Suck Sisters of SeatonbyGlobal Carol©
Note: Suck Sisters of Seaton is longer than many other stories. It's all here, but broken into five chapters to make it more manageable. I hope you enjoy it.
If she'd actually unzipped his jeans and begun to suck him off right there in the airport, I wouldn't have been surprised. ("The white zone is for immediate unloading of white liquids only.") She was a skinny little thing with long, straight chestnut hair, bordering on drab brown, but her smile made up for any defect. She and her scraggily young man were obviously "in lust." They were a bit saccharine for me, but her smile was infectious and lit up the late night waiting area.
They seemed young, or maybe they made me feel my age. Adding their ages together would total no more than forty. I was still in my thirties, but it was always "out there," the big four-oh. Being in your mid-thirties -- and single -- can sometimes suck.
But not at the moment, I thought upon reflection: Life was a blast. And now I was fantasizing about these two -- and still relishing the Margarita glass full of cum I'd drunk less than two hours ago.
High Plane's Sipper
Finally, the flight was boarded. I was seated by the window next to a couple not much older than myself, but it seemed like they'd simply expended all of their youthful capital and were doddering on the edge of chronological bankruptcy. They'd seen it all, been through it all, and were just going through the motions.
Yet, as I was about to discover this was far from the case. (So much for my ability to read people.) Within a minute or two I was out.
The flight attendant's disembodied voice above the background hum of the airplane woke me from a deep and surprisingly sudden sleep. Man, had I conked out! (At first I thought to myself: a cum cocktail can do that for you; maybe it contains large amounts of L-tryptophan. But then I remembered the semenal (I couldn't resist.) research I had done. At least I wasn't depressed and I may have had the semen to thank for that.) I asked for a white wine (it sounded good and seemed appropriate: "white liquid" having been the color of the evening and all). There was something about the flight attendant that seemed slightly familiar, but as I travel so much, maybe I had flown with her on another flight. I didn't give it a second thought.
As I sat there eating my "snack" (...fit for a field mouse! A condom wrapper-sized piece of foil with three or four almonds!) and sipping my wine, my seatmate turned and introduced herself.
"Hi, my name's Angie. This sleeping, and rather attractive, man next to me is my husband Steve. Well, he may not strike you that way, but he's been my Steve for more than fifteen years."
"Lisa," I replied, raising my wine glass, now feeling that these two were somehow more than meets the eye.
We chatted for a bit as I slowly warmed to her company. Still buoyed by the memories of the earlier part of the evening, I drifted off a little as she spoke.
"...I could just overhear her ask him," she was remarking, sotto voce, and in a conspiratorial tone.
This caused a tiny spark to shoot from out of nowhere to right between my legs. What had I missed?
"I've never told any stranger this, but you seem so, well, if you don't mind my saying it, 'sexually charged' I decided I'd tell you since it's got me so hot I can hardly sit still," she continued.
Sexually charged? I thought. Did my hair look as though I'd used a certain styling gel like Cameron Diaz in There's Something About Mary? Was there a condom wrapper -- or, worse, a condom -- sticking out of my suit jacket pocket?
I needed to pay attention.
Upon further inspection, Angie was actually more attractive than I first realized. She seemed fit and had a pleasant demeanor. Then I realized something I hadn't picked up on at first. How this could happen, I'll never know.
I was getting a crick in my neck speaking to her. She must be at least 5' 11" or 6'. When I put my head level, it felt like I was speaking to her shoulder. Angie was an Amazon.
Tall, very tall, slender and with a nice, symmetrical face. Blue-green eyes and an elegant nose with high cheekbones. Could she have been a model when she was younger? I looked over at sleeping Steve and tried to reconcile the two of them. She must have been four or five inches taller than he. Even as I tuned out whatever she was prating about, suddenly she and Steve became an object of fascination. Were they a marriage of convenience? Was he wealthy?
Nah. They wouldn't be cramped up, three across, with me in coach. Did she get pregnant and they stayed together for the baby? No. She mentioned that they didn't have kids.
What was it about them?
Perhaps I should have been paying attention. If I had, this next thing I heard would not have hit me like a ton of bricks -- or a surprise orgasm.
