True Sex Stories: Houston

Abandoning our beers, I led the way to my bedroom, stripping off my jeans as we moved down the hall. I sat naked on the edge of my bed and he brought that fantastic cock to my face again...

Houston fielded my post on a balmy and sweet Super Bowl Sunday afternoon. He sent a picture that stopped my heart for a moment: devastatingly handsome, I looked into his eyes and saw something I was immediately drawn to. Rarely do pictures convey so much so fast for me. I really wanted to meet this guy, even if just to hear the voice and see the body that kept this remarkable face company each day. He had intense light eyes, a thoughtful, soulful expression, and tight ringlets of curly hair, stylishly cut and gelled into a hip and striking 'do. I longed to touch that hair, just to see what it would feel like. He apparently saw the same in me. His initial response:

Wanna come to my boat tonight and get busy? I have cocktails, treats, whatever. I'm great in the sack, know how to please, and the boat is rockin' tonight. And I'm serious, not a flake.

He was attracted to my likenesses as well: Oh, and I liked your eyes. Irish? I am of Irish descent, and have a generic Irish girl-next-door look that leads people to often tell me I remind them of someone they know. I majored in broadcast journalism in college, encouraged by my professors to pursue a career where my clear diction, lack of regional accent and comfortable but not distracting good looks would be a good fit. I did briefly take a job in radio right after college, but otherwise have only some crude audition tapes of myself to show for my brief broadcast fame illusions. My Irish looks include a typical Irish mouth. Not a small one, mind you-in my twenties I used to get people to buy me drinks by putting my fist in my mouth, not realizing at the time just how suggestive that was. No amount of bright or shiny lipstick could ever make these lips appear generous, despite what the women's magazines suggest. Once, on a crowded trolley heading home into my racially mixed Philadelphia neighborhood in the early eighties, an ebullient black street woman turned to me in the tense silence of the evening commute. "You are a true white woman-you have the thinnest lips I've ever seen." She brought the entire silent crowd to smirks and laughter. While the classic blow-job girl of the smut magazines has pouty, full lips, I am living proof that one's mouth doesn't need a fleshy frame to satisfy a man orally.

Houston came to my place, as getting to the wharf area without a car sounded like too much for me. He arrived around seven and was in no hurry that evening. I started up my bass-heavy sex music, and we sat on my couch for at least an hour, talking about our respective situations. Thoughtful and intelligent, he didn't smile much as he spoke of his work as a freelance designer, struggling to find regular and satisfying work. His elderly mother lived alone in South Carolina, and he traveled there often to help her. I could see the tension and worry he carried in his body. I shared some of my story: new to town after a divorce, hungry for new connections and mining Craigslist for them. He was undeterred by my admission of promiscuity, but reluctant to take initiative and get us started.

"May I kiss you?" I finally asked.

"That would be good." I straddled his lap, and took my time getting to know his sweet and tender mouth, slowly exploring it with my own, licking and sucking his lips, nibbling the end of his tongue, feeling the moisture in my mouth increase as I threaded my fingers through his tight curls. Deeply drawing in the smell of his neck, I stretched his t-shirt out to smell his chest before lifting it off him, raising his arms so I could bury my nose in first one then the other of his armpits, taking in his mildly musky scent as I felt myself growing wet. Dropping lower, my nose found his belly button and I buried it there, drawing deeply. He moaned quietly as I opened his jeans and his cock found my mouth. I knelt before him there in front of the couch, my mouth wet and ready, and took him all the way in in one movement, holding him deeply there, against the back of my throat. I was filled. I slowly pulled my mouth back up his shaft, then down again and again, relishing each time he met the back of my throat, offering no resistance. We took his jeans all the way off, and he lay further back on my couch so I could take his balls in my mouth, rolling each separately then together in my mouth, enjoying the scent, texture and flavor of this part of him.

Reaching down to lift my shirt over my head, he unclasped my bra and his hands began to find my hot spots: he rolled my already hardened nipples between his fingers; he slid his fingers into the warm place under my breasts; he lightly tickled the tight skin of my lower back as I continued to massage my own throat with him. His eyes were hooded in the dimness of the candle lamp as he took my head in both hands, guiding it gently but firmly up and down over his slick and hard cock, but I gazed up toward them anyway, wanting to watch his enjoyment as best I could. I fought my increasing urgency: I didn't want this to end any time soon. Every inch of him was wonderful, and there was no part of his body that didn't invite me to smell, to lick, to taste, to savor.

Abandoning our beers, I led the way to my bedroom, stripping off my jeans as we moved down the hall. I sat naked on the edge of my bed and he brought that fantastic cock to my face again, standing before me, feeding me its length and thickness for a time. He pulled back and turned me around, so I was on all fours, exposed to him. His fingers began an exploration of my wet folds, as first one, then two, then three found their way in, stretching me open to receive him. With my face pressed into the sheets and him still standing at the edge of the bed, I felt his cock slowly enter me from behind, again reaching deep and freezing there, pressing hard against my cervix. Gripping my hips, he pulled me against him and let me feel him reach inside me with his cock.

Then he turned me so he could get on the bed with me, and still on all fours, I gripped the metal headboard rail, resisting there to allow him all the way in. His strokes were so slow and so deep, and I heard from a distance my own sounds: whimpers, moans, even some laughter at the delight of the sensations. Flipping me over, he took my ankles and held them up and over my head, plunging even deeper into me, finding that buried place of tension as I squirted over his cock for the first time that night.

Our fearless and unrestrained explorations of each other went on for several hours. I found every inch of him with my mouth, devouring his energy and his heat. We both took advantage of my bed's head and footboard rails; he pressed hard against them with his feet as he held me against him, again coming in so very, very deeply. He understood just what I wanted, and wanted the same himself. He came twice: once in my mouth and once in my pussy, and I came more times than I can remember, soaking the sheets each time I squirted. We were perfectly matched in intensity and desire.

Republished with permission from Liz Doherty. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.