptions of sexual bliss, pretending my words came from first-hand experience. Little did I know my whispered sharings would lead me to the secret love nest at the back of her old school.

The instant after I realized what Morgan had said, my already hardening cock jerked ramrod straight in my tennis shorts. It had been growing faster than Pinocchio's nose at a lair's convention. It wormed right out of my briefs, so that from where Morgan sat she could just see the tip below my tennis shorts. Her eyes widened, and so did her smile. "That's what I'm talking about," she said. She lay down on the blanket and swung her shoulders from side to side, displaying her breasts. "Show me those tricks about handling a guy's penis."

"I will if you let me take a couple pictures of you," I said, pulling out the camera.

Morgan shook her head. "Are you nuts? First of all, I don't want any nude pictures of me showing up ten years from now. And, besides, how would you get them developed?"

This was back in 1967, long before digital cameras and computers. However, I reminded her that my father was a part-time pro photographer, had his own developers and enlarger, and had shown me how to use them all. I told her the film was black-and-white and I swore that I would never share them with anyone else.

"Well, nothing completely naked," she relented.

I was allowed to take a picture of her with her shirt off, hands crossed provocatively in front of her tits. Then I turned her sideways and filmed a glamour shot just over her shoulder, so that only a bit of her bra-imprisoned right breast showed. Then Morgan's natural hot-bloodedness took over. She said "What the hell" and turned full front, allowing me to photograph her breasts inside the bra. Then she adjusted her mounds so that the top crescents of her areolas showed. I praised and complimented her to the limits of my vocabulary. She leaned forward and pressed her shoulders inward so that her cleavage deepened. I could see she was turning herself on by posing. She was at the same time catching hungry glances at my ever-growing cock head. Her jaw actually dropped, and her mouth hung partway open, which made one picture incredibly sexy. Reluctantly, I put the camera down.

"Okay, here's the kind of kissing that really turns a lover on," I said, recalling the torrid passage I had memorized from a hot porn novel.

I took Morgan in my arms, kissing her up and down her neck, behind her ears, nibbling on her earlobes and exhaling hot breath into her ear canals. All of it worked exactly as the novel depicted. She began to purr and twitch.

While I kissed her mouth, I realized that I had months earlier unwittingly applied for the teacher's position in which I now found myself. In an effort both to lower her resistance and to convince Morgan I was an expert lover, I had shown her the difference between hard and soft kissing, about Frenching and "tipping the velvet." She had been an apt pupil during the previous winter.

I took her hand in mine and brought it to my mouth, running the tip of my tongue along her fingers and into the webbing between them. Then I lightly nipped the flesh of her thumb with my teeth. She quivered. I realized that she had placed her hand over my cock and was exploring around the head with her free thumb. Concentrating on being the teacher had kept me from cumming to this point, but her thumb threatened to undo me. While exploring her mouth again with my tongue, I pushed her fully back onto the blanket and opened her tennis shorts. She wore little pink panties that matched her bra. I noted her prominent public mound and what seemed to be a hint of wetness in the material.

"Whoa, Mister!" Morgan said, as I pulled her shorts over her tennis sneakers. "What I'm interested in is what I can do, not what you're doing. Just lying here doesn't help me."

"All right," I said. "Time for you to work on me." I sat back next to her and unzipped my pants. I skinned them and my briefs down in one motion, kicked them aside, and rolled toward her. Her hand went immediately around my cock, in a gentle, reverential manner. Her eyes went wide looking at it.

"Man, this isn't the same thing I looked at when we were thirteen!" she admired.

"Thanks to your beauty," I replied. "Stroke it lightly like that." I showed her how to peel back what remained of my foreskin, how to vary the tempo and the pressure. All too soon, I knew I was within a few strokes of cumming, so I taught her how to grasp the shaft just behind the head and pull out. She felt how the pulsing subsided and grinned in triumph with her newfound power. I told her she could do that until a guy was crying for release. Then I taught her how sensitive a man's balls are, how to tickle and tease them without hurting them.

"But I really need to use my mouth, don't I?" Morgan asked, her eyes smoldering. Even Catholic girls' schools evidently trade in sexual information.

"You should learn those tricks as well," I happily agreed, rolling onto my ass and coming up on my elbows. I invited her to explore and experiment and promised I would critique.

Morgan was a better natural cocksucker than I expected, or else she had gotten tutelage from another source. She began by licking tentatively, first around the head, then all along the top and bottom of the shaft right into the ruff of my public hair. She then made an O of her mouth and took in the top third. Her lips tightened wonderfully. She moved too slowly, so I took a hank of her long hair and moved her skull up and down, establishing the rhythm that was most effective. I also encouraged her to take in more and more, until she was choking and gasping for air. I told her to breath through her nose, and she relaxed. She had turned onto her belly, so that her other hand was free. She used it to cup and weigh my balls. She giggled with pleasure as they constricted. Her giggling changed to groans as her face moved up and down on my shaft. She was loving the power she discovered. I watched with excitement as her hips shifted back and forth unconsciously.

"Look at me and smile if you like doing this," I said. She rolled her pretty blue eyes up at me and gave me a devilish smile. I envied and pitied the Ivy-league men. "Can you take it all the way in?" I challenged. "That really gets a guy's undying devotion. Let's see if you can make it hit the back of your throat."

