Black Book Diaries 4

Kat was smack in the middle of the king-sized bed, on her knees between my parted legs, moving her mouth and fist up and down the shaft of my cock. I'd propped myself up against the headboard so I could have a good view of her sucking me. I like it when I'm standing and she's on her knees, too, but this was not a bad arrangement by any means. The way she sucked me, using both her mouth and hand, and how she did that little twist with her hand as it moved in concert with her lips, up and down, up and down...

She just knew how to suck a cock, or suck MY cock, anyway. I mean, her blowjobs were so good that I fantasized about them probably more than anything else we did together when I was jerking off. And that's saying something, because the fucking was pretty memorable in my modest experience. In some ways they were almost too good, and yes, I know how asinine that sounds. But the thought of my cock in her mouth was often so long anticipated, and her technique was so effective, that I could barely last five minutes if we hadn't been together for a while and the first thing she did was start sucking me. I'd try to get her to slow down, go no-hands, tongue it, or soft-suck my balls for a bit, just so I could enjoy the experience a little longer. Or maybe just stroke it slowly; her small hand, her fingers with the nails bitten down and patchy with black polish, wrapped around my shaft while she kissed my neck or licked my ear, is an image so potent that I can barely finish writing this sentence because of the urge to use my own hand elsewhere.

I didn't take her cocksucking for granted. In fact, until I met Kat, I wasn't sure that I'd ever get a decent blowjob again. I got spoiled very early as a sophomore in college by my roommate's girlfriend, who gave me my first proper blowjob. Until then, sad to say, I'd never been blown. My girlfriend from high school, who I continued to date during my freshman year of college, seemed to have a problematic relationship with my cock, if I recall correctly. Maybe "problematic" is not quite fair. The first time having intercourse for both of us was with each other, not long after graduating from high school. Neither one of us really knew very much about what we were doing, though she thought she did. In any case, we didn't have a very fulfilling time. She never took my cock in her mouth, that's for sure, and I seem to recall a couple of occasions where I had to ask her repeatedly (there may have been a tinge of pleading involved) to just jack the fucking thing off for me.

Times were different then.

Anyway, blowjobs, college roommate's girlfriend, spoiling: Jackie (her name) and I had known each other for well over a year because, like I said, she'd been dating my roommate through all of our freshman year and into our sophomore year. But something happened in that sophomore year, a spark, an interest on her part that I hadn't realized was there, and by Thanksgiving break, she was fucking both guys that lived in Room 711.

Yeah, I know, you're not supposed to fuck your roommate's girlfriend. You're not really supposed to fuck anything of your roommate's: his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, his sister, his mom. But Jackie was sexy, smart, spirited, adventurous—all the things I considered my high-school girlfriend (who I was still "going with" at the time) to NOT be. And she was willing. Willing in a way that only years later did I realize I failed to fully appreciate. Ain't that always the way? I was the one walking around knotted up with conflicts about the whole thing, which ultimately torpedoed one of the most exciting, romantic, and sexually satisfying relationships I would have for a long time. I felt guilty, I felt this, I felt that. It was all further complicated by the fact that I, um, think I was in love with her. But there was never any attempt, on either of our parts, to extricate ourselves from our current relationships and try something exclusive. So I think I probably also felt a little bit of resentment that Jackie continued to be, for all intents and purposes, my roommate's girlfriend.

Opportunities for Jackie and me were not plentiful, which ultimately made them all the more memorable. The logistics of dorms, roommates, and keeping the whole thing a secret, made it all fairly complicated and not a little frustrating. Sometimes weeks would go by before our respective roommates would both go home for a weekend, finally allowing us to spend an entire Saturday in her narrow single bed, fucking until we just couldn't do it anymore. And she was great, too; she never had enough, never seemed to get sore (or if she did, didn't mention it or let it slow her down). Me, I was shooting blanks by the end of those marathons. By the fourth or fifth time, I didn't even try to come anymore; we would just fuck until I told her I had to stop.

