Chapter 1
"Mmm! Oh, Fred! Oh, darling!"
Lying on the other twin bed in the same room, illuminated by the lamp on the night table, I listened to the woman's cries of ecstasy and wondered how I'd gotten into this situation. The woman was my wife.
I could understand why Fred Nelson had become involved. The woman lying like a log under me was Lydia, his wife. My cock was buried in her-not quite buried, actually-about three inches short of complete interment, leaving my balls dangling in space. A hysterectomy had shortened her vaginal barrel and her cunt was as dry as a gopher hole.
This was our first swap party. The rules required that couples attending for the first time must occupy the same bedroom with the partners which chance had assigned them. Pairing this night had been, decided by the old-fashioned parlor game of 'Spin the Bottle,' with the women in a small circle, and the men taking turns in the center whirling an empty Coke. Unlike the game played by teen-agers of the dead days of the past, the payoff was not a kiss. And you crapped out, losing your turn, if the mouth of the bottle pointed to your wife. I never had my turn at the bottle, ending up with Lydia. The party would have been a complete fiasco for me-Lydia had no interest in intercourse-except for the fact that she had proved herself the world's most accomplished expert in the art of fellatio.
Oh, I had thoroughly enjoyed her performance; turning like a pig on a barbecue spit under the heat of her lingual and labial ministrations. Delightful though it had been, plunging off the orgasmic heights to which her expertise had raised me, dropping like a mountain torrent with unremembered cries of joy, spilling myself into her yawning oral chasm, the experience should have been offered as a prelude to, and not the major part of an evening's sexual enjoyment. Now, as I lay pumping my thick prick wearily into this dry hole with short, tender strokes, I glanced over at Janice, my wife, in the next bed. Her blonde hair lay spread like pale gold threads on the pillow, her breasts flattened under a hairy chest, tapered legs hooked over hirsute thighs. Her precious buttocks were rotating to another man's sexual rhythm. Goddamn it! I wouldn't trade one of her little fingers for the five other women in the house-well, I have to be honest-except, maybe, Helen Conrad. But that's how I got into this situation, come to think about it.
Helen Conrad was a young, busy artist's model with shoulder-length red hair and emerald green eyes. Janice and I had met her last Wednesday night at a dinner dance at the Lakewood Country Club in the north shore suburb of Chicago. Don Ashby had invited us to meet some interesting friends of his, and had brought Helen as his date that night. I've known Don for seven years, ever since I started as a copy writer at the advertising agency of Warren, Wills, and Compton, upon graduation from Illinois with a lambskin from the College of Arts. Don had been head of the art department, but had left a few months after my arrival to open his own studio. Within two years, he had become the most successful commercial artist in the area.
After four years in copy, I had become an account executive with WWC, and had come to know Don quite well. Last Wednesday, Don happened to be leaving our office at the same time I was, on my way to meet Janice at the London House for lunch. Although we had been married four years, Don had never met my wife, so I asked him to join us. I should have known, the way the sparks flew when they met, that there might be a bonfire lighted that could burn down the city again.
Jan had been fascinated by Don's virility and his thin, handsome face, topped by a bush mop of black curly hair and bottomed by a beard, trimmed to a sharp point two inches below his jaw line. I watched her eyes brighten in response to his light banter and occasional sallies into serious conversation on a wide range of topics, on each of which he was widely read. In addition, he had demonstrated the mysterious balance of poise and judgment that intrigues every woman-the ability of an attractive man to maintain his bachelor status into his thirty-sixth year.
With growing uneasiness, I noted the sharpened look of the hunter light his black eyes as his overly casual glance returned to scan Jan's face, with its wide-spaced blue eyes under full bangs, its slender delicate nose, and sensual lips. I was not surprised then, when he turned to me suddenly as we were prepared to leave.
"Jim, I never thought you were so selfish."
"Why do you say that?" "Keeping this lovely bloom away from all eyes." He looked intently at Jan. "Honey, don't let this meanie talk you out of it. I want you both to come as my guests to a dinner dance at the Lakewood Country Club tonight. I want you to meet a circle of my intimate friends. What do you say?" He reached out to trail long delicate fingers down her jaw line. "My God! You're beautiful!"
Her slight involuntary shiver at his touch evoked a cautious and noncommittal, "Well..." Catching the plea in Jan's eye, I added, "It's up to Jan."
He rose, smiling. "Fine. It's all set then. See you at the Club at eight."