"But, the thing is, when it came to getting my semen supply, we pulled an informed bait-and-switch: she enjoyed, at first, just being the target -- and I enjoyed getting the catch," she said.
OK, Angie, you definitely have my attention now.
What are the chances, I thought to myself, that I'd get seated next to another cum lover? "Well, since we have several hours I could tell you some stories of my own regarding that lovely white man juice," I said without really thinking, "for which I have a bit of an obsession."
Then I thought: Are you nuts? You're going to share these private doings with a complete stranger?
But, in my gut it just felt comfortable chatting with Angie, like talking to an old friend.
She went on to tell me a tale that must have been the reason they turned up the A/C in the plane: the smell of vaginal juices must have initially been thought to be some devious (or deviant) attack on the cockpit. (I always love the sound of that. Too bad it's just an uncomfortable place suited mainly for flying an airplane.) I know I left a wet spot. No doubt in my mind.
Angie began by telling me that she thought the cutesy young couple, now seated in front of us, had just joined the liquid mile high club. She was sure that he'd just come from the lavatory with a paper cup filled with his semen -- on her request.
Watching what I could of the million-dollar-smile girl sipping from the cup o' semen turned me on, but it was Angie's story, the not-so-little imp (Is it possible to be a tall imp?), that was a true stunner. Angie and Steve were living proof of the old bromide, "You can't judge a book by its cover."
Angie began her tale.
OK, Lisa, I hope you don't think I'm totally weird. You see, I grew up in a typical middle-class, two-parent household and went away to Lands College, a middle-tier, pretty liberal school in western Massachusetts. During my first year of college I drove home every weekend to be with my high school sweetheart (the only boy I'd ever been with) and, except for the track team, I had virtually nothing to do with campus life. I had only cursory relationships with my roommates and made few friends. Everything I did other than studying and workouts was focused on my boyfriend.
But after I finished my freshman year, at the beginning of the summer, my high school beau dumped me for another girl. I was devastated and returned to campus life in the fall with neither any motivation nor much in the way of living arrangements. I was assigned to Seaton, a different dormitory, a co-ed one with eight suites on each floor, four men's and four women's. In each suite were four tiny bedrooms with a common kitchen and study area.
Feeling quite sorry for myself, I just went through the motions the first few days before I realized I had three very warm, friendly roommates. I could not help but love Barbara, an especially ebullient girl in the room next to my own.
If Barbara could not quite be described as breathtaking, she definitely would be among the two or three runners-up. Her face was as cute as any of the smiley-faced, toothy models in magazines. She was shorter than average height, at least eight or nine inches shorter than I and in many ways strikingly opposite. Where I sort of looked like a cross between a ballet dancer and a member of the WNBA: thin, with long, lean muscles and almost angular; Barb was curvy (and extremely busty (more about that later)), soft and adorable. It was clear, just in a glance, that neither of us would ever be able to share the other's clothing.
Speaking of which, we roommates decided to do what guys have done for who-knows-how-long: leave a piece of clothing on the doorknob of her bedroom if she had a guy in her room. It would alert the others to keep their voices down, not to barge in with some important gossip (if there is such a thing as important gossip), and especially to wear appropriate attire. At first this seemed important and it was decided to leave a bra hanging from the doorknob, but our two other roommates, the ones with boyfriends, were there so infrequently that Barbara and I soon forgot about it.
Talking after dinner one night Barbara and I shared intimacies about our courses, parents, on-line relationships and love lives. Though also just a sophomore, Barbara had apparently had quite a few lovers.
Venturing into personal space that only new roommates could, I told of my relative lack of experience and my pain from the recent breakup. Barbara briefly spoke some consoling words, but quickly followed with a suggestion of getting back "out there." It made me feel good when she told me that she was envious of my tall, graceful look of a supermodel.
Returning the favor I told Barbara that I was envious of her effervescence -- and her curves.
"My mom has big boobs -- nothing as big as yours, but reasonably-sized, um, no offense -- and always told me I'd develop and to give it time. Well, at 19, if I haven't developed them by now..." I trailed off.
