by Robert Furlong
Part 26: How Do You Like It?
As I lay in Debbie’s bed, listening to the sounds of her sleeping, I thought about the sex we’d just had.
Parts of it had been nice, I mused, but perhaps that was because I’d abstained for so long from being in a woman’s bed. It had certainly been a treat to climax inside a woman after all these years and yet, now that it was over, it bothered me that there had been more wrong with how we’d been together than right. Like lying too long in a bath that had grown lukewarm, I had been left feeling distinctly dissatisfied.
I was finding it difficult to get to sleep because, in spite of the fact we’d made love and I’d released an almost embarrassingly copious load into the condom I’d been wearing, my cock was still achingly hard and feeling painful as the head of it chaffed against my underwear. A persistent erection after having sex with a woman for the first time could be seen as either a very good sign or a very bad sign. I thought, in my case, it was probably the latter.
To start with, Debbie had made a lot of effort both in cooking us a very nice meal and in decorating her bedroom with candles and scented oil burners to give our first pairing a sensual and romantic quality.
We’d got on well – we’d had a lot to talk about and had made each other laugh as we ate – and our kissing and fondling in front of her TV afterwards had seemed like a natural fulfilment of a pleasant time spent together rather than feeling forced or hurried.
Also on the plus side was that she looked beautiful naked – a lot better than a lot of the women I’ve made love to during my life – and had an exquisite pair of firm, supple breasts which, after so long of being without a woman, I was quite simply captivated by. I’d spent ages playing with them, licking them and massaging them, and I was amazed at how much I’d missed the presence of two such apparently innocuous mounds of flesh from my life.
The first problem we’d discovered was that, while she clearly liked me and there was an undoubted sexual attraction between us, what was lurking between my legs held far less appeal to her. Even while we were on her couch, nuzzling into each other and working our hands into increasingly intimate places together, she became agitated when she got a feel of my awakening organ through the front of my trousers and had gasped, groping at my thickening shaft through the material with disbelief, “Oh my God, Rob! Is that your penis?!”
I’d pulled back self-consciously, putting a hand over my bulge. “Is it… er… a problem?”
I suddenly felt about fifteen; like I was having to conceal my disproportionate development from my mother’s puritanical gaze.
“How big is it?” she’d asked in horror. “I mean, how big does it get?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I’d replied with a blush, before going on, “maybe a touch bigger than average,” grossly downplaying my size.
“But you’re such a quiet guy,” she’d said with incredulity. “I had no idea were hiding something like that!”
“It’s not like I’m a serial killer,” I said, trying an empty-sounding laugh to lighten the mood. “It’s just my willy.”
She frowned at the mound in my trousers and I felt myself soften in my discomfort. I’d encountered quite a few women who’d seemed intimidated by the size of my erection, but I’d never had one who had shown such affront.
“I hoped you might like it,” I went on rather feebly. “It can be quite affable when you get to know it.”
“Look Rob… penises aren’t really my thing,” she coldly informed me. “I can cope with small ones, but big ones… well… I’d better be straight with you from the start…”
“What’s the problem with them?” I asked. Although it had never occurred to me before, as women didn’t have penises of their own, it was – I supposed – fairly understandable that some of them might find them strange in their unfamiliarity, perhaps even to the point of being distasteful.
“With yours,” she said, glancing suspiciously towards my crotch, “does the skin of it pull right back from the head of it when you get aroused? So you can see the purple helmet underneath?”
I blushed again slightly; this was a very personal question. Nevertheless, as I was hoping she might be willing to see exactly how it worked quite soon, I replied, “Yes… yes, it does.”
She winced. “Well, that’s what I don’t like: the feel of the skin, all tight and pulled back, against the hardness of the stem. And the really strong smell of the helmet – that horrible, venereal stink that men give off when they’re horny.”
“I don’t think mine is especially smelly,” I said to try and pacify her, although I was well aware that my cock had its own distinct masturbatory odour.
“Once the skin’s pulled back, they all are,” she retorted. “Or maybe I’m really sensitive to it.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll find my scent less offensive than some of the other men you’ve made love with. It could be that you’ve had a few unlucky encounters until now…”
She looked distinctly unconvinced but nodded. “As long as you know from the outset – there’s no way I’ll be able to suck it!”
