Julius and Me Ch. 02

The first thing that struck me was the cavernous sense of vacancy I felt at the sudden absence of male flesh all around, and in, me. Never before was I so aware of how the very purpose of the vagina is to be filled by a cock. It may be that my other orifices (ass and mouth) are not, strictly speaking, designed for that purpose; but the ease with which a cock can slip into them had given me the feeling--during the three or more hours of this incredible session--that my whole body had no other reason for existence than to accommodate the male organ. And now, I felt strangely empty and incomplete.

As I peered up bleary-eyed to see who it was that had uttered those words--so gentle but so authoritative--that had put an end to what can only be called a good old-fashioned gangbang, I saw a figure looming over me who seemed not so much human as... godlike.

Gazing down at me with an expression filled with both tenderness and alarm was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in my life. He was a light-skinned Black man, and he was fully clothed; but that didn't prevent him from exhibiting his impressive height (just above six feet tall), his broad, muscular shoulders, and the velvety skin of his arms and legs. But it was his face--Omigod, the face! If there ever was such a thing as a Black Adonis, this was it. The features were exquisitely shaped as if by a master sculptor: they were even and regular, with just a hint of flaring nostrils; his lips were so achingly seductive that I instantly yearned to place my own on them, or have his fasten themselves to every part of my body.

"Who are you?" I whispered--it was all I could manage.

"My name is Julius, ma'am," he replied in his resonant baritone. "Julius Wethers."

That named evoked a dim memory in me. Although I didn't have the slightest interest in sports at our college, I'd heard this man being talked about quite a bit. He was a "wide receiver" (I gather that means he catches balls thrown by the quarterback), and apparently one of the best in our state--perhaps one of the best in the whole country.

He bent down and cast a glance over my body, drenched in sweat and come. It was odd that I didn't feel at all embarrassed at his intense gaze at my nudity. Maybe it was because of all the other guys who'd seen me naked--and done something about it. Or it may be that, even at that early stage, I sensed in him something of a savior. I wasn't sure I needed saving; but if I did, he was the one to do it.

"Ma'am," he said in a tone of mingled apology and disapproval, "you're kind of messy."

"Thank you," I said as tartly as I could. What the hell was I to do about it? He had some ideas.

"Maybe you should get in the shower to wash off all the..." He didn't need to specify.

"That sounds like a good idea, except that I don't think I can walk that far." The bathroom was across the landing, about twenty feet away. But my legs felt like spaghetti: if I took a single step, I'd probably fall on my face.

He understood my difficulty--and, in a single motion, stood up and scooped me up in his arms. I was, proverbially, light as a feather to him. No doubt he could bench-press 400 pounds, or something like that. He expressed a bit of distaste in holding me under the back and legs: some of the come on me had already dried and left long white streaks that were flaking off. Other male bodily fluids were still wet. The aroma of sex on my body was overwhelming.

He carried me to the bathroom and turned on the shower. In seconds it was pretty hot, as I could see steam billowing from the bathtub.

"Can you stand up?" he said.

"I don't think so," I said.

"There's a little bar over there."

He was referring to a towel bar on the inner wall of the bathtub. As he placed me in the tub, I clutched at the bar with both arms, hooking them into it so I could remain more or less upright. My back was to him, so I couldn't see what he was doing. In fact, he was doing nothing, just letting the hot water cascade over me and wash away some of the gunk on my body.

It felt good, but I sensed that it wouldn't be enough.

"Julius," I said shyly, "I think I'd like to be lathered up. With soap. You're going to have to do that--and that means you'll probably have to get into the shower with me."

My unspoken comment was: You'll have to get naked to do that.

Since I was hanging on to that towel bar, my face almost pressed up against the wall, I could only hear what Julius was doing. But it was clear to me that he was in fact getting undressed. Within a minute, I sensed that he had joined me in the bathtub, and then he began using his hands--not a washcloth--to wash the accumulated grime and sweat and semen off of me with soap from a dispenser. He did my shoulders and my back, and then he bent down to pay attention to my thighs, calves, and feet.

Then he did something odd.