There were nine couples at our table at the dinner dance that night, and our host was not Don, but Milton Hubbard, owner of Hubbard Ware, Inc., manufacturers of a line of cook and kitchen utensils. Milt was a barrel-chested man of medium height, with gray hair, although he was no more than forty-five. His wife, Rose, was half a head taller than he, a blue-eyed brunette, regal and aloof, in her mid-thirties. Aside from the Hubbards, whose presence impressed me because of the business potential in the company's substantial advertising budget, I scarcely took note of anyone else at our table. Whoever had arranged the seating had seen to it that Janice was paired with Don. I was paired with Helen Conrad, Don's date for the night.
Seated next to me, wearing a pink dress with a high waist and a deep vee that bared her navel, she shattered my usual poise with frequent view of the creamy slopes of large, firm, unfettered breasts. From the moment I leaned over to help her seat herself at table, the sight of that flow of velvet flesh had blotted out all my concern over Jan's reaction to the suave attention Don was lavishing on her. Although I danced with other women, I could remember only the warm and cuddly Helen in my arms, the gentle slope of her ungirdled buttocks, and the soft yield of her thigh to the pressure of cock flesh roused to life by her intimate nearness. Twice, at the finish of a dance, escorting her back to our table I had stayed close behind her, careful to conceal from view the revealing bulge in the left leg of my trousers until I had managed to slide into my chair, hopefully unobserved. At the end of the last dance, I had slid my hand down over her buttocks, and felt a responsive contraction in her thigh as I throbbed the bulging head of my hardened prick against her.
"I want to see more of you," I whispered close to her ear.
"If you're lucky in the draw, you will. Damn, I hope so." Her eyes sparkled an enigmatic answer to my query about the 'draw.' Driving home that night, Jan cuddled close to me, her hand in my crotch, her lips occasionally nibbling at my ear. "Darling," she murmured, her hand slipping inside my unzipped trousers to palpate my genitals, "if you're not too tired when we get home, may I have him?" She leaned down and planted a wet kiss on the crown of my cock.
"Do that again, honey, and there won't be anything left of him by the time we get home."
But there was plenty of him left. I can't remember when I'd had a stiffer hard-on. I gentled his bulging head into her. Even after four years of intercourse at least once each night, except for the recurrent cyclic pause, she still had difficulty receiving his huge head. For over an hour we lay, locked and lost and loving, the smooth pattern of our rhythm slowed momentarily from time to time to quiet the rising storm, then starting afresh to sense the heightening gale within. Not until we had reached the topmost peak and the furies broke, did I realize that the woman thrashing out our mutual delirious joy was not the busty Helen, but my lovely wife, Jan. As I fell asleep, I finally found the quietus for the nagging sense of guilt I felt-in Jan's impassioned love-making, I had, perhaps, filled in for the new romantic lead who had entered her life this day, the bearded, compelling Don Ashby.
I was not surprised to receive an invitation from Don to lunch with him the next day. I was shocked, however, to learn that the dinner invitation of the preceding night had been extended by the members of a secret cabal, dedicated to wife swapping among themselves, that Jan and I, and three other couples had been invited in order that the five remaining ones could choose a new member replacement. The group, Don informed me, was limited to six couples; with the recent transfer of the Dave Johnsons to Cleveland, an opening had occurred. Don was delighted to advise us that the members had unanimously chosen Jan and me over the three other couples present last night, neither of whom, he hastened to assure me, were aware of the true reason for their invitation. I shut him off with a scornful wave of my hand, told him I'd be damned if I'd ever knowingly share my wife with any man.
"Jim," he said, "for Chrissake, Victoria died in nineteen-one. Besides," he added, lips curled in a taunting smile, "at least ask Jan if she's interested. Helen Conrad told me to be sure to tell you she's hopeful she gets you on the first draw."
I couldn't help it. I had to ask. "Is she a member?"
He chuckled. "Hell, she hasn't missed a meeting in the last year ... I have to run, Jim. You talk to Jan tonight. I'll give you a ring tomorrow." \ I'd talk to Jan, all right. I'd tell her all about it. I'd tell her I'd be goddamned if I'd ever allow my wife to pile into bed with any sonofabitch that drew her name out of a bowl. And that's for damn sure!
Helen Conrad. Helen. Mmm!
"Mmm! Oh, Fred! Oh, darling!"