“That’s okay,” I smiled, trying to be reassuring. “I don’t really like that, anyway.”
Was that what this had been all about – her aversion towards giving men blow jobs? That was understandable: perhaps she’d tasted a guy with grotesquely unwashed cock; or perhaps someone had climaxed in her mouth with a gush of particularly obnoxious semen.
She’d kept her hands well away from my crotch during the rest of our time on the couch, and as long as I did my best to conceal what was going on in my trousers, her shock seemed to abate and she started to relax back into our interrupted cuddling. Indeed, things were starting to look more promising until we got up to her bedroom.
There, in the flickering light of the candles, we undressed each other and kissed again. Once my trousers were off, and as I was kneading her breasts and licking at her peaked nipples, she threw suspicious glances towards the abundant mound stretching the front of my underpants in stark contrast to her tiny lace panties.
When it came to be her turn to remove my briefs and my partially-aroused cock flopped out of them, rising outwards from my body and as thick as her forearm, she grimaced up at me with an expression approaching disgust.
“It’s okay,” I said, struggling to muster a smile. “If you’re worried about penetration, we don’t have to do that.”
“It’s not that,” she said, “I don’t mind that. It’s just how obscene it looks – hanging there all bloated. Like something you’d see on a farm animal.”
“Thanks,” I said tersely. “Your body looks nice too.”
Needless to say I hadn’t told her of the body issues I’d grown up with so, in fairness to her, she was totally unaware of how much she was contributing to them.
“Sorry,” she muttered and pulled down my underpants completely, seeing for the first time how large and heavy my balls are and how low they stretch my scrotum hanging down between my legs. “You’re just such a nice guy, Rob. So reserved. And yet you have these… well… completely disproportionate genitals.”
I threw her an embarrassed smile, trying to lighten what was for me turning out to be an excruciating development in our first evening together. “I didn’t actually choose them.”
She’d cupped my balls in one hand, like one might do to a stud bull to see how much seed it would produce. Then she grabbed at my cock and pulled the foreskin back and forth a few times. Finally, she sniffed inquisitively at the air between us.
“You have a really strong scent coming from down there… very manly.”
Apart from the slightly disdainful way she’d said ‘manly’, the observation could, I thought, be interpreted hopefully.
“Is that a good thing?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I find it really off-putting. Especially the smell of the helmet when it’s exposed… on a small guy it can be just about tolerable, but on you – once you get fully hard – it’ll be really strong.”
At this rate, I thought, that isn’t likely to happen any time soon.
I did what she’d done: wanked my cock a few times and sniffed at the air to see if I could discern the reason for her aversion. I couldn’t: there was, I admit, a slight tang to the air which might have come from my glans or my foreskin, but it could equally be from the dribbles of piss which had accidentally seeped onto my balls, or from the sweatiness between my legs.
Nevertheless, I tried to appease her, her mention of ‘not minding’ penetration offering a promise of better things to come.
“I try to keep myself very clean,” I said. “But if you’d like I’ll… you know… wash myself down there…?”
I would be offended if she said she would, but with my sights firmly set on what might be on offer on the bed, I’d be prepared to give it a shot.
“It won’t help,” she countered. “It’s something men produce from their glands, I think. It’s probably your testosterone, or something in your urine, but I really don’t like it. It reminds me of the male rats at school.”
That’s nice, I thought. Likening me to a rat is really going to get our night of passion back on track.
She went over to one of her oil burners and poured some liquid into it from a tiny bottle. The smell of patchouli wafted over, pleasant at first but quickly becoming cloying. I’d assumed, when I’d first spotted the oil burners, that she would filling them with liquids known for their aphrodisiac qualities; it seemed she’d actually scoured the shop for those which could neutralise male pheromones.
She came back over to me, her breasts and the small growth of hair between her legs looking delightful in the shadowy gold light from the candles. She threw me an apologetic smile and reached over to kiss me on the lips.
“I’m sorry, Rob,” she said quietly. “I know it’s not your fault and you can’t help it. I told you things were complex for me. This is… well… part of it, I suppose.”