Smiling with a reassurance that I had not offended her, Barb replied, "Are you kidding? You're a knock-out! You look like a ballet dancer. Look at you. You're so tall, thin, nice proportions and cute boobs. A lot of tall women look like half-backs, but you're like a Victoria's Secret bikini model. Listen, Angie, really big boobs like mine are not all that wonderful. I never even shop for bras at fashion stores; it's mail order mainly. Most of the ones I find look like something my grandmother might wear and eventually they leave marks on my shoulders or my back. The underwires poke me when I work out. And sometimes I get chaffed here." She pointed to the arc running under her amazingly round, high, and seemingly firm orbs.
"Then, try finding an outfit; it's impossible. If the top fits I have to take in the pants. Or if the bottom fits I can never find a matching top. Forget about ever wearing a bathing suit. Plus, I was in track in high school and you can imagine how people gawked. That's the main reason I didn't go out for the team when I came to school. This semester I've started a belly dancing class. And given what we need to wear for the final, I've already started to see about getting a custom-made top."
"You may have the problems that stare everyone in the face, but have you ever tried to find jeans with a 36" or 37" inseam in a size 4 or even a 6?" I asked her rhetorically. "Most stores that advertise 'clothes for the tall woman' really mean 'clothes for the big woman,'" I added in my best radio voice while gesturing with my hands.
"Anyway, I ran track in high school and they gawked at me too," I said, "but it was because I was so thin and gangly. And, don't get me started on nicknames!"
"Well," Barbara added, "I've practically got the word 'bra' built into my name twice and with this pair, well, don't go trying to one-up me on nicknames, Stick."
That made both of us laugh.
"But, mostly it's..." she said, pausing. Then we simultaneously said, "men!" and we both lost it.
"Well, Angie, it's good getting to know you. I need to hit the books."
A few days later at a shared dinner in the suite (with a bottle of wine, strictly forbidden on campus) we discussed our other two roommates -- and the fact that they rarely spent time in the dorm -- basically now living with their boyfriends.
"Rachel's nice. I knew her last year 'cause we had Psych together. Selma I think I spoke to once. Hey, I'd be spending time at my boyfriend's place if I had a guy like Doug or whatever Selma's boyfriend's name is," Barb told me.
"Yeah, I guess I would too," I answered.
When we carried our plates to the sink, Barbara squirted some liquid soap from a hand-soap dispenser onto her palm.
"You know what that looks like? It looks like a guy just came in your hand," I said.
Chuckling, Barb said, "I never thought about it, but you're right. It's almost the same consistency. It doesn't have that wonderful aroma, though. And thank goodness I don't have to taste it."
"Are you kidding?" I asked. "That was my most favorite thing my boyfriend and I did. I love the taste of his cum."
"Not me. I wish I could. But it makes me gag and almost barf," replied Barbara. "I get really turned on by giving a guy head. I love sucking it, feeling it hard under the soft skin. And believe it or not, I always come just watching it shoot. It makes me so wet. I love watching it. I just wish I could deal with the taste. The smell is cool, but the taste. Yuck!"
"Really?" I paused, considering Barbara's statement. "I gave Danny a blowjob whenever I could. Sure, the 'experience' was fun, but the cum made me hot. He always thought I did it because I cared about him so much. I think I sucked him just for the juice. I loved it when he came in my mouth.
"That probably sounds weird, huh? I don't know, I liked making love -- "
"You mean, 'fucking?'" kidded Barbara.
"Yeah. I like 'fucking,'" I replied with emphasis on the colloquial correction, "but I would be content and come so much more intensely just by sucking on it and having him cum in my mouth. In fact, in June, when he broke up with me, it was the last day we saw each other. I asked him if I could suck him and he said, 'I don't think it would be fair to Cheryl [his new girlfriend] for me to have sex with you.'
"I even begged for a few minutes. That's when I started to realize: I was desperate. I thought: Maybe I've become an addict! I mean, can a girl be addicted to cum?" I giggled a little and made a silly face.