It might have been only the second or third time we'd had an opportunity to be alone together. We were making out on her bed; she was lying on top of me, naked except for a pair of gym shorts. I was kissing her and fondling her little round tits, my cock throbbing inside my pants, straining up against her belly. Matter-of-factly, she slid down the length of me and opened my pants, pulled down the zipper. I expected her to shuck her gym shorts and just climb atop me, slide my cock right inside her as she'd done on previous occasions. But instead, to my surprise, she took my cock into her mouth and began to suck me off.

Like I said, she spoiled me forever. I just assumed, at that tender age of 19, that when a girl took your cock in her mouth, this is what it would feel like—this velvety envelopment, with just the right amount of pressure and contact. I couldn't believe how good it felt. I couldn't believe that she was doing it with what seemed like... pleasure. She couldn't have been at it for more than five minutes before that need to come was barreling down on me.

"I'm going to come," I said with some urgency. "Hey, Jackie, hey!"

She took my cock from her mouth and looked at me.

"I said I'm going to come. Okay?"

"I heard you," she said. "It's okay. I've had this kind of sex before, you know."

Well, no, I didn't know, though I should have. I was just trying to be considerate.

She dipped her head and took my dick between her lips again. She bobbed on it quickly, knowing I was close, then kind of muscled her tongue against the underside of my cockhead and with that, I couldn't hold back any longer and began pumping my load into her mouth.

*

Anyway, back to Kat, and her cocksucking. Her cocksucking was the reason we always fucked first. Not that I didn't like her sucking me off, because I did. But that was usually part of the second or third round (if we had the time and privacy for something more than a quick one). She'd have my cock in her mouth alright 'cause that always got her wet, fucking me with her mouth like that, but I had no problems pinning her back and spreading her legs and getting my meat inside her, or taking her from behind.

We usually started that way, but I knew that her absolute favorite is to be on top. That's the best way to make her come for the first time. She liked to ride it. But like I said, we always started some other way first, that really warmed her up and got things rolling. When I fucked her from behind, she didn't like to be on her hands and knees, she liked to be lying flat on her stomach. She wanted my full weight on her back and I would pin her wrists down, her arms outstretched, and fuck her flat against the bed. It wasn't the greatest angle for me, but it was still okay because I could fuck her longer. Then we'd flip and I'd tell her to ride it. Ride my cock, I'd say. Ride that fucking cock.

Like I said, she really liked to fuck that way, she seemed to be able to concentrate and control things, a better agreement between body and mind, I guess. And her eyes would close tight and she would just be pounding down on my cuntslick shaft while I held her hips, and I just rode it out, rode it out until I knew she was getting close, and then I'd say a few things that usually pushed her over that edge. Come on my cock, I'd say. Come while my cock is filling that sweet wet cunt of yours, I'd say. Come all over my fucking cock, I'd say.

She'd start to jackhammer atop my cock like she was trying to blast me through the mattress. The box springs groaned and the headboard beat a rapid tattoo against the wall like the whole bed was some infernal machine. Then suddenly she'd make a full stop and come, grimacing, making a face like someone straining to unscrew a stuck jar lid and grunting from the effort, bending low over me, her hair curtaining my head, her spasming cunt clenching and unclenching my hard cock buried to the hilt inside her. It was beautiful, watching her come.

"Cunt," strategically proffered, would be the tipping point, the trigger. Being two people who were more verbal than visual, maybe even more verbal than tactile, "cunt" was the word that signaled the deepness of where we were, the most primal of states, the full-on animal abandon. What is it about that? I don't know. Even after all these years, I have no clearer idea about why words are still more evocative to me than any visual display, or any visual memory. When I draw on the past for a bit of erotic stimulation, it's always the well-timed (and often unexpected) bit of dirty talk that galvanizes my lust, that focuses it, and makes me slide rapidly down that rail to release, repeating in my head like a tape loop. The recollection of the sex is not to be undervalued, not with any of them. But there are those several marked moments: the spontaneous, unselfconscious trills and grace notes of utter license and immersion.