He parted the cheeks of my bottom and devoted a lot of time to clearing out whatever remnants of male discharge still remained in my anus. I felt him use his long fingers to open up that cavity to let the thick fluid drip out of me; and, just to make sure I was entirely clean, he actually inserted two fingers into the aperture and, with a kind of twirling motion, expelled some final bits of his teammates' emissions and let them get washed away by the continual spray of the shower.

He got to his feet and said, in that gentle but commanding voice of his, "Okay, ma'am, maybe you should turn around now."

I did so very carefully, still clinging to the towel bar but now exposing my front to him. He was inches away from me, and when I saw him I nearly fainted. My knees buckled, and if I hadn't been holding on to that bar for dear life, I'm sure I would have slid to the floor of the bathtub.

If, while clothed, Julius already gave the impression of being an imposing physical specimen, naked he looked like nothing short of a deity. That bronzed complexion, broad shoulders, impressive musculature on his chest, stomach, and thighs, and the strong calves and feet showed him to be a giant among men.

But it was that large and expanding phallus jutting out of his abdomen that inevitably drew my eyes to it, the way a snake hypnotizes a mouse it is about to devour.

When erect (and it was close to that now), it must have measured about ten inches. I'm not sure it was the largest cock I'd ever seen, but it was quite a bit larger than any of the twenty-five male organs that had invaded my body that night.

He looked down at it himself with a kind of embarrassed regret, as if he needed to apologize both for its size and for the mere fact that it was getting hard. The last thing in the world he wanted to do, it seems, was to imitate his teammates and poke me with that monstrous thing.

As if to distract his and my attention, he at once began washing my front. I suppose he could be excused for paying such close attention to my breasts, taking each of them with both hands and lathering them up as if he himself was generating an ongoing emission just as his friends had done. My breasts are pretty large (36D), so I wasn't surprised that he sometimes licked his lips as he caressed them with his big hands and made sure they were spotless.

Then he moved down to my stomach and belly. Again he fell to his knees and washed my thighs, calves, and feet. And once again, his final act of ablution was to part my labia and scour my sex with a thick mass of foamy soap. As with my anus, he used two fingers to cleanse the walls of my vagina as best he could.

I don't know why I allowed him such liberties. My own exhaustion had something to do with it; the obvious care and tenderness he was showing was also a factor. I dimly sensed that the insertion of those fingers into my sensitive areas was not intended to be lewd or sensual in any way; in fact, it seemed to be Julius's way of purging my body of the corruption that those other men had tainted it with.

And yet, this whole act of bathing me--something I'd never allowed anyone to do before (aside from my mother, of course, when I was a child)--struck me as just about the most intimate session I'd ever had with a man. My penetration by those two dozen guys was nothing compared to what Julius had done to me.

He turned off the shower, stepped out of the bathtub, and helped me out. I was still unable to walk without assistance, and so he urged me to hang on to the sink while he dutifully dried me with a thick towel, then dried himself. We were both standing naked in my bathroom, and his cock was jutting forward in an almost painful way; but he paid no attention as he effortlessly picked me up and carried me out of the bathroom.

I didn't want to go to my bedroom, where the smell of sex still lingered heavily and my sheets were smeared with dozens of emissions--including, no doubt, some of my own juices. I had him take me to the guest bedroom, where there was a queen-size bed that had clean sheets and a warm quilt on it.

When he placed me on the bed, I asked him to fetch a nightgown from the closet. He picked one at random--it turned out to be an almost indecently short baby-doll thing that barely covered my bottom, but when I slipped it over my head I was at least covered for the first time in hours. He remained naked.

When he went back to the bathroom to fetch his clothes, his absence affected me in a way I couldn't have predicted. I felt bereft and abandoned; and when he returned, his clothes untidily bundled in his arms, the prospect of him leaving my house struck me as nothing short of a catastrophe. I'm not one to be needy or demanding, but as I saw him step into his underwear I looked up at him and said in a cracked voice:

"Julius, please... can you stay with me tonight? I--I'd prefer not to be alone."

He'd barely managed to cover that enormous phallus of his when he peered intently at me. Then he slowly nodded to himself and said, "Okay, ma'am. You wanna go to sleep now?"

