Your Pussy Is Delicious

Your Pussy Is Delicious

"Give it up for Dr. Soleil, everyone," I say.

The classroom applauds, stands, collects their stuff. They penguin-shuffle toward the door. Two girls stop to thank you for your presentation. One of them clasps you by the hand. Jason Burman stops behind her and evidently wants to say something, but he sheepishly moves on.

As the students exit, I tell them: "Friday's class will not feature a brilliant and sexy expert speaker on otolaryngology!"

You glare at me, your shoulders tensed and palms up... yet unable to hide a grin.

(Yes, this was very unprofessional of me.)

"Continue reading chapters five and six," I say, "on olfactory dysfunction and congenital nasal anomalies."

We wait until the last girl leaves the room, a Delta Zeta sorority chick finishing up urgent texts to her friends. She is arrestingly beautiful--Tarena is her name, I think. Mediterranean hair, full brows, long lashes over high cheekbones. Wide, rubicund lips, with a smile behind her eyes. The latter is what makes her most attractive. The ostensible ease with which she navigates the world. Unsullied optimism, confidence. She shines that chestnut gaze in our direction, nodding respectfully as she exits. The room will be vacant until tomorrow morning.

You and I step toward each other, taking swigs from our Desani bottles and licking our lips. Then we snicker in unison at our accidental choreography. Water nearly comes out my nose.

"Well. That sucked," I say. "You were awful." I chortle, reaching for your embrace.

We do that, tightly but not too hard. We kiss, and my physiology flares.

"I'll show you what sucks," you say, leering up like a pantheress.

You can feel the thick bulge in my pants pressed against your tummy. You unbuckle me, fishing out my cock in a flash. And there it is in your mouth as you gracefully take a knee, and then your other knee. I become worried about how painful that must be on your patella...

My hands swarm over your silky hair, gently rubbing my thumbs against your temples and grazing your earlobes. Then I brush the aperture of your lips, snug and damp around my shaft. Penetration into your body of any sort is magical, and I want to register each wet, elastic point of entry with my fingers. I trace the strong ridge of your jawline, shifting to make room, and I can feel my penis ballooning, telescoping deep into your throat. The part of my brain responsible for sensing your aura, that registers touch, is lit up like a sparkler.

"My parietal lobe is all atwitter," I say.

"Mmm-hm," you manage, glancing up.

You are so goddamned hot--in every dimension that I can conceive--that now I want nothing more than to grope your pussy. But as I reach low, you grin and swat my hand down playfully. Peering into me, not through me. A smile is on your lips as you back off for a moment. But the real smile is in your eyes, just like Tarena's. Was she also gleeful at the prospect of a late-night hookup?

Your smile puts even more lead in my pencil. It both empowers and humbles. I know your pussy is down there, florid, steaming, aching for input. There is no way I'm going to let that sweet, dripping snatch go home tonight unsatisfied. I think this to myself, almost aloud. Then I laugh about it to myself, and yet know it to be true...

You are gripping my cock at the base and cramming it so far into your skull that you gag slightly, but you trooper on. You clutch my balls in your other hand, and while I breathe heavily, I tell you: "I am going to fuck the shit out of you, right now, on top of this shitty desk. With the lights on."

You now stroke my cock while tonguing its head until you taste precum, peering up at me again with those leonine eyes. The nuanced artistry of your eyeliner drives me as wild as the feeling of your mouth shrouding my manhood, along with the subtle slurps of your sucking. You are very good at this, and I'm doing what I can to not blow my load. I'm thinking, "This classroom won't do. Too bright, too hard, too sterile. Classroom fucks always seem to go well in the movies, but..."

And then there's a knock at the door.

Instantly, while my dick is in your throat, my heart is in my own. You have the composure to stand, straighten your skirt and announce, "One second please."

The door opens without pause as I fumble with my fly, my back facing the doorway. You walk toward it. "We were just leaving," you say.

A pimply-faced blonde kid pokes his head in. Jason Burman again.

"Oh, dude," he says, probably because I'm still zipping up my pants. Or is it because he's arrested by the blinding radiance of your sexiness? "I thought the I Eta Pi meeting was in this room tonight," he says.

"It was about to be," I say looking over my shoulder, tucking in my shirt.

You glance at me knowingly, amused, understanding that I couldn't help but say it despite the thrum of my racing heart.

"The room is all yours," you tell him. And out we go.

"Shit," I mutter. "The whole campus is crawling with frat and sorority kids tonight. I forgot it's Greek Week."

We hurry to my car, realizing we can't continue our nefarious acts even inside my roomy Lexus RX without being ogled by passers-by. I did not opt for tinted windows, dammit. But I have an idea...

