I was twenty-four-years old when I found the perfect cock. At the time I didn’t realize it; hind sight is a wonderful thing. Little was I to know, the appendage I met one balmy summer evening in London-town, would be the epitome of its kind; the standard I would hold all other members up to, for the rest of my sexual years. Had I suspected the fact I would never again come across (on or against!) a penis of such magnificence, I may well have taken better note of the man attached to it.
It started innocently enough one hot August afternoon. Deskbound, my fingers flew over the keyboard, my boss’s disembodied voice droning direct into my ears via the Dictaphone headset. Outside my window, it was one of those rare, magical cloudless days, where the sun shone its benevolence upon the pasty faces of working convicts, who had escaped the walls of their workplaces.
Mid-afternoon, a quick inter-office e-mail and a furtive group text called for a massing of like-minded souls in the garden-bar closest to the office. Well, “garden bar” was a euphemistic term for a pub with a few tables outside, but in the back streets of Covent Garden, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
A quick glass of chilled Savvy in the sunshine, turned into a quick couple of bottles by the time the sun went down.
It was an evening for that rare hedonistic breed: young professionals with no commitments, no-one to answer to, no-one to be responsible for. People who could happily ignore the past and future and seize the present with all the passion it deserved.
As the wine went down, the ashtrays filled up and the surrounds of the bar began to sound more like a barnyard with the hysterical cackling of women and the boozed up bellowing of blokes - the alcohol loosening tongues and inhibitions.
“Shots!” I cried, and the crowd threw back the last of the Savvy and aimed their intentions at the top shelf. The blaze of the tequila burned a trail down my throat, igniting a fire of enthusiasm in my belly, jet propelling me toward the dance-floor. I became part of the heaving throng. Strobe lights flashed over thrashing arms and legs; shoulders shimmied and pelvises gyrated as each dancer abandoned themselves to the pure joy of moving.
Entranced on the dance-floor, I’d not noticed the departure of my colleagues or friends until the harsh fluorescent house lights were flicked on with brutal efficiency at the end of the last song. Squinting against the startling brightness, my ears ringing in the unexpected quiet of the emptying bar, I blundered back to where I’d stashed my bag and coat, scanning the space for a familiar face.
Unlike me, all my mates had remembered that the penalty of missing the last tube home is either an extortionate cab fare or the ignominy of a night-bus ride into the suburbs with all the other late night degenerates - neither a particularly appealing mid-week option for a girl on her own. Chewing my bottom lip, I weighed up my options.
“Hey Lucy.” Swiveling toward the voice, I regarded a guy shrugging his way into a suit jacket. “Looks like we were abandoned.” I blinked owlishly at him, frantically trying to put a name to the unfamiliar face. He was taller than me, with a mop of dance-tousled brown hair. His coffee colored eyes twinkled, sensing my anxiety. “I’m Sam, Ben’s mate – we met outside, earlier…” His voice tapered off as he gave my mental faculties time to catch up and remember the encounter.
“Oh God, of course!” I threw him a bright smile, belying the fact that despite desperately straining my brain, I’d absolutely no recollection of meeting him. I wasn’t even sure who our mutual mate Ben was meant to be either. “Great night, eh?”
He threw me a rueful grin. “Yeah, but I suspect tomorrow morning, I won’t be thinking so.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve still gotta get to Wimbledon. I spent my cab fare on tequila shots,” I grimaced. “Seemed like a brilliant idea at the time but now I’ve gotta try and track down a night bus.” Abandoning the damp heat of the bar for the cooler air outside, I panned my gaze up and down the road. “Which way to Leicester Square do you think?”
“That way.” He tilted his head to the left. “But…” he hesitated. “My flat is only a couple of minutes away. You’re more than welcome to crash and catch the first Tube in the morning if that’s easier.” His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, his gazed fixed on me.
I was by no means naïve. I knew accepting his proposal would mean putting out. I wasn’t generally in the habit of heading home with strange men, but then again nor was I a puritan. He knew Ben – I just wished I could remember who the hell Ben was. Weighing up the options of “ride on bus” versus “ride on bloke” decided the matter in a nanosecond. Fluttering my eyelashes in mock coquettishness, I accepted his invitation with alacrity. He crooked his elbow and sliding my arm into the gap, the two of us ambled up the street, heading toward Soho.
We strolled in companionable silence. Wending our way through the grimy narrow back streets of the West End, I wrinkled my nose at the overpowering aroma of stale urine and fetid wheelie bins – the familiar stench of too much humanity, squashed into too small a space. The thoroughfares were still teeming with people, despite the lateness of hour – the underbelly of London’s populace, who slithered out under the cover of darkness: the sex-workers, the drug dealers and those seeking to purchase their wares. And then there were the people like us - those falling out of pubs and clubs, and into dodgy kebab houses or chip shops to assuage booze fuelled hunger. Others paired off, racing to find a place of privacy to subdue hungers of a different kind.