“Have you had a bad experience?” I asked.
“Nothing like you’re probably thinking of,” she said. “Let’s get on the bed… come-on… let’s enjoy our time together.”
I smiled back, the feeling of being the stud exhibit at a cattle market easing a little.
We climbed onto her bed: her with all the grace of a cat; me clambering behind her with my balls slapping around between my thighs and my thick floppy member catching her duvet and making a sticky smear on it. I positioned myself in front of her so that my shin was covering the stain; I didn’t want to freak her out by letting her see a splodge of penile precum on her bedding.
We kissed gently at first and caressed each other’s bodies. I focused on her breasts, of course, and she ran her fingers across my chest. I wondered if she was thinking I was too muscular for her – compared to a lot of men, I’m almost scrawny – but her negativity towards my male physiology made me almost paranoid about anything she could interpret as macho.
As she rubbed my chest, she said she liked the fact I wasn’t very hairy but, even when she was saying it, the reproachful glance she made towards wispy sprouts between my pecs made me wonder whether she would, if we made this a regular thing, petition me to wax or shave what I had.
We kept kissing and I thought it best to keep her attentions directed towards my upper body for a while, to give her time to come to terms that she had an especially well-endowed man on her bed with her. She seemed comfortable with me – attracted to me, even – above the waist and I wanted her to focus on that, not the perceived monstrosity between my legs, as we smiled together and explored each other’s bodies.
Every time she tried to sneak a look down there, I guided her head back upwards and smiled into her eyes. I wanted her to see me – that sweet guy Rob – who she’d met for a meal and who she’d invited over for the evening, not the overgrown rod of flesh that was slumped on her duvet in front of me.
We kissed more deeply – I drove into her with my tongue and she offered little resistance – and soon my cock was starting to lengthen and thicken again. Again, I took care to keep it away from her, so as not to alarm her with how large I knew it would soon grow, and kept urging my foreskin forwards to cover the fattening head of it, hoping to spare her any stray wafts of the masculine odour which she found so offensive.
Eventually, though, I let her look at it again, hoping by now she was more ready to accept me. She stared at it intently, emerging like a third leg from my pubic bush, before looking back up at my face.
I smiled, trying to be as reassuring as I could and hoping she might begin to like what I was offering her.
“It’s so big, Rob,” she muttered uneasily. “And your balls… Jesus…”
Feeling a flush of self-consciousness which I struggled to hide, I looked down at myself. She was right: my testicles looked grotesquely bloated in my tight, red-looking scrotum. They were being pushed outwards on either side of my organ like two, fat, hairy cricket balls.
Why did they have to look so swollen and pumped up with semen on a night like this? Was it being with a woman that had done it; were my sperm factories running on overtime tonight? Did a guy’s bollocks always grow so massive at the prospect of impending sex?
I smiled at her apologetically. “It’s been a while since I had a release – I think they’re a bit full.” I tried a rather desperate chuckle.
She tried to smile back but I could see her distaste. To her I was like some Neanderthal, who could just about dress himself up to pass as a civilised man. Once naked I was revealed for what I really was: a crude savage with an unspeakably monstrous phallus and a scrotum pumped-up and ready to burst forth with thick, dirty spunk.
She looked back up at me and I leaned forwards to kiss her lips. She complied and opened her mouth, and I entered her with as much tenderness as I could muster. She put her arms around my back and caressed my shoulders and I did the same to her.
Perhaps this was what she really liked with a man: gentle affection; a more sensuous connection.
But soon she pulled back. “Your skin is so rough,” she informed me. “There are these fine, coarse hairs.”
I smiled. “Well, to me yours is so smooth. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work – we’re supposed to find each other’s differences attractive.”
She shrugged. “That’s a very male way of thinking. Everything so black and white.”
We kissed again and, while our tongues were wrestling softly inside her mouth, I reached forwards and worked my fingers between her legs. Finding her lips pleasantly large and her opening surprisingly generous, I worked my middle finger into her, gently tickling her plump clitoris with my thumb and pleased that, unlike some women, she seemed to enjoy direct stimulation. Given how large she was, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t like big men more: she could certainly fit a big organ inside her with no difficulty. I worked three or four fingers in and out of her, feeling her moisten quite copiously at my touch, and sniffed appreciatively at the thick vaginal odour that started wafting up from her.
