If You Love Me...
written by:
Naughty Miranda

"So yeah, we were making out, and it was getting steamy - Brad's hand was between my legs, you know, and I don't think either of us had thought about breathing in about an hour; his tongue was down my throat, and he'd got my top half off as well...

"... then suddenly his hand's on the back of my head, like he's pushing my head down, and he goes ‘if you love me, you'll....'"

Mark sighed and looked embarrassed. I mean really embarrassed. LIke "I wish I was one hundred miles from here, listening to anyone talk about anything" embarrassed. But I didn't care. This was my story, my outrage. Plus, he was the one who asked what happened to make me so upset. So I told him. "I just lost it. It's like, ‘if I love you, I'll suck your cock?' How about, if you love me, you'd wait till I wanted to?'"

"Then what?" He could barely get the words out.

"Of course he got all sulky... I got dressed, he started the car and practically threw me out when we got back to my place. And I've not heard from him since."

"Would you want to?"

"I dunno. I texted him yesterday just to say hello, but he didn't respond. I like him well enough and maybe at some point..." I felt my voice trail off, only to be strengthened by a fresh wave of indignation. "Why did he have to be such an ass?"

Mark laughed. "Because he's a teenaged boy. I don't care what Brad's majoring in, or where's he's got an internship, the fact is, he's still a teenager, which means no matter whatever else is going on in his head, ninety percent of his waking thoughts are devoted to getting you into bed. Or thereabouts."

Now it was my turn to sigh, as he continued talking. "The important thing is, as you have just discovered, if you can't match that ninety with one hundred percent of your own, then it ain't going to happen. Or, if it does, it'll just lead to more problems down the road."

I like to imagine that my eyes flashed mischievously "So were you like that?"

"What a teen? Or permanently horny?"

"Either."

"Well, I was a teen. Once. And while I like to think I was a model of patience and politeness, I probably had my moments of ninety percent-ish-ness. Which isn't a proper word, by the way."

"Damn. I was going to use it in my next essay," I smirked, then leaned into him as we sat there on the couch together, mugs of coffee steaming in our hands. "Thanks."

————

If I'd known that things were going to happen the way they eventually did... I'd have made sure they started a long time before. And if I'd known it would be so easy, ditto. Mark had been my professor through my freshman year, and he must have noticed that I'd always find a reason to hang around after class, to discuss the finer points of this-and-that.

Yeah, he was old, but it didn't show. Did he look his age? Maybe. Probably. But he looked good, too, like an old time Hollywood movie star, sharply rewrapped in more contemporary clothing, with a permanent twinkle in his gray eyes and a laugh that the entire class loved to hear.

So when he left the faculty to take up a consultancy post with one of the big academic publishers, we'd kept in touch because I wouldn't let him walk out on his last day without leaving me with his phone number. Which, a few conversations later, I supplemented with his address, Which, a few afternoon visits on from there, we both acknowledged had become a friendship that neither of us was likely to tire of.

I knew, even as I sometimes hoped otherwise, that it wasn't going to go any further. His wife Stella was a friend, too, and because she also worked from home, there were never occasions when she wasn't around. Even the night I got into an auto accident, and he was the only person I could think of to call for help, she was in the car alongside him when he came to pick me up from the emergency room, and she took me up to my dorm room as well, and made sure I was okay.

So where was she today? Visiting family in Arkansas for a few days, leaving Mark at home only because there were a couple of meetings that he couldn't get out of. And the fact that Brad chose those same few days to act like an absolute ass-wipe was nothing to do with either of us. I'd called Mark that night and we talked a little, except I realized that I didn't feel like elaborating. We spoke again the next day, and I'd calmed down a little, but still wasn't into pouring my heart out down the phone. So he asked me over - not suspecting, I don't believe, the full extent of my hurt and confusion.

Or, as we sat, and his body against mine just felt so right, that my mind would suddenly start whirling in other directions and dimensions altogether.

We weren't in completely unknown territory. A few times when I'd visited, and he and I hugged goodbye - more than a few times, in fact - we'd been so close to a kiss that I wondered how Stella didn't notice. Or maybe she had and didn't care. They'd been together a long time; over fifteen years, he told me once. And I wondered, in all that time, if he'd ever....

He shifted awkwardly - not so much that he moved away, but enough, I think, to reassure himself that I was the one leaning into him, and not the other way round. So I shifted with him and when he turned his head slightly to look at me, I raised my face just a little, and we did kiss. A long kiss, warm, gentle.

He backed away. "No wonder Brad got so hot and bothered," he joked, and all I could do was deliver a partial echo, "no wonder...," as I took his hand and held it in mine. I wondered if I needed to say anything more, but my mouth was dry. Too dry to form a cohesive sentence. I kissed him again, and this time there was no resistance; this time, he kissed me as though we were lovers, as though we were teenagers, as though....

Later, he told me that mine were the first strange lips he'd kissed since he and Stella first dated, and simply tasting my youth, my enthusiasm, my longing, was an experience he'd never forget.

Told me that mine was the first strange hand that had touched his cock, since he and Stella first ran through the bases, in his studio apartment off campus in Wisconsin.

That mine was the first breath he had felt on his flesh, as I slipped from my seat and knelt on the carpet, unfastening his pants as his eyes closed above me, and his last words... "I'm not sure we should be doing this"... still reeled before the passion with which I replied. "I am."

See, Brad blew it, in the way that teenage boys often blow it. Too impatient, too demanding. Forgetting that sex isn't simply about what he wants her to do, it's also about what she wants to do. And until he opened his mouth and all that stupidity came pouring out... well, let's just say that if he'd kept his mouth shut, then I'd have been opening mine. Wide. And the only thing that would have come pouring out of mine would have been his cum.

