That's not usual for me. I love intercourse as much as the next girl, but I can only orgasm from it under very specific conditions. And when those conditions come together and I cum with a penis in me- Trust me, it's always memorable. I'm getting hornier just thinking about it, so I forget his ass for a moment and manhandle him until he realizes I'm trying to roll him over and push him back so he's sitting against the headrest. This -- the position -- he remembers, or he damn well better, since I've described it to him about a hundred times. The first time was back when we were first chatting, back when I was still trying to figure out how to seduce him.
- -- -
It was way back when we first talking online. When I first met him, he was opening chat rooms with silly names like "Philosophy Dog -- Ask Me Anything". He wanted to talk about religion and ethics and altruism, but I was a horny housewife tired of rooms full of "ASL?", so I'd stalk him just a little bit and ask him about his virginity. I asked him what he thought it felt like to be inside a woman. I laughed, and I told him that once he knew from his own experience -- not just something he read in a book -- it would change his whole perspective on the world.
He was cute, and he was frustrating. He liked to think he was Mr. Holy-on-the-mountain, but he was just a kid who wanted to be teased, who wanted to be titillated, who hung on every word I typed when I explained that I liked to wear my special satin bra because of how it felt on my nipples when I got excited. I got excited easily, I told him. It didn't take much -- just a little kiss, or a little flattery, or a man's hand finding that spot in my back. Sometimes just putting on lipstick was enough. Sometimes the smell of cologne -- or perfume. I told him that I got crushes on women almost as often as men and that I wasn't afraid to act on them. It was true, too -- I wasn't just playing into the lipstick lesbian thing to give him a hard-on -- but once he'd wrapped his head around that it gave me an excuse to talk with him about how women like to be kissed and touched, what they felt like and tasted like and smelled like. That's how I really got my foot in the door.
After I had earned the title of a chat-buddy (as opposed to 'stalker'), he would play along with me when I acted out. I'd tell him I was climbing into his lap, or that I was nuzzling his ear, or that I was hovering a hair's breadth from his lips so my breath and the electricity between our skin was the only kiss he felt. I chipped away at his resolve a little bit at a time, until he was playing back with me, too, at least enough to write that he was blushing or had his arms around my waist when I sat in his lap and squirmed. What he wouldn't do, though, was "cyber"; that was a hard line, he said, because I was married.
"In name only," I told him. That wasn't entirely true then, but it was as much detail as he needed.
"Names are important," is what he told me.
So I let that zinger lie and I made him my project. I had little flings in other chat windows to prevent an outright explosion of libidinous frustration, but in between I worked on him. It took me a month in our chat rooms to break him -- a month of teasing and taunting until he finally started typing out that he was licking my nipples or (gasp) touching my "wet pussy".
He was such a virgin. The only details he gave me were reworked from what I'd already told him, and I'm sure his hands were trembling as he typed. I loved it; I loved chipping away at that wall he'd built around himself, even if he accused me of "corrupting" him. Online foreplay wasn't enough for me, though. Next I nagged him until he emailed me pictures of himself. He didn't know what a trap he'd stepped into; once I knew what he looked like, I could talk to him about his green eyes. I could describe pushing his brown hair back from his brow. I could type on and on about how I'd lick and nibble that long, awkwardly slender neck of his. (I kind of stepped into his vampire fetish before I knew it was there.)
It wasn't enough; I needed something more than words and pixels. I talked him into buying that first pre-paid calling card (the first of many) and emailing me the number. All day after I got his email I was giddy; my stomach flipped and churned like I was a high-school girl on her first date. Late at night, when everyone was asleep, I sneaked into the laundry room and called him. His voice matched his picture. Mine didn't; you'd never guess it, but my voice is breathy, and girlish in a sexy way -- kind of like Jennifer Tilly, I've been told. I sat on the floor and leaned against the washing machine while it ran. The noise from the wash hid my voice from my husband in the bedroom, but more importantly the vibration in my lower back was enough to make me horny on its own. Rick wasn't doing anything for me; he'd choked when he heard my voice, and it only took me a moment to realize that popping his cyber cherry hadn't given me the free ride to phone sex. I had a hand down in my sweats just resting there -- slowly, lightly tracing my labia while we talked about whatever -- his college courses, my day at work -- whatever. I don't remember the details; I just remember the frustration simmering up until I had to say something. "Have I told you," I asked him when the gap in the conversation was big enough that I could change the subject, "that I hardly ever have an orgasm with regular sex?"