“I like your smell,” I whispered to her. “It’s extremely attractive.”
She looked uncertain as to how to respond and I smiled to show her that I didn’t share her misgivings about how different our bodies were.
I pulled my fingers from her and sniffed at them, smiling more broadly to show her how excited I was by her most intimate scents, and then put one of them to my lips and ran my tongue along it. She tasted exquisite – the large size of her opening seemed to imbibe her fluid with a strong, intensely feminine, flavour, and I leaned back to let her watch my cock visibly lengthening and rising upwards further to express its own gratitude.
I thought she’d like to see how aroused I was becoming by the juice from her vagina – most women I’ve slept with have become turned on at the sight of my cock hardening at the taste of their pussies – but Debbie almost flinched when she saw how erect I was becoming.
Nevertheless, I flaunted myself to her. She had to accept how I was built between my legs if there was to be any hope for us as a couple.
She stared at my organ as it rose up from the bed like she was watching part of the mating ritual of some repellent but morbidly compelling animal. My foreskin was retracting a little, exposing the purple head which seemed to so offend her, but I let it. She had to get used to whatever male odour she thought I had, and perhaps – given time – grow to enjoy it the same way that I relished her smells.
I returned my hand to her pussy and resumed gently fingering her opening and lightly caressing her clitoris. I could see from her face how much she enjoyed it: in spite of her reservations about my penis, she was clearly a very sexual person with the right stimulation.
She closed her eyes as I worked my fingers deep inside her, but I told her to open them and to look at my cock. I wanted her to feel pleasure while she was looking at my genitals; for her to start associating them with nice things to overcome the issues she so clearly had about men.
Whatever she thought of my extreme proportions, surely she had to like something about what I had down there? However distorted they were by my size, these were, after all, pretty standard male genitalia: a cock sticking out from my pubic hair with two balls hanging down in their scrotum beneath it. Surely there must be something between my legs that was attractive to her as a woman…
She did as I asked and for the first time I saw pleasure in her expression as she looked at my cock. That made it continue to grow: the sheer fact of her seeming to like what I was parading for her made my excitement build and my organ readily respond.
As it grew, my foreskin continued to recede and the fattening mushroom underneath began to emerge in all its odoriferous glory. Debbie seemed to accept that I was now aroused enough to expose my swelling cock-head and I fingered her more intently to try and enflame her passion in spite of her deeply-felt reservations.
I could tell she was enjoying what I was doing and she began to work her hips with my rhythm. I could hardly believe how much fluid she was producing, my fingers and the palm of my hand felt like they were dripping with it and the air between us seemed to be filled with its potent, sensual bouquet.
If my cock really was reeking with my sharp odour of my maleness – and I can’t say that I could really smell it myself – I was pleased that it was now joined by Debbie’s more succulent feminine scents. I worked my fingers in and out of her with increasing vigour, fascinated by how much vaginal juices she was releasing and enjoying the gentle gasps she was starting to emit.
Abruptly I pulled out of her – I like the element of surprise – and told her we were going to do something she’d enjoy.
I sandwiched my erection between her breasts and then held them together and slid it up and down between them. She had indeed liked that at first, smiling up at me in pleasure from the feel of my cock sliding between her breasts and the way I was circling her nipples with my thumbs as I held her firm. She didn’t even seem to mind the way my balls thumped heavily against her stomach with each thrust or complain about the sweaty smell from between my legs as I straddled in front of her.
I thought, as I held her like that, pushing myself up and down against her, she was finally starting to appreciate my large organ. I thought she was realising how much fun a man’s cock could be – especially a big one like mine – as a plaything during foreplay.
But then I guess I got carried away and my foreskin must have retracted right back from my cock-head on one especially powerful thrust through the middle of her cleavage.
At that point she’d pulled away, repelled once again.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, still breathless from her exertions. “It’s just that your helmet’s so big when you expose it like that… it smells so sharp… like a gents toilet.”
I pulled back, trying to hide how upset and annoyed I was starting to feel.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s just that my last boyfriend was really small down there and his foreskin wouldn’t pull back. You must be like four times his size. I just… I dunno… I must have forgotten how overpowering a man can smell.”
