Fiction is titillating to write, but when remembering the author believes. Imagination is infinite possibility that I cannot control and my mind rebels, scoffing: now it's just masturbation, you know that. And so my flights of fancy are ended with the abrupt report of a not-so-distant shotgun blast: my equally uncontrolled skepticism has thus spoken, and has had the final word. Here is a tear. I weep for my innocence.
But I still believe in these other fictions, you see. I call them memories, and have fabricated them in a somewhat different manner. That is neither here nor there but everywhere, since I am no psychologist or stamp collector and cannot point and discern and name. Instead I feel myself enveloped in the somewhat intangible non-substance of me, another fiction, but a noble one, and one which, despite my best efforts, I continue to take for granite. But I am of that very same stuff, itty-bitty bits of carbon. Hm. And then some.
So while my imagination may swell like a wave or a cock or a balloon, it is deflated just as easily (as the balloon). (Portions of the simile worked better than others, admittedly.) But my rock-solid ego knows no erosion, no matter how vigorously it is stroked and sucked and...oh, my. In short: I share my memories instead of some ill-begotten fantasy because it's how I get my rocks off.
Maybe things aren't entirely true. Does it matter? Were they true to begin with? Who am I talking to, really? Stumble into this knowing that all this happened, however, even if I'm not being entirely honest.
Like all stories with an undercurrent of eroticism this yarn begins with: nothing. Nothing but a nondescript yearning for something new -- not so simple: something that has been estranged from us, torn from our flanks like a rib or a pound of flesh; something that was once ours but for which we now find ourselves longing. This was that, then. We wanted sex and a nice day away from the troubles of our past and present and wanted the freedom to shriek orgasmically or at least tremble and groan amidst the heat of each other's desperate embrace. And we wanted sex.
Henceforth, we headed west.
I forgot a few details. We (my Molly and me) awoke that morning with deceptively simple plans. Drive to the coast, we would, spend a late-January's day there, and have some sort of fun, whatever sort of fun we could lay our greedy hands on.
Now please picture Molly with me: she's just my sort of wet dream. A red hot pixie of a girl, five-foot three who looks remarkably good in thongs. Her tits are full and just more than a handful, oh, reader, you've not experienced ecstasy to the fullest, not like I have: I've seen my cock buried in between those beautiful breasts, my huge purple head emerging from its lair with each thrust, her tongue giving me little licks of encouragement until I shoot my load all over her chest and face. How can you possibly compete? Yet that's not all; her mouth works wonders every time she goes down on me, sucking and jerking me off and oh god knows what else, I'm always too far gone to tell what, exactly, is going on. Touching every bit of her smooth skin is sensuality in its highest of forms, but once I'm inside her --
In any case, we had a little toy we would be playing with throughout the day, and I helped Molly as she adjusted the straps of her Christmas present: a little butterfly-shaped vibrator, worn like underwear, its business end held securely over her clit by the elastic bands I was now fooling with. Best of all, I held the on/off switch, a little remote control kept discretely in my pocket. The little slut loved it.
Am I missing anything? Perhaps -- if I remember I shall fill it in later. But for now we were off, horny teenagers in search of the ocean and whatever pleasure we could find on the way.
Yet we were not quite so free, and had to contend with traffic before leaving the city, as all mortals must. Errant honking horns, demons hiding in blind spots, overpasses and concrete paths that ascend into heaven; enough to make a man go mad. But at a red light or a lull in activity, I had our toy to help time pass more quickly: I would toggle the switch (sometimes covertly so Molly would not see it coming), and, a second later, would watch my darling, beside me, begin to coo and moan in pleasure and in pleasant surprise. "Oh, Mark," she would say, breathing heavily, and I would smile -- but not for too long. I of course had some driving to attend to; and, furthermore, did not want Molly to have too much fun, no, not yet.
Before we got out of the city, we had several such moments. Molly would pout after each bout, sighing "aw, just a little longer?" and maybe place a hand over the bulge in my jeans, licking her lips suggestively. Oh, how I wanted it -- but just then the light would always change, or a hummer would pull up beside me, and I had no tinted windows to hide myself from prying eyes.
