Doing It Right
written by:
Naughty Miranda

I like it when he tells me what to do.

Some girls don't. Some girls get really pissy, I've heard, if their guy starts giving them instructions while they're busy. And some girls don't like getting busy at all, so I guess it all evens out in the end. But I have to say, I don't understand them. Either of them. I really can't think of much I prefer to hunkering down with the guy of my dreams (my latest dreams) and well, hunkering down! And I can't think of anything better than hearing his voice soft and low, murmuring from above me, telling me exactly what makes him feel great.

My first lover, as opposed to my first boyfriends, was like that. He was older than me... a lot older, in fact, at least at that age when a few years were an eternity, and anyone over thirty was positively ancient. Al, by that reckoning, must have been Methuselah. If I was nineteen, he'd have been forty-four. He had a son who was older than I was, and a wife who was a lot cuter as well. For her age, hahaha.

I remember exactly where I was when I met him, exactly what I was wearing, exactly what he said. Bus stop. Raincoat. "Jump in." I was the new girl in my first job as an office temp, he worked in the offices next door to the agency, and it surprised me that he knew who I was. I'd only seen him as a face in the corridor; and he couldn't have caught more than a glance of me. But he saved me from the pouring rain, chatted lightly and amusingly for the twenty minute drive, and didn't even look twice at the rainwater pooling on the carpet and seat of his motor.

Looking back... older guy, young girl, you know how this is going to play out. And you'd be right. But at the time, it just felt so normal. If my bus was late and he was passing, he'd stop and give me a ride. But I never once thought of missing my bus on purpose, and he never started leaving for work a little earlier. If he saw me, he saw me. And if he didn't, days could pass by before we passed in the building someplace, and stopped for a quick hello.

Then one Saturday I was shopping downtown, when I bumped into him in a store. He walked with me as I finished my errands, and gallantly offered to help with my bags. We stopped for a coffee, then he walked me to my bus stop, laughed as he watched me load up again with my bags, and offered to drive me home instead. I refused, and caught the bus as I'd intended. But all the way through the rest of the weekend, I sat and I wondered why. My wondering turned into worrying and, by the time I got into work on Monday, I was convinced that I must have seemed unforgivably rude.

So I went to his office to apologize. And that's where it all began.

A moment from the flashdrive of my memory. Lying back on his office desk, one night after all but the cleaners had left, my skirt around my waist and my panties around one ankle, while he crouched between my legs and licked me closer to cumming than I have ever wanted to be... and then kept me there, writhing and grinding my hips against a mouth that knew exactly what I needed, and was determined to make me wait.

His hands were on my waist, in the days when I was so skinny that it felt like his fingers actually met in the middle, guiding my movements, dictating the bucking of my hips. His tongue was firm, but his mouth did the real work, knowing just when to suck, just when to kiss, and just when to push a finger deep inside me, till it felt as though I was going to burst. The boys that had done this to me in the past.... and believe me, I'm not complaining here... had been all licks and nibbles, hunting around for where they thought my clit lived, but only ever discovering it by luck and usually not realizing either. Al not only knew exactly where it was, he also knew when to ignore it completely, and when I did finally cum, it was because he had finally sucked it into his mouth and refused to let go.

If the cleaners didn't hear me scream, then they obviously hadn't reached the top three floors yet.

Or... lying face down, again on his desk, while his tongue explored deep inside my asshole, overcoming all the qualms that I'd felt when he first turned me over by teasing out such incredible sensations that I thought for a moment that my cunt had shifted behind me.

Or... sitting in his executive chair, fucking myself with the dildo which he'd bought on his way into work that morning. He'd stopped at a store that I'd never even noticed, and how flustered I was as he walked me down the aisle, then asked me to pick out the one I liked best. Then left me hanging in suspense for the rest of the day, as I wondered what he intended doing with it.

Nothing. I did the work, he just sat and watched, and that might have been the wildest evening we ever had together. I had never even dreamed that I might enjoy an audience. But seeing his eyes and hearing his breathing as I stroked and plunged and pushed that toy, and my pussy juices pooled on the leather of his chair, that was so hot that I was already back home before I realized he hadn't physically touched me the whole time. But his gaze had fucked my brains out.

And that's the other thing. We never actually fucked. I never saw him naked. And he never asked, or even motioned, for me to do anything to him. I jerked him off a few times, usually while laughing that he couldn't go home with his pants in that state, but everything about that man was geared towards making me cum.

