Encounter

I thought he would want me on my hands and knees--a position I don't like very much, since it makes me feel a bit like a cat in heat--but he didn't give me the chance. Instead, he draped himself over my recumbent form and, taking his cock in his hand, made an effort to find my opening. It took him a while to get into that tight aperture, and when he did so he went in quite a bit more quickly and forcefully than I expected, making me gasp again.

The sensation of being anally penetrated is so different from vaginal intercourse that I struggle to describe it. Let me be blunt and say (with all apologies to gay men) that there is inevitably a sense of abnormality about the whole procedure. I mean, this is really a pretty unusual thing to do, isn't it? But on top of that, the sense of being filled, while vaguely similar to when a cock enters your pussy, is really not the same at all. For some reason I felt a choking sensation that I couldn't account for, and weird little sounds came out of my throat as he began thrusting deeper and deeper into me. I didn't think it was possible for him to go all the way into me back there--not with a thing of his dimensions--and I worried about his rupturing something if he tried. But he didn't, although he did go in pretty far. He also wrapped his arms around my chest, grabbing my breasts tightly almost as a way of balancing himself as he pounded me.

I won't say I felt pain; it was more a kind of dull throbbing, and his pummeling produced a certain warmth that I found rather pleasant. He'd applied that lubricant pretty well, and he slipped in and out of me with minimal friction; but it was obviously a tighter fit than my pussy; and so, even though he'd already come once, it took him only about ten minutes to send a second emission into me. As he did so, his hands squeezed my breasts even harder, and he grunted right into my ear as his paroxysm overwhelmed him.

As before, he remained in me after he'd finished. I was going to tell him to get off of me, but he slid a hand down my front and fastened it to my sex. I have to say I felt totally possessed by him, as he was now fully in control of all three of my erogenous zones (vagina, anus, breasts). Did he just want that feeling of power over me? I sensed it wasn't really his intention, and it wasn't. He now began slowly, gently fondling my labia and clitoris, while his cock was still firmly embedded (and apparently not getting much softer) in my butt. I was already pretty excited, and it didn't take him long to coax another orgasm out of me. This one began gently, but as he continued to stroke me it radiated out from my sex all over my body until it created a kind of explosion in my brain, causing me to cry out and my legs to shake as if I'd been electrocuted. He nurtured that climax for minutes, and I was completely helpless: he was playing me like a musical instrument.

The delicate operation of pulling out of me did result in a twinge of pain, but it was a small price to pay for a wonderful new experience. I won't say that I'm a total convert to anal sex, but it was a lot nicer--or a lot less bad--than I'd expected, and for that I was grateful to my unorthodox suitor.

He struggled out of bed and went to the bathroom, where I heard the tap come on. I figured he was cleaning himself up. Good boy! When he returned, he lay on his back and maneuvered me so that I was resting comfortably against his side. I stretched a hand over his impressive chest, doing my own little squeezes of his pectoral muscles. It struck me as odd how I was becoming habituated to being with him: I guess that's what being naked will do. My ex had rarely wanted to cuddle after sex--one of the many strikes he had against him. He was also one of those many one-and-done men: it took him a heroic effort to rouse himself for a second round, whereas this guy had managed two ejaculations with relative ease and was (as I was beginning to suspect) getting ready for a third.

Sure enough, my eyes widened as I took in the sight of his tool--which had never fully softened--filling up once again, like a balloon. It was leaking come (as were both of my lower orifices), but he was clearly in the mood for more.

"What do you want now?" I said, a bit wearily.

He pondered that question as if it was a difficult problem in quadratic equations. "What about sixty-nine?"

I stared at him, saying nothing. He misunderstood my silence.

"Do you know what that is?" he said.

"Yes, I know what that is," I said, almost mocking him. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

"Have you done it?"

"I have."

"You like it?"

"I guess so." After a pause: "I suppose you expect me to swallow?"

"That'd be real nice."

Let me be frank: I don't like the taste of come. But guys can be so comically sensitive about such matters. Their feelings really get hurt if a woman spits their stuff out.

"You can be on top!" he said encouragingly.

"Thank you," I said with heavy sarcasm as I got into position.

May I be honest with you? I do find a certain fascination with the male organ, even though it's been the main thing that has kept women down for so many centuries. It's such a curious object, isn't it? It's like it has a mind of its own. It's not the prettiest thing in the world (I think a woman's pussy is a lot nicer-looking), but it is strangely compelling.

And so I engulfed as much of this guy's thing in my mouth as I could. Of course, I would never have done it if he hadn't washed. I kind of like licking the shaft up and down as if it's a big lollipop; and of course, men go crazy when I cast my tongue over the tip.

