Delayed Initiation

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A lovely warm summer night in San Diego. During one of my business trips, Vicky invited me to a small party at her place. It resembled the parties we’d had during grad school together, well over three decades ago. Informal, lay-about, sit on the floor, lots of talk lubricated by lots of wine — although of considerably better quality than back then.

Since school we’d been both scientific collaborators and the very closest of friends. No topics, however personal, were taboo between us: we exchanged the goriest details of our fears, needs, sex lives, emotional entanglements, relationships. But despite our matching enormous sexual appetites, we’d never been lovers. Unless you counted an abortive attempt during year one, in which we had slept together at her place post-party, an encounter where I was too drunk to perform and she was too drunk to either perform or care. We’d turned that debacle into giggle-material, and never done a rematch despite an infinity of chances ashore and at sea. Every few years, somewhere in the world, we would explore the question of exactly why: our best answer was simply that we were too good as friends to risk the relationship by being lovers too.

Vicky has never been — and at 58 still isn’t — a delicate-bodied creature. Attractive, intensely sexual and sensual, perpetually horny, generally lust-triggering for us human males, yes indeedy-do. But delicate or beautiful, nope. Also, although I have a truly catholic love for female bodies, Vicky’s simply isn’t close to my favorite cup of tea. She is short, and even shorter-waisted than she should be for her height and build. Muscular and big-boobed and big-butted to well beyond my own tastes, with work-roughened hands, runner’s leg and bottom muscles, a powerful voice. (“Built like a fireplug, with a voice to match!” is her self-description.) Big-buttedness notwithstanding she has the most beautifully-shaped black-woman’s booty ever found on a purely Caucasian woman. Which of course didn’t please HER — just all her male admirers and companions and casual beach-boys. Plus many a stunned black man.

The party wound down early, and by midnight it was just Vicky and me. Grad school redux — me the last man standing, helping pick up the debris. At the sink she turned to me, grinned widely, and said “Hey, mon! You’ve had enough to drink so you shouldn’t drive back to your hotel. I know you’re not drunk, but the cops are stricter these days. You can just stay here if you want. Besides, your meeting isn’t until day after tomorrow.”

Then with another grin and a shrug “Of course, we’d have to sleep together since I have only the one bed. But it’s a king. And solid. More importantly, I’d really, really like a warm male body to cuddle up with. It’s been months since I broke up with Craig, and since then nothing, nada, zip. I’m lonely and need a long cuddle. If you wouldn’t mind. You’re LOTS better than any cat or even my dog! I assume we both still sleep nekkid?”

Then, after studying my face, she said with a serious expression that failed utterly to be convincing, “Hey! It’s CUDDLES and NOTHING ELSE, you goddamned letcher!”

We finished the cleanup, then undressed beside the bed. My conscious intentions were irrelevant to, and utterly ignored by, my cock — aka “Mister JT”, who –alcohol notwithstanding- was at full stand by the time my jockeys hit the floor.

The reality of our shared nudity was that there was almost nothing new to be seen. We’d spent several hundred hours naked together — often alone — in hot tubs and saunas. And also several nights together in various beds, during visits and camping trips, all sans sex, an oddly nice “no pressure” arrangement.

Vicky stood facing me, naked and smiling, hands on her hips. She scanned me as I did the same to her, then reached out and with an index finger twanged JT just once. “Nice compliment, I guess. Thank you, JT! But you’re wasting time and energy standing up like that. It’s just cuddles, remember! Ask your master!”

I returned the fondle with a single friendly nipple-tweak. She nodded at my body, said “Still running! You’re not supposed to look like that at sixty-three!” She, herself, still looked excellent, and I told her so. Hugely sexually attractive in a “breed me NOW!” way, no kids hence no stretch-marks, fairly flat belly, boobs still surprisingly firm for their size and provenance. The only new thing was a vanished bush, her crotch gone smoothly stubble-free except for a mountain-top patch the size of a quarter, all of which I noted with considerable approval.

Then it was lights off and into bed under a thin sheet, full spoon, me behind. The whole under-sheet atmosphere was redolent of female body (and, I suppose, male as well), and despite her being about fifteen years into menopause the air was probably heavy on the pheromones. At any rate, Vicky’s up-close-and-personal scents had always driven me (and every other male downwind) to the edge of controllability. She knew sarıyer escort it and used it.