The thing is, I knew a way that I don't think he'd thought of. And one night, about a month (okay, four weeks, three days and about six hours, forty minutes) into our affair, I determined to let him find out.

Sucking cock is not a chore for me. Even when my High School girlfriends would gather round the lockers and pull faces at the thought of it, and occasionally make noises that sound like "ewwwww," I was the one who remained defiantly quiet, hoping I wouldn't be asked for my opinion. And if I was, I'd lie.

But I was the girl who read ET (the novel, not the movie, which I really didn't care for) and spent the next week masturbating about that line in the story when one of the kids calls another one "penis breath," and their mom silently flushes, "that wouldn't be so bad." Or words to that effect.

I was the one who combed other books too, in those days before the Internet took all the fun out of searching for filth, seeking out all those other coded references that authors used to slip into their pulpy output.

Horror novels were my happiest hunting ground; romances I learned to avoid very early, and scifi usually had other things on its mind.

But there was a great bit in one of Stephen King's books, just a few words passing between a husband and wife, and a Brit author named James Herbert, too, dropped a sweet allusion in. Which culminated, if I remember correctly, with the monster's latest victim being opened on the autopsy slab, the doctor inspecting the contents of her stomach, and then solenly pronouncing, "the deceased's final meal was the greatest gift a girl can give her boyfriend."

Oh my God, I'd never even thought of doing that!

Boyfriends. Past boyfriends. Mike, with a cock so fat that I could barely fit it in my mouth, so I learned that licking it is as much fun as sucking. Gerry, who was always in such a hurry to cum that I don't think he spent more than five minutes in my mouth throughout the entire three months we were dating. And that's five minutes total, not at a time. I never got any of his cum, either. He'd just whip out and around and... okay, this was weird. He always came into the balled-up tissue that he'd been holding in his hand the whole time. Then the tissue would go into his pocket and.... I wondered, did he collect them? Or was he just a neat freak who took neatness a little too far?

Lenny. Well, Lenny was a jerk, so he doesn't count. Plus, I never felt as though I was blowing him. It was more like flossing. Haha.

Either way, they'd had their fun, I'd had mine, and it was Mike (again) with whom I discovered he didn't even need to touch my pussy for me to cum as hard as he did. Just the taste of his prick, the odor, the weight, that delicious sensation of being filled to capacity by another human being, the pounding of my heart, the moans and cries oh his excitement. Remember that Beatles song, "Come Together"? We did. Several times.

I learned how to fit him in as well, without dislocating my jaw.

Al's cock was perfect. It reminded me (oh shit, I can't believe I'm telling you this) of the bananas that I practiced on before the real thing came along. The same subtle curve, the same gentle taper, not so huge that I'd have to strain, but long enough that my throat would get almost as much cock as my mouth. Which were all things I had figured out long before we ever got that far.

Oh, and a helmet so meaty (and, of course, very un-banana like) that I still can't look at a wood blewitt mushroom without feeling a little funny inside. And yes, I am well aware of how appropriately the mushroom is named.

I'd stopped by his office at the end of the day, kicking my heels on my own desk while I waited for the last of his coworkers to disappear down the corridor than ran alongside my cubicle. A few of my own colleagues were still hanging around, but they didn't pay attention to which way I walked, so I took the sharp left past the coffee machine, through the deserted reception of his brokerage firm, then slipped into his office.

He was on the phone when I walked in, and raised one hand, five fingers extended. Five minutes. Usually I'd just sit on his desk and wait until he'd finished. Not tonight. Instead I squeezed through the gap between his desk and chair where he was sitting, then sank down between his legs.

I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn't look up. My attention was focussed on unbuttoning his pants, then easing his cock through the opening. He was still soft... no, let me correct myself. He was still soft when I started, but I was still wrestling with his boxers and he was already starting to grow. By the time I actually had his dick out, he was so close to rock hard that I could have devoured him there and then.

But I didn't. Instead, I pressed his hardness to his stomach, and started to lick his balls. And only his balls. But I'll say this for Al. His voice did not falter, his conversation did not flag. True, he lay down the fountain pen he'd been twisting in one hand, and started twisting my hair instead, but only the state of his cock revealed what he was thinking; engorged and greedy, straining against the fingers that still held it pinned to his body, and seeping more pre-cum than I'd seen in my life, moistening my fingers as palm as it rested on his helmet.