I leaned against Sam’s solidness, steadying myself against the forces of tipsiness and high heels on cobblestones. I hadn’t started the evening looking for a shag but now there was almost definitely one on the cards, the butterflies of nervous anticipation fluttered low in my belly.
“Here we are,” he said stopping beside a non-descript door jammed between two cafes which opened up into a steep set of stairs. Our footfalls echoed in the narrow stairwell as we tromped up two flights. With a jingle of keys and the creak of a door in desperate need of oil, we entered the gloomy interior of Sam’s flat. He flicked on a light, revealing a small but tidy living area, boasting a battered leather sofa and a large TV. The heat of the day, trapped within the confines of the shut up flat, promptly assaulted the two of us as we stepped through the entrance.
“Jesus, it’s as hot as hell in here,” Sam commented, ripping off his jacket and launching himself at the lounge windows. He threw them wide open in a vain attempt to catch a passing breeze. “In summer we swelter, in winter we freeze, but the rent’s reasonable and the location’s amazing.” He threw me an apologetic look.
“We?” I asked, peeling off my own jacket, stepping out of my heels and falling onto the couch.
“Oh, me and my flat-mate Nick. He’s at some sort work conference up in Manchester.” He hesitated for a moment and added, “Actually, he’s the one who’s great pals with Ben – they went to school together.”
I smiled weakly. Ben? Ben? Who the hell is Ben? Evil, evil tequila!
“Can I get you a drink of something?”
“Water would probably be a good idea – I’m already scared about how I’m gonna feel tomorrow,” I giggled.
“A sensible idea, Madam. Your wish is my command.” He gave a mock bow and exited through a door. Hearing the rush of water splashing into glasses, I guessed the door led to the kitchen. Reappearing, Sam handed me a tumbler of water, which I dispatched with almost indelicate haste. His lips quirked with amusement as he sat beside me on the sofa. I caught a spicy waft of aftershave as he reached for my empty glass and placed it on the floor.
“I was thirsty.”
“I could see that.”
His gaze locked with mine and an awkward silence stretched between us. I swallowed, trying to squash my nerves, unsure of what to do next. My heartbeat was bumping along at a much greater rate of knots than normal. Sam placed a hand on my leg, his forefinger tracing a lazy circle against my thigh. Prickles of anticipation raced from the point of contact, all over my body. I swear my heart skipped a beat or two.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low. “Let me kiss you.” Sliding closer to him, a warm arm skimmed behind my back, pulling me close. I focused on his full lips, my own parting slightly in anticipation of contact. At first he was tentative. Moving gently, testing the waters, seeing how much I could take – how much I would take. My senses were full of the spice of his cologne and the faint hint of beer and cigarettes.
I lost myself in the magic of that first kiss, my breathing deepening as I pushed up harder against his torso. My hands drifted up the side of his neck and into his hair, hauling him deeper into the kiss. A small moan bubbled from my throat. Thrusting my tongue deep into his mouth, I parried with him, urging him on. Needing no further encouragement, he lowered me down on the couch, his kisses bruising. Slipping lower, he nipped at the contours of my chin and neck, drawing shivers of delicious pleasure. Now I couldn’t hold the low moans escaping my lips.
The firm jut of his cock pressed hard up against my sex and I rolled my hips against him, trying to work up some friction. His eyes flew open and he paused, hovering above me.
“If you keep that up, things won’t last too long,” he said, his voice husky.
“Should we slow things down?” The wobble in my voice betrayed the intensity of my arousal.
“No fucking way. Let’s go for gold.” And with that he ground himself hard against my centre, the roughness abrading my clit, jolting my whole being with electric pleasure. Now his hands were everywhere. Pulling the tie on the side of my wrap dress, unwrapping me with the frenzy of an over-eager child on Christmas morning. Yanking down the cups of my bra, he exposed my already pebbled nipples to the intensity of his gaze and then imprisoned one within the hot, wet depths of his mouth. I arched into his mouth, holding his head as he suckled and swirled his tongue around the sensitized tip.
All the while our hips were fused. My legs spread wide, his cradled between them, dry-humping. Our pelvises moved with a will of their own, hell-bent on seeking release – frustrated and turned on in equal measures by the fabric rucked up between us. The irritation of the clothing proved too much and with a muffled oath, Sam pulled himself off me and sat up.
“Let’s lose the clothes, okay?” Nodding my agreement, I pulled off my dress and unsnapped my bra. Sighing as my breasts bounced free of their confines, I glanced up to see Sam doing a rapid shedding of his own clothing. His shirt, already a puddle on the floor, was hastily joined by his suit pants and a pair of boxers that had been being doing a very bad job of restraining his erection. And Holy Mother of God, what an erection it was. He stood before me completely unabashed, his rod standing proud from a thatch of dark hair trailing up to his navel. I‘d met the perfect cock.