JT of course was being far too appreciative and responsive. I got a semblance of comfort (not control!) by tucking him into the high end of her butt-crease. Vicky understood, waggled her butt, teasing gently. It was difficult to find a comfortable, non-sexual position for my upper arm, and after gentle tries at repositioning through slow-motion flailing, Vicky took the hand and muttered “Quit thrashing! It only fits right one way. Here. But don’t you and JT get any ideas!” She cupped my hand around her uppermost breast, then sighed and sagged back against me. She was right about the fit.

Vicky always said that her boobs ran a VERY close second to her clit in sexual sensitivity, and it’s about impossible to keep a male hand so positioned entirely still. Besides, who would want perfect stillness? Certainly not the owners of either the hand or the boob! SO – within about two minutes her nipple was appreciatively erect and nuzzling my palm — which was in perpetual if nearly imperceptible motion.

After perhaps five minutes during which she went through a significant change in breathing and exhibited a growing squirminess, she muttered “Dammit, now that I’ve ordered you and JT not to have any ideas, it turns out that I can’t follow my own order! If I lie down flat, perhaps I could interest you in kissing what you’re fondling?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just rotated onto her back and threw off the sheet. This was something unexpected, brand new, and — frankly — not to be refused. I simply love breasts!

Her boobs were a sensual delight — mature and soft-firm, precisely the right texture for inhaling and completely filling my mouth, with well-inflated solid nipples to roll between tongue and palate. I didn’t just kiss… instead, I made love to them, actively nursing, pretending to need milk, using strong suction and pressures, with attention to feedback — in short, a little conscious showing off. And just for fun I rather disembodied myself, allowing not an iota of touch between us save mouth to tits.

Vicky’s response was most gratifying, the whole of each boob tightening up, nipples and areolas swelling and roughening between my palate and tongue, her chest rising against my face, her breathing becoming labored. All of which was, of course, perfectly predictable. What neither she nor I expected was another result — after perhaps ten minutes, with no real warning, she came — hard and prolonged, with the most erotic deep-throated groan.

When finally she emerged, settled back down and I released her tit, she gasped a few times, then muttered “Jeezus KEE-rist! Where the hell did THAT come from? Wowee-kazowee!” Then, giggling, “No complaints, though! God, Owen, where did you learn to nurse like that? If I’d known you had THAT talent, I would have hired you long ago! I mean, my tits have always been super sensitive, but I’ve NEVER — and I mean NEVER! — come just from my nipples! I thought I’d been suckled on by experts, but WOW! Women should have you give lessons to their men!”

I thanked her for the compliment, then rotated her back onto her side, resumed the original spoon, muttered into her ear “That was just a freebie. A sample. Teaser. Whatever. Tension reliever. Thank-you for the party. Glad you enjoyed it — I certainly did! You know me and boobs! Time to sleep, don’t you think?”

Silence for several seconds, then a whisper “NO! That would be completely unfair! You just gave me a perfectly wonderful orgasm when I was least expecting it. I owe you one! Want me to do something for you? You seem ready and I know you’re capable. You and JT, that is. Just a little friendly stress-relief between long-term friends?”

She waggled her bottom to roll JT between us: she was right about my being ready! However, horniness and pheromones notwithstanding, I actually managed to think about possible consequences, and replied — after several moments’ hesitation – “How about we wait a while and then re-consider it? A little sleep might change our ideas of what’s a good thing to do. I’d love whatever you might have in mind, but I wouldn’t want to spoil what we have. Okay?”

She sighed, said “Waiting’s OK by me if it’s OK with you. But you should ask JT — I have a strong impression which way he’d vote! Don’t be afraid to bring up the topic if you want. I’m sure I will! Bring it up, I mean. That is, if you DON’T!”

We resumed spooning and drifted off quickly. After half an hour I woke with a tiny start. JT was at full stand, almost painfully hard. Vicky was deeply asleep and far gone in some active dream, apparently quite erotic: her whole body was alive with twitches and wriggles, her breathing was ragged, and she was muttering unintelligible but interesting sounds. She lay on her left side, bottom leg extended, right leg bent sharply at both knee and hip, knee almost up to her chin. sefaköy escort Which left her entire slit wide open for my touches — if I wished or dared to try. So — there I lay, with a perfectly marvelous erection trapped lightly between her buttocks, pressed against one of the longest-held letches of my life. And her deep in an erotic dream-world.