To his credit, he rolled with it. "Yeah. On the computer." He added quickly, "But tell me about it again."
I grinned, because I knew I had him. I'd hooked him with my voice. "Well, that's why it's so nice that you like the idea of going down on me; I need some kind of clitoral stimulation for an orgasm -- most women do -- and it's hard to get that from regular sex. When some woman finally gets hold of you she's going to keep you down in her cootchie all day, 'cause most of the men I've been with don't that think they should have to go down on women. And that just means that they think I don't need an orgasm, but I do, Rick -- I really do. But that's not what I'm talking about. What were we talking about?"
"I think having an orgasm from sex?"
I made him say 'sex'! I slipped a finger inside me. "Right. Now there are really only two ways I can have an orgasm when I'm having sex. You have to remember this, okay? There's a test later. The first way is to get me really, really horny. If I get that horny I just get kind of crazy, and there's no telling what I might do to you. The best thing you can do is just sit still and do whatever I tell you and hold on. But I've only ever been that horny when I was high, and I don't think you're ready for that yet."
I laughed, because he was starting to get really quiet, but his breath was getting heavier. "I'd do all sorts of things if I was high, or a little drunk -- things you'd never forget -- but I can get dramatic, too, and I want to make it easy for you when we meet. At least at first."
He snickered back into the phone.
"The second way is kind of hard, especially since you have a little bit of a belly and I do too, and in this case it doesn't help that you're tall. You'd have to sit up in a Lazyboy or something, and I'd sit in your lap facing you, which spreads my legs and lets me get really deep on you without trying. I'd need you sucking on my tits, and whichever one you're not sucking on I'm going to be squeezing the hell out of, at least when once we start getting close. You can't squeeze my tits because I need the fingers on both of your hands, Rick: a couple in my mouth, so I have something to lick and bite and keep my mouth busy; and one finger in my ass. Usually I like it better if you just kind of touch my asshole while you're grabbing my ass, but if I'm going to come and I tell you to stick your finger in there, you'd better do it. If I think I'm going to come and I do, it's going to be such a special treat for you. But if I don't, you'd better find somewhere to hide for the rest of the day."
"Wow -- it's that big, hunh? Your orgasm?"
"That big. I remember every sex orgasm I've ever had. If I had an orgasm when we were having sex, it would change your life. You'd be my little slave if you made me come like that, and you'd love it." He chuckled into the phone, which I knew meant he was too embarrassed to agree out loud. He was kind of a dork, but if he had been there with me in the laundry room I would have jumped his bones. "Mmm... I'm all wet talking about it. I wish you were here so you could lick me. Orgasms from oral are still reeeally nice." I knew I was pushing it, but I needed something badly. I had a particular someone in mind when I was talking about men who didn't seem to think I deserved an orgasm, and he was in the bedroom.
"I'd love to lick you, Kris, more than anything."
Ooooh.... I quivered. "Then why don't you? Right now. You could drive up here in an hour and you wouldn't even have to come inside. I'll bring a blanket outside and you can eat me out in the grass all you want."
"You know why."
"He won't know. He wouldn't even care anyway. He has a girlfriend already." I could feel him slipping.
"It's the principal of it. It would be wrong, Kristina. For me. For me it would be wrong."
I harumphed through the phone and into his ear. "You could say I raped you. I probably would, too, if I saw you. I'd throw you down in the grass and just rape your little face until I came all over it."
I thought that would get a response, but all he said was, "Hmmm."
"What do I have to do, Rick, for you to let me touch you? I know you want it, no matter what you say."
"You have to be a vampire."
"Oh, I'll bite you; don't worry about that."
"No, I mean swoop down with a cape, and bite my neck with your fangs, and drink my blood. If you were supernatural, I'd have a good excuse. If you were a vampire, Kristina, I'd do anything you said."
