Content notice:
The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.
I’ve done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.
That said, if you’re someone who prefers to avoid such things altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.
The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.
The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.
The Author
~
M.U.F.F., Part IV
I reach out with one soapy hand and cup the underside of his cock. I feel its weight, its warmth, its velvety skin. I have no idea what to do with it.
Judging by the size of my own hand, I’d put it at five, maybe six inches long, and about two inches wide.
I imagine telling Alex.
I picture the look on her face when I tell her, but I’m having trouble picturing how I’d explain how I got here. I wouldn’t know where to begin.
Alex.
That’s a subject to gladly take my mind off of.
With my other hand, I touch the underside of his balls. He obliges me by spreading his feet on the wet bathtub floor. His sack is a tight, wet little package, the skin kept immaculately hairless.
“Aren’t you going to wash it?” he says.
I glance at his face, expecting impatience, finding playfulness instead.
I wrap my hand loosely around his cock, and, doing my best to be appropriately porny, I begin the clumsy, soapy process of giving a handjob to my high school history teacher.
I’m still holding his balls. I’m not sure what to do with them, so I start massaging the backside of them with my fingertips.
I glance at his face again. His eyes are half-lidded, perhaps more from appreciation than pleasure.
It’s still awkward, but I’m starting to get the hang of jerking him off. It’s surprisingly delightful, the physical sensation of the soft skin and the hard core underneath slipping back and forth in my grip.
I see why people like these things so much.
His face isn’t exactly orgasmic. But he seems like he’s enjoying it, and I’m surprised to find that I’m enjoying it too. I guess this is what people get out of something that only pleasures the other person.
I have more questions for him. And he’s vulnerable.
And I don’t mind taking advantage of his state of vulnerability at all. It isn’t lost on me that I’m an 18 year old girl and he’s an authority figure who seduced me. Vulnerability is a sliding scale.
I ask, “How does someone end up in an arrangement that involves propositioning their students for sex?”
It’s he who searches my face this time. Perhaps he’s looking for duplicitousness. Whatever he finds, it’s something he’s okay with.
“I knew what kind of a person I was early on,” he says, his voice soft.
“Did Mrs. Robinson?”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s something we talked about before we decided to get serious. We felt the same way. So we reached an agreement that’s lasted ever since.”
“When was that?”
He smiles, his cheeks reddened by embarrassment or arousal. Maybe both.
“A million years ago,” he says.
“What was the agreement?”
“That people are too precious about sex. They make a big deal about it, they build it up. Then they get disappointed. Or they get hurt.”
I’m focusing more near the end of the shaft, near the head. He seems to like that.
My other hand, the one on his balls, is drifting further and further up the backside of his scrotum. Soon, I’m touching his perineum, the reverse of the journey he made down the crack of my ass earlier.
I’m curious, and he’s making himself available.
“What do you call it?” I ask.
“Hm?”
I wiggle my soapy middle finger, the one that’s closest to his anus.
He laughs. “You’re a secret pervert, aren’t you?”
“Maybe not so secret,” I say.
“It’s always the ones you’d least expect.”
“Who do you most expect?”
He thinks about this.
“Your friend Alex, for one,” he says.
My hands stop.
“My asshole,” he says.
“What?”
“You can call it my asshole.”
My hands start again.
“Mr. Robinson,” I ask, as if in class, “May I touch your asshole?”
“Please do, Ms. Beth.”
I let my finger migrate upward until it finds a small, warm divot surrounded by powerful muscle. I press into it gently. It holds firm against my fingertip.
For some reason, this surprises me. I guess I was under the impression that things just go in.
“Feels good,” he says.
I start massaging it, little circular motions, a miniature version of how I might play with my pussy. It’s hard to do this and jerk him off at the same time, but I think I’m managing.
“You like having your asshole touched?” I say.
“I love having my asshole touched.”
“Isn’t that… you know…”
When he speaks now, his voice is that of a man clearly enjoying himself, but who nevertheless needs to command my understanding.
“It’s one of the most pleasurable places to be touched,” he says. “You might find that out for yourself at some point. Enjoying it won’t turn you into something you’re not already.”
His voice is getting tremulous. He’s enjoying this more than he’s been letting on.
“Are you going to…” I start to ask.
“What?”
“You know.”
“Am I going to come?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Not from this.”
“Oh.”
He quickly adds, “This feels really nice. It doesn’t have to make you come to make you feel good.”
I must have sounded hurt.
He adds, “It’s okay if you’re not automatically the best at something you’re doing for the first time.”
He’s making me smile. It’s funny, in this situation, to see his mentor instincts springing into action.
I stop jerking him off, and I remove my finger from between his asscheeks.
Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s not going to come right now. I’m not sure I’d know what to do with his ejaculating organ.
The thought pops into my head of him splattering me with porn star levels of cum, and I realize how horny I am. My insides are melting.
I’ve been so wrapped up in feeling awkward and bewildered about being here, apprehensive about whether or not I would like this, that I haven’t been giving myself the space to notice it.