The drive won't take long, and the only caveat is the fact that we find ourselves right in front of a police cruiser during the entire ride. You are reaching over and stroking the rigid cylinder inside my pant leg. It is so engorged and solid, it feels like I'm smuggling a rocket-propelled missile through the backstreets of Old Louisville. I reach over to paw at your crotch, feeling heat emanate through your panties. My fingers come away damp. Good God, how I want to taste you, play with your pussy. Then, something else startles the shit out of me, forcing both my hands to white-knuckle the wheel. The cop has flipped on his blue and red flashers. Thank fuck-all, he accelerates and blows past me, off to stimy the misdeeds of some hooligan. We both sigh in relief and keep our mitts to ourselves for the next few minutes.

Within three blocks, we arrive at a dive in your own neighborhood. You remind me that you've never been impressed with The Hideaway bar.

"Maybe you weren't in the right company," I say. "Plus, you know how casual it is. I mean, it's not like a swinger's joint, but on a typical Wednesday night it can still be... colorful."

We go in. The bartender, Dakota, greets us. She's wearing hipster glasses and cargo pants, along with her characteristically beaming smile. Four guys sit at the bar, plus one chatty girl addressing all of them at the same time. She even says hello to us as we order drinks from Dakota. A Grateful Dead song plays over speakers, making the atmosphere feel like we've stepped into a time warp. Different faces, younger bodies, but it's like the zeitgeist of the place was transported straight from the streets of Haight-Ashbury.

"Ugh," you groan, rolling your eyes playfully.

"I know, I know" I snicker. "You hate the Grateful Dead. We can fix that."

Predicting the upstairs level will be empty, I take you by the hand and ascend. The area has its own jukebox, and my prediction is correct. We have the whole floor to ourselves, including a pool table, a tiny water closet, another pool table, a seating booth in the back of the darkened room, and a bar countertop with a neon sign above it. Its orange glow states a single word: EAT. Which is exactly what I plan to do.

We poke some money into the jukebox, play a song by Brian Jonestown Massacre, another by Clinic. Then some Drab Majesty, Prince... We simultaneously slap the button for Blue Dress by Depeche Mode and then high-five.

"What a night," I say. "Sorry for all the hiccups."

"You kidding me? Never a dull moment."

As you say this, I clutch your hips and lift you onto the bar. I finger-tease your thighs, curving my palms to swath every inch down to your calves, landing with a squeeze of your ankles. We kiss deeply. You part your legs and grasp the back of my neck with one hand, steadying yourself with the other. You pull up your skirt, giving me a prime view of the very part of your anatomy we both want to involve right now. I'm so fucking turned on that I'm about to bore a manhole through my seersuckers.

What I see in the gleam of the "EAT" neon sign is mouthwatering. You've pulled your panties aside to reveal one of your sugar walls... that you know I'm going to ravage, in the good way. I slide my tongue along the rim of your pussy. Your exposed labium is taut, swollen, and this hardens my dick evermore. I can see your other pussy lip bulging behind the small swatch of black cloth covering your beautiful little thigh gap. The polycotton is saturated with your juice. I spread your thighs further, pull your panties aside. The pinkness of it all is irresistible. I tackle your other labium first, nibbling on it, then flog with my tongue your holiest of holies. I work my way up through the canoe, finding the little coxswain at the helm. I suckle on your clit, feeling it plump up, while also nuzzling the rest of your business.

"Is this going well?" I ask?

With your legs orbiting my head, you gasp and gently slap me on the pate, suggesting the answer is yes.

"Your pussy is delicious," I tell you.

"Guh--ff" you mumble, as I continue to slather your cunt, determined for you to cum in my mouth...

You have really fucked up my hair after a few minutes of this. Your pelvis rises and falls as I make out with the velvety canal of your pussy, mostly concentrating on your clit. The pronounced ardency of your clitoris is evident, growing plumper against my tongue. Your moans have been building and now I feel your legs quiver against my shoulders. Your entire little frame shakes amid shallow breaths. Looking up, I see that your eyes are shut. Erotic City by Prince thumps from the jukebox: We can fuck until the dawn, making love 'til cherry's gone...

"My god, my god--" you mumble. "I'm come--" and you cannot finish that sentence, but your pussy does it for you because a peppery rivulet of juice pours out of you into my mouth. Another wave of fluid follows that one, and you feel me smile against your inflamed flesh. And at that very moment I hear the familiar squeak of steps in the dingy stairwell. We have company.

Your eyes open brightly, as if you just watched a lightning bolt obliterate a fuel truck. With your hands around my neck, you are lasering your pupils into mine, and I can feel a rhythmic pulse within my cock, palpitating from balls to tip like the flashing blue lights on a landing strip.

