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You’d never know it to look at
me, but I’m a Princeton grad who was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Now
I’m a struggling editor, but I come from an upper-crust family, and I was
taught to keep my feelings well-hidden. Ditto for my dick.
There were two types of kids in
my high school. My friends and I were called "collegiates," meaning
we were tracked for college. The supposedly dumber kids were the “hoods."
Naturally, we collegiates looked down on the hoods; we thought the guys were
cretins and the girls were sluts.
Every day on my way to school
I'd pass the hoods, gathered outside the candy store, smoking, snapping gum,
talking loud, and good-naturedly shoving each other around. Sometimes a guy and
girl would be making out, his hand sneaking down her blouse. Secretly I wanted
to be like them—partly to be cool and tough, of course, but mostly because I
was absolutely dying to get into a hoodlum girl’s pants.
God, were those girls hot!
Their firm little butts were squeezed into skin-tight elastic pants, and snug
sweaters clung to their pointy tits.
I went on to Princeton, to
college girls who laid there like corpses when I fucked them, then a suitably
respectable wife (ditto), and a successful job at a brokerage firm. Then I
threw everything off, and finally broke out of the prison they’d stuck me in. I
“tuned in and turned on,” left my job, got divorced.
I learned who I was and what I
wanted to do with my life. I found myself living on the West Coast where I'd
landed a job as editor of a small magazine, hired to spice up the writing and
beef up sales. I began by looking through piles of unsolicited and rejected
manuscripts, and came across a bunch of articles from a woman named Lisa. One
was about she-males, another was about massage parlors, and a third was about
male prostitution. The articles were explicit, funny and very well-written. I
called Lisa and told her I wanted to talk to her about publishing her stuff.
She said she was pleasantly surprised. It turned out that she lived near me, and
she invited me to stop by her house to talk more.
Lisa was in her 40s, blonde and
buxom. She was down to earth, and uninhibited when it came to talking about her
sexual writing-or, for that matter, about anything sexual. I got an erection
the minute I entered her house and had to struggle to remain coolly
professional while my dick throbbed in my jeans. About an hour into our
professional negotiations, I found out why. We starting talking about our
pasts, discovered we were both from the same high school. She, of course, had
been a hood.
For the next hour we laughed
our asses off, throwing out recognizable names of kids and teachers. Lisa dug
out photos of herself and her girlfriends, with their tight sweaters and
mile-high hair. When I told Lisa how I'd lusted after them, she was stunned.
"We thought you looked
down on us,” she said, an old hurt flashing for a moment in her intense blue
eyes. Her mannerisms had become subtly flirtatious, and I was getting signals
right and left that she also wanted to embark on this adventure.
Over the course of the next
three months a crazy chemistry kept growing. Her remarks were becoming more and
more suggestive. Finally one night she interrupted me mid-sentence.
“So, Wentworth,” she said with
a seductive smile, "you always did want to get into a hoodlum girl’s
pants, didn't you?”
I actually blushed.
“Well, Mr. Collegiate, here’s
your big chance.” She stood and took my hand, leading me into the bedroom,
which contained a huge bed in the center of the room, mirrors on the ceiling
and all four walls.
She pulled back the bedspread
and slowly began to undress, looking straight at me as she peeled off her
clothes. My eyes saw a 45-year-old but my dick responded to a gum-snapping
chick struttin' her bad ass through the halls of our high school.
I’m no major stud, but I’ve had
my share of women and I can say without being too boastful that I am a pretty
decent lover. But with Lisa I suddenly felt afraid I wouldn’t be able to
satisfy her. After all, she was used to all those tattooed macho types.
She moved her naked body up
against mine an murmured in a low growly voice, “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing,
Wentworth.” She unbuckled my belt. “We’re gonna do just fine here, you and me.”
She unzipped my fly and wrapped her hand around my turgid member.
“Nice,” she whispered, softly
biting my neck. “That’s real nice.” Slowly she sank to her knees. She sat
before my cock, cradling it lovingly in her hands, regarding it as if it were
the Ninth Wonder of the World. I glanced into the mirror and my cock grew
another half inch, at the sight of this slutty blonde kneeling before me.
“Ooh, baby, I just adore cock.”
She placed her lips on the head, darted her tongue out, and began the longest
and most expert blow-job of my life. Lisa kept staring at me. “Come on,
Wentworth. Say it.”
“Say what?” I gasped, desperate
to have her resume her oral ministrations.
“Say I’m a slut. That’s what
you think. Go on, call me a tramp.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “You’re a
slut.”
She lowered her head and avidly
lapped at my balls.
I was pumping her mouth full of
cockmeat now, fast and hard, with no concerns about how deep I went or whether
she could take it. Lisa’s throat opened up like a cavern to accept every inch,
sucking like a power vacuum.
“Come on, Wentworth,” she
prodded, milking my swollen member, "shoot your load right into my face. I
wanna see it squirting out. I want you to bathe me in your hot cum.”
I think I actually screamed as
my throbbing dick exploded with the biggest load of jism it had ever produced.
Cum poured like honey over her hair and face, and dripped thickly down between
her boobs. She closed her eyes and received it like it was the nectar of the
gods.
I collapsed onto the bed,
thoroughly spent. Lisa got up and wiped her face on a towel, then stood looking
down at me, holding her hands saucily on her hips.
“Hey, Joe College, you ain’t
done yet."
“Shit, girl, you're really
something," I said, opening my arms so she could crawl into them. She
snuggled against me, then her hand began creeping down to cup my balls like she
owned them.
"You’re gonna fuck me,
Wentworth, and you're gonna fuck me good. You’re gonna fuck me hard and deep,
just the way I like it.”
I groaned as I watched my cock
start to harden again, something it had never done so fast before. Lisa climbed
up and straddled me, rubbing it against her slick wet cunt.
“Come on, boy, don’t you wanna
tell all your friends how you fucked one of those trampy hoodlum girls?"
That did it. I was hard as a
rock again. I threw Lisa off me and onto her back—if I was gonna do a hoodlum
girl, I was gonna do her right. I slid my member into her wet channel, rooting
around as it opened for me. She moaned as I began pumping it into her. She
began bucking her hips into me, and squeezing her pussy muscles around my organ.
Her cunt palpitated around me like it wanted to suck me. She thrust her hips
forward in a rhythmic motion, fiercely grinding her clit and pubic bone against
me. I could tell she was going to cum, and held myself steady, keeping my dick
firmly in place as she went over the top.
Her body went limp. With just
four more strokes of my cock, I was shooting again, and then I collapsed on top
of her. We drifted into sleep. When we awoke an hour or so later, Lisa brushed
the hair from my forehead and tenderly kissed me.
"So, whaddya think? Was I better
than Saundra?”
"I’ll say,” I murmured,
nibbling her erect nipple, my finger moving in her wet pussy. I was completely
in love.
—C. Wentworth