"Yes."

"I hope you don't mind if I sleep in my underwear."

"No, that's fine. My husband used to do that."

He walked around the bed and slipped under the covers, resting on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He didn't seem sleepy in the least. I myself now felt such a wave of exhaustion that I all but collapsed on my side of the bed, burying my face in my pillow.

But the full effect of what I'd done--and what had been done to me--this evening now struck me like a Mack truck. Strange little choking sounds were coming out of my throat; and, taking myself by surprise, I started to cry.

You have to understand: I don't cry. I haven't cried since I was a teenager. I'm not entirely of the persuasion that women, when they cry, reduce themselves to infantility and thereby justify their subordination to men (who, as we all know, don't cry): in fact, I feel the world would be a better place if it were more socially acceptable for men to cry. We'd probably have fewer serial killers in the world. But it wasn't something I did--it just wasn't.

But I was doing it now--not just pathetic little sobs, but wails and moans and shrieks that seemed to be forced out of me by some supernatural entity that was squeezing my chest and my brain and racking my whole frame with misery. I managed to gaze over at my bedmate and saw him looking at me with sorrow and sympathy. That was enough: I slid over and landed on top of him.

He had the good sense just to hold me around the waist as I bedewed his chest and shoulders with my tears. I couldn't seem to stop. My crying jag must have gone on for fifteen or twenty minutes--an eternity of time for something like that. It felt like an eternity. Finally I was drained, and Julius used the bedsheet to mop up my face.

"Do you feel better, ma'am?" he said.

"I suppose so," I said, sniffling. "I'm not even sure. I just had to get that out of me."

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Why... did you do what you did?" His tone of voice was one of mingled regret and disapproval.

"Oh, Julius, I don't know. I just wanted to prove to myself that I was still... appealing to men."

"How could you possibly doubt that?"

"Easily, Julius. Anyway, I didn't think there would be so many. It seems one of your buddies called up his teammates and sent out the word that I was, um, available."

"He shouldn't have done that." The frown that he wore on his face was a bit frightening.

"I guess not. But I'm fine, Julius. The guys didn't hurt me. They were actually rather sweet. But I--"

"Do you know how many times they... did you?"

"Julius, I wasn't exactly keeping count."

"Someone else was."

I was staggered. "What? Someone was actually keeping track?"

"Do you want to know how many times you, um, made them come?"

"I'd really rather not."

"Fifty-six times," he said, then with more emphasis: "Fifty-six times."

I couldn't even begin to fathom that number. "Omigod," I breathed.

"I hope you're convinced that you're appealing to men."

"I suppose I am."

While all this talk was going on, I noticed something happening to him. I'm sure you can guess what it was.

The intimacy that Julius and I had established during that incredible bathing session made me bold. I slipped a hand under the elastic of his underwear, took hold of his cock (which was expanding again), and said, "Am I attractive to you?"

He looked away. "You don't need me to answer that."

I hitched up my nightgown so that my groin was bare, rubbing up against his own. I felt our pubic hair intertwining. Then I brought that huge cock to the threshold of my sex.

"What are you doing, ma'am?" he said.

"Julius, you've been so nice to me," I murmured, giving his face a few light kisses. "I'd like to--"

"Ma'am," he said sharply, "I don't need that kind of reward for helping you."

"It's not your reward, Julius, it's mine."

And I slipped him into myself.

Yes, of course I was sore; and there was just a bit of pain in his entry, but I was determined to take him in as far as I could. In fact, I lifted myself off of his chest and, while keeping him in me, got into a squatting position. I do love "riding" a man, because that position allows for about as deep a penetration as can be managed. As I wrapped my thighs around his hips, I looked down at myself--and to my delight and pride I saw that his cock had disappeared entirely in me. I let out a shivery little laugh as I began bouncing up and down on that organ. As I've mentioned, the repeated pokings and proddings by those twenty-five men had emphasized how my vagina ached to be filled, and Julius was filling me as none of his teammates had done.