The only drawback with sixty-nine, though, is that I sometimes get distracted by what the guy is doing to me--especially when he knows what he's doing. As I splayed myself all over his body, pressing my breasts into his abdomen while licking and even nuzzling his member, I felt him do much the same to me. He seemed to be one of the few men who like to drink their own come: he lapped it up as it drooled out of both my vagina and my anus, and his actions caused me to pour out more of my own fluid onto his lips and tongue. In fact, I came not once but twice before he exploded in my mouth.

I actually like to see a man's discharge coming out of that tiny little hole on the tip of his cock, but this time his thing was in my mouth as it shot its wad into me, hitting the top of my palate with some force. And of course I swallowed it: I had little choice, as the stuff kept coming out of him and sliding thickly down my throat. I gently pumped the bottom of his shaft until every single drop was drained, and then I smacked my lips with a certain pride.

After we'd finished, I said to him, "Can you get me some water, please?"

Believe me, the stuff is really salty. I would have preferred to go to the bathroom and use some mouthwash, as I don't care to have come on my breath; but somehow I was becoming disinclined to leave the bed--or have my partner leave it.

We cuddled some more, and I began feeling more and more comfortable with him. Being naked with a guy does that to you. Both you and he are totally vulnerable, and a snuggle in this situation is in some ways even more intimate than actual coitus.

We said almost nothing--what need was there of words?

An odd feeling was coming over me. Every other aspect of me--my job, my house, even my past life--seemed to have disappeared, or was of no relevance. He was a man, I was a woman, and that was all that mattered. My body, my feelings, my sensations were quintessentially feminine, just as his were heart-stoppingly masculine.

But when he got hard yet again, I actually frowned at him in disapproval.

"You're not serious," I said. "You want it again?"

He just nodded. I guess he was feeling a little abashed.

"How can you--?"

"It's you," he said, almost resentfully. "You're doing this to me."

"Of course I am," I said tartly. "I'm sure you say that to all the girls."

"I don't! It's you!" He was almost getting angry.

"Okay, okay, I believe you. What do you want this time?"

"Just the regular way."

I figured he wanted to be on top, and in fact he was nudging me to lie down on my back. He slipped into me effortlessly, and once again I felt filled and--I almost hate to admit it--complete. There's something so perfect about heterosexual coupling (sorry, all you gay and lesbian people out there!): it's such an exquisite uniting of bodies and minds and souls. I still knew almost nothing about this man, and I had nearly forgotten the peculiar way he'd entered my life; but the fusion of our bodies just seemed so right to me, so indescribably flawless.

At times he didn't even do any thrusting: he would just remain unmoving, firmly embedded in me and hard as rock, peering down soulfully at me as if wishing to devour me with his eyes. I gazed up at him in the same way, not feeling inferior to him even though he was clearly in charge of the situation. I became aware that I really was inspiring him to new heights of ecstatic intimacy, and inspiring myself also. Sometimes he bent his head down and pasted little kisses on my mouth, lasting only a fraction of a second but full of meaning and emotion. Once he stuck his hot, wet tongue into my ear, causing me an instant orgasm that made my vagina pulse around the cock that was still filling me.

And, after what seemed like an eternity (it must have been at least half an hour if not more), he sent his fourth emission into me, staring at me wide-eyed the whole time and not even expelling a moan or grunt or anything. The stuff just kept pouring out of him and into me in an exquisite exchange of fluids that represented the firm spiritual bond we had established during this long night of lovemaking.

And when it was over, he again rested his whole frame on me, his weight almost smothering me. I didn't mind in the least. His mouth was close to my ear, and in a tense whisper he said, "I love you."

I love you. The words that every woman most wants to hear, even if she doesn't fully feel them herself. What woman doesn't want to be loved?

I didn't laugh or scoff at his admission. It wasn't that I was afraid he'd get angry; it was more that it would wound him severely, and I had no desire to do that. I couldn't say those words back to him--not yet--but I respected the intensity of feeling that made him say them to me. Here was, I realized, a man who never said anything he didn't mean. Whatever those words meant, he was sincere in saying them.

So I stroked the back of his head and whispered back into his ear, "You're such a sweetheart."

He rasied his head and gave me a big smile. After a big wet kiss on my mouth, he pulled out of me and flopped over onto his back next to me.

I felt a gaping emptiness that almost made me burst into tears. His filling me had come to seem so natural that his sudden withdrawal from my body was an aberration. But even he, sexual superman as he was revealing himself to be, needed a little break.

In fact, a wave of exhaustion now came over me, and I said, "I'd like to go to sleep now."

"Yeah, me too," he said.

The implication of those words was pretty clear. "You want to stay here all night?"

"Yeah," he said with shy respect. "Do you think I should leave?"

The prospect of that seemed appalling. "No, of course not. Let's just go to sleep, okay?"