I wanted to suck him. I'd dreamed of sucking him. And tonight was going to be the night. Until he delivered his ultimatum and my need (because yes, it was a need) switched off just like that.

And now it had switched on again.

Mark knew every pore in his wife's body, he told me. No matter what they did, or where they did it (and they did still do it, although not quite as often), he knew what to expect. They both did. Which wasn't a complaint, because she did everything right. But still he knew, mapping out their lovemaking in his mind as easily as he could map out her flesh.

I was a mystery. I was unexplored. And I was running my tongue across the head of his cock, lapping his precum, tasting his flesh, feeling the incredible hardness of a man who might not have the testosterone driven impatience of a boy my age... but had something else, some indefinable strength, and I would never use a word like "gratitude," because that just sounds so wrong. But as I licked his prick I could feel the years just flowing away from his body and, if I closed my eyes... I could have been Stella in nineteen-ninety-something, on her knees for the first time for her handsome, gorgeous man, and wondering - as I now wondered....

I hope it fits in my mouth.

It's one thing to dream, as I'd so often done, of the things I could do if a man just relaxed, and let events take their natural course... like they would have two nights before, if Brad had not been such an impatient, crude, brat.

It's another thing entirely to suddenly find that the natural course has floated you further than you ever dreamed it could. And a cock in the hand is always smaller than a cock just a few inches away from your face. Smaller, and somehow more manageable.

But not even half as beautiful.

Brad's cock... You know what? I never even saw it. It was never more than an impatient presence inside his pants, that I'd rub and squeeze through the fabric until the damp patch appeared. The other night in the car, I would have gone further because I wanted to see it. To feel it. And yeah. To suck it.

To find out how it really felt to have a man moving inside my mouth, and not just watch the occasional cellphone clip of someone else moving inside one of my friends'. Then we'd all laugh together and critique her style, while making disparaging remarks about the lucky boy's cock... "are they really meant to bend like that? Is that color even natural? Wow, you deep throated a toothpick"... things like that. As though all of us did it all of the time.

I was going to do it now.

My lips folded over the head of Mark's cock, shocked at the sheer intensity of flavor, but thrilling too to the soul-devouring intimacy of it. Heart racing to the moan he gave as I sank down, feeling him sinking between my jaws... careful not to let him push too far, too quickly, but curious as to how it would feel if he was just to grab my head, pull my hair, and fuck my face like he fucked his wife's cunt. A thought which pushed me deeper still, until suddenly it felt as though I'd taken all I ever could, and my nose was brushing the fingers I clenched round his root... and I came up for air, but I didn't let him fall, because that single image was cemented to my mind now, and - I knew he wouldn't do it, because he was far too much of a gentleman.

But what if I did it for him?

I started slowly, finding my rhythm and then picking it up; finding my limits (gag reflex... hello!) and staying just within them. And he was moving too, thrusting into my mouth as my head bobbed back, slipping up that miraculous shaft that could not bear to lose a fraction of the warmth, the wet, and wonderful darkness in which I was bathing it.

I wondered if I should be tugging him, using my hand to hasten his orgasm. I'd seen that on the cellphones, too. But you know what? That always seemed so wrong, though; as if my mouth was simply an impassive hole, something to jerk him off into. No. I wanted to make him cum with my mouth, and I pulled my hand away... surprised, for a moment, at the sheer strength and weight of his now unsupported dick in my mouth, but thrilling at that as well.

Plus, now I could take even more of him inside.

His moans were groans, his thrusts almost melodic. My hands were on his hips, my fingers clenching his flesh. I wondered if they might leave bruises... I hoped they would fade before Stella came home, and reclaimed her territory with a blowjob of her own. And again, that thought - Mark fucking his wife, being sucked by his wife - were those images that should even begin turning me on? Let alone send me careening towards an orgasm when I wasn't even touching myselfI Fuck! This is the best feeling ever

He froze. He cock tautened, and it was as though it grew even bigger. A momentary sensation, a mere flash in my mind, but Mark was crying "Chrissie, I'm coming..." and I filed away that fleeting awareness for future reference... so that's how you know! Then I pulled away just as the first jet sprayed out, lashing my face, splashing down on his flesh, and I wasn't even thinking when I dipped my head and licked at it... liked the flavor, and went in search for more.

Suckled him as that incredible erection subsided to softness in my mouth, and it was only when I let him go, and kissed his mouth with my cum-soaked tongue that I realized that I'd just gone further than even my wettest dreams ever let me. In my fantasies, I never dealt with the issue of his orgasm... would I swallow, would I spit, would I aim it back up his chest?

Now I knew, and it felt as natural as everything else we'd done.

Then his phone rang and we disentangled ourselves, while he exchanged a few pleasantries with Stella ... laughed. "She sends her love, and says I need to hug you for her"; then, turning his attention back to the phone, "that's exactly what I was doing when you called." He laughed, I stared, and I saw his cock twitch on the first step back to full strength.

"She wants all the details when she gets back," he said, then they said soft goodbyes, and he was hard again. Hard enough to fuck me like I'd never been fucked before (which wasn't that difficult - that night was my first time. But I think you know what I mean); and hard enough for me to fuck him, like he said he'd never been ridden before, that "reverse cowgirl" stance that I saw on the Internet, and thought looked amazing from whichever angle you chose.

I think he enjoyed the view, as well.

As for giving Stella "all the details"... I don't know if he did. Or what details she wanted. But I had a feeling I was going to be finding out soon. There was a message on my cell when I switched it back on between classes, a day or two after Stella arrived home. Did I want to stop by for coffee later? Stella had brought back gifts from her trip, and she wanted to give me mine.

I bathed, and then sat down to try and paint my nails. In the end, though, I had to give up. My hands were shaking too much....