Damn you, hurry up and get it over with. My finger is bigger and better and stiffer than... Your wife's talent must pay the way for both of you in the group. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. She must practice swallowing lengths of baloney to be able to handle a cock the size of Jim's. Damn you, Fred, hurry up.
Neither Jim nor I had spoken much on the long drive up to Lakewood tonight. Occasionally his hand had dropped off the wheel to clasp mine nervously. Once, as we entered the village limits, he had slowed the car to fifteen miles an hour, looking at me with the eyes of a troubled child. "Jan, honey, I don't know about this." His lower lip trembled. "What can either one of us get out of this that's as good as what we already have?"
A good question, I thought, yes, indeed. I had everything in Jim that a girl could ever want, a big, handsome husband, a money-maker, intelligent, well-read, a lover of prodigious talent with over-sized equipment. A lover, ah, yes! I remembered my first date with Jim, four years ago. Fresh out of Northwestern School of Journalism, twenty years of age, worldly-wise, or so I thought, I had sat across the candle-lit table in the small care on Rush Street, my skin prickling in response to the male animality of this husky blond. His large gray eyes sparkled with amusement at my lightest quip, his most casual glance emitted a warm caress. I had firmly resolved to ward off the slightest attempt at physical intimacy-no easy lay for him tonight. I wanted desperately to see him again. A goodnight kiss on the doorstep, I cautioned myself, quick and fleeting. Have your door key ready ... I had a lovely evening, Jim. Good night.
I did have my door key in my hand. I did say, or started to say, good night, but somehow his open lips swallowed the word, and his tongue was in my mouth, and I felt the warm stiffness of it, and the strength of his arms lifting me off my feet, the incredibly huge outline of his cock throbbing between my legs, and I was already wet with wanting.
In the bedroom, I had to restrain my impatience as he slowly undressed me. For God's sake, I thought, tear the clothes off me. Get naked yourself, quick. Let me see that thing of yours. I lay nude on the bed sheet, mentally screaming as he deliberately undressed. He stood beside me, his glance going over my stretch of nakedness, his tongue wetting his lips as his gaze lingered on my breasts and the fuzzy mound of gold, silky hair. Hurry, I thought, my moist palms stroking my breasts, cupping them up to speed his undressing. At most he took but a few minutes, though it seemed like hours, before he folded his trousers over a chair, his back to me as he slipped off his shorts.
The muscles of his back and firm buttocks rippled, rousing me to further heights of expectancy. But nothing I had imagined had prepared me for the shocking sight of his enormous cock when he turned to face me. Rising at an angle from a tangled growth of blond hair, the veined shaft of it thicker than my wrist, the pink, satiny head swollen to the size of my fist, his prick jutted out about inches, throbbing with pride, a tear drop glistening at the tip. His brown, wrinkled testicles hung below his crotch like a small coconut.
My mouth dropped open with fright. "Oh God! That'll split me in two."
He leaned over and kissed me lightly. "It'll be all right, darling. You'll see." He disappeared into the bathroom, while I lay trembling, returning a minute later with a jar of cleansing cream in his hand. "I couldn't find any Vaseline."
Setting the jar on the night table, he lay down beside me. His lips were as light as butterflies brushing my lips, cheeks, ears and throat, fluttering down over my breasts, his tongue wetly circling my nipples, his mouth suckling like a hungry child. Several times, roused to dizzy heights of wanting him, about to cry out for him to enter me, his hardened flesh would touch my thigh, sending a wave of chilling fear all though me. Sensing his lips nuzzling across my belly, down into the delta mound above my crotch, and nosing into the wetness of my pussy, I squirmed with delight.
He's going to eat it, I thought happily. I had never experienced that before. If he does, I won't have to take that horrible monster inside of me. But the sight of the jar of cold cream sent a new chill through me. His lips moved up my belly, my breasts, my throat, closed over my mouth, as he rolled over on me. I felt his left hand reach out to the night stand.
"No, Jim. I can't. You'll hurt me."
"I'll be gentle, darling. You'll love it." Straddling me, he knelt, uncapping the jar, and rubbed the length of his shaft with cream, spreading the crown of it thickly.
The sight of it close up was even more frightening. I started to cry, closing my eyes to shut out the awesome thing. I felt his fingers massaging both sides of my slit, creaming the already soaking lips, then his knees between my legs, forcing my thighs apart. The massive head of it, as big and stiff as the business end of a baseball bat, was forcing itself between my cunt lips. Opening my eyes, I whispered, "Jim, please, I want it but I'm afraid. Promise you won't force it. Promise you'll stop if the pain is too much."
