Ch. 13 The Pursuit of Happiness

"I'll leave the University Friday about 7:45 and arrive at your place around 9. Yeah, I'll come. And we'll go get a pizza and a beer or something. Then, we'll go back to your dorm room and go to bed. Your roommate won't be there, right?"

"Right."

"In the morning there won't be any kissing or anything because I hate morning breath. I'll take a shower and then I'll go. Is that okay?"

"Sounds fine. See you Friday, Ike. Bye."

I knew Ike was experienced, but I was really surprised that he had actually developed a set of rules around this activity. I managed to shrug off the crassness of it all. The fact that this was going to be a "wham-bam-thank you ma'am" date would not deter me from my goal. I just wouldn't think about it. What was the big deal anyway? This was an adult experience that I needed. Adult relationships include sex. Better get with the program.

Friday came, and Ike and I went out for a pizza and beer at an off-campus joint, where a college-age crowd was clotted in front of three TV sets airing the Red Sox in the World Series against Cincinnati. The cheering and yelling were exuberant. We were excited too—our eyes on a different ball—and, having finished our slices, hastened back to my dorm room.

As in most of my later assignations, clothes were coming off from the get-go. Ike was, for practical purposes, a careful lover. He wanted to make sure I was secreting heavily before he entered me. He unbuttoned my blouse and fondled my breasts somewhat roughly through the C-cups. Then, with one hand he undid the bra and my tits cascaded out to our keen delight. He rolled my hardened nipples between his thumbs and fingers, and then began sucking them hungrily. With his manipulation of my breasts, I could feel my twat twitch. This was great; I hoped his cock was getting hard.

It was my turn to strip Ike. Naked to the waist, I unbuttoned his oxford cloth button-down and peeled his tee shirt off over his head. His mouth ate mine. One hand on my right breast, he gently clutched the hair at the back of my head with the other to pull my head back. With that embrace he thrust his tongue in my mouth with a delightful balance of aggressiveness and tenderness, foreshadowing what was to come. I grabbed his ass with both hands and squeezed, rhythmically pulling him against me. I could feel his stiff cock through his jeans.

He then, still eating my mouth, took both my wrists and guided my hands below to his belt buckle. I undid the belt and the button and unzipped the jeans down the shaft of his cock. He kicked off his sneakers, threw off the jeans and took off his shorts. His penis was fully erect and waving free. I looked back up into his eyes, and we smiled. It was fully as big as in my dreams. I wanted to suck it. To start, I grasped his manhood lightly with one hand feeling the warm softness of the skin that slid easily over the rock-hard shaft. While I squeezed and stroked it gently, my other hand sought and cupped the high tightness of his balls.

"Turn around," he said firmly. The sudden command signaled Ike's regain of control. Was I to have no part to play in my own deflowering?

I did as he said, and he peeled my jeans, panties with them, down over my ass. He held my hips as I finished getting shoes and everything completely off.

Pulling me back around, he reached down into my crotch, spread my labia, and did a finger-check to discover that I was ready. Then he eased me to the bed, there to adjust my arms above my head and to spread my legs wide. (Hardly a position from which to dial 9-1-1.)

As he placed the head of his penis at the mouth of my vagina, Ike announced, "This might hurt."

"Okay," I whispered. I was shaking.

In one motion he rammed his cock deep into my wet canal and stopped. I cried out. It didn't hurt, but it was astonishing. He let me adjust to the full feeling.

"You all right?"

"Uh-huh."

He continued to stroke in and out with long, slow, deep thrusts. Burying his cock to the hilt each time, he filled me up, punching my cervix, making me heave and mewl. More and more rapidly he drove his eight inch rod into me until finally, groaning, he came.

After he pulled out a short minute later, he observed, "You didn't feel like a virgin. Are you sure you were one?"

"Of course," I stammered in whispered disbelief.

"Well, it's probably because you're a horseback rider and you've used tampons for a long time. Thanks, sweet. Night."

He rolled off and fell asleep, his arm around me most of the night; but I was wide-awake. I didn't know what to think. I was in shock. I could feel his cum ooze out of me, run down my ass, soaking the sheet under me.

In the morning, he reminded me of the "no kissing morning mouth rule" and trotted off to shower. I went separately to a shower, myself, careful to wash away traces of the previous evening.