"Is that all?" I was a little bit angry with him, but the frustrated longing in his voice was something I could relate to, even if he was too immature to understand that he needed a real outlet. Besides, I was too horny to let it bother me for long. I still had a nice little orgasm listening to him moan while we talked through our "what if" midnight tryst on the grass. I made him tell me every last article of clothing he was wearing so I could describe stripping it off of him. Just to get him back I took all of his clothes inside and left him naked outside in the grass in "what if" world.
- -- -
He stares at me -- particularly at my lips and bared fangs -- while I make the awkward transition to his lap to mount him. This is when being heavy can cost me; I'm not exactly a gymnast, and some guys get distracted by that. But his erection stays as hard as a plastic dildo -- except for the spongy tip, which swells up inside me when I slide down over him. Call me stupid, but I skipped the condom in favor of feeling the velvety, warm skin of his penis. When I begin to squirm and rock I can feel the swollen veins.
For a few moments we just make love. Finally!
I've earned it. I grind my hips back and forth slowly -- each movement deliberate -- almost like I would if I were riding his face; I squeeze when he slides out and relax when I take him back in. I push down until I can feel the base of his cock; I want him to fill me. I'm so wet that I can hear our movements slickering, slurping -- even before I'm bouncing fast enough to slap against him.
The fangs are an aphrodisiac for him; they're a reset for his cock. Whenever I feel him starting to go soft, I only have to lick my lips or curl them back from my teeth and hiss, and he's as hard as wood again. I indulge us both and lick his cheek and nip at his ear before I remind him that he has responsibilities, too -- I scoop up a breast and offer it to his lips. When I realize that I've given him something almost as exciting as the fangs, I drape my arms over his shoulders and slump forward to drown him in breasts that loom at the top of my teddy like a standing wave. I bounce and rock and squeeze, and I soak in his attention. I'll trade the calloused inattention of an experienced lover for his nervous fumbling any day; my girls deserve his kind of awed devotion. They deserve not to be taken for granted. This is worth every penny of the costume.
After a few minutes we're starting to sweat. My mind wants to drift off and give the night to my body, so I have to remind myself that this his virginity I'm taking. This night is one time that I can count on him remembering forever; it's the yardstick by which he'll measure every other woman he ever fucks. I have to focus and keep my head; I have a plan -- a script that I've worked out for him to make it special. But I don't care; I can't care. I can feel it coming -- I'm going to cum again tonight, if all of the stars line up, and if that happens by brain is just a back-seat driver. I grab my tits and squeeze, and those damned claws on my fingers dig in and really hurt. I know I'm really horny, though, because I gasp and moan in his ear and squeeze again. I knock his face away from my nipple so I can pinch it, then just as quickly shove it back between his lips and lean into his face. The stars are about to align, if only-
He remembers. His hands have slipped down past my hips to cup my ass, and his fingers are finding their way to my crack... It's the wrong direction, but I can fix that in a minute.
I grab one of his wrists before his both hands can smell like my sweating ass, and I drag his fingers back to my lips. I'm pretty sure all of the lipstick is gone (there's a tube waiting in the box on the nightstand, but this isn't time); this isn't the time for a show anyway -- I'm not curling my tongue between his fingers so much as gnashing his knuckles between my molars until he winces, fucking my lips with his finger and biting again.
Once I show him how to wedge his hand under my thigh, he doesn't argue; his finger slips between my cheeks and finds the tight sphincter of my anus. "Not just yet," I whisper and I- I can't help it -- my self-control just goes out the window since I'm having the first little quiver of an orgasm already -- I slammed his wrist up against the wall and rape his mouth with my tongue. My thighs seize and I clench down on him until I'm sure my vagina is going to cramp. When I pull away I leave him gasping for breath, and I see a smear of red around his mouth. It's not lipstick; it's his blood. That kiss -- my fangs -- tore up his lips pretty badly -- enough that I can see the blood beading... I don't care; his erection feels like a water balloon about to burst. Now my ass slaps against his thighs without reservation; it's trying to push down harder, to swallow the finger that's teasing the rim. I arch my back and yank his head down to the top curve of my breast, then roll my shoulder while his lips and tongue wander until he gets the idea I want his mouth back on my nipple.