This is an important moment. I should be enjoying this for myself.
“Could we get out now?” I ask.
“You don’t want me to wash you?”
I shake my head no.
Alex’s prophecy of well-washed boobs will have to wait.
I turn the water back on for us to rinse off. I get out first, making him stay inside the shower with the curtain closed while I towel off on the other side of it.
He’s seen just about everything already. But, for some reason, letting him watch me dry my body, bending this way and that, is a frontier of intimacy I’m not ready to cross with him.
I leave the bathroom, turn off the warbling TV, and lie on the bed, still with my towel on.
Then I call him out.
Through the open bathroom door, I hear him turn the spray off and open the shower curtain.
As he appears coming through the bathroom door, he has the towel wrapped around his waist. His hard cock makes a tent in front of it. Beads of water twinkle in his body hair.
He crosses in front of me and turns the TV back on.
“The walls here are pretty thin. It’s best that we’re not heard,” he explains.
He sits on the edge of the bed next to me, and I suddenly feel very weird for lying here in the middle of it, like a body in a tomb.
“Can I lie down with you?” he says.
Staring at the ceiling, I nod.
He rolls onto his stomach and crawls on top of me, putting just a little weight on me.
He’s at my eye level, and it’s hard not to look him in the face. I close my eyes, trying not to look like I’m avoiding him.
He kisses my cheek, then my mouth. I reciprocate. Our tongues mesh together, our spit mingling, in a way that I don’t find as disgusting as I might have thought.
Actually, it feels good.
Through our towels, I feel his erection against my thigh.
When our mouths part for a breather, I ask, “Can I take your towel off?”
He nods and arches his hips a little bit. I grip his towel where it meets his waist, and it pulls away easily.
I can’t really see anything from here, but my hand brushes his body and finds bare ass.
Before he lies back down on me, I arch a little and snatch my own towel off, quickly, to keep myself from changing my mind.
He settles back down, his warm, wet skin on mine, his cock sandwiched between us.
This is it.
This is it this is it this is it
“I have a condom,” he says. “Should I get it now?”
I nod.
He rolls off of me, gets up, crouches down to his messenger bag on the floor by the bed.
I watch his body move, watch him open the bag, watch a naked man for the first time doing something mundane and non-sexual. Clinical, like an explorer, watching the behavior of some new beast in the wild.
He does something below the edge of the bed where I can’t see, stands up, and faces me, his cock condomed and panhandled.
Despite myself, I laugh.
You never think about it, but a hard penis inside a condom is a funny looking thing.
He smiles. He doesn’t mind being laughed at.
Then he’s back on top of me, but my legs are still closed and his knees are pressing into the bed on either side of them. His genitals periodically brush against my pubic hair.
We make out a while longer. I’m not sure if we’re savoring this last moment that we can never have again, or if we’re just putting off the inevitable.
Then he says, “Ready?”
Without thinking, I nod.
We rearrange our legs. He’s between my knees now. His hips are arched. I feel something hard and hot pushing against my labia.
“You should raise your knees,” he says. “Hold me between your thighs.”
I do.
He gives me the sweetest peck on the cheek.
“I’m going to put it in now,” he says. “Okay?”
I blurt out, “I’ve never done this before.”
He nods. “That’s what I figured.”
“I just…”
He waits for me to finish.
When I don’t, he says, “If you want to stop here, that’s totally okay.”
“I really don’t,” I say. “I want to keep going.”
“What’s wrong?”
I take a deep breath.
“It’s just that I’ve imagined this a lot of times,” I say. “And every time, in the back of my mind, I’m laughing at myself for thinking anyone would want me.”
He’s searching my face. His is inscrutable.
It’s spilling out of me now.
I say, “I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to do this with me, except as pity or maybe as a joke.”
I feel the head of his cock withdraw from the entrance of my labia, and I feel like I just ruined it.
He’s still holding me, still on top of me. He hasn’t made any other moves.
In a low, careful voice, he says, “Beth, I’m going to tell you two things that I want you to tell yourself anytime you have those thoughts.”
“Okay,” I say. I try not to sound as skeptical as I feel.
He says, “One, you’re a beautiful girl. The more you live your life, the more I hope you understand that it isn’t a standard you have to meet. You just have to be willing to see it in yourself.”
“Okay.”
“And the other is, if you want to get laid, just do it. If other people decide they want you, try not to get hung up on why. It’s just fucking. There’s no reason to be precious about it.”
I think to myself, that’s easy for him to say.
But I’m also trying not to listen too closely to what he’s saying, and I think it’s because I’m afraid that I might not be able to think my way around it.
He says, “Okay?”
I say, “Okay.”
For the second time, he says, “It’s totally fine if you want to stop here.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to stop.”
And, for the second time tonight, he says, “Is it okay if I put it in now?”
I nod.
He’s positioned over me, his hips raised. I feel the head of his cock at my labia again.