"I knew it for a fact when I asked him to masturbate for me. And he did, with attitude: Right there in my bedroom he pulled it out and without saying a word or letting me even touch him, he started jerking off, almost angrily. I took a small mirror and made him come on that. I began to come when he did, just sitting there with my clothes on, not even touching myself. Just watching each shot of that beautiful white stuff sent me into a crazy state. I came, hard, at least as long as he did. I leaned over to lick a little drop from the head of his penis, but he just flicked it onto my desk.
"Then he zipped up and walked out. (I haven't heard from him since.) I slowly licked up his delicious, plentiful load of cum from the mirror like it was a gift from the gods. I came again when I tasted it. I swished it around in my mouth and made it bubble over my lips. Looking at myself in the hand mirror, I felt like a girl from a porn video. It was so hot; and I was so bummed that he'd left. I thought to myself: Am I crazy or what?
"And then I slurped up the little drops from the desktop and, damn, if I didn't feel another orgasm on the way."
Barb, shaking her head slowly up and down seriously, took a few moments to ponder this revelation. Ending the silence she burst into a chortle, threw open her robe and baring her truly extraordinary breasts, remarked, "I just love it when they shoot all over these puppies, and, honey, when I whip these out they always come!"
With that, we literally fell to the floor, laughing like a couple of schoolgirls.
After finishing the dishes and the bottle of wine, we poured ourselves some cognac, brought out a bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, went to the sofa, and turned the TV on softly.
We proceeded to go to town with the cognac -- and the sweets.
After ten minutes of overindulging, I asked, "Do you really have an orgasm just watching them come on your boobs?"
"Do you really have an orgasm tasting cum?" Barb parried.
Both of us were surprised and tried to imagine what the other's feelings must be like. After a moment, Barb blurted out, "We should get us a guy, one who comes a lot!"
Then, after a beat, she added, "And often."
We looked at one another with astonishment, then broke into somewhat inebriated laughter.
"To getting ourselves a comer!" I raised my brandy snifter in a toast.
Lifting her glass, Barb responded, "Here, here. Or rather: cum, cum."
We both thought about that for a moment, dismissed it and then reconsidered it more seriously.
"You know, I'll bet any guy on campus would love to see your boobs. In fact, they'd probably pay to jerk off on them," I said.
"With your beautiful, long legs and rock-hard butt," Barbara replied, "I think any guy would come if you simply offered to model a bikini -- much less swallow his sperm."
We both sat back and mused about the possibilities, a definite wetness forming in both of our panties.
The discussion continued as we talked about relationships and sex. Having felt that it was a little bizarre, Barb and I were surprised that we both considered intercourse with its concomitant kissing and looking into the eyes of the guy we were with was an intimate event in a woman's life. Blowjobs on the other hand were simply mechanical, like playing with a toy. They were fun to watch, and to do. It was, for both of us, almost as though each cock had its own personality. Cocks were fun and watching them shoot could be considered entertainment.
In this light, we decided that we were definitely not cum sluts. We were cum amateurs (in the French sense of the word), and we both wanted to become cum connoisseurs.
Eventually we each headed off to bed and our own private fantasies, with a vague plan in mind.
I was so enrapt in Angie's story that it was a shock hearing the pilot tell the mostly-sleeping passengers that we were flying over Omaha. (Did I ask to be notified of what we're flying over? Just get me to my destination.)
The cute-as-a-button girl in the row in front had fallen asleep on her boyfriend's shoulder, no doubt dreaming of sipping semen through a straw.
Angie stopped to stretch and her fingers touched the overhead bin. This babe was tall. I could imagine what she might have looked like fifteen or twenty years ago on a runway in a bikini: Legs for days.
After a sip of her cocktail, she continued.
"You're kidding, right?" was all Leo could say. He asked three or four times, moving his eyes from one of us to the other, occasionally ogling Barb's boobs as we sat in a coffeehouse just off campus.
Leonard Kilgore was also a sophomore, on a pre-med track. He lived on our floor just down the hall. He was a nice guy, medium build, curly hair and just plain "nice." We'd met him a few times in the elevator and Barb had Microbiology with him. She'd invited him over for dinner a couple of times so they could study together.
There was nothing going on between them, and we both just liked him. He was intelligent, funny, sweet and sincere.
And now he was being asked something he'd probably never have imagined hearing from one woman, much less two.