A Glass of Chablis Ch. 02

Ivy turned from the book and looked at her host. "Do you like your cock being sucked? I'm not like Beatrice. I have sucked cock. Shall I be like Caroline?" She looked at George, his eyes were wide under his raised eyebrows and his moustache was quivering. Their eyes meeting and then he followed her gaze as it moved down his body to rest upon his erection still standing out of his pyjama fly, still peeled and erect.

"The smooth hot knob," she quoted, "do you think, like Caroline, my mouth is often petulant?"

His head shook.

"Do you think it, your smooth hot knob, would fit perfectly?" She looked up at him, and drew her tongue across her lips, "The rose and the stalk, your balls cupped in my palm."

George's reply was almost articulate. He cleared his throat, "I... please, Ivy, I'm so..."

"Wait, Mr Crombie, make me come first. Your fingers in my oily." She read on as George's fingers did their best.

'The cock would jerk faster and she would choke. A warning hand would seize her head. Her cheeks would bulge as the penis urged deeper. Strong loins would work against her unwillingness.

And the spouting. He would have needed to cup her face completely-hold it in. Ripe throbbing of the flesh.

"Suck, Caroline." His voice would be deep and urgent, her head squeezed, ripplings of blonde hair through his fingers. Beneath her dress her breasts would lilt.

There was sin here, among the rubber plants, the rooms overcrowded with furniture, photographs of sepia in silver frames upon the piano. From the conservatory whence I fled I gazed upon the waving fronds of ferns. Father's train would have reached the terminal. His bags would be carried. The boat train at Liverpool Street would await him. Women would peer through carriage windows at his coming. Blinds would be drawn, expressions adjusted. The women would wear fine kid gloves, velvet-smooth to the touch on sensitive skin. Balls pendant. Veins.

"Suck, Caroline, suck."

Sperm is thick, salty. Once I tasted it on my palm. My sprinklings are salty when I sprinkle. Over the cock that is more powerful and thick than my husband's was. That is now. It was not then."

Ivy's voice trailed off and the book fell from her hand. Upon the arm of George Crombie's chair, with his fingers playing within her sex, she climaxed. Eyes closed and shuddering, a delicious, oddly relaxed, orgasm by the fireside. The words of the book had a dreamlike quality. They reminded her of thoughts alone in her bed.

Blinking, she looked at the old man, his white hair, his slightly open mouth beneath his so masculine white moustache, and smiled. "Your turn now." Her eyes dropped to the cock rising from his pyjamas. She reached and tugged at the cord and carefully folded the material of his pyjama trousers back so all his cock could be seen in the firelight. She hopped off the arm of the chair, a little light-headed, perhaps, from her coming, and knelt and gazed at the penis. She had more than see it the day before, but this was a close look. Ivy knew he was waiting for her touch, George could wait a little longer, anticipation raises the sexual pleasure. She blew on it and watch it twitch - a first sort of touch.

As Ivy had observed, indeed felt within her the night before, it was no over-sized job, but neither was it small. Certainly not a young boy's cock though it had the fullness of such a penis. It was how a woman liked a cock, pumped full and straining! The veins were prominent giving it the look of an old tree trunk: not a young smooth sapling! Gnarled indeed. A rugged penis - but only so far as the stem, the 'smooth hot knob' was so very that - smooth, like silk. An acorn set in its foreskin cup. The retracted foreskin, folds of wrinkled flesh, was cross grained to the rising veins, perhaps it was like the budding of a new shoot from an old tree, certainly the knob had the look of a bud!

And below the old man's balls in their sack. The skin as wrinkled as a walnut. What had the book said - balls pendant on her cupping palm - indeed! How funny men's balls were. So strange in their hanging and softness. Ivy reached out her other hand, not for the penis but to slip it under and feel George Crombie's scrotum. A hiss of breath from George as she did so, and there they were cupped in her palm, his twin eggs like - no, she did not want to think of him. That cheating, bastard of an ex-boyfriend. She knew what she would do now if she had his balls in her palm and it would not be the gentle fondle she was giving George! No, forget that, forget what she used to do with his balls and her mouth.

A smile up at George, "is that nice?"

The old man nodded, and his penis twitched again.

Funny to think even at his age his sperm would be fertile. Not that it mattered as she was on the Pill and, in any case, tonight it was not going there. Gently she rolled the egg shapes, feeling the weight of his balls in the palm of her hand. They would be lighter before long. His stored semen and sperm would soon be in her mouth.

"Are you going to say it?"

"What, Ivy?"

What Beatrice said."

"Oh, I couldn't. It is so..."

"Crude? But this is all rather basic isn't it? Your cock standing like that all peeled. Perhaps I should dress it?" Her fingers reached and caught the wrinkled folds of his foreskin, they encircled and slowly drew the soft skin upwards. "Better? But we fucked yesterday. Was that not crude? Go on, say it, my mouth is very close to your... prick."

She saw him swallow, and then: "Suck, Ivy, suck."

Her eyes held his as she opened her mouth, rounding her lips, and moistening them with her tongue. His eyes widened and Ivy winked before her gaze moved to what was close to her, a tug down on the foreskin to expose and then she let go with her fingers, leaving the penis unsupported, leant forward and her wet lips slid over the smooth skin of his rather pointed knob and held it there at the purple band for a moment, bobbing a little, stroking the skin before moving on down the wrinkled shaft until her nose touched his white hair.

Up again and down, her lips stroking the skin each way, Ivy feeling the corrugations of the shaft; holding the bulb in her mouth, licking it within; using her tongue on his fraenum; swirling her tongue up into each cheek, stroking either side of the swollen head. A bit more into her mouth and then Ivy sucked, hollowing her cheeks. Not just 'blowing' George Crombie but sucking him!

Ivy tried to be slow, Ivy tried to be gentle, but it is very difficult for a gentleman whilst having an attractive young lady's head in his lap, sucking away on his penis, not to ejaculate. The thought of expelling semen into the young woman's mouth hammering away in the man's brain. And so it was with George. The 'throbbing of the flesh' indeed, and the 'spouting' - he could not contain that. His semen needed to out, and out it came, pulsing warmly into Ivy's mouth.

'Sperm is thick, salty' - how true that was, there in Ivy's mouth and around her tongue. She rose to look at the man's face, her mouth held a little open so he could see as she tasted his cum; and could then watch her neck moving as she swallowed, letting it, the semen, slip oyster like down her throat. A smile and another wink and her lips returned to the cock. It was still oozing. Ivy wanted to feel it subside in her mouth. A gentle sucking at what had been hard and craggy but fast becoming limp and malleable.

It was a cue for bed. Ivy had had a busy and full day. All the new experiences of a new job, new journeyings, new people, new boss, new duties and so many new things to learn. And then there had been the sex; coming so pleasingly on George's working fingers. And it was George Crombie's bedtime in any case.

He slept very soundly and was still asleep when Ivy crept from her room in the dark ready to join the commuters going up to 'The Smoke.' She peeked in on him. Gentle snoring, an old man in pyjamas. Ivy smiled; perhaps Sunday morning she might join him in his bed, ride him before Sunday papers and take breakfast in bed. She could go and get them and make the tea and toast. He would like that, she was sure, both breakfast and her riding 'cowgirl.'

It was cold outside, a hint of frost but no wind. Ivy tugged her coat tighter and hunched her shoulders bringing her scarf more around her neck and set off, her shoes tapping on the pavement.