It has been a long dry spell, and my whole body vaguely aches for it, from the heels of my feet to the root of my cock and beyond. It has been a very long dry spell, for complicated reasons that I won’t go into here, and that I don’t fully understand myself. So when my hot sort-of co-worker Leighla asked me to go to this party with her, I didn’t hesitate one moment. I said “Yes.” Not that I had anything else going on tonight anyway.
Leighla navigates me confidently through an Upper West Side neighborhood that could be in another state, in another country as far as I’m concerned. This is not my New York City, not by a thousand miles. Here, I am the foreigner. Leighla’s skirt swishes as she walks, concealing hidden pleasures within, and I become acutely aware of the balls and penis hanging thick between my legs. We stop at a bodega, and she picks out two pieces of fruit that I do not recognize. She hands me one, and we eat as we walk. It is cloyingly sweet, and the juice runs down my face and sloshes all over my hands and runs down my neck. It makes me think of eating pussy, which makes me think of *her* pussy, and I blush.
I don’t know Leighla well. I don’t, in fact, know much more about her than her name. She works on a different floor from me; sometimes I see her in meetings, or in the building lobby, or sitting on a bench in the atrium, eating lunch out of a battered old X-Men lunchbox, circa 1980. She is attractive in a not-my-type sort of way. Not that I’m entirely sure I even have a type. I suspect that she is out of my league in any case. She reminds me of a tree, maybe a mountain ash: tall and slender and lithe; rooted but always in motion, crowned with a canopy of burgundy curls.
It is not my kind of party, not that I have a particular party type. It’s not my scene, not at all. I lose Leighla almost immediately, and find myself tossed adrift on a stormy sea, full of social flotsam and jetsam. Graduate students and their professors, all talking shop, the dialect of a tribe I am not conversant in. A smug-looking 20-something kid with a epic sideburns, a flannel lumberjack shirt and a John Deere baseball cap is holding court on the couch, surrounded by professor’s wives, regaling them all with some utterly fictional story about hunting deer in the Catskills. Even I can see the size of the bulge in his crotch, and I’m not in the habit of checking out other dude’s packages. The kid is preening like a well-fed house cat, reveling gleefully in the attention, absolutely bubbling over with smug self-satisfaction. I go off in search of a drink.
I do obtain a drink for myself, and set off to do some prowling of my own. I overhear someone whisper that the punch has been spiked with MDMA. This does not unduly concern me.I wander into the kitchen and get cornered next to the refrigerator by a woman ten years older than me, twenty pounds heavier, with a big fat diamond ring weighing down her left hand. She has olive skin and sad, hungry brown eyes, and she is wearing tight black pleather leggings that it looks like she has been extruded into: some industrial process involving pistons and hydraulic rams. Her thighs are thick and soft; her sweater is deep and voluminous. She tells me that she is working on a project to decode the genome of the malayan tapir. While she is talking, she makes flirtatiously aggressive eye contact and fiddles the stir stick in her cocktail suggestively, and I am just starting to think that I may be getting somewhere with her, and that getting somewhere might not be an at all bad thing when Leighla swoops back in.
“Hey, I heard there’s roof access,” she says, deftly cutting me off from Mrs. Horny Geneticist and tugging me along behind her. “Let’s sneak up onto the top of the building and fool around!”
‘Fool around’? I’m not sure exactly what she means by that, but my dick has it’s won suspicions. I follow Leighla, abandoning my new friend to the tides.
This apartment is HUGE. Just enormous, almost an embarrassment. You could fit like 6 of my studios in here, and still have room left over to sublet. None of the rooms seem to have the rumored roof access. There is a fire escape behind the kitchen window, but the way out is obstructed by a jungle of potted plants and dangling Le Creuset pans that appear to have never been sullied by the crass act of actual cooking.
It is late, and the ecstasy likes to dilate time and space. I may have placed my hand on Leighla’s breast as we rounded a corner into another dead end; she may have gently but firmly removed it. Without bothering to knock, we barge straight through a closed door into the master bedroom, and that is when I see him. My young hipster nemesis, of recent couch fame. He has brought a friend along with him, and they are tangled up atop the sheets, sullying our host’s linen. His shirt is off, his chest smooth and pink, decorated with an obligatory tattoo. She is older than I am; tall and blonde and busty, with thick, pale thighs, and just a little bit of a poochy belly bulging over her Vicky’s Secret purple panties, extra high-cut up the sides and sporting a little pink bow front and center. Her tits are big, and if they were probably a little bit perkier fifteen years ago, they are still pretty damn nice. Nipples fat, stiff and pink; pearl earrings and a discrete little tattoo of pink and blue stars on her ankle. Ring on her finger. She is somebody else’s wife. There is a lot of that going around tonight.
Through his tight black hipster jeans, I can clearly see the outline of his cock. Damn, the kid is really hung. Leighla sees it too. She nudges me and grins. All wrapped up in their own thing, they haven’t noticed us yet.
Sweet mercy, it’s been a long time! My brain seethes with jealousy while my less judgmental cock sproings up into an unabashedly erect state. Leighla and I watch the two of them make out on the bed, getting hotter and heavier by the minute, hands and mouths roaming with frenzied urgency, a pair of over-aged horny teens making out on the sly. It is better than any porn video I’ve ever watched. He is slobbering all over her big, beautiful tits, and I am hating his guts.
Her panties come down. Her pussy is shaved bald, puffy lips pouting open, hints of moist pink treasures within. Four eager hands unbutton and remove the kid’s exceedingly tight hipster pants. A fat cock, large and rubbery, disturbingly realistic, held in place with straps and harness, flops free. Below the dildo, his own penis, not exactly tiny, but certainly not large by any stretch of the imagination, points straight out: bobbing up and down like an eager kid in the third-grade class who knows the answer. “Call on me! Call on me!”
She is unamused by his little deception, I can see it all over her face, a frown of reprobation: teacher caught the kid cheating. But she doesn’t say anything; she is also too far gone to stop now. Perhaps that was his gambit all along. They lay face-to-face atop the fancy white linens, naked but for his white socks and strap-on rig; his hands fondling her buttocks, her fingers busy with her own pussy. Leighla takes my hand and squeezes.
“The very least you could do,” she tells him huskily, “is lick my little kitty.”
Apparently, that is the very least he could do. I can almost hear him sigh with the annoyance of the chore. She sprawls on her back across the bed, legs splayed wide open, breasts pancaked. and he crawls in between her thighs and half-hearted laps at her pussy. This is when she sees us, Leighla and I, standing by the door. She raises an eyebