The Conference Pt. 02

"They're mostly classical," I said half apologetically.

"I like classical—it's cool."

He peered carefully at the array of records, then, as if amazed, pulled one out reverently and held it out to me.

I rose and went up to him. I saw that it was Wilhelm Kempff's performance of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto, with Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic.

Nodding approval of his good taste, I put it on. He sat back down on the couch to listen. I inadvertently put on the second side—the dreamy, romantic slow movement, which would lead to the dramatic last movement. I was about to go over and put on side one, but he pulled me back to him—and I ended up landing across his lap, one arm resting lightly around his shoulders.

Well, I guess I didn't mind. He really wasn't making any move on me at all—he seemed totally enraptured by the music. And who wouldn't be? Eventually he pressed his head against my collarbone, just above my breasts. I was wearing a white angora sweater, and he seemed to like the feel of the soft fabric against his face.

As we just sat there, communing with the music, I began to sense something odd. Even through the thick sweater, I could feel some wetness.

He was crying over the music.

This was no act. It was almost as if he wasn't even aware of my presence, although he was now clutching me pretty tightly. Or maybe I felt like a young mother comforting her little boy as he suffered some inexplicable anguish.

This guy certainly wasn't shy about expressing his emotions!

I kissed the top of his head, if that would make him feel better. But in fact, I realized he wanted to cry—he wanted to let out those emotions that the music was eliciting, and he didn't care who was aware of it.

But pretty soon I realized that he was very much aware of me.

His paroxysm had somehow made me fail to notice that he had slipped a hand under my knee-length skirt, up my thighs, and all the way up to—well, you know where. While he continued to weep softly, he almost unthinkingly pulled the crotch of my panties away and began stroking my sex.

Now, Mom, you have to know—I never let this sort of thing happen, especially on a first date! I do have some self-respect, you know. But the thing is, I somehow sensed that he wasn't really trying to "come on" to me in any crudely lascivious way. He was just trying to soothe himself while trying to make me happy. When I finally took notice of what that hand was doing, my first instinct was to thrust it away from me and give him a good lecture about respecting boundaries. But I couldn't do it. If I had, he would have gazed at me with an uncomprehending, little-boy look that would have wrung my heart.

Anyway, Mom, I have to tell you that it's been a while since I had a man—and his big, warm hand felt pretty good. Even if I'd almost never let any guy take such liberties with me, I didn't want to stop him.

I will admit he knew what he was doing. He started slowly, gently fondling my labia and sometimes sticking his fingers—one, two, or even three—into my vagina to get my juices flowing. And they flowed as they'd never flowed before! This whole episode was so startling and unexpected that I just gave in to the sensation.

And when he continued to brush his fingers against my labia while also rubbing my engorged clitoris with his thumb, I thought I'd faint with pleasure. I was now pressing his head against my chest, and I guessed he could at least feel something of the outline of my breasts, encased as they were in my bra and the thick sweater. He rubbed his face back and forth and sometimes even bit lightly down at where he thought my nipples might be. But mostly he focused on my sex—or, I should say, his hand seemed to be acting independently of the rest of him, as if it had a mind of its own.

I don't think I'd ever come so fast. And when I did, letting out a kind of strangled gargle that was thankfully covered up by the music, he didn't let up. Oh, heaven! He was one of those rare men who realize that a woman's orgasm can be perpetuated almost indefinitely with the right touch. And he knew how to do it, stroking me tenderly and causing so much fluid to seep out of me that my panties—and his fingers—were getting soaked.

I almost felt like crying from the ecstasy he was giving me. In fact, I think I let out some pathetic little whimpers as I held his head close with both hands and rained kisses down on his head and cheeks and neck. At last I did have to push that hand away, sliding off his lap and falling clumsily on the seat next to him, gasping and shuddering.

"Holy cow!" I said between ragged breaths, looking up admiringly at him. "That was incredible!"

He just peered down at me with a genial smile, as if he was my uncle.

The music was now over, and the silence was deafening. I felt acutely embarrassed at how I'd let him play me like a musical instrument. I straightened up my clothes and tried to pretend that nothing had happened.

But of course that was useless. We'd crossed a threshold I didn't expect we'd cross until after several dates, if ever.

I said to him, "Would you like some sort of reciprocation?"

Staring straight ahead, he said primly, "That won't be necessary."

I wasn't buying that! What man, after doing what he'd done to me, doesn't want to be repaid in kind?

"Oh, come on, Jerad," I said. "I'm sure you want something."

I slipped off the couch and onto the floor, then knelt in front of him. As his legs parted, I scrabbled at his jeans to unzip them and pull out his member. That took some doing—mostly because it was so big.

Yes, Mom, Jerad has a pretty big endowment. I'd estimate it at about eight or nine inches. I hadn't seen one that big in quite a while, maybe never.

"Gee," I said, "this is some impressive equipment you got here."

I promptly stuck it into my mouth—well, at least the first few inches. I won't claim that I have any expertise in deep throat, but I believe most men just want the tip stimulated. Even so, I did use my tongue to lick the shaft up and down, and he seemed to like that. But I devoted most of my attention to licking, sucking, and even nibbling that knobby tip of his, which was already thick and red with anticipation.

As I was working, I heard his voice say, "Marcia, darling . . . can I go in you?"

I wasn't quite sure he was entitled to use that endearment so soon—but I already knew that's just the way he was, letting out his emotions without the slightest reserve. My next thought is: Am I ready for this? Trust me, Mom—even while in college, when people hook up with one another at the drop of a hat, I never slept with a guy on the first date. But I sensed there was something different here. With my mouth still fastened to his cock, I looked up at him for some moments.

Then, at last taking the cock out of my mouth, I said, "Okay."

I got up and walked stiffly toward the bedroom. He followed me like a lost puppy. He seemed almost afraid to enter the room, and I was touched by his scruples. How different from all the frat boys who'd pawed me at the first opportunity! (I never ended up sleeping with any of them.) The thing was that I already felt comfortable with Jerad in a way I'd never felt with anyone else. Part of it was that I knew he was in your department—you'd certainly read him the riot act if he did anything unwelcome or offensive to me! But it was way more than that. Although I sensed a kind of nervous agitation in him, I also believed he was fundamentally a kind, gentle soul—and one who tended to revere the female of the species as something special and almost divine.

Even so, I felt a sudden spasm of awkwardness and kept my back to him as I undressed. It didn't take long, but when I turned around I saw that it had taken him even less time to strip.

He really was an impressive physical specimen, all apart from that large organ of his. Tall and a bit gangly as he was, he was still beautifully proportioned, and his shoulders, chest, and thighs were as tempting as I'd seen on any man recently.

But he seemed totally enraptured by my nakedness. His mouth dropped and his face again took on that strangely pained expression. I was afraid he was going to cry once more—and this time over me! He swallowed hard and then said, "Oh, how pretty . . ."

He approached me slowly, then held out his arms and wrapped them around me. That first contact with his bare flesh was really an amazing moment—his body, warm and muscular, but with baby-soft skin, sent tremors through me. As I pressed my breasts against his chest, he stroked me all over my back and bottom. Then he took my face by the chin and raised it up—and pasted a kiss on my lips.

That first kiss was light as a butterfly's wings, and sent another shiver through me. Again, there was a kind of reverence to it that made me somehow feel unworthy: I was no goddess, and yet he seemed to think I was! Soon he was kissing me more firmly, but he didn't do anything crass like stick his tongue into my mouth. Then he scattered kisses all over my cheeks and neck and shoulders while his hands continued to explore my body, front and back.

Then he led me to the bed. I lay down on my back, my legs spread, and he placed himself between them and peered down at me with a curiously blank look. There was almost a questioning expression on his face, as if he'd suddenly forgotten who I was—or maybe thought I was someone else.

But, as he continued loom over me, he slipped into me effortlessly, without even needing his hand to guide his cock into me. Maybe that cock had a mind of its own too and knew exactly where to go! I will say that he filled me in a way I hadn't been filled in a long time—and it was fabulous!

I'm not accustomed to being passive in bed, but somehow I just wanted to let this man do whatever he wished to me. He slowly lowered himself onto my body, and I felt as if a big, warm blanket had descended upon me. His thrusts were gentle at first, as if he was gauging how forcefully he should push; and when he saw that I wasn't exactly a delicate flower and could take his member pretty much to the hilt, he began doing me more vigorously. There wasn't anything rough or violent in his actions; in everything he did there was always just the faintest hint that all women are made of porcelain and might break at the slightest touch.

But pretty soon he was pounding me lustily, pressing down on me so hard that—as with that bear-hug on the front porch—I found it a little hard to breathe. And his hands were scouring my body as if wanting to gain an intimate knowledge of every single inch of me—my breasts, my back, my bottom, my thighs, even my stomach and abdomen. He brushed his hand against my bush (I never shave, Mom—do you?), then actually placed his fingers on either side of his cock as it continued to pump me. It's like he wanted to be absolutely certain he was really in me, and that this wasn't all a wonderful dream. Meanwhile, he was plastering kisses all over me. Once he even raised an arm up and kissed my armpit. Imagine that!

But I knew he couldn't hold out very long. He'd been so excited, ever since I'd sat in his lap while listening to that music, that I knew his culmination would happen soon. And when he started pouring his seed into me, I gasped as much as he did—there was so much of it! I'd never been inundated by so much come before: he kept sending long, thick streams of it deep into me, and I could actually feel it striking against the walls of my vagina.