So when we hit the open road, as you can imagine, I was almost bursting out of my pants. But Molly -- though she could hardly restrain herself better than I -- took her sweet time, a type of cruel vengeance, I thought. Eventually, however, after maybe five torturous minutes of barreling down a straight, level, and almost-empty highway, Molly's little hands began crawling towards my crotch. Soon enough, she was rubbing my cock through the fabric of my pants, tracing titillating circles over the head, then running the width of four fingers up :::: then down :::: then up again along the length of my shaft. Amidst incoherent murmurs of ecstasy I manage to enunciate: "Stop teasing me you slut it's time you got down to business."
And that she did, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans in a few deft movements. My cock sprang free from its prison, but no sooner had it done so when it was gripped swiftly by the throat.
"Now who's in charge, huh?" she said somewhat coyly as she began to jerk me off. I groaned and did all I could to keep from flying off the road.
Molly was encouraged: she bent towards me and began licking the tip of my cock, almost imperceptibly at first and then with increasing pressure until she was circling the circumference with her hot, wet tongue. And then, without warning, she bobbed her entire head down, taking almost the full length of my cock into her mouth.
She stopped with her mouth full, and I could feel her tongue going to work. It's impossible to tell what she was doing, exactly: it was a flurry of movement that was hidden from my view. But I could certainly feel its effects, on all sides of my cock; it seemed impossible, as if two or three women were going to work at once, licking and rubbing and swirling and sucking all simultaneously. Not content with this, however, her head began moving again, and continued, bobbing up and down with steadily increasing speed as a free hand held the base of my cock tightly -- keeping her divine tongue in frenzied motion all the while. I gripped the wheel tightly, trying to keep from cumming immediately, yes, but also trying to keep my eyes from rolling up into the back of my skull, a somewhat hazardous state to be in while still going sixty.
Molly must've sensed this; she checked her pace and tamed her tongue, taking as much of my cock into her mouth as she could, oh-so-slowly, sucking hard as her head moved back up at the same speed. This went on for a while; I felt the head swell on each movement upward as the suction forced blood to the end, and a sudden release each time she took the length back into her mouth, rubbing the underside of the engorged mass with her tongue as she went down again. So while this still felt incredible, it allowed me a much-needed opportunity to catch my breath, so to speak.
No sooner had I recovered, however, when she was at it again with renewed vigor. This time, her tongue went to work solely on the head, while her hand -- hitherto inactive save for its grip -- began to jerk me off wildly.
All I could manage was "fuck" and a few more such expletives.
She paused. "You like that, baby?" she said teasingly, kissing the tip lovingly.
"Oh God yes, you know I do."
She did indeed know, and needed no further encouragement. At first, she resumed what she had been doing -- but then, for further variation, began twisting her hand as she stroked me, her hand gliding effortlessly over the skin, nicely lubricated by a combination of her saliva and my pre-cum.
It drove me wild, and very near the edge. Oh, how I wanted to cum; my cock felt dangerously near to exploding, and there I was, teetering, longing desperately for release.
"Fuck, Molly, keep sucking, baby, I want to cum in your mouth."
As a reply, she began a vicious alternation: swallowing my cock for a moment, still stroking what little remained at the base; head now bobbing frantically, her hand moving in rhythm with her lips; her tongue, as always, everywhere at once.
It was not long before I came, spurting hot jets of semen into her throat. It overwhelmed her for a moment and a few drops escaped her lips and dribbled down unto my pubic hair, but she recovered and voraciously devoured the rest. She kept sucking as my cock kept throbbing in the throes of ejaculation, endlessly, it seemed. When my organ had lost its impetus, she sucked some more, and then licked my still semi-hard cock clean.
"Mmm," she moaned when her face reemerged, licking her lips. "Was that...satisfactory?"
"Perhaps," I said, taking understatement to an extreme.