He dressed as if we had been married for years, gave me a peck and a hug and left. I went down the elevator with him and out the front door of the dorm. From the top of the steps, I watched him get into his maroon Corvette and cheerfully wave as he drove off. Turning away and walking back inside, I wiped tears from my eyes that leaked out without sound. At least I wouldn't be a stupid virgin anymore.

II MY PRE-MARITAL HEDONISM

For the next month I was a mixed-up kid. I felt over-all disappointment with Ike's selfish conduct and shame that I had resorted to what amounted to hiring a male prostitute. I certainly wished, on the other hand, that Kyle could have shared my virgin fuck; and as the days passed my libido could not be denied. Then, in my late adolescence, I was so ripe! I had been fascinated with the two nice cocks in my life; and in the fantasies of my incomplete womanhood, I pondered, "Whose else?" I kept recalling the wonderful feeling of a full vagina that Ike had given me and how much I liked the deep-stroke pounding he gave me before he came. I do forgive the guy. He tried. And I was all the more determined to continue my search for romantic experience. In what better setting than at Friday afternoon Happy Hours at the bar of "The Copper Kettle?"

Of course, dress on those occasions was unbuttoned and casual, and sex was in the air. To emphasize that I was fair game, I dressed down to the extent of leaving my bras in the second drawer. I knew most guys liked big tits. And in my tight T-shirts, mine looked extra big and low, resting on the rise of my tummy. The thrust of my prominent nipples was such that I got several feels on busy nights. And I enjoyed occasional make-out sessions in darkened booths. But nobody really hit on me to the extent of our going back to one of our bedrooms.

But I moved off the slow track in January 1976, when I got a new admirer and the friend I needed. He was Ray, the new bartender at "The Kettle." Wow, was he handsome! 6' 1" with a rugged build and silver gray hair, he had the words "Semper Fidelus" and a bracelet of laurel tattooed around his left wrist. From the beginning I was aware of his steady appreciative gaze enfolding my plumpness as I moved about the room or took a bar stool at closer range to engage him in small talk. We enjoyed the other's banter, while the play of our blue eyes spoke more seriously of strong sexual attraction.

He was a local guy who traveled by motorcycle, I learned, with a following of middle-aged women who started appearing at "The Kettle" when he started working there. The word was that that he'd been a Marine hero in the Korean War with trouble settling down ever since. It slipped out that Ray was a gun dealer. That news and that he was close to twice my age lent to the mystery that was already exerting a strange and exciting power over me.

Midst my dreams of our imminent compatibility, I was severely shaken to learn from Ray himself calmly at his station behind the bar that he was bedding down the three camp followers of his own generation. "But, Felicia, darling," his words were heavily pronounced, "It is you I most passionately desire."

I'd gone from "wow" to "pow" in three weeks time. Sometimes while we chatted, Ray would rearrange his genitalia for my benefit. Following this latest announcement, he massaged his John Henry to its full length down the left leg of his trousers. It was very big. Then, in freshened idiom, he spoke again: "I want to fuck you, Felicia. I think you'd like it."

My breathing was ragged, but I got two words out: "Okay. When?"

"Saturday. You free? Okay, I'll pick you up, 11:30. I've got my powerboat down on the river."

That was it. Our first heavy date. My second fuck. We got along extremely well. And we met for sex many times thereafter. He didn't care for the publicity that might have threatened us if we'd opted for my dorm room. The other locale was his apartment, which was fine, because, although he'd been married and divorced twice with kids elsewhere, he lived alone. It was rather disconcerting, however, on occasion to meet Flora, Dora, or Mopsy coming in for the second shift when I was leaving.

Our sex was good for both of us. Contraception was no problem as I was on the pill and he had had a vasectomy. Ray was not into "oral" either way, but I had the joy of playing with his beautifully big uncircumcised cock in readiness for his choice of one of the three major positions. I must say I favored him as missionary for my pleasurable view of his manhood—shaft and sack—on the way to insertion and the ultimate creaming of my well lubricated pussy. I'll admit I never had an orgasm with Ray; but he loved my bona fide moans of pleasure and took my fakes like a giddy sophomore. He told me I made him feel young and potent again. Now, didn't he make me a really nice fuck buddy?

During my husband-hunting campaigns, Ray stood by and was there for me if they broke down. The damnedest thing about the 1970's was you had to fuck to find a husband. That was the way you got to know a guy. The post-Watergate lack of faith in our political system played its part, but probably it was the PILL. We didn't have to pay the piper anymore. You did not have to like someone very much to fuck him. And that's my pre-marital story. I wish it could have been like Kyle and me after high school. We were friends based on our shared interest in riding and the arts. We really liked each other, and the sex was good when we became physical lovers.