His gray eyes were inches from mine. "I promise, darling."
I felt his forearm on my belly as he guided the head of his cock, gentling it, pressuring it against the opening. "Relax, sweet. Lift up your ass. Spread, wider."
I gasped as the head of it entered, finally. "Oh! Oh, God!" It felt like a log was jammed into me. "Oh, Jim. I can't. I can't."
He remained motionless. "Easy, darling, easy. The worst is over. Don't move. Just relax."
We lay for minutes, unmoving, the pain and shock subsiding, the fullness of him filling me with warmth and longing, the depths of me crying, clutching at this intruder to pull him into me. I raised my buttocks slightly, tentatively, felt the bulging head of his cock pressing out the walls of my vagina, filling, swelling with a throbbing fullness touching ever nerve cell. I felt his scrotal sac come to rest on my rectum. "Oh, Jim! Darling! Oh, I love it! Don't ever take him out."
I had never, never experienced anything like the delirious delight of fullness, of complete and ultimate orgasmic joy. I don't know how Jim could hold a rein on himself through two hours of continuous, ecstatic intercourse, with my orgasms falling like shooting stars, one after another, until he matched me at last with great lunging thrusts that poured a torrent of his hot semen into my depths. I awakened him at dawn, kissing his sleepy prick into wakefulness.
This is the man I married two months later. This is the man who has filled my every sexual need for the last four years. What more, indeed, could any man offer? I became aware that the car was parked at the roadside.
"Well, darling, shall we go home?" Jim was asking. "I don't know. I think ..." I thought of the man with the black curly hair, and the pointed chin whiskers. I thought of his full lips, and the pink tip of his tongue as he wet his lips in what I was sure was a meaningful promise of erotic delight. And I thought of the one sexual thrill I had never experienced-cunnilingus. He could have but one reason for the growth of that pointed beard-my rectum twitched at the thought. I looked down at the party dress I had bought for this night, a pink eyelet embroidery dress, with that 'little girl' look belied with the see-through view of budded nipples beneath a filmy nylon slip.
"I think, darling, there are some nice people in the group. That Helen Conrad was nice ... after all, we're both mature, well-adjusted. We could try it once, and ..."
"Yes," he said, shifting into gear, "she seemed like a very nice person. Okay, dear, we'll try it once."
Two stone pillars loomed up in the headlights and we turned in. The macadam pavement wound through dense oak woods and underbrush. I could hear the splash of waves and smell the humid night scent of the lake. The driveway dipped into a low spot, then climbed sharply up a hill to circle before the flood-lighted house, a rambling, one-story structure of stone, glass, and cream-colored brick.
Our hosts, Rose and Milt Hubbard, greeted us on the veranda, Rose cool and queenly in a white chiffon dress with Empire waist, Milt bluff and cordial, dressed comfortably in gray slacks and yellow turtle-neck sweater.
"You look lovely, my dear," he said, escorting me down a wide corridor The walls were lined on either side with fine paintings. An antique mahogany chest stood against one wall, with a framed mirror hanging above it. The silver backing was tarnished and peeling. I glanced into the large living room on my left, noting the tasteful combination of antique and modern furniture.
"You must be a collector, Milt."
"Yes," he said with a chuckle. "Getting a bit ancient myself." He squeezed the flesh of my arm, managing to touch my breast with the back of his fingers. "That's why I enjoy so much seeing you lovely young people joining our group. I hope you and Jim will enjoy our fun and games." Opening a glass door, he said, "Out here, Jan, everybody's on the veranda." Jim and Rose were directly behind us.
"All right, everybody," Milt called out, "you all know Jan and Jim. Let's give them a big welcome to our group."
As Jim and I moved among them, I looked each of them over with a fresh eye. We had met them all at the dinner dance, of course, but neither of us had known at the time about the swap group, nor, on learning the following day of the purpose, did we have any idea of the membership, except for Rose and Milt Hubbard, and Don Ashby and Helen Conrad. So these are the couples we had agreed to meet for sex games. As we were re-introduced to each of them, I studied them carefully, the men as possible bed-partners for me, the women as potential receptacles of Jim's formidable tool. Fred Nelson was a tall, skinny fellow, with black hair and dark eyes in a thin, sallow face-not my choice on this or any other night for any kind of games. His wife, also in her mid-thirties, was tall and slim, with brown hair and hazel eyes, and small breasts emphasized by her tight-fitting white pique dress.