My resolve NOT to do anything quickly evaporated, replaced by a resolve TO do something. Not just any old something, either. Now, for a multitude of reasons both physical and psychological, my absolutely favorite sexual activity has always been butt-fucking. In a fifty-plus year sexual career I’ve made love with close to two hundred women. I can count on one hand’s fingers those with whom I didn’t do anal. Of the positives, I had to persuade and then instruct at least half, many of them butt-virginal, others with problems due to bad experiences earlier.

But women are at least as sexually curious and driven as men, so persuasion was usually the easy part – instruction the more difficult. I’m generally a pretty good teacher, and over the years I’ve studied and concentrated to develop that ability in this area. I’ve always felt a real obligation to any woman willing to be so vulnerable and trusting with me. I’m analytical, sometimes to a fault, and over time that obligation has come to include three specific objectives — first, that she thoroughly enjoy every bit of the event; second, that she get as many orgasms as possible during it; and third, (more of my ego, perhaps?) that she be sufficiently pleased to come back and actually ask for more. I almost never miss an objective.

Over the years, Vicky and I have been brutally frank with one another about our sex lives: anal was NOT her thing. She’d told me about attempts with several men, and complained vociferously about both their insistence on trying and her own lack of ability to accommodate them. Those tries been uniformly uncomfortable and had never produced any physical enjoyment for her — much less psychological satisfaction, so she marveled at my contrary stories and experiences. She’d even sought my advice a few times, but still hadn’t succeeded.

I studied Vicky– the dream-twitching continued, as did the mumbling. I slowly rearranged my body, freeing JT so he could maneuver.

She dreamed on.

Delicately, I removed my hand from her boob, hovered it near her slit, close enough to feel her body heat. I waited: then, as she entered a violent shivering session complete with something like suppressed fucking motions, I advanced the hand. My fingertips traced the junction of her denuded lips from their very topmost beginnings backwards, down and over her anus to the upper confluence between her buttocks.

She was droolingly wet, more so with each successive stroke. Maybe thirty strokes? Fifty? Anyhow, there followed some minutes of subtle, gentle explorations, but her body and breathing gave no sign she’d noticed — her subconscious was in control and quite busy elsewhere — perhaps even appreciative of the attentions? Encouraged, my three fingertips together pressed slowly, gently, a whole fingertip-depth between her outer lips, into the slipperiness, and stroked slowly up and down the length of the juncture, spreading her personal, sexual moisture all the way back to her anus.

Her breathing changed slightly, the mutterings increased, but no signs of incipient awakening. Stealthily, I repositioned JT until the head replaced my fingertips as masseur. No thrusting, only the gentlest of strokings, wholly external. Then, as she twitched, I applied a tiny bit of pressure, and JT’s head nestled gently between the slippery outer folds. Her body seemed to notice, finally- but instead of waking her or retreating in protest, it reacted with backward pressure that slid JT’s first two inches or so inside her pussy — and still she slept.

I pulled back, slipped out, repositioned: her pose and the shape of her buttocks conspired to produce the perfect funnel for guiding JT to the target. Experience also helps. Breathlessly I settled the tip against her anus. He landed at precisely the right spot, the perfect angle. For all its bad press, saliva is actually a pretty good lubricant — especially when added to an already-pussy-lubed cockhead. With infinite care and patience, I began applying pressure — grams, not ounces, yielding forward progress at a glacial pace. Perhaps a good visual metaphor is thick lava slowly advancing down a gentle slope, relentlessly and inexorably rolling through and over every obstacle.

Totally controlled power, applied with ultimate softness and slowness: the very best in TLC. Penetration without urgency or hurry, like the root of an oak tree growing, splitting apart a granite boulder, or a mushroom growing up through two inches of asphalt. Breathing my way into her bottom, using my breath as a metronome. Half a millimeter of advance per breath. Feeling the slow, silivri escort effortless expansion of her sphincter around my advancing cockhead. The whole action was both intensely erotic, and a fine exercise in self-control.

Nearly half the helmet inside, and still her body did its own thing, took no notice of the slow-motion invasion underway.