I sat back down on the bed, my cock softening once more.
“So is size really important for you?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry… but it is.”
I nodded. “It’s funny, because a guy’s size makes no difference to me.”
She’d laughed at that. “Well, it wouldn’t, would it? It’s not like you’re going to be doing anything with what he’s got down there!”
I’d smiled back. “No, I suppose not.”
Perhaps aware that things weren’t going too well from my perspective, she’d suggested that I masturbate for her and had even offered to play with my balls as did so. It wasn’t my favourite activity with a woman – there were, after all, a few other things belonging to her that we could be having fun with – but, eager to please her by doing anything she might enjoy, I’d complied.
She’d seemed to enjoy seeing me when I was stimulating myself, and smiled over at me as my hand pumped up and down my shaft. I worked up a fast, steady rhythm for her and smiled back at her, aroused once more; this time by the fact that she liked seeing a man wanking himself.
I pushed myself up so I was squatting in front of her, my fat hairy bollocks bobbing about in time with the rhythm of my hand. Again, she seemed to like seeing me pleasuring myself in that way, although she kept a safe distance from the slick, fattened head as my foreskin slid back and forth across it.
“Did you masturbate like this when you were a boy?” she asked.
I smiled. “Sometimes. But there was rather less to play with when I first started.”
I was beginning to enjoy the performance I was giving her and pumped my organ more quickly as if showing off for her what I’ve done to myself since puberty. I craned my neck downwards so my face was just above the head of my cock as a dribble of clear ooze seeped from my slit. I sniffed hungrily at the smell of my own sex. It had a subtle but undeniably sour tang and went well with the more odorous smell of sweat from my pubic hair and balls. I enjoyed the flavour and smiled at her as I sniffed at it to try and demonstrate its idiosyncratic appeal: it was a celebration of my maleness which at least one of us was able to appreciate.
Perhaps encouraged by seeing me like that, she reached forwards and put her hand on my swollen balls, steadying them as they bobbed up and down in time with my rhythm. She rubbed them gently and I quickened my wrist, pleased she was at last showing some interest in my genitals.
I pushed my free hand between her legs again and worked a few fingers back into her. I wanted her to enjoy this; to feel pleasure as she touched me, to try and rouse her to go further. She gasped at the sensation and then worked herself against onto my fingers, matching her speed and rhythm with the more dominant pacing of my hand beating up and down the thick shaft of my cock.
I think we both enjoyed that: harmonizing the very different elements of male and female masturbation. The delicate sliding of my fingers in and out of her contrasting spectacularly with the powerful thumping of my swollen erection. The fragrant balm of her wettening pussy mixing so beautifully with the sharp bite from my cock being wanked.
I thought I would surprise her in the middle of us fondling one another, by straining my neck further downwards and licking the oozing purple helmet of my erection. At first she’d been shocked – I’d expected her to be as most women are – but after the initial surprise, I thought she would laugh and marvel at my unusual gift. I knew well – after developing the confidence to reveal my talent to a few of my early girlfriends – that it’s something most men can’t do and that most women have never seen anything like it.
But Debbie didn’t even smile but instead had stared at me, incredulous, as I’d gently tongued my own organ by making circles back and forth across its throbbing and straining head.
After a few moments, she’d quietly commanded, “Don’t do that, Rob,” and I’d withdrawn my face sheepishly, feeling like a teenager who had been caught by his mother doing something improper.
I concealed the discomfort I felt at her reaction, and had instead kept masturbating the two of us while she fondled my balls, yanking my foreskin up and down and sliding my fingers back and forth between her legs.
Still squatting there, pumping my shaft in front of her, I suddenly knew what would really arouse me. I wanted to grab her wrist and push her hand behind my balls; to shove her fingers along the hairy, sweaty ridge between my splayed legs and then to force them up towards my areshole. I wanted to make her feel my sticky opening and see her shock as I grabbed a couple of her fingers to thrust them upwards through its delicate ring; I’d drive them deep into my hot, squalid bowels as I squatted there, bobbing up and down on her squelching hand.