Paul and Marg Lefler, in their early thirties, looked interesting, especially Paul, a bit under six feet, well-built, his short blond hair and merry eyes giving him the look of a teen-ager. Marg was a short, well-shaped woman with black hair and dark eyes, and a very pleasant smile. And last, the Hagens, Joe, a slightly-built man, no taller than I, with a thin black mustache, a cocky attitude, and hooded dark eyes. Alicia, his wife, was short, with a small, though well-proportioned figure. Her blond hair was streaked with black at the roots With her small frame, I thought, she'd never handle my Jim in bed, but as I turned to greet Don and Helen, I caught a glimpse of Joe's tight slacks and the bulge in his left pant leg. That little guy might be an interesting companion-he looked every bit the equal of any man in that department.
Don and Helen greeted us warmly. A stereo was playing a slow fox trot and I stepped into Don's opened arms.
"I'm glad you came, Jan."
"I don't know," I replied, my palms breaking out in sweat. "I'm frightfully nervous." I felt his hand pat my rump reassuringly, then linger to trace the down slope of my buttocks. "You have the most beautiful ass I've ever had my hand on," he whispered into my ear. The tip of his chin whiskers feathered on my throat, sending shivers all through me. "Hope I'm lucky in the draw."
"How do they choose ... I mean ..."
"You'll see." He laughed, and tightened his arm around me. "The host decides what game of chance is used-rolling dice, high card and low card ..."
"You mean... it hasn't already been decided?"
"Strictly by the rules, honey. No fix, no stacked deck."
"But the dance," I said, tension building within me ... suppose I ended up with ... suppose I didn't end up with Don! "Certainly you fixed that, seating me next to you."
"That was different." He chuckled. "I had to make sure Jim would bring you into the group, so I baited him with Helen." We both glanced at Jim and Helen, dancing over in a corner like puppets, glued together at the pubic line. "It worked," he said with a smile.
"Yes," I muttered, the evening beginning to sour.
"We'd better have a drink." Don led me to a table with bottles of Scotch and bourbon, a silver pitcher of martinis, glasses, and a large bowl of ice. I indicated my choice, and Don poured two martinis, offering me one. "Drink up," he said. "Another inviolable rule of the club-a limit of two drinks before games start, none after."
"Suppose," I said, with a hollow laugh, "suppose you get stuck with a party pooper. You can't drink away your frustration?"
He kissed me on the forehead, his whiskers tickling my nose. "I can guarantee you there are none of those in this group-no, I can't either. I can only speak for the women."
"Don, I specialize in breaking up monopolies."
I turned to face Joe Hagen.
"May I have this dance, honey?"
His right arm went around the small of my back, and as he turned his back on Don, his hand slid down over my buttocks, working his fingers over them possessively. "I feel lucky tonight, baby."
His breath was heavy with the smell of liquor. "Don't they have a rule about a limit on drinks? " "Sure." He leaned back to look into my face, forcing his stiffening cock into my thigh. "I always have an extra one or two before I arrive. I never break the rule. My love life thrives on booze."
Good Lord! I thought, the damned thing is nearly down to my knee!
"Okay, everybody," Milt cried. "Ten o'clock. Bar's closed. Gather around." He waited a few moments. "We're delighted to have the Rydens join up with us. Since this is their first night with us, bear with me while I explain our few simple rules: first, a limit of two drinks before the games start; second, partners are matched by any legitimate game of chance-the choice of such at the discretion of the evening's host; third, no liaisons between members outside our regular meetings; and last, any new couple joining our group must share the same bedroom with their partners of the night... this on the first night only.
I staggered back against the man standing behind me. It was Jim. "Oh, Christ, no! No, no," he muttered. I felt his hands grip my biceps.
"Milt," he said, his voice edgy with anger, "why the hell didn't someone tell us this before. I can't..."
"Jim, honey, please listen. We've all been through it." Helen's voice cooed softly. She moved over to put her arm around him, whispered in his ear. Her words and her touch seemed to calm Jim, for he chuckled and relaxed his grip on my arms. At the same instant, I felt fingers under my dress sliding up the inside of my thighs, and a feathery touch on the back of my neck as a voice sighed in my ear. "Darling, don't let him back out now. I want to love this." His thumb pressed up into my slit to emphasize the object of his desire. My buttocks clamped together with an involuntary shiver.