It wasn’t the longest penis I’d ever seen but it certainly was the thickest. My eyes boggled and my lips opened in a slight moue of amazement as I reached out to touch it.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured. Sam groaned as the softness of my fingers grazed the velvety heat of his shaft and he couldn’t control the jerk of his hips.
“Oh, God no –I’ve go to put it in you, Honey.” His pupils were dilated. His plea needy.
I felt a rush of wetness between my legs, soaking my knickers and I knew without out a doubt, all I wanted was him. Inside me. Now. Hooking my fingers into the side of my panties, I leaned over to take them off. In a flash he was behind me, while I was still bent. His hands cupping the weight of my breasts - his forefingers and thumbs, rolling my nipples. Leaning back into him, the heat of his body scalding me, I whimpered my pleasure.
Kneading my breasts and kissing the back of my neck, he maneuvered me to the back of the sofa, where he draped me gently forward over the leather – its smoothness, cool against my bare stomach. My ass was up in the air, my legs spread wide, trembling slightly, waiting for him to push into me. Grasping himself by the base of that beautiful dick, he bent his own knees and rubbed the blunt head up and down my pussy lips, coating himself in my juices. My groan of yearning was guttural and primal.
“Now Sam, right now. I want you inside me.”
I’d never been a great fan of Hokey Tokey sex. You know the kind “in-out-in-out-shake-it-all-about” sex. Usually, I was all about foreplay and taking time. But on this occasion “in-out-in-out” was all I wanted. Feeling every ridge of him as he pushed his thick girth into my wet depths was breathtaking. But even better was when he drew himself back, right out to the flared mushroom head, before plunging back in again. The wet sounds of our coupling and the rasping of our breath bounced around the walls and out the wide open windows, into street below.
Pushing my shoulder, he bent me even further over the back of the sofa, changing the angle of penetration. Now with each glide of his member he was hitting a sweet spot deep within me, a spot that no-one had ever managed to hit before. With each thrust, my need ratcheted up another notch. With each ragged inhale, I slammed my ass back at him, trying to catch that elusive promise of bliss and not quite getting there.
“Harder,” I bit out, glancing back over my shoulder. Holding nothing back Sam slammed his cock deep, his balls slapping up against my pussy, pushing me high up on to my toes. Again and again, he pistoned in and out. I grunted my enjoyment with each and every thrust. And with each sweep over that magic spot deep within me, I knew with impending certainty, this was going to be pleasure on a scale I’d never experienced before. I writhed and snaked under Sam like a mad woman, urging him on, mentally and physically grasping for release.
When my orgasm came, it overwhelmed me. Starting at my curled up toes and exploding right through my central nervous system like an electrical storm. My sheath clamped and pulsed around the width of him, with a life force of its own. I screamed. I wailed. I moaned. And finally I collapsed into a twitching comatose heap.
I assumed Sam came too. But the truth was after my own universe altering orgasm –I passed out.
It was the dry horrors that dragged me into consciousness the next morning. Sam lay sprawled over the bed, his face calm in sleep. Wanting to avoid the awkward morning after small talk, I slid from between the sheets. I guessed Sam had put me there, as I’d no recollection of getting there under my own steam. Gathering together my crumpled clothing, I dressed, headed into the kitchen and chugged back a couple of glasses of water. Using pen and paper found on the counter I scrawled a quick note: – ‘Thanks for saving me from the night bus. I had a fabulous time. Lucy x’
As I clattered my way over the cobbles toward the Tube station, I drew the coolness of the morning air deep into my lungs. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look at my wrinkled clothes, flat hair and smudged make up, I was doing the Walk of Shame. But I didn’t care. Each and every one of my muscles ached in a decadently delicious way, indicating I’d been subject to a night of the greatest carnal pleasure, and I shivered at the memory of it.
As is the way with most spontaneous drunken hook ups in big cities, I never caught up with Sam or his perfect cock again. Nor could I ever did work out who our mysterious mutual friend Ben was.
Being a practical sort of girl, I have never lamented Sam as a conquest that got away. Rather I have viewed him and his super shlong as one’s of fate’s gifts to those of us who are willing give themselves to spontaneity. Although, I have to admit, I can’t help but raise a quiet mental toast to him every time I drink tequila.
Join Greta here again on 19 May 2011 for another encounter of the erotic kind.
Greta has just released Erotic Liaisions - an e-book of six sexy short stories to tempt, tease and titillate. Get your copy at Barnes & Nobel
or Amazon
Copyright © 2011 Greta Goddard
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
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