It hurts when he sucks -- almost as bad as my claws, but there isn't anything I want more. That's not true. My mouth is empty; it's starting to fill with saliva, but my jaws are aching to suck or bite something -- and I'm tired of fingers. With his head tilted to the side and smashed into my bouncing breast, his neck is stretched out, so long and inviting. It glistens with sweat. The vein bulging out of it reminds me of the one on his penis. I swallow and wet my lips, and I taste the smear of his blood that last kiss left on my lips. I look at the vein again.
I want it.
It's an uncomfortable stretch to reach his neck while he's still at my breast, but once I wrap my arm around him and pull him closer he's right where I need him. I brace myself against the wall with one hand so I can keep fucking him, then run the claws on the other hand into the hair behind his ears, where they emerge just enough to tease at his neck. My mouth waters. I yank his hair, and his eyes roll up to peer at me; he's grinning -- he's loving it -- every bit of the lust I feel is reflected in his face. God, I want him -- not just this moment, but to own him, to keep him locked in a basement and make him my after-work sex-slave hobby like those nasty fuckers in the Bible belt. I get depraved when I'm having sex. My lips brush the taut skin of his neck; they don't want to wait for me to make a decision.
I know the dangers of biting his neck. I know about diseases, but I'm clean and he's probably sterile. I know where his jugular and carotid are. I can be careful. All this thinking is making my vagina hurt; I'm fucking him, for God's sake, and about to have the mother of all orgasms; what is my brain still doing in control?
Just one more thing, brain. "Rick..." I hiss in his ear. "In just a minute, I'm going to tell you to stick your finger all the way in." My tongue flicks his earlobe for a few moments while I breathe heavily in his ear. Sometimes I forget how much noise I make having sex, but that last round of moaning makes his neck flush pink. "No matter what happens, just hold on and don't move until I'm done coming, okay?"
He nods. His breath is heavy too, and I can tell he's trying not to moan in delight while I smother him in my breast. My head cocks at an odd angle; I feel like such a predator as I line up my mouth with curve of his neck. I can control myself enough to kiss him first, to brush his skin with my lips and wet it with the saliva welling in my mouth. I close my lips.
I'll leave a scar if I bit him here.
I don't care. No -- I do care; it's exactly what I want. Oh, God, I'm so wet I can feel my juices dripping down to my ass around his finger. I can feel the quivering starting in my belly. I kiss his neck again and test my fangs on his skin -- it's just a little nip. It's not like his ass -- the skin on his neck is thin and sensitive. I can feel him tensing before I even touched him; just the electricity between us is enough to make him react.
My jaw aches with the anticipation the bite -- it's like a yawn, except I just want to clamp down and gnash my teeth as hard as I can. But I can't. I can't bring myself to bite him. That he will let me hurt him is intoxicating, but to actually do it -- really do it, and not just bruise his bottom a little... My tongue thrusts out again and traces down his smooth, graceful neck in frantic little flickers; it's enough to draw out the moment while I squeeze down over his cock to bring myself to that point where my body just takes control and does what it needs to. He moans into my breast still; he's completely lost in the experience. His hand squeezes beneath my cheek and a surprisingly eager finger presses at the resistance of my sphincter. I'd do anything you want, he had said, if you were a vampire. I'd be yours. Mine!
The walls of my vagina quiver. "Now!" I hiss, and as his finger slips into me I bite.
I guess I expected it to be like the movies; even after my experience with his ass I expected my fangs to sink into his flesh like they had the fruit. But his skin just stretches -- even though he flinches and his moan turns into a squeal of pain, I feel like the best I'm doing is bruising him. He wraps an arm around me and squeezes against the pain while I chew on him; he clutches at the fat on the back of my arm, but I push him back against the headboard and grab him in return. He is mine, I'm not his. My orgasm is right there, so frustratingly close -- like the air above an ice sheet when you've fallen through a frozen lake -- and I can feel him hitting all the right spots inside me. His cock is throbbing. I rake at his skin again and again until his flesh is raw, and tears squeezed from his eyes are running down my cheek. I can't believe he's so hard, or that I'm so wet I'm gushing and slipping around each time I buck. Each time I growl or pant or moan his cock throbs again, despite his swallowed sobs.