Gamely, Morgan slowed her sucking and worked my cock in until her lips circled the base of my shaft. A wanton noise escaped her throat. She was now rocking her prominent pubic mound down against the comforter. I could have cum right then, but I wanted more. I drew her face away.

"Is that enough for me to get my man, do you think?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Not the kind you're after. You have a lot more to learn," I said. "Like how the little rise just behind the bottom of the head is the most sensitive place. You flick your tongue back and forth over it until the guy's eyes roll into his skull."

"Let me practice some more," she said with enthusiasm.

"Maybe later," I told her. "But never volunteer to give a guy a blow job. It's the surest way for them to write you off," I continued. "You'll come off as a slut. Let them talk you into it. Guys like to conquer. Make sure this guy you're after thinks you're a virgin and ask him to teach you everything."

"That won't be hard, since I am a virgin. Thanks," she replied, reaching for her pants.

I realized that she had not promised her virginity to me. As far as she was concerned, the teaching session had reached its limit. I wanted to kick myself.

"Wait!" I said with genuine panic in my voice. "There are other incredibly important things I still have to teach you that will definitely make him your slave. Things you can pretend you do naturally."

"Like what?" she bit.

"Take off your bra and panties and let me take one last picture. That's my price for showing you," I said.

Before she could refuse I yanked her up, crushed her to me, and unsnapped her bra. I pulled down the straps, kissed her a few more times, and then whisked away the bra and admired her breasts. They were not the grapefruit size most men prefer but actually quite perfect for her height and weight. What drove me wild, however, was that her areolas were bright pink and puffy, as if they had been sucked for an hour each. Her nipples were small and buried within the plumpness around them. On a greater mission, I resisted the temptation to stop and worship them and rather pushed her down, grabbed her panties from both hips, and yanked them down and off. She cried out in protest, but I reminded her where she was and that she had brought me here. I had used the element of surprise to gain the initial advantage, but it only got me so far. The experience of former years had taught me that Morgan had powerful thighs. I had never been able to pry them open in the past. Her arms crossed defensively over her breasts. I decided on a different strategy.

"If you want to learn the big secrets, you must give me my photo!" I ordered. "These skills could be worth millions of dollars to you. Lie back and put your hands at your sides! No bargaining."

The little golddigger stopped struggling, as I suspected she would. However, no arguments were strong enough to get her to do better than cover her nipples with two fingers each and to keep her legs clutched tightly together. I took one photo from above and then begged for an "insurance shot" at a smaller aperture opening.

"If you put the darned camera down, I'll let you have a peek at my pussy," she bartered.

"I need to do more than that to educate you," I said boldly as I set the camera aside. "First let me see how your breasts taste."

I proceeded to give each tit extended attention, nursing happily. Morgan proved very susceptible to this adoration and began moaning softly. Rather than crinkle up, her areolas swelled. The nipples finally poked out, and a love flush broke across her upper chest. I pointed it out to her and declared that that was an "incredible weapon." Before she could force me to defend my errant statement I returned to sucking on her tits. I also began running my hand up and down her thighs, working to the inside, coaxing them apart. My poor cock was so hard I thought that any second it would split open like a Ball Park frank in boiling water.

"Okay, time to let me see your pussy," I whispered. I rocked back and let her give me a view.

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "You have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen, even in porno pictures." I was certainly not lying. It was taut, smooth, and symmetrical. Her pubic hair was untrimmed. Not many women groomed down to landing strips in those days. Fortunately, being fair skinned, she had little hair. The hair was gold and fine, like flax. Her outer cunt lips were small but definitely pouting out from sexual excitement. I could see the nub of her clit protruding from the top of her slit.

I shared with Morgan what I had read about women's lipstick serving to mimic the reddening of their pussy lips and how devastatingly effective it was on men if the lower lips turned bright red when someone massaged them. I told her we should see how red hers got. She willingly fell for it. I put my hand onto her mound and gently began stroking and pinching. Then my middle finger found her clit while I alternated kissing her mouth and her breasts. When she was writhing back and forth, I slowly inserted one and then two fingers into her slick cunt. She groaned into my mouth.

All of a sudden, she was pushing me away.

"Oh, shit!" she said. "Get off me!"

"What is it?" I asked, not releasing her.

"Get off! Quick! I mean it."

I rolled to the corner of the comforter.

"Too late!" Morgan wailed.

I watched the piss squirt out of her hole, streaming a good distance onto the red cloth. "God, you did that to me. I thought I was just feeling excited," she complained.

I watched the golden stream arcing out unstopped while she covered her face with her hands. "How embarrassing!"

"It's sexy," I said. "Jesus, that turns me on!"

The stream slowed to a trickle. The blanket was dark and musty with it wetness and odor.

"It does?" she asked, looking disgusted.

"Hey!" I returned. "Women pissing in front of men is in lots of dirty novels. Guys love to watch it, especially if they're the cause."

"Well, I'm not trying that on purpose," Morgan vowed. She had finally stopped. She looked at the comforter with a red face. "I'm sorry."

"It will wash out." I came back close to her and set my hand lightly on her cunt. "Don't forget about the color of your pussy lips."

"What color are they?"

"Getting pretty red. Let me play with you a little longer," I said, using as dispassionate a tone as I could muster, "to see if yours become that special scarlet color."

"You still want to touch me down there?" she asked, incredulous.

"More than ever."

"Sicko. Wow, I have a lot to learn," she said, settling back and closing her eyes.