The Cockhound

Having made the 320-mile trip from Tallahassee to Sebring in 4 hours two minutes (almost two-and-a-half hours faster than the listed time on Yahoo maps), Blake had time to kill before the big soiree he'd driven down to attend. There were only five other cars in the lot of the tiki bar on the shores of Lake Jackson when he parked his 325i convertible in the shade of a beautiful royal palm. It was late May.

Blake knew the woman was drunk even before he sat down. She wasn't sloppy drunk; she wasn't obnoxious or loud drunk. She wasn't even happy drunk. Most likely, even the bartender didn't know she was intoxicated, but from across the floor Blake could tell because she was careless drunk.

He saw her before he'd reached the top of the stairs leading up to the expansive platform deck containing two large bars and three-dozen round tables, all of which were covered with thatched roofs. She was seated at the closest bar, her long tanned legs exposed by a short white tennis skirt. She turned to watch Blake as he walked across the deck. He'd planned to sit across the bar until, walking past her, she held out a cigarette and asked him for a light.

"You're not from the South, are you?" she asked with a slow Alabama drawl while exhaling over Blake's left shoulder leaving him to wonder both how she knew and why her question hadn't begun with "y'all."

Blake turned to look at the woman more closely as the bartender, having lit her cigarette, retreated to get Blake's order. Movie star pretty, he guessed her to be about 5'8" although seated it was difficult to be precise. If he had the height correct, she'd be about 135 pounds. Her eyes were the color of the cloudless mid-afternoon sky; her blonde hair was unbleached.

"How could you tell?" Having shaken his head when asked for the light and given his order by pointing to an empty brown bottle with a Budweiser label, Blake knew that the four words, the first he'd spoken now marked him, unmistakably, as a Connecticut Yankee.

"Most young men down here carry a lighter, you know, for the ladies." Pausing, then extending her hand, "I'm Dee."

She had the softest, smoothest hand he'd ever felt. A tingle jolted the front center of his scrotum as if she's just run her fingernail gently up his sac between his balls. "Blake," he replied.

Blake Burke loved his name. From the time he was a precocious seven-year-old at Madison Country Day, through prepping at the Hopkins School, and then Yale, he was determined to be someone others knew by only one name, like Madonna, or Ringo maybe. That Blake could be either a first or last name made it perfect.

From the first moment of that first psychology class at Hopkins, Blake knew it was his calling. At Yale he'd decided on criminal psychopathy and was determined to make a significant breakthrough in what motivated the criminal mind.

His passion had led him to Florida State University and Professor Emeritus Leonard Workman, aged 81. Three years earlier, Workman heard Blake defend a brilliant paper at the FBI headquarters in Virginia, and agreed to stay on at FSU solely to shepherd Blake through to his Ph.D.

Arriving on the Tallahassee campus with a 'summa' from Yale and a nearly perfect GRE, he was immediately known to all and sundry as simply Blake.

As the twenty-two year-old student studied Dee, everything moved as it always did for him, in slow motion. He saw things others would miss. He already knew something intimate about this older beauty, something he'd seen when he mounted the stairs to the deck. Deciding to amuse himself by playing mental games with the pretty blonde, he wondered how he might use it.

"Y'all go to college," Dee stated rather than asked, lapsing into a patois only pretentious Yankees were duped by.

"A graduate student. Psychology."

"Tell me something about me," ordered the pretty blonde.

Dee was an intellectual (and at times a physical) exhibitionist and liked being the topic of discussion. She'd been hit on by every manner of man, by the best and the worst, by the hot and the horrible. She decided to excite herself by teasing this egotistical young man.

"You're insecure," Blake told her.

Dee arched a perfect eyebrow. She'd been interested in the 6'3" blond male quasi-model since he strolled across the deck of the tiki bar dressed in khaki shorts, white polo shirt and tennis shoes (no socks). Now she was fascinated. Nobody she knew would dare say that about her. She waited for him to continue.

"You wear makeup in sunlight, your legs are muscled from running because you're afraid you'll gain weight, you swiveled in your chair because you worried I wouldn't notice if you acted demurely. When you did, I could see the tan surrounding your midriff indicating you wear bikinis and there is a year old tattoo in the middle of you back just peeking out above the waistband of your skirt. You are insecure about losing your youth."

"A good South Florida fortune teller could have told me that and a good deal more, and -- from the sound of your affected Connecticut accent, I'll guess Yale or Columbia -- be $200K ahead on education costs alone." Dee shivered at the accuracy of Blake's assessment. Had she underestimated her opponent? His obvious interest both emboldened her and dampened her labia.

"Tell me more, Blake the fortune teller."

"You look 35, you're friends all lie and tell you they think you're 30." Before Dee could initiate her rebuttal, he continued, "You're 41."