These aren't unique bits of eloquence. Rather, raw and salty bursts produced by the depth of the uninhibited moments. Alexis, a long, willowy tempest of a woman whom I fucked and fought with for more than ten years panting "fuck me, fuck me like a whore," while I was already pounding away atop her. Cally, who always wanted me to pump my load between her tits, stroking my cock as I knelt over her, and saying, "C'mon, shoot it." Or "Fuck me until you come all over me." And, the most potent of all, one time after I'd come impressively on her chest and she was rubbing my semen all over her big, soft tits, "Mmm, that was a big load."

And Kat, the most verbal of them all: sliding into the front seat of my car, her hand going to my crotch as her lips came in touch with mine and then saying "Do you want me to suck you? I'll suck you." Or naked atop a motel room bed, her tiny hand stroking my cock while her tongue rolled around mine, saying "I want you to come in my mouth."

Or Jackie, the very last time we were together (though I didn't know it would be the last time), after riding my cock one late July afternoon, both of us dripping sweat, rolling off me and saying "Now do me from behind and come on my back." "Is that what you like?" I said. "I like a lot of things," she said, getting on all fours and propping up her tight little ass, "but that's what I want right now."

Right now. That's what I want right now. While I was "doing her" from behind, I saw us reflected in the mirror above a bureau across from the bed. Saw us fucking. Saw her wavy blond hair spread across her back and over her shoulders. I grabbed a handful of it and pulled gently and she gasped, moaned. I watched myself fucking her, so perfectly lustful and uncomplicated, and thought "remember this. Remember this view, remember this experience, remember this moment." I backed my cock out of her pussy, nestled it in the crack of her ass, and came. Shot my load up her tan, smooth, curved back. She moaned like she was the one coming, and said, just above a whisper, "It's so hot." I thought she was talking about my cum, but now I can't say for sure.

*

The lust was uncomplicated, but the situations never were because they were all clandestine, which is a weasely way of saying they were adulterous. I don't know if that was a conscious decision on my part, but it was certainly the pattern. I was not, however, always the pursuer or initiator in these relationships. It may just be that married women—sorry, married people—were the most logical and desirous partners for a secret sexual relationship. The danger, the adventure, the forbidden quality, and the adrenaline that those aspects engendered... those are potent and addictive things. The feeling of someone desiring you in that way, craving you and your attention, is so unlike the above-board relationship; you're placing yourself completely in the other person's hands in a way, and vice versa. You're surrendering yourself to the other person, and in doing so giving them your complete trust, inviting them to create a secret world with you, one in which you can be whomever you want, and act however you will, with some amount of confidence that he won't betray you. Because by betraying you, he betrays himself as well. In this very secret, two-person universe, you're special in a way you'll never be anywhere else. At least, that's the way it feels.

The true narrative of affairs can never be fully explained or understood. All the emotions, outside influences, motivations, extenuating circumstances... they're all too complex, overlapping, and interlacing. But they have their reasons and, I'll hazard, their own certain logic. To the observer, the outsider, and, especially, the moralist, there's just a cheapness to it all that can't be dispelled. But I can't worry about that. However these relationships ended or, in most cases, simply stopped, they're still raw and powerful swatches of memory, moments of feeling intensely alive.

Intensely alive. In the five years that Kat and I carried on, it seemed that every moment was highly charged, even (or sometimes especially) the spells between times we saw each other, which could sometimes be weeks. But in those weeks, the excitement, the erotic anticipation of finally getting together again, made the intervening moments of life vivid.