"Wait!" Milt Hubbard said, his hands raised for quiet, an uncertain smile on his lips. "I'm sorry, Jim, but this is one of our inviolable rules, and with good reason. No, no." He waved his hand to silence Jim's incipient reply. "Hear me out now. One needn't be a philosopher nor a psychologist to realize that swapping is a complete break with the moral shibboleths of the past." He glanced slowly at every individual present, waiting for each one's acquiescent nod. "Therefore, we believe it necessary that every couple newly introduced to our group must abide by this rule to signify their mutual willingness to break with the past." He looked first at Jim, then at me. "Jim? Jan?"
In the expectant hush, Helen's sibilant whisper could be heard. "Say yes, Jim, yes, please."
After a moment, Jim replied softly. "Well, it's up to Jan. Whatever she says."
All eyes, except Don's, turned to me. I felt the light touch of his whiskers on the back of my neck, sending prickles of delightful shivers all through me. "All right," I whispered.
The process of pairing didn't take long. I stood in the small circle of women, clasping my hands nervously while the men chose slips of paper from Milt s hand, each slip containing a number from one to six, the numerical sequence indicating each man's turn to spin a Coke bottle. I found myself hoping that Don wouldn't pair up with me. Not tonight. I couldn't imagine myself enjoying my first experience of cunnilingus in the inhibiting presence of my husband. I wanted to be alone with Don when I did-to feel free to throw my legs up in the air, to spread the crack of my ass, feel the maddening tickle of his whiskers around my rectum as he buried his nose in my cunt.
I needn't have worried. Don drew the slip with the number one, and his spin of the Coke bottle paired him with Rose Hubbard. Joseph Hagen drew number two. I was amused to note the sour smile on Jim's face when Joe paired up with Helen Conrad. He turned his face away in anger as Helen snuggled into Joe's arms, wriggling her buttocks; his horse-cock had evidently filled her to satisfaction before. Fred Nelson was next, and, as I found later to my disgruntlement, unhappily paired with me. After Paul Lefler had paired with Alicia Hagen and Milt Hubbard with Marg Lefler, Jim was left with Lydia Nelson.
The Hubbards' home was spacious, with five bedrooms, four baths, and a convertible sofa in the den. Since Jim and I were new to the group, we were assigned the master bedroom suite to share with our partners. After what seemed like an interminable time, I managed to achieve a minor orgasm, more the result of sheer will on my part than the consequence of the inexpert diddling of my partner, whom I had by this time come to think of as "pimple-prick Freddie."
Although Milt had announced earlier that breakfast would be served at three in the morning, Jim and I managed to shower and dress, and be on our way by two. We both sat glumly silent on the long ride home.
With the bedroom lights on, I stood before the mirror, naked, stroking my breasts with the palms of my hands, hot and wanting and unsatisfied. I hoped Jim would still be able to rise to my need. He was bent over, picking up his shorts, as I turned away from the mirror. I licked my lips at the sight of his working buttocks and the large scrotal sac hanging between his muscular thighs.
"Well, honey, what do you think of swapping? " "Shit!" he blurted out. Then, turning to face me, he laughed. "This is the best answer I can give you."
I glanced down at his thick stiff prick, thrusting up like a pink-capped bludgeon. Jumping into bed, I lay on my back, arms and legs outspread in welcome. "Damn it!" I cried, "don't just stand there. Give it to me."
Two hours later, the soft light of dawn sifted into the room and over our naked bodies still locked in embrace. What delights, I wondered, could a woman possibly find, even in the most artful of cunnilingual techniques, to match the joy of a man's warm wet lips suckling her nipples, of his swollen cock throbbing its fullness into every crevice of her cunt, of the caress of his pulsing balls on her puckered sphincter at the full depth of his thrust?
Sensing the tensing of Jim's muscles, and the warm currents flooding through every nerve of my body to signal the on-rushing orgasm - his second, and my sixth (I think) - I dug my heels into the base of his ass cheeks, jerking the root of his thick cock against my clitoris. "Mmm! Jim, darling, give me every inch of you. Fill me! Flood me! Ooh! Come! Come!"
I fell asleep in his arms, sated, spent, and satisfied-except for that nagging question: what comparable delights could cunnilingus offer? I'd never be completely satisfied until I'd personally experienced the answer to that.