The accuracy of the statement stung Dee. She felt a need to sting back.

"Ah'm talking to a fucking carnival barker! Do you guess weights, too?"

"You're also drunk."

"Bullshit!"

"You think you can hide it but the alcohol relaxes you more than you realize. You got careless."

"How?"

"I saw your panties."

"You are full of shit, darlin'."

"When I came up the steps, you uncrossed your legs and you opened your thighs a little too..."

"Bull fucking shit!"

"They're turquoise."

For the second time in five minutes, Dee was stunned at this kid's powers of observation. She was also dewy-damp. Time to take control of her young buck.

"I don't even know what color they are myself," Dee chuckled, letting Blake know he was right. "How do you know I didn't want you to see 'em?"

Blake swallowed at the unexpected question. "D-did you?"

Seeming not to care if anyone else at the bar could see her, Dee fixed her gaze on Blake's eyes and moved her hand down her tennis skirt. Hooking her index finger under the hem, Dee slowly pulled her hand up her thigh until her knuckle moved across three inches of pure blue-green silk. Holding her pose, she waited for Blake to look down at what her hand had exposed. When he looked back up, she whispered, "Maybe."

Smoothing her skirt down, Dee continued, "Now I'll tell you something you don't know. I like men."

Things were no longer moving in slow motion for Blake. Life had suddenly shifted into high gear and for the first time he could remember, he was having trouble keeping up.

"You're in a bar full of men, dressed like that, looking like that. It's pretty obvious..."

"Young men." Dee rested her hand on his bare thigh.

"Again, you're sitting here talking to..."

"Down there." Dee licked her lips and slid her finger under the khaki and across Blake's thigh to within one-quarter inch of his cock head. "Do you think I have penis envy?"

"We don't really study Freud much any..." Blake fumbled.

"What would you call a woman like me? Not your horse shit textbook names. What the grad students call it when you read about women like me in those advanced human sexuality classes you take?"

Blake thought about saying it but found he couldn't. Dee smiled and deliberately moistened her lips again.

"The tattoo on my back is a whippet, you know, the dog. What you couldn't see is the word beneath it. "Cockhound." Is that what you call your undergrad psych groupies? Cockhounds? Do they still fuck for A's? Well then young Blake, shall we go see what this cockhound will do for young cock?"

Finally pulling her finger out from under his shorts, she rolled it against her thumb before licking the slick fluid. "Besides, if you insist on going commando, somebody's going have to run interference to hide your wet spots."

Blake looked quickly downward at the large, damp, pre-cum mark at his crotch. He hurriedly laid a twenty on the bar and marched out behind Dee.

She seemed to know the beamer convertible was his. Stopping at the royal palm shading the shiny convertible, she pushed him back against the tree. Standing so close he could feel her tits against his chest, Dee slid her hands down Blake's arms. Capturing his wrists, she moved his hands backward so that he hugged the trunk behind him.

"If you're hands leave that tree for any reason, whatever I'm doing will be over. Do you understand?"

Blake nodded. Reaching for his head, Dee kissed Blake deeply. The pressure of her lips against his and the low moan she emitted as their tongues slid teasingly across one another, evoked a female hunger Blake had never experienced, nor even suspected. Sliding her hand down, Dee stroked an erection whose tautness was causing Blake pain as his phallus threatened to rip a hole in the khakis.

Unbuttoning his shorts and unzipping his fly, Dee jerked Blake's ass off the palm tree causing his shorts to flutter down his thighs to his ankles. Blake's hands nearly left the tree as he struggled to regain his composure knowing that the only things covering his lower body in a public parking lot were a puddle of tan cloth, two sneakers and one insufficient female fist.

"Step out," Dee told Blake as she stood back and admired the lovely seven rock-hard inches now pointing straight up.

Blake shuffled his feet and his shorts broke free of his ankles. Dee retrieved his khakis and tossed them into the back seat of the Beamer. Looking back, she shuddered briefly at the silhouette of the gorgeous young man so under her spell he stood willingly, phallus bared and aching, awaiting her return.

Had she wanted to, Dee knew she could have told Blake to wait as he was while she went back inside for another drink and he would have complied. Such was the nature of young men under sexual thrall and Dee understood that completely.

But Dee didn't want another drink, not one of the alcoholic variety anyway. She resumed kissing the young man and stroking his cock. His moans were getting louder and his rising passion fired Dee's own. She stood on her tiptoes and placed her lips by Blake's ear.

"Your cock is only a means; I want your cum."

Sinking to her knees, Dee greedily sucked the hard flesh deeply into her mouth. She knew she could easily deep throat Blake and delighted in doing it. She held her lips at the base of his prick for almost a minute while he issued a series of increasingly louder, "Oh fucks!"

