Ms C phoned me today, and she told me that the doctor told her that her mother is going to die, and, that the night before, she had sucked a stranger’s cock. She tells me these things in this order, and her tone barely alters between the telling of each. For a moment I pondered whether Ms C had been sucking off the doctor even as he was breaking the news about her mother’s imminent demise. The two events appeared to have formed some sort of connection in M C’s head and so it wasn’t such an illogical conclusion to draw. Few of us have so much influence over life and death as those white-coated demi-gods, and the link between death and the urge to procreate is well documented. The only thing that would surprise be about the image of a doctor fucking the mouth of a grieving relative would be to discover that it was actually quite a rare event.
‘I am not dead, therefore I fuck….’
Perhaps they should add that to the Hippocratic oath – somewhere in the small print… obviously.
It transpired that the doctor was not, in fact, the beneficiary of Ms C’s oral impulses. That pleasure had been bestowed on a semi-conscious man that Ms C had come across in an otherwise deserted train station. She said that she had been upset and when she stepped off the train and that she had stumbled and almost fallen down the gap between train and platform. In doing so she had turned her ankle, and had needed to sit down. The station was poorly lit and it was only when she had sat down that she noticed the man. She said that she supposed she must have smelled the alcohol first, it wasn’t a smell that she had ever liked, and so she was very sensitive to the scent of it.
‘It was more than beer,’ she said, quietly.
Ms C had spent almost thirty-five years of her adult life without any notable sexual encounters. She was barely twenty when she married, and from the honeymoon onwards the only sex she knew - and that rarely - was quick, perfunctory and wholly unpleasurable. The one cock she knew was never quite hard, and, more often than not her husband seemed incapable of getting very much of it inside her. Much of the time it never got that far but spilled out its lukewarm contents over some part of her thigh or her hip and then, with a gruff clearing of his throat (some sort of apology she sometimes thought) he would roll over and go fall into a deep sleep.
Because of this sad little ritual Ms C had never given much consideration to thought that sex might actually be a pleasure to some. The other wives, all dry with marriage, never spoke of it either. She was vaguely aware that the two sisters on the edge of the village did it often, but, at the time, she considered this a very good reason to cross the street if she saw the sisters approaching. By the time she was fifty five years old Ms C would barely have recognised a sexual act if it had been performed on her dining table by a troop of circus acrobats.
Sex, of course, is everywhere. The world heaves with it but some, like Ms C, simply do not see it, and if they do see it, they do not recognise it for what it is.
It was only after her husband was dead and she had the bed to herself that Ms C began the slow process of waking. When he was barely two weeks in the ground Ms C was startled by a strange event. Though she had no memory of any dream she woke abruptly to discover that her hand was between her legs and that her fingers were wet and slippery. She thought perhaps that she was bleeding but soon reminded herself that she was past all that and, besides, she had none of the aches she always got when was ‘not clean’ (as her husband would say). Instinctively she sniffed at her fingers. They did not smell of blood, but something else – sweet almost and unfamiliar. She was not tempted to taste that fragrant wetness – not then.
In her head she could hear her mother scolding her that ‘girls who touch… down there… is dirty sort of girls’ and she hurriedly wiped her fingers on her cotton slip and promised herself not to touch herself again. For the first few months she kept that promise – other than when she was sleeping. Later she learned to circumvent her guilt by pretending to sleep while she explored between the swells of her lips, and tipped her fingers into her wetness. Once or twice the sensations these - still tentative – gestures promoted in her groin almost overwhelmed her. There was, she began to understand, something beyond these sensations – some sort of strange state of mind and body – but she forbid herself that journey. Or it was guilt that held her back.
Ms C was already very almost awake before I moved to the village. It was this I had sensed in her from the first moment I set eyes on her.
And yesterday, barely two months on, Ms C was ringing me to tell me that she had sucked a strangers’ cock.