When he finally finished, he just lay on top of me like a dead weight. That was okay—I kind of like that. Men are usually so weak after they come! It's really rather cute. But Jerad was, incredibly enough, not getting much softer, and his cock was still firmly embedded in me. Surely he wasn't going to start another round without even coming out? No, that wasn't it.

He was making strange little sounds. I thought they might be just sighs of fatigue, but they started to sound more like whimpers. And then he spoke. His lips were right next to my ear, and he whispered into them:

"I love you, Marcia."

Well, that was a stunner! Of course I didn't take his words seriously—I mean, he'd known me for only a few hours. But I knew that he was expressing what he honestly felt—and I had to be careful. If I reacted scornfully or made a joke of it, I might traumatize him for life. It's happened before, Mom! Anyway, I already felt such tenderness toward him that I wouldn't want to do anything to hurt him. So I just stroked the back of his head and said:

"That's sweet of you, Jerad. But maybe you can come out of me now."

He pulled out with extreme reluctance and then slid down and buried his face in my breasts. It was a strangely childlike gesture—or, at least, I experienced a sudden access of maternal feelings (perhaps the first I'd ever felt) as I continued to stroke his head. He was kneading and squeezing my breasts, sometimes pressing them against his face, at other times sucking on the nipples so hard it was almost as if he was trying to get milk out of them. What a sweetheart! I didn't know what more to say in response to his admission of love—and, mercifully, he didn't feel inclined to say anything more either.

At last I said, "Jerad, dear, I'm really tired. Can we go to sleep now?"

He looked up glumly at me, then nodded in resignation. "Okay."

As he slid off of me and landed on his back next to me, I gave him a quick kiss on the mouth, then turned my back to him and went to sleep.

Or tried to. After about an hour or so, I felt something peculiar—namely, the tentative probing of a cock in the area of my anus.

His actions had inspired a rather naughty dream in me, and I woke up with a jerk. He didn't seem to notice, as he still tried to go into me as if I were unconscious. He did slip in fairly easily (he must have lubricated me while I was asleep); but he didn't push for a while, seemingly satisfied merely with the fusion of our bodies. After what felt like minutes, he did start thrusting very gently, and he even made so bold as to reach over my body and lightly grab a breast with one hand.

Quite frankly, I didn't feel like responding—and anyway, I was too tired to respond. I'd done anal sex a few times—it's not my favorite thing to do, but some guys want it real bad, and I think Jerad's one of them. He seemed perfectly happy with a languid copulation, and I had trouble imagining he could actually ejaculate a third time. No man in my experience (not that it's been all that extensive) had ever done anything approaching that!

Presently I felt his whole body pressing up against my back, his mouth breathing hotly against my neck. This went on for what seemed like an eternity—it was probably about twenty minutes. Then, as he suddenly squeezed my breast spastically, he did send his third discharge into me. More long, thick streams of come poured into me, and when he unexpectedly pinched my nipple he sent a shuddery orgasm through me also.

Then he pulled out, heaved a sigh, and fell onto his back. I heard him lapse into snoring in less than a minute. I myself had hardly moved, except for the tremors that went through me in my climax. Even though I felt his discharge leaking out of me, I was too tired to do anything about it. Soon I was dead to the world also.

When I woke up, I cast a look in Jerad's direction. He was already awake—and staring intently at me.

"Hi," I said groggily.

"Hi," he said, then looked away. After a pause: "I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"What I did last night."

"Hey, no need to apologize. I had a great time too. Never better."

"No, I meant—when you were asleep."

"Oh, that. Well, I wasn't really asleep. It's hard not to wake up when someone's sticking a dick in your butt." I smiled to let him know he was forgiven.

He was reaching out to hug me, but I leaped over him and got out of bed. I really wasn't up for yet another bout this early in the morning.

"I'll make us some breakfast, okay?" I said as brightly as I could. "You stay here and get some rest. It'll be ready in about fifteen minutes."

And it was. I made a nice meal of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee, and we ate it as if we hadn't eaten anything in days. But after we'd finished, he gave me a peculiar look and said, "Um, I think I should go."

"Go?" I said, a bit disheartened. He didn't strike me as the love-'em-and-leave-'em type.

"I have work to do," he said, quite unconvicingly. But then: "I can come back later today. I'll take you out somewhere!"

"I'm not sure I have the energy to go out again," I said. "I can cook dinner for you here."

"You don't need to do that."

"I'd like to. Just come back whenever you feel like it."

He didn't even trouble to take a shower—probably because he didn't have a change of clothes at hand. I don't know why he was in such a hurry to leave, but he was. My place felt very empty after he'd gone.