How would that be for a contrast? Male and female penetration in stark opposition: her gently sliding herself back and forth against my fingers; me roughly slamming my own less refined orifice up and down onto her hand.
If she was so offended by the smell of my cock, I wondered how she would react to have her fingers slurping in and out of my arse; how appalled she would be when she sniffed my strongest and brashest odours. If she was so appalled by my genitals, how would she feel to watch me anally pleasuring myself, holding her hand steady as I frantically rode it, jerking my cock wildly in my unbridled excitement?
But of course I didn’t do such a thing: I would never be so inconsiderate or sexually aggressive.
I did try gently to guide her hand between my legs but she misinterpreted my motives and briefly touched my inner thighs instead before declaring them too hairy for her. I squatted lower down, trying to angle my bum towards her, but she was already a little apprehensive about fondling my balls and showed no inclination to explore what was behind them.
My backside clearly held no appeal for her. What was there out front was challenge enough.
“If you don’t like me licking my own cock,” I said, directing my organ towards her, “I assume that means you don’t want to lick it yourself?”
I wasn’t very keen on oral sex, but I was happy for her to use her tongue on me.
She said that she wouldn’t – she said there was already, just from its hardness at being masturbated, a spermy odour wafting from the slit – but she offered to lick my balls.
I was a little surprised, but readily agreed. I usually quite enjoy it when a woman does that to me.
She leaned forwards – I could see her wincing from the heavy lacing of sweat on my scrotum – and gently licked my fat, hairy balls as I continued masturbating.
Suddenly, again, I knew what I wanted to do to really excite me. I wanted push her face underneath my balls until her it was deep between my legs. I would hold her head there and straddle over her until her nose and mouth were level with my most delicious and odoriferous part. That would really get me going: feeling her snorting into my hairy, sweaty crack as my hot, sordid hole pressed down towards her mouth. I could probably climax with her face down there; especially if her tongue were to upwards and lick the straining rim of my anus.
I pushed myself forwards, hoping she might be willing to lick behind my balls so that I could gently, almost imperceptibly, work my arsehole towards her mouth. Although the smells of my genitals – indeed any such evidence of my male biology – seemed repugnant to her, I had a faint hope that she might somehow enjoy the more carnal and robust tastes I was able to offer her. There was a distant chance that, even though the combined odours of sweat, testosterone and precum were so offensive to her, she might be curious enough to push herself forwards and appreciate fully the most pungent and uncouth part of my body.
But she was oblivious to such attractions: however I repositioned myself, she moved with me to keep her focus on my balls; the darker and more animal flavours between my legs seemed, as I’d expected, totally devoid of any appeal.
Later, after I’d worked my tongue between her legs and had been enthralled at how strong she tasted in the flesh and how freely her juices seeped into my mouth, we’d made love gently in the light of the candles and with the scent of patchouli heavy from the oil burners. It was great to feel my cock inside a woman again – especially one whose vagina was so spaciously accommodating to my size – and to feel that there might, perhaps, be hope for the two of us: that this could be the real beginning of what could become a burgeoning romance.
But even then, in that most intense of states, part of my body was feeling left out. Although I’d never involved my backside in sex with a woman my whole life, right then it had never felt more neglected. Perhaps I’d grown so used to thinking of my bum as an extension of my genitals, it now felt profoundly remiss not to include it in our lovemaking.
I wanted Debbie to reach round and finger me as I fucked her. She was grabbing at my back and I kept trying to push her hands down towards my buttocks, but she was determined to avoid my rear at all costs and would persistently reach back up to my shoulders.
So instead, I began to construct fantasies of my own as we worked up a rhythm together, our bodies moving in unison to the beat of my cock sliding in and out of her. I imagined that she’d lied about being divorced and that her husband would walk in and catch me on top of her. Enraged and compelled to express his dominance over this man who was ravaging his wife, he’d pull his erection out from his fly and climb on the bed behind me. His cock would be huge: it was as if he was the one who had turned her off well-endowed men. Still thrusting in and out of his wife, my flexing arse would be roughly impaled by his long, thick phallus as he forced my shins apart with his knees. Then he’d grab me by the shoulders and ram himself in and out of my obscenely stretched hole, buggering me as his wife’s adulterous lover until even the patchouli couldn’t cover the profane stench of my debasement. And I’d grin at her as my gaping arsehole was so brutally ravaged by her husband’s tree-trunk cock, filling her with my seed as his own massive balls released spurt after spurt of his thick, burning cum into my bowels.