‘He was drunk,’ she was saying. ‘I could smell the drink on him and the way he was sitting… slumped really… on that hard bench… and his head was tilted back… so there wasn’t any doubt that he was drunk’
She said that he didn’t look like a drunk - other than the way he was slumped of course. He was wearing a good suit, and his hair was nice, and his shoes were obviously expensive. She said that he looked clean, and he had lovely nails, and good features and wasn’t too old, and hadn’t let himself go.
‘He reminded me of you,’ she said. ‘Finer features, a little more… obviously handsome… but yes… I think he did remind me of you...’
She paused, as though thinking through the implications of what she had just said.
‘Perhaps,’ she suggested at last. ‘Perhaps that’s why I… did it!’
On that unlit platform, Ms C (who not so very long ago had known nothing of the sexual act) undid a drunken strangers fly and slipped her hands inside. With not a little dexterity she drew his softened cock out and began to manipulate the tip of it. She drew back the skin to expose the dark head of it. Because it looked dry she wet it with her tongue. Because it looked so slack she stiffened her fingers around it and, gratifyingly she admitted to me later, she felt the shaft begin to pulse and grow against her palm. She took the now swelling tip further into her mouth and it tasted a little sour, she told me, though she said it wasn’t unpleasant. Tipping her tongue around the fattened tip of that stranger she tasted something else, a saltier flavour as it began to ooze from the little slit from which, as she could taste, he had recently pissed, and soon would spill something much more delicious.
The strangers’ cock hardened. It had grown so much, and in such a small amount of time, that she could barely take all of it into her mouth. It was not a long cock but it was fat when hard, and long enough so that the head of it was soon brushing the very back of her throat. She could hardly breath but she couldn’t bear to relieve herself of so much as one millimetre of that hot, hard, pulsing flesh. Knowing that her stranger was barely capable of demanding more of her she took his slack hand and put it on the back of her head and used it to force her mouth further onto his cock. With his hand on her head she drove herself down until she almost gagged, and the wetness between her legs began to seep out of her, and her clit felt as swollen as the cock in her mouth.
She wanted him to wake then. She wanted him to wake and to hear him call her a whore, and order her to suck him harder, and push her onto him and tell he her what a dirty-slut-whore she was.
‘Suck me you cunt!’ she calmly demonstrated.
And she sounded almost serene on the other end of the line, though I knew her fingers were deep inside her.
‘I wanted the words… almost as much as I wanted his cock in my mouth. I wanted him to call me a dirty cum slut and tell me that I’d better make sure that I swallowed ever drop and if I spilled any then I’d pay for it….’
Then she sighed and I knew that she had cum, though she hardly made another sound.
‘And I didn’t,’ she said, eventually.
‘Didn’t spill a drop…. There was such a lot of it, and it was so hot and… sudden… and it was hard to swallow so much and all at once…. But I did… and it was… perfect….’
When she had finished with the stranger she put his cock back into his well-tailored trousers and pulled up his fly. Then she arranged herself so that she would look neat and tidy when she got home and went upstairs to kiss her dying mother on the cheek with cum stained mouth. A fitting contemptuous gesture, Ms C thought, towards a woman who had taught her so little about pleasure, and so much about guilt.
8 people like this
4:31 pm Friday, 29th November, 2013
I must remember not to read your blogs on fridays while sitting beside old men in train stations....over 65ish. Smiling inanely to myself while reading is not good in public....could have been worse though.....
2 people like this
5:15 pm Friday, 29th November, 2013
train station would be very best place to read this one....
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5:21 pm Friday, 29th November, 2013
I read it in the train station :) !!! i think i looked like a eejit
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7:08 pm Friday, 29th November, 2013
Blogs, sexy phone chat, must be a day for smiles on faces and strange looks from others.
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6:16 pm Tuesday, 3rd December, 2013
‘I am not dead, therefore I fuck….’. Fucking in order to feel alive... Yes I can relate to that.