"You need to shut the fuck up," Dee said, standing again. "What we're doing here is still highly fucking illegal, you know."

Dee reached under her short skirt and began sliding her turquoise thong down her thighs. Bending to slip it over her ankles, she kissed Blake's cockhead before rising again. She gently stroked the young man's cheek with the blue-green silk. The wetness of the material caused his phallus to twitch and throb in the warm South Florida breeze.

"Do you like that?" Dee asked ambiguously. "Do you enjoy knowing that your cock has made an older woman soak her panties?"

"Smell," Dee ordered the young grad student as she held her panties under his nose. "Deep Breath," she said after Blake sniffed shallowly.

Blake's eyes closed and his jaw slackened as he filled his lungs to their full capacity. Dee shoved her panties into his mouth. She tasted her own dampness as she kissed her young stallion again, pushing her panties further into his mouth with her tongue.

"I love your kind the best," Dee told Blake, breaking their kinky kiss. "You think you know everything about women because you're smart and hot looking, because you can snap your fingers and get a few sexy coeds looking for an Mrs. degree to drool like Pavlov was ringing the bell for dinner.

"The truth is there's a force so powerful it's binding you to that tree more strongly than if I'd handcuffed you to it. And I control that force. Go ahead," Dee continued, stepping back. "Let's see you take your hands off that tree."

Blake knew he was bound to that royal palm as tightly as two hydrogen atoms to an oxygen. He wouldn't regain his freedom of movement until that blowjob was completed.

"Don't fuck my mouth," Dee cautioned as she knelt again. "I want to do the work. Now about that cum..."

Her lips encased Blake's cockhead once again and she slid them down to his pubic patch. His panty muffled groans spurred her fervor. Moving her mouth back up the youth's shaft, Dee delivered an urgent, ardent, undulating head fucking to her young stud's steely staff.

There were several "false positives," as Blake's cock perjured itself in jerking responses to Dee's magnificent cock sucking. That delicious dick might have fooled a less experienced fellatrix but Dee knew better.

Then came the part Dee enjoyed most save the actual ejaculation itself. The part where fellatio inevitably gave way to irrumatio. Despite her earlier admonition, Blake began thrusting his hips at Dee's puffy lips. She quieted the movements of her head letting him take the lead.

Then all that moved between the two bodies were Dee's swirling tongue and Blake's fucking dick. In and out he humped his hardened cock propelled by an urge as primitive as it was irresistible

Her frenzied fingers traced along her labia beneath the short white skirt when the swelling that signaled an orgasm was imminent surged through Blake's cock. His cockhead seemed to blow up to double its normal erect size.

The feel of a throbbing cock in her throat never failed to push Dee over her own orgasmic cliff. That lovely sign that the object of her affectionate oral attention was losing control was pure aphrodesia. Cum was on its way and no force on earth could stop it. Dee knew it was she who had unleashed that irresistible force and she exploded seconds before Blake did.

This was always the most trying part for her. The cum she craved was splashing onto her tongue at exactly the moment she convulsed under her own orgasm. From the time she dressed that morning, Dee knew she would not be satisfied with anything less than being the cause of a young man splashing his semen into her mouth.

That thought animated everything she had done. Now the cum was here. Dee wrapped her free arm tightly around the back of Blake's thighs as she strained to keep the pulsing cock slit between her lips and her finger racing back and forth along a bucking clit in unison. In the end, as she always did, she managed to fully satisfy both of them.

Finally dragging her body up along Blake's, Dee whispered, "Thank you," into his ear. A string from her thong now hung from the corner of the young man's mouth and Dee fished it out with her finger. Walking around Blake's car to the driver's door, Dee never let her gaze stray from the beautiful, just-beginning-to-droop, young cock as she hung her panties from his rear view mirror.

Blake stood for a few minutes as Dee had posed him, his deflating cock now horizontal to the plane of the parking lot before events finally slowed down enough for him to realize he could remove his hands from the tree without jeopardizing his pleasure. Staggering over to his car, he left the tiki bar without putting on his shorts.

That evening, as he stood chatting with Professor Workman and his diminutive wife at their home on beautiful Lake Sebring, Blake heard the old psychologist call for his editor.

"Where's Delores? Delores, you must meet Blake!"

A hand extended through the crowd and took Blake's. Without seeing its owner, he knew its softness.

"You must be Blake," spoke the sultry voice with the southern drawl as the hand led him away. "Leonard has told me so much about you. Please, call me Dee." Events shifted into high gear again.

"W-what has he told you?"

"Well, among other things," Dee said, pausing for effect, "that you're the cockiest student he's ever had."

Hooking her arm into his, Dee steered Blake off in the direction of the cars parked by the lake, curious to see if a pair of turquoise panties still hung from the rear view mirror of a certain convertible.