I gave him a fleeting kiss on the mouth, turned my back on him, and tried to settle in for a well-earned rest. But it didn't quite work out that way.

After probably half an hour, during which I was close to nodding off, I felt him sidle up next to me, spoon-fashion. At first I thought he just wanted to cuddle me with or throw an arm around me, as many people do when sleeping with a partner. I don't really care to have someone touch me while I'm trying to sleep, but in this case I probably wouldn't have objected. But that's not what he had in mind.

As he placed his entire body against my back, I sensed him taking hold of his erect cock and--inserting it into my anus.

To my surprise, it slipped right in without the least effort. I guess I was still lubed up from his previous venture into my bottom. As with our last coupling, he sometimes didn't even do any pumping: he just wanted to feel a connection with me. He did reach his hand over my side and gently take hold of my breast, and I found that warm hand rather comforting. I was really on the verge of sleep, and maybe I did in fact drop off every now and then; but it's frankly a bit hard to sleep with a cock shoved up your butt. And yet, there was such a sense of tranquil unity that I wished this sensation to go on all night.

But it didn't. In what must have been an unprecedented instance on his part (and on mine too), he came a fifth time, bathing my rectum with a discharge that never seemed to end. His hold on my breast tightened as the stuff shot out of him, but then he sighed and fell wetly out of me, leaving a trail of his come on my bottom.

Now, really and truly, we both fell asleep.

When I woke up, the bed was empty. I jerked up in sudden alarm, wondering if the events of the past night had been some crazy sex fantasy on my part. But I could detect the pungent odor of sex (and of male discharge) hanging heavily in the room, not to mention the feel of his dried come here and there on my body. And I heard some noises in the distance, apparently from the kitchen.

My whole body (and two places in particular) were aching, but I managed to crawl out of bed, put on a nightgown, and shuffle downstairs.

I saw my partner busily cooking up a big breakfast--bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, the works. He was naked.

He greeted me brightly, saying, "Howya doin'?"

He may not have expected an actual response, but I couldn't help eyeing him sharply and saying, "My butt hurts a little."

He had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. "Sorry about that. I couldn't help myself."

"Yes, I see you have a bit of trouble with impulse control. What exactly are you doing?"

He gave me a big grin and said, "Making breakfast, silly! Are you hungry?"

"I suppose I am. But, um, why don't you have any clothes on?"

He looked down at himself and peered at me sheepishly. "Oops. I guess I forgot."

I'm not saying I objected too much. As I watched him efficiently manage things on the range, I took in the sight of his fabulous butt and his incredible back and shoulders--I think I even got a little wet all over again. And why not? A luscious young man making his lover a wonderful breakfast in the nude--what could be better than that?

We ate the meal heartily and with relish, saying little. But after it was over, I led him to the couch, trying (not very successfully) to disregard his lack of clothing.

I heaved a big sigh as I gazed at him. There was something about his honest, ingenuous face that I found utterly captivating. But I had to be serious and take control of the situation.

"So," I said, "what do you want to do now?"

He looked puzzled. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, where do you want this--this relationship--to go? I figure you're not wanting this to be a one-night stand."

In all honesty, such a prospect was terrifying to me. But I didn't at all expect the response he suddenly blurted out.

"I want to marry you!"

I just gaped at him. This was getting ridiculous. I tried to be the adult in the room and said, "Come on now."

"I--want--to--marry--you," he said, emphasizing every word and taking my face in both of his hands and plastering a hard kiss on my mouth.

I remained speechless, so he went on: "We can have a long engagement if you want. That way we can get to know each other."

"That would be a very good idea," I said heartily. But in saying that, I suddenly realized that I was more or less accepting his offer.

And why shouldn't I? This guy was obviously more suitable to me--and not just in bed--than my worthless ex-fiancé. He was strong, fit, salivatingly handsome, but also caring, considerate, trustworthy, and no doubt lots of other good things. I put out of my mind the way he'd chosen to become acquainted with me.

"Look," I said, "maybe we can get married sometime. But there are some things I'd like to know about you. Like, for instance, your name."

Yes, that's right: neither of us had told each other our names. There hadn't been any time for it, and it occurred to me that that was just about the least important bit of information we had to convey to each other. But it would be a good thing to know his name.

"It's Jeremy," he said.

"That's a nice name," I said. "Just rolls off the tongue."

"What's your name?"

"Vera."

He nodded with satisfaction. "Sort of old-fashioned. I like it."

With that settled, he gave me another kiss and got up. He said he had to go home, but he'd be back later in the afternoon so he could buy me an engagement ring.

As I watched him take that magnificent butt of his back to the bedroom, I pictured introducing him to my parents. We'd better come up with a really good lie about how we first met, I concluded.