Then, slow, steady, and implacable, it pushes inside me.
~
For a time, he just humps, and I feel him going in and out, unfamiliar genitals getting to know to each other. I hear the sounds of his heavy breathing, mixed in with the undifferentiated chatter of the TV.
It doesn’t hurt at all.
If anything, it doesn’t feel like as much of anything as I thought it would. The pounding feels good, and the feeling of fullness feels good. Inside me, he feels much bigger than he looks.
It is, like he said, nothing to be precious about.
Then he lets more of his weight rest on me, shortening his strokes and keeping himself in deep, almost to his hips, and the grinding of our pubises is a little more in line with the spectacle I’d hoped for.
He suckles the flesh of my neck–not too hard, I hope–and repeatedly thumbs one of my hard nipples, and it feels so good that I feel myself lurch inside, skipping stairs on the climb of my arousal.
I feel so close with him. His body feels good. He smells good. Clean and humid, a little sweaty and spicy.
I find myself wondering what he smells like down there, what his cock would feel like in my mouth. Lamenting that I probably won’t find out tonight, hoping that someday I’ll have the chance.
“How are we doing?” he breathes.
I nod, look him in the face, and say, “We’re doing fine.”
He says, “If we keep going, I’m going to come.”
I nod again. “Okay.”
He nods in return and keeping up with his attentions, his cheeks and forehead shining and ruddy.
For about 30 seconds, he doubles his efforts, our bodies clapping together, my flesh jiggling in a hateful way that I hope he doesn’t see, and he raises his head in a silent bellow as he suddenly stops.
He pushes in me, hard, his pubic bone putting a delicious pressure on me, and I feel his body on top of me, in my arms, as rigid as can be until too much of its vitality has poured out of it.
Then he withdraws, gingerly, and slides off me to take his place limply on the bed at my side.
My skin has sweat on it, and I’m not sure whose.
I roll onto my side, and he holds me, and we make out some more, his style less aggressively masculine and more passive than before. His hand brushes the fat of my hip, and I don’t hate it.
When our necking tapers off, I tell him, “That was really nice.”
He grins, and says, “You want to stop?”
“I thought that was the end of it.”
“But you haven’t been taken care of yet.”
I give him a puzzled look.
He pushes my hip gently. “Here. Get on your back again.”
I do.
“Knees up,” he says, and I do.
He positions himself at my feet, on all fours, his head hovering between my knees.
“Have you ever done this?” he asks.
I don’t have to ask what this is.
“No,” I say.
“Are you ready?”
I’m mortified that he can see how hairy I am, and the mottled texture of my inner thighs.
“Sure,” I say.
He lowers his face, and I can’t see what he’s doing over the hills of my body, but I feel something warm and wet make contact with my vulva, and it’s weird as hell. At first, I strongly doubt that I like it.
But as he goes on, and we get accustomed to each other, it starts to feel nice, and I feel those stirrings in my core that I felt earlier while he was fucking me, and they’re stronger than they were before.
I start having flashbacks to my fantasies, though, my nebulous idea of him eating me out, and it ruins it. The feelings that followed–the shame and the guilt–come roaring back.
I’m in my head, and I’m losing it.
But, as the fantasies replay from the beginning, and as his tongue gets bolder around my hooded clit, I start to recapture it. Soon, the fantasies are my aid, an accompaniment to the physical sensations.
I’ve gotten to the part of my fantasy of fucking the girl who reminds me of me, and that’s when I come.
It builds and builds, longer than it ever has. I squeeze Mr. Robinson’s head between my thighs. My hips come up, then down again.
In a moment blessedly free of self-consciousness, I squirm and grunt and thrash, while Mr. Robinson’s poor head goes along for the ride, my genitals convulsing against his mouth.
It’s utterly unlike the short, perfunctory ones, the ones that clear my head and help me sleep. This is a thrashing, unruly thing, dragged out of me by the jaws of the man in between my legs.
I’m flat on my back, my mind off in outer space. I don’t know how long.
When I start paying attention again, Mr. Robinson is holding me, his flaccid cock damp against my leg, still swaddled in crinkling latex. His mouth is sticky and damp and smells wonderful.
~
We shower again, briefly, taking turns this time. He goes first.
When I get out, I wonder if we’re going to fool around again, but I exit the bathroom and find him getting dressed.
I approach him, wrapping the towel around myself in a sudden fit of modesty.
He glances at me.
“You should probably get home before too long,” he says. “Make sure you’re totally dry first.”
I nod, and set about doing just that.
Once I’m dressed, I gather up my stuff and open the door. Outside, the sun is low in the sky and the air coming through the door is cool against my skin.
He’s still sitting on the bed, watching me.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
“You leave first,” he says. “I’ll take off soon.”
“Okay,” I say.
Unsure of what else to do, I step outside and close the door behind me, cutting myself off from the jabber of the television and the air of my first sexual experience. My pussy aches and thrums.
TO BE CONTINUED
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