All we wanted to do was fuck each other. The necessity of that made things all the more dangerous. Those times when we could only manage to see each other in public settings like a restaurant or a bar or a coffee shop—when we couldn't manage the logistics of a motel room, or one or the other's house being temporarily empty—led to a lot of risky behavior, but it was almost like it was beyond our control. Fingering Kat in a booth at a TGI Friday's, between the waitress's visits: recalling it gets me hard as a rock, and it wasn't even me who got off that time, it was her. The television droning, the customers, the bustle of lunch service, while I carefully pumped two fingers in and out of her warm, wet cunt until she came, swallowing her gasps, her hand clamping on to my wrist and holding my hand fast, my fingers buried, her pussy throbbing. Another time, an hour stolen one afternoon when we met for a quick drink just to see each other: we sat at the bar, the place wasn't busy. The bathrooms were downstairs in this place, and before I paid our tab, I excused myself to the men's room. When I came out, Kat was waiting outside the door, in the little basement hallway. She kissed me and grabbed my cock through my trousers. I thought she wanted to drag me into the men's or ladies' room to fuck or suck me, and I wasn't so sure how good of an idea that was. Instead, she unzipped me right there, wrestled my cock out and began stroking it. With her other hand, she lifted the hem of her dress up over her stomach and told me to hold it. Then she pulled the waistband of her panties away from her belly. "I want you to shoot your load in my panties," she whispered. "I want to feel your hot cream on my pussy." This may rank as one of the hottest impromptu moments I've ever had the privilege to being party to. Just her words, her suggestion, was so fucking exciting, it didn't take very long for her to jerk the cum out of me, bending my cock down and milking it into the front of her underpants while we both looked down, watching it: her tiny hand stroking my length, the engorged head of my cock pulsing spurts of warm semen against the soft mound of her belly, the cum oozing down over her slit and into the crotch of her underwear.

Small wonder that our interludes of separation were stimulating periods of life in their own right. I tore through life, each day rich with anticipation.

Kat left me a compilation reel of erotically charged memories. She was an introvert, shy and bookish, which is maybe why the secret world that we created was such an uninhibited place for her. If you met her, you'd be hard pressed to imagine this was the same woman who would tell me to fuck her mouth, or fuck her in the ass, or that she wanted to eat my cum. She lay crosswise on the motel bed, on her back, hung her head over the edge, and told me to slide my cock straight down her throat. "It's called a straight shot," she said. "Just fuck my throat and shoot your cum straight down it." And I fucked her throat, cautiously at first, but less so as she writhed on the bed, her fingers working her clit. As I came, I held my cock still and deep, felt the muscles of her throat spasming around the head, milking out my spurting semen until her body bowed from her own orgasm. I pulled my cockhead back to give her air and she gasped mightily, thrashing and coming, tears running from her eyes.

Kat sucked me off in my car, as I drove. She sucked me off in the stairwell of a parking garage one afternoon: no warning, no plan. We were walking down the steps from where we'd parked our cars when meeting for coffee and on the second floor landing she just stopped, squatted in front of me, matter-of-factly took out my cock and sucked it. Stroked and sucked until I filled her mouth with spunk. She sucked me off one morning in a library where we conspired to meet. She'd brought two of her kids with her, and when they were settled in the children's section at a table looking at books, she found me lurking back in the stacks. We talked in whispers, kissed; I squeezed her small breasts through her shirt, dying to get my mouth on them. When she felt the hardness of my cock pressing up against her, she unzipped me, pulled it out, and bent over and took it in her mouth. As soon as she finished swallowing my load she stood up, gave me a quick, cum-flavored kiss on the lips, popped a piece of gum in her mouth, and disappeared.

Kat told me she wanted to watch me jack off. I told her she could, as long as she did the same. She lay on her back on the motel room and spread her legs. I knelt between them, and we both began masturbating. I told her how I thought about all the things we'd done. All the things she'd said to me that turned me on and got me off. She stared, rapt, at my hand vigorously pumping my erect dick as she worked her clit with one hand and fingered herself with the other. I was edging, waiting for her. "I really want to put that thing in my mouth," she breathed. "I want to put this thing in that sweet fucking cunt," I said, and with that, she started coming. I picked up the pace and then joined her, spurting my creamy seed on her belly. She scooped up a dollop of it with two fingers and smeared it on her lips, then licked them.

*

Sometimes the desire to go back in time and live these precise moments over again is so strong it almost convinces me that I can actually do that, turn back the clock, go back in time and have that stolen afternoon once more. The excitement, the intensity of anticipation and sensation and pleasure, the liberating experience of feeling, even just for a few moments, of being entirely in the present. There's a freedom to it: freedom from time, freedom from the conditions of existence, freedom from death. It's an illusion, of course, but the momentary feeling isn't. Yeah, I know how this sounds, the selfishness and hedonism of it all. But everyone develops different views, evolves different perceptions. For some people, sex is just fun and feels good. It has its compartment.