God, I wanted to taste it.

Not yet. I continued licking, his ballbag taut and hard now, so that when I tried to suck one nut, I took most of his scrotum into my mouth. So I sucked that, instead.

Three minutes, he last. Three minutes until he abruptly brought his call to an end, hung up the phone, then his other hand slipped down to cradle my face, as I continued my maddening licking.

That's when he started to talk. "Now the root. No higher. Lick the root."

I obeyed, my tongue bathing that point where the cock meets the balls. "Harder.... softer... suckle it... bite." Short words, gasping words, but I obeyed every one because of the effect they had on me. My pussy was soaking, my panties were swimming, but his words kept on coming, directing my mouth higher up his scalding shaft - what to lick, where to bite, how hard and harder, till I reached the top and my tongue was body surfing in the pre-cum he was flooding.

"Now!" He gasped, and my mouth took him deep, my lips slamming closed round as much of his cock as I could greedily grab in one movement. Then his hands were pushing my head down, and tearing at my hair, as my lips sank lower and lower and the spit I'd dripped on his pubes glistened close....

Slowly. I moved slowly, and the pressure from his palms let up so I could do this in my own time, sinking down his shaft until the tip of my nose grazed his hairs. Then back up for a ragged breath, before he started pushing me down again.

"Deeper," he breathed. "More," he whispered. "Suck me," he gasped, and then "hi Rick," he said, as the office door opened and someone walked in.

I didn't move. There was a good five inches of cock in my mouth, and I didn't move a muscle.

I knew I couldn't be seen so long as the visitor stayed on that side of the desk. But I was frozen anyway and, for a moment, so was Al. His hands were, anyway. But he was talking to his colleague without a single care in the world, a deal they were making, the late nights they were keeping, boring, boring broker talk, and all the while he rattled on about percentages and profits, a girl who was more than half his age was sucking hard on his long, hard cock, and his one hand had started its twisting again, grasping my hair and curling it round his fingers and fist, guiding my movements by gesture alone, and I was so crazed with excitement that I was actually wishing he'd say something to his guest. "If Hong Kong holds out and the Dow Jones doesn't panic, and oh, by the way, I'm having my dick sucked... do you want to see?"

My one hand had been on the floor all this time, helping to keep my balance. The other was wrapped round his leg. Now I shifted it, slowly, to encircle his cock, and slowly I started to jerk him. Slowly at first. My head was motionless, clamped round his helmet, but now my fist was almost a blur. I wanted to see how long he could last, I wanted to see what he'd do when he came, I wanted to see if he'd just keep on talking. Or would he hold until...

"Catch you later, Al..."

"‘Night, Rick," and then click. The door closed and Al cuffed me. He whispered "you bitch," then he laughed and he jerked and all of a sudden, all hell broke loose. He was cumming and clamping my head into place; I was cumming and wanting to scream. I was swallowing, drinking, and his cock wouldn't stop, filling my mouth and spilling out round his shaft, for me to seek with my lips and slurp back into myself.

You know when you open a bottle of soda, and the contents fizz out? So you clamp your mouth across the top and try to stop it spilling?

That's what it reminded me of.

Except... this wasn't soda. It was better than that.

His cum was so hot, and it tasted... it tasted of him, of all of the things that I dreamed he would taste of. I hate words like "salty" and "musky" when I read them in stories, because no man has ever tasted like either to me. I taste their sweat, but I also taste their strength. I can tell if they've drunk too much coffee or wine, but I also taste their sense of humor. Cum is not just a creamy white liquid that spurts, some generic sticky, thickish stuff, one flavor fits all. Every drop's as unique as the man who produced it, and I didn't want to miss a single atom of Al.

I didn't think I had, either, as his kiss cleaned the last drops of moisture from my lips. He buttoned up, I straightened my dress, and when we were decent, it was time that I left. He'd already said that tonight he'd been working till late, so I kissed him goodnight and walked out of the office.

And saw Rick sitting, grinning, at a desk by the door.

He nodded goodnight, then gestured at my blouse. "I think you spilled a drop."

I looked down and saw the milky white stain that stood out like a star in the black velvet night. Then I looked at his lap, and the huge speckled mess that spread thick and wet from one crinkling side of his tailored suit's fly. I laughed.

"Yeah, but you spilled a lot more than that."