I saw him gaze up reverently at me, but otherwise his expression was strangely blank. I had already become aware that he was a man of strong moral fiber, and I sensed that he regarded this unexpected copulation as not quite proper. But it was also clear that his own pent-up desire was getting the better of him. He reached up and grabbed my breasts, which were bouncing in rhythm to my own movements; sometimes he reached behind me and grabbed my bottom. I continued to stare fixedly at his face, locking eyes with him as I sought to coax the fifty-seventh explosion into me on this amazing night.

I didn't have to wait long. The flood of his emission was anticipated only by a little grimace and a mild grunt--but I felt the copious discharge splashing against the walls of my vagina in what seemed like an endless stream. I assure you that none of his predecessors had poured out such a mass of come into me as Julius did then. I sometimes can't even feel a man's discharge entering into me, but I definitely felt his. His hands, meanwhile, were gripping my breasts so hard that it almost hurt--but I didn't begrudge him his paroxysm. No matter what he said, he'd earned it!

And yet, what was amazing was that he didn't seem to get much softer after he'd come. He was just staring at me, absorbing me (and, I hope, my attractiveness) as if he'd never seen anything like it. I found that hard to credit: surely a stud like him--especially one who was the star athlete on campus--would have all manner of coeds draped all over him. But then I remembered that his basic decency would probably not allow him to take an endless succession of nubile females to bed, much as they might want it.

But as he remained firm in my vagina, a rather naughty thought shot through my mind. An erection is a terrible thing to waste, ladies! Keeping him in me, I reached over to my nightstand and, taking up the jar of cold cream that was there (I'm sure he was wondering what it was doing there, rather than being in the bathroom), lubricated my anus as I stared right back at him. I didn't need to tell him what I wanted.

I then finally did extract him from myself--and the moment I did so, a cascade of his thick come rushed out of me and landed on his belly. Saying "Oops!" I lay down next to him flat on my stomach. When he didn't make a move, I said, "Julius, please... go into my bottom."

"You must be pretty sore there, ma'am," he replied.

"I am a little--but I want you in me. Just don't go in all the way, okay?"

With some apparent misgivings he rolled over and landed on top of me. I felt the divine weight of him--a warm, living blanket--and prepared to be impaled. I was still "open" from the dozen or so men who had probed that orifice earlier, but I had never accommodated such a big, thick member as Julius's there, so I was a little nervous. It was almost like being an anal virgin.

He understood the solemnity of the occasion and went in only an inch or two at first, making sure I was comfortable before forging ahead any further. It was a little painful, but the sense of being stuffed by this wonderful man--and engulfing him into myself--was so transcendent that I lapsed into a kind of daydream, a spell of dizziness coming over me. He went in almost excruciatingly slowly, and that's why it seemed he was proceeding almost to the hilt. I got the curious feeling that his organ was tunneling its way all through my body and would come out my throat. I even started gagging a little.

Once he was well ensconced in me, he wrapped his arms around my chest and seized my breasts, which seemed to exercise an irresistible fascination for him. His face was directly behind my head, and I could feel his hot breath against the back of my neck as he pumped me gently but relentlessly. He was strangely silent, but I wasn't: with each thrust I expelled a little grunt, as that mole-like cock probed ever more deeply into me.

But then I heard grunts from him also, and I knew he was close to exploding. But he did something I didn't expect: with one hand he kept hold of both my breasts, while the other hand slid down the front of my body and fastened itself to my sex. He started stroking my pussy with strong but delicate fingers, and then--as he began sending another enormous load into me--those fingers teased out an orgasm out of me so overwhelming that I began to shake uncontrollably, almost ejecting him from my anus. But he held on tight as he filled my rectum with his come.

He didn't let go of me even after he'd finished. There I was, all three of my erogenous zones (breasts, pussy, ass) totally possessed by this man. His cheek was pressed against my own, his weight now bearing down on me almost to suffocation. I was completely, utterly helpless--and loved it.

When he finally pulled out and trudged off to the bathroom to clean up, I felt that sense of vacancy even more poignantly than before, and I was nearly stunned by it. I almost fell to weeping again, but Julius soon returned, wrapped me in his arms, and held me tight for a long time.

Then he said, "I think we'd better go to sleep, ma'am."

I hardly heard him; I was already nodding off as if I'd been drugged.