III THE ANATOMY OF A GENTLEMAN

My hopes remained ever high for finding the love of my life, and I fucked three candidates, one being a young sculptor new to the College faculty. Each trial ended in disappointment. Sometimes when I 'd get really horny and Ray was otherwise engaged, or even if he weren't, I'd do a one-night stand. Once I met two guys at the Laundromat, and we did a threesome in their apartment—a messy affair. Then there was the nicest one, when one night led to three more. The guy's name was Earl and we met at the College during April of my senior year.

Around 4:30 one afternoon I was up to my ears in the Printmaking Studio, trying to finish a project, when I felt I was being watched. Just inside the doorway stood a handsome older gentleman, perhaps a trustee. A big man with short white hair and mustache, he smiled broadly and said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I have an appointment with Professor Burns and I'm a trifle early."

I instantly liked the blue eyes set in the friendly face. He was "disturbing" me, yes, very much affecting my sexual center and sparking the animation of my explanations in answer to his queries about printmaking. I knew we liked each other. Shortly before Burnsie showed up, he changed the subject, "Say, where does a man get a drink around this place?" I told him about The Copper Kettle, and we agreed to go there together after his conference. "O hell," he said, " I should tell you my name. I'm Earl Masterson." We shook hands, laughing. "I'm Felicia Heard," I said happily. So, dear reader, who picked up whom?

In my analysis of the promiscuity of my generation, I cited a devil-may-care attitude and the pill. I omitted two other factors that helped me along my way: Scotch and soda. And indeed Earl and I had a couple at The Kettle. It was good to be out from under my studio smock. Further, during Earl's confab with Burnsie, I had stepped into the john to remove my bra and stash it in my backpack. I wanted this nice man to enjoy seeing how hard my nipples get—an exchange of treats, as Earl would be paying for the Dewar's. We seemed to be laughing more than were the other patrons. He related that after acting and directing in his early years, he was teaching theatre arts at Northwestern.

Although he didn't look it, he said he was 62. I found it funny, but not uproariously so, that I'd been dating Ray, who was old enough to be my father, and now I was having the hots for a guy my grandfather's age. But, hey, I have always been attracted to older men. They are not so brash in coupling or so critical of one's physical shortcomings. For instance, several of my mature lovers have seen my opulence as a decided asset. I think they are more responsive to willing and appreciative sexual partners. It works for me as I have always been built for comfort and not for speed. The background of Earl's mission to Massachusetts was sad. During the previous year his wife had died and then his brother, who owned a valuable spread along the lower North Shore. As the sole heir, he was seeing to the disposition of some of the estate at auction and needed Burnsie's expertise as an appraiser in connection with the art collection. Over a two-week period he was all by himself at a ritzy hotel in the next town.

Earl was duly interested in me and in my plans for a career as an artist. He wanted to see drawings of mine that had earned prizes of late. And then we made a date for the next late afternoon for the viewing, drinks, and dinner. "And, holy smokes," he exclaimed with zest, "we have to eat something tonight! Miss Heard, will you join me?"

"I adore your company, Honey," was my mock confession. We laughed. And then he kissed me.

The next few hours made only minor dents in my euphoria. We ate steak and salad at a nice restaurant, where Earl insisted I come to his hotel room for brandy [ O joy, o rapture unforeseen ]. I would go anywhere to remain with that smooth guy. Up in his spacious suite, before long, the question of my virginity arose. He liked my frank answers and my au courant philosophy.

"As you can imagine, I've suffered a dry spell of late," he confessed, "And I have to tell you that at first sight this afternoon I knew that you had lovely big breasts, which are my weakness." Earl's smiling blue eyes undid me.

"They are my weakness too," I rejoined with a wide grin. "May I take a shower? I want the rains to come down on your dry spell—slowly and completely."

Returning to the living area, where Earl, fully dressed, with a big smile on his face, was pacing, I greeted him with a big fluffy white towel fixed to conceal my nipples and my light brown bush. "How do you like my costume?" I asked, smiling.

"Fetching, my dear. May I hold you?"

"You better!" I laughed as we embraced at mid-floor, Earl's arms girdling me with tender fervor. The towel slipped to the floor, hardly noticed. My lips, open and moist. sought his, and his tongue swept the circle of my lips, then probed and lashed my hard pallet. I sucked him deep and ingested the cum of his passion. We ate each other's mouths ravenously.