I’d climaxed with that thought in my head and had kept pumping, sloshing around in my own copiously-filled condom, until Debbie had achieved her own orgasm or at least had pretended to.
As we’d cleaned up, Debbie had asked me if I could put my underwear back on before we slept.
I said it would be nice for us to sleep naked together but she’d muttered, “Sorry, Rob, but your sperm smells so strong.”
I’d offered to wash it off – I’m well aware of how powerful my semen smells, but she went on, “And… you know… when you’re asleep you’ll get hard-ons… and… well… your helmet and your dribble… I’ll smell it on myself all tomorrow…”
So I’d silently pulled on my dirty underwear, wishing I was less fastidious about cleanliness so there’d be a dirty great skid mark on the back of them to offend her sensibilities.
And now I was lying awake, mulling over the sex we’d had, wondering if there was any point in us meeting up again.
She’d admitted she had issues, but what could they be? She’d enjoyed it when I’d made love to her – had cried out with the feel of my cock inside her – so why was so uptight about my size and my male odours? I don’t see myself as a particularly whiffy man – except for my semen, of course – so why did she have such a problem with me?
More worrying than that though, my cock was still throbbing, and I wondered if it was dissatisfied with the vaginal sex it had experienced. Perhaps my sexual needs had been transformed over the last few months: maybe anal stimulation was now just as important to me as what I did with my penis.
Would sex with a woman – even a normal woman without all this secretive baggage – ever be the same again?
I looked over at her alarm clock over the other side of the bed. It was ten past three. This was going to be a long night.
I’d showered the next morning while Debbie was still sleeping, and had coated myself in all the gels, balms and deodorants I could find. It obviously worked in my favour because, in spite of how rough I looked from the paltry amount of sleep I’d managed to get, she let me make love to her again.
This time she only commented that my cock “didn’t suit” me. She obviously thought I’d be better off with some stubby pencil-sized dick and a pair of frozen pea balls. Maybe she’d have been right: maybe I would have been happier if I’d developed that way.
After leaving her house, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror as I waited at some traffic lights. Jesus, I looked like death warmed up. Tonight was the night of the office Christmas party and I’d really wanted to look my best, as good as that is, and yet here I was with about as much allure as a down-and-out.
I decided I’d head home and phone work with an excuse about car trouble. I needed at least of couple of hours kip to recover myself.
After sleeping until noon, I had a bath and a large mug of strong coffee to wake myself up. I looked considerably better than I had first thing and I now felt I was in a fit state to meet whoever it was who Cameron was going to fix me up with at the party.
I tidied my bedroom up a bit – it was likely that a man was going to be sleeping alongside me that night (how amazing was that?!) – and put fresh sheets on the bed. I certainly wouldn’t be asking my new friend to sleep with his underwear on: if I smelt of his nocturnal hard-ons all the next day, I would quite enjoy the fact.
Checking in my drawer, I realised I’d need to buy a few new packs of condoms on the way over to work but I knew a chemist en route which usually had my size in stock.
I didn’t go in for candles and oil burners. I might if and when Debbie came over to stay for the night, but not when I was planning to hook up with another bloke. With a man, I wanted our encounter to be under the glare of the overhead light – I wanted to see him in all his hairy and muscular glory – and the only smell I wanted in the room was the intoxicating stink of our male-to-male sex.
After spending an evening with Debbie, I felt like I needed something rough and dirty: I wanted my face in a guy’s arse and I wanted to see it and smell it in full explicit detail as I did so. I wanted his cum all over me; his big, sweaty balls in my mouth. I wanted his cock up my arse, and mine up his; and I wanted to watch the two of us rutting together in my full-length mirror, our cocks rock hard for each other and our arseholes gaping.
We were going to have sex together as a pair of horny men, and I was going to make sure that this time, afterwards, my cock would definitely not be still hard.
Next story: Getting Together
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