"What is with this prohibition of oral sex in public?" I ask, erecting my torso so I can look you in the eye. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, wrap my paws around your waist, and we look like two people just getting frisky.

Our fresh-faced company summits the stairs, mumbling to whomever he's with. Three twenty-something dudes emerge, ready to play rotation on billiards, or maybe cutthroat. I help you down from the bar.

Your chest is still heaving. You're coming down from what I just did to you, and I can only think to kiss you again. So, we do that.

"Mmm, I do taste delicious... Come on," you say, tugging me by my tie. "We have things to do." You are still wobbly on your pegs, walking as if drunk after only a few swallows into your vodka-tonic.

I step back, smiling and slugging my Maker's and water. "What are we doing?" I ask, trailing after you by my tie-leash.

"Finishing this."

"We weren't finished?"

You turn to me. "Oh no."

The new arrivals grin at us and make their way to the billiards cue rack. My dong is so priapic right now that I could probably jump in with these guys and shoot pool with it. But I know what's going to happen, and the prospect of you surrounding my cock with the creamy hospitality of your quim weakens my own knees a little.

Now street level, I ask, "What are you thinking?"

"Nearest alleyway?" you ask. Your practical sense of urgency and expedience is showing.

"Oh. You know the place," I say, relishing a favorite song lyric, "where no one is likely to pass." I take you to that place. Through the backdoor of The Hideaway, we enter a narrow alleyway aligning a row of multi-unit houses. Its shadowy confines buffers traffic noise.

"That was pretty amazing," you say, pulling your panties down the length of your legs. "I could probably wring these out."

"Yes, please do that," I say excitedly. "Wring them into my mouth!" But you've already thrown them at the dumpster. You miss.

You grab my face with both hands and start kissing it. I'm undoing my trousers, and my penis makes that easier by pitching its own tent. I pull down my boxer briefs to unleash my cock, which springs forth like a tightly coiled spring, flapping back up against my abdomen with a smack.

"Oh my god..." you say, rolling your eyes. (It was an unnecessary gesture.)

But with your leering green eyes fixed on mine, you reach for it immediately, like a starving person in a breadline. You lean against the wall and hike your right leg, shoving my cock up into your snatch. Your pussy is so saturated that the helm of my dick slides in with supernatural ease, triggering some switch in your brain that demands you to shut your eyes again.

We both gasp at how good this feels... And then I begin jamming myself up into your body fervently, palming the contours of your ass with my left hand and forming a bridge between your back and the brick wall with my right. Don't want you to get your back scratched up. Ironically, you're digging your nails into mine.

Pumping away, our foreheads press together in a communal sheen of sweat. I consider that I've been erect for the past hour or so. Am I feeling lightheaded? No, and not intoxicated either, except by your scent, your perfect contours within my hands, your staccato shrieks--all which make me want to cum. When you fuck a girl standing up--who you're literally suspending in the face of gravity--pulling out is a virtual no-go without looking like a boob. Plus, there's no sense risking a protein stain on your cute skirt. Elective vasectomy and birth control pills aside, I vow not to blow my wad until you cum all over my cock. So I start imagining life as a Syrian refugee which, I decide, is truly inappropriate... and I stop thinking about that.

But you are entrenched in the moment. You are in fact climaxing as I bear your feathery weight, driving you up and down on the rock-hard piston connecting our bodies. Unable to hide your exuberance, you cover your mouth, screaming into your hand. This sets me off, and I also squelch a growling bellow as my cocks shoots three protracted blasts of cum into you. The warm cocktail of our joint ecstasy oozes down our thighs...

We catch our breaths as I continue to stir the cocktail draining out of you, both of us recovering from the orgasmic tsunami that crashed our shores.

"Ok," I say, still breathing down... "Always a fun night with you, Dr. Soleil."

"Mmm-hm," you agree, dazed and shut-eyed, hugging me tight, suspended.

Against my chest, I can feel your heartbeat transmitting its vim directly through the geometrical perfection of your breasts. As I set you down and begin to unhitch, you contract the muscles in your pelvic floor, and I'm unsure if you're trying to expel me or make my cock stay put. The feeling is astronomical. But it is a denouement, of sorts. I recognize this moment as one of the saddest inevitabilities in the human condition. The words climax and anticlimax come to mind.

"Next time, we'll find a classroom with a bed," I say. "...Assuming there's a next time?"

You exhale, peering into my eyes. Goddamn you are gorgeous.

"Why wouldn't there be a next time?" you ask, dismounting, straightening your skirt, casually collecting your purse. "I can walk home from here."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

Your reply comes in that knowing gaze, smirking over your shoulder as you clip-clop on the cobblestones into the shadows...