Once upon a time, there was a magical shower head. The thing was super adjustable, the water pressure just right, and I was able to dial in a concentrated, pulsing stream; one which, when I faced away on hands and knees and arched my back just so, perfectly targeted my tight, tawny, nineteen-year-old bullseye, pummeling me into steamy, protracted spasms of anal bliss. That's right; Orgasms....Anal....Hands-free. I'd sought this kind of thing, come to crave it quite honestly, especially when I went too long without it. The release was fantastic and necessary, even if it did pale compared to being with him.
It's true that I'd long been aware of the sensitivity of that place. But I can't lie; it was Barry, the year before, who had opened me to a whole new universe of erotic possibility, revealing just how truly responsive I was, and how incredibly receptive I could be in that "seat of pleasure." No surprise then, that I was usually thinking of him when I got off that way.
He was a bit older, really good-looking -- slim, smooth, olive-skinned, clean (though seldom clean-shaved), a talented musician type -- and I'd agreed to let him handle my cock back then. Before that we were casual friends at most, but we had music as a common bond, and he was a cool guy to hang out with. He seemed quite into girls (and they into him), and I was for sure, though I was rather shy and my experience was limited. I'll admit it shocked me -- after one beer-soaked, bar-hopping evening -- when he awakened me on his couch and practically begged to "just see and touch it....it'll be great, I promise," and adding that he'd even pay me if I'd let him.
We'd been so drunk earlier, with his proposition coming so completely out of left field, that I couldn't be sure it was real, but I shook off my own fog enough to roll over and tell him to leave me alone, NOW! But I didn't forget. I didn't know if he'd meant it, either about the act or the cash. But I found my mind wandering back to it in the days that followed. I didn't think I'd imagined it. I wondered if he even remembered, because honestly, I couldn't detect the slightest weirdness or embarrassment when I saw him. On the other hand there weren't too many times when it was just the two of us alone either. That kind of opportunity didn't really present itself until a week or so had passed, and then it was I who broached the topic.
I don't know what I'd been hoping for, but surely it wasn't the sort of stammered half-apology that came forth. I guess I was looking for clarification (and perhaps a more clear-eyed re-statement of the offer). Instead he confessed that he did indeed remember saying something, but then cooly explained that his tongue sometimes got away from him when he drank too much. As if that put paid to the whole thing. There was an awkward pause, during which each of us seemed speechless, so I scrambled to steer the conversation elsewhere, at least as embarrassed as he, and that's when he stopped me.
"Wait," he smiled a little, his eyes searching for mine. "So.....were you -- are you -- interested, or.....?," he asked tentatively, voice trailing off. I looked down as my stomach turned a nervous/excited flip, for we were both completely sober now. This was it. My heart was pounding as I swallowed and took a deep breath to settle myself. I looked up, meeting his grey eyes, and nodded. There was no mention of cash either. I was curious myself, you see. And so it began.
When the time came he wanted to undress me, and I let him. He went slowly. He seemed to want to discover my body, but not all at once. Once he'd finally touched me it wasn't very long at all before I was in his mouth. It's true his talented hands had felt great on me, but I knew I'd go right along if he wanted to do more, and he did.
Plus, when he asked if he could "taste" me, "please," (his exact words), it was with such sweet earnestness that I doubt I would have resisted even if I'd wanted to, and I didn't want to. That felt really good, too. I'd have been willing to bet he'd done it before. But even though I enjoyed the sensations, and maybe even got a bigger buzz just from watching this handsome guy treat me like his popsicle, my cock seemed, at best, ambivalent.
I couldn't seem to get completely hard; you see, my thing is rather fat, and while it did thicken up readily enough from his attentions, it wouldn't lengthen properly – a full erection would put me a tiny fraction over seven inches – and I don't know that I was ever sporting much more than 2/3 of that. I was a little disappointed in myself for the non-showing.
He proclaimed it a "beauty" nonetheless, and it's true that even in that state it posed a proper, albeit manageable, mouthful for him. He had great lips, and seeing the wide-stretched "O" they formed around my girth, watching him glide up and down, well, I have to admit it was a pretty amazing sight. Even beautiful, I suppose.
Certainly he looked to have plenty to occupy him and seemed to be enjoying it all immensely, really going slow with lots of eye contact, balancing me on his nose, pausing to kiss up and down the length of my underside, tickling my ball sac with his tongue, which I noticed was unusually long and very flexible. Sometimes he went a long way, taking most of my length, once even planting his nose deep in my dusty pubic hair, easing back just a fraction, then looking up at me and holding that position for long, dreamy seconds while we simply gazed at each other. Unreal. This was getting very personal. I had to lean back and steady myself against the cabinet at that point.
I'd had three experiences with girls down there and, while exciting and pleasurable in their way, each instance had taken place in dark or dimly lit situations, partially clothed, and had been furtive, rushed, fumbling, and incomplete. This couldn't have been more different.
Our scene played out deliberately, almost elegantly, the light of a beautiful, late winter afternoon strong through the closed blinds, gentling the harshness of the fluorescent overhead light. We saw each other. Nothing was obscured, everything – every flicker of pleasure, of emotion -- was on display. And it began to dawn on me just how attentive he was, gauging everything, my sounds, the faces I'd make, the specific response in reaction to a particular thing. But it was all so in the flow, so natural. I could see he was very, very good.