Head fully half-way in, her twitching stopped, her breathing changed — I paused. She resumed her dream. I resumed my millimeter increments. Eventually, of course, there came the inevitable point of no return, when her sphincter had relaxed to accept the entire girth of JT’s head. The next millimeter let the muscular donut slide non-stop down the back-slope of the head to encircle the edge of the helmet. I paused again, the whole of the helmet now inside — no surprises… hot, tight, her body was more than ready.

The millimeter march resumed. Numbers! Twenty-five mm per inch, twelve breaths to the minute. Sixty breaths inside her bottom now, five minutes, nearly half of JT. Odd, this business of measuring depth inside her rectum in units of minutes and breaths. Odd, but strangely appropriate. I called a halt to the march, set my fingertips into her slit again, moved them forward until they found her clit, settled them not on the button but alongside it, began the subtlest of rhythms, just pressure, no stroking, no clit contact, mimicking the accelerating beat of Ravel’s ‘Bolero’. Pressures accompanied by the almost imperceptible beginnings of in-and-out with JT, the gain per mini-stroke reduced, again, to a fraction of a millimeter. Motion at breathing rate, no faster.

Thirty seconds of this and she suddenly quit dream-twitching. Her breathing stopped, resumed utterly differently. The whole of her body changed muscle tone as she came slowly awake. It was a long upwards swim to consciousness from where she had been. I stopped moving, waited, held my breath. Slowly her hand glided over her hip and down to where we came together. When her fingers encircled JT, I responded with a quarter-inch retreat, followed by a half-inch advance. She took a long, deep, extremely slow breath, held it. I stopped the advance, set JT to twitching inside her bottom.

Vicky let out a deep, prolonged sigh, muttered “OhMiGawd!” And then without further ado she pushed back against me, slithering the entire remaining length of JT into her bottom, deeper and deeper, until my belly met her buttocks. She pushed more, as if to find additional length to absorb: I returned the pressure, tried to make JT dance inside her. My fingertips kept up their clit- rhythm as I retreated slowly, until JT’s head was once more clenched tightly by her sphincter. After waiting a few moments I moved again, firmly re-entering to full depth over perhaps fifteen seconds.

She gave a strangled gasp and said hoarsely “OhMiGawd, Owen. That is SOOOOO nice! No, it’s not just NICE, it’s simply EXQUISITE! And, mister, I cannot believe I’m saying that! You KNOW all about my experiences with this kind of fucking!”

Indeed I did, which made it doubly nice to see — and feel! — Vicky’s instant conversion. Now my job was to turn her into a genuine true believer. After several more long, deep strokes, I shifted my fingertip to make clit contact, speeded up.

She shivered urgently, said to herself more than to me “God almighty but your cock has to be the hardest one I’ve ever felt! Is it always like this?”

“Nope. Not always. Hardness is directly proportional to the interest and excitement generated by the object. That’s another compliment. Glad you like it!” A few more smooth strokes and I stopped to ask “So… is Madam enjoying herself? Or can she tell yet?”

She sighed, then “I told you, it’s exquisite. Unbelievable! So YES, I’m enjoying myself. What the HELL gave you this idea, anyhow?”

“Well, lady, you DID make that offer, and you insisted that I discuss things with JT and that I bring it up again…”. I twitched deep inside her butt. “So… I did, and it’s certainly been brought UP again!”

“Yes, It certainly has, but it’s not quite what I’d expected… expectation being for something more in the line of a blowjob or hand-job. Hardly THIS!”

I almost giggled, told her “Ah… but THIS is precisely what I’ve had on MY mind for over three decades! You know, if we hadn’t been so drunk back thirty-five years ago, we’d have found ourselves in precisely this position. Or something fundamentally similar but a good deal more advanced, most likely.” I held motionless at full depth for a short while, then one slow outward stroke, ending up completely outside.

She muttered, “Goddamit, it feels so empty all of a sudden!”

I responded by refilling her until no more penetration was possible. She groaned and waggled her butt against me. I asked the $64 question – “So, shall we stop? Your call.”

She replied emphatically: “HELL NO, we shouldn’t stop! I’m not complaining, not in the least. Just expressing my surprise and pleasure. First you make me come by nursing on me, and now you have me so incredibly damned hot with my butt! Where the hell did you learn all this? I’m surprising myself – I do believe I could come this way. With you fucking my butt, I mean. What’s next, teacher?”

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