The Juliette Society(64)

Now it’s like everything’s happening in slow motion. My hair is swimming around me like seaweed and wraps itself around my head like a scarf until I can’t see Jack any more, I can only feel his cool hard cock as I work it in and out of my hot mouth.

I have one hand working the shaft of his penis and the other pressed against his chest to stop myself from floating away. He reaches down to fondle my breasts and I feel them wobble and bounce. Then he takes my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, holds them firmly and gently pulls them towards him. I feel the slight tug on my breasts as they shift their centre of gravity and gently bump back and forth, like a moored dinghy, while the rest of my body works his cock.

It feels so good down here, and I feel so safe, that I don’t want it to end, even as I can feel the oxygen in my lungs depleting and my head starting to get dizzy.

I’m working Jack’s cock with my mouth, taking him in a little deeper each time and I take him in just a little too deep, because the head of his cock hits the back of my throat and I gag and choke. Bubbles pour from my nose. Water rushes into my mouth. And I come up gasping for air.

I get my breath back and we swim over to the shallow end of the pool. I sit on the second step, my upper body out of the water, my arms over the edge of the pool. Jack gently parts my legs and I wrap them around his back as he puts himself inside me and starts fucking me, slow and steady, so I can feel him draw all the way in and all the way out. And as he does so, the water laps against the bottom of my breasts. I squeeze my legs tighter around his back, to tell him I want him to go deeper.

The sun is disappearing behind the hills and casting this brilliant burnt orange glow into the sky. All I can hear is the evening song of the birds in the trees, the water lapping against the side of the pool, my moans and Jack’s moans. It feels like the perfect moment, and it seems like all of our problems have melted away: Jack’s unwillingness to have sex, the barrier between us. I wish it could always be this way.



We get out of the water and traipse back to the house, still dripping wet and flushed with passion. Once we get inside, I bring a sheepskin rug down from the bedroom that Gena put us in and lay it down in front of the fireplace, while Jack stokes the fire Bob left burning for us, so we can dry ourselves off.

We’re sitting side by side, cross-legged, in front of the fire, and I turn to Jack and say, ‘I want you to fuck me in the ass.’

Now, that may not sound all that romantic, but maybe you had to be there because it sure felt like it at the time. Right there, right then, I couldn’t think of anything more intimate than having anal sex with my boyfriend in front of a roaring fire.

I said it on a whim, because I couldn’t think of anything more delicious and perverse than looking back on this weekend and thinking, we had anal sex in Bob DeVille’s house. Did that really happen? And I said it as a dare because I know Jack’s in the mood and I want to see how far I can push him to do something he would never suggest on his own. Not here, not now. Not in a million years.

It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy fucking me in the ass. I know he does. And especially because it’s something I won’t let him do all the time, because I don’t want him to get used to it. I want it to be special. Like eating truffles or oyster or caviar, because if you ate them all the time it would lose its thrill. It wouldn’t feel like a luxury any more. And ass-fucking is the luxury food of sexual positions.

I believe nature gave us, men and women, multiple holes for good reason. To put things in and push stuff out. And I intend to use them all because, otherwise, I wouldn’t be getting good use out of my body, and it would be such a waste.

There’s just one thing missing though from this little scenario I’d dreamt up for me and Jack.

Lubrication.

There’s no polite way to say this:

Jack’s cock is just too big for my ass.

Lubrication is not only desirable, it’s required.



Let me put it like this.

You know when you’re browsing for shoes and you’ve fallen completely head-over-heels in love, if you’ll excuse the pun, with one particular pair in a specific style and color. They’re just perfect and you feel like they’ve been waiting there all this time for you to find them. But the assistant comes back to say they’ve just sold the last pair in your size and the only ones they have left are one and a half sizes smaller.

And, size be damned, you’re determined that you’re going to try them on anyway, because you have to have this shoe and you’re not going to leave the store without them. You manage to slip it in halfway without much effort at all, but then it gets stuck just past the instep. It’s half in, half-out, and you tell yourself, it’s really not as small as you thought. That you’ve gone this far so you figure another little push will do it, another push will get it in, and then the leather will start to give. It will start to stretch and mold itself around your foot and the shoe will be yours.