Brazenly I felt Earl's cock through his pants and gave it a squeeze. "Hey, man, you're kinda hard but not dressed for the chase! Let's get with it." When his attire was strewn on the carpet. "Earl," I entreated , " you said you like big tits—these are for you," as I swung my lengthy C-cups against his chest and stomach. They love to be played with and pinched hard."

Earl's play and strong sucking were masterful. Throughout, my cunt was tingling and creaming. He had the clue because, both of us completely naked, he had danced me backwards to sit on the couch, forcing a bare knee and thigh between my legs to massage my very wet vulva. O my—I opened for him like a flower, spreading my sturdy legs as wide as possible in invitation. Earl dropped to his knees before my gap, which must have been glistening. His hands lightly traced the contours of my inner thighs, exerting the slightest outward pressure as if to aid my exhibition. Our eyes met. We were both smiling. "Felicia dear, you are so very lovely," he pronounced. " I love your hairiness. And you are so beautifully wet!"

And then he stroked and cupped my pubis, negotiating the length of my slit with the back of a finger, clit-seeking, as it were. Then, parting my lips, he slipped in two fingers. "O yeah!" I coached him, as he pushed them all the way in and initiated a rhythm.

Shortly it was his head and face between my legs, the stiff tongue picking up the search that his hands had started. Earl was a noisy eater: there were slurping sounds and moans of satisfaction. I'd been pinching and plucking my nipples, but now my hands got with the search down below; and, spreading my labia wide, I fucked his mouth and teeth. Then, by God, he found my clit and tongue-flicked and diddled me up, down and around. My moans got louder; "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I shrieked softly. I felt the vibrations of Earl's mumbled encouragement when the first spasm hit, and my ensuing orgasm was a true screamer.

I've enjoyed thousands of them before and after, but this was positively my first WITH a guy. "You squirted, " Earl whispered. " I drank you. You were delicious."

We sat together cuddling thereafter, my chief focus being Earl's nice circumcised cock—not so big as Kyle's, Ike's, or Ray's, but big. Earl, upon my inquiry, told me it was 7 inches, hard. Anyhow I was intent on giving him a blow-job, and I could tell from my fondling and jerking his John Henry that he was ready.

"My turn," I announced, switching to the floor. I popped the head into my mouth, flicked the crease, lip-squeezed the glans, and sucked briefly. Popping it out again, I declared, "O, I love this cock" Then I rubbed its head all over my face, around my nose and eyes, and back and forth over my lips. After I licked the pre-cum off the tip and licked down to the base, our eyes met again with smiles. And then I consumed his full length. Holding my head, he fucked me deep. When that fat cock bumped the back of my throat, I knew that we were good for each other.

Upon my intimation that Earl was close to the brink, I withdrew my head. Then our eyes and smiling faces met again in love, with new knowledge. Confident, I posed the question: "Aren't we ready for bed, darling Earl?" We rose together and moved hand-in-hand to our bedroom.

Our pattern for love each ensuing night conformed to my dictate that we take it slow and all the way—lolling about completely nude, fondling as we cuddled, each holding the other's head in just the right position at the right time in the erotic flow of things. The muscular pushing of Earl's tongue-tip to penetrate my anus went along with his voracious pussy-eating to afford me new lessons in love. He changed my life. What can I say? I had known the anatomy of a gentleman.

IV JOINING THE GROUP

After graduation I thought it well to stay in the college community and ease into a Master of Fine Arts program. To help with my cheap rental and to put some of my training to use, I was lucky to get a job at the local Frame Factory. The manager, who had seen my work, wanted to show it in our storefront windows; so all during the month of October, along with a biographical note, six of my pen-and-ink nude sketches that had won the senior competition were on display to the passing public.

I did not receive all that much feedback, but the most gratifying came from a middle-age guy named Herbert S.Wood ( I memorized his name from a VISA slip.) We'd helped him out on a couple of occasions. Mr. Wood was friendly and flirtatious, given to lengthy and appreciative survey of my breasts. Evidently, besides my body, the display of my art turned him on; and he came roaring into the shop, sought me out, talking as he approached: "Miss, you may know. . . How can I get in touch with the artist, Felicia Heard?" He was serious. But I thought, "This is seriously funny." And then I said, "First, would you extend your right arm." He did, bemused. I took his wrist and steered the hand to brush and cup my left tit—an action of three seconds. "I am she. It's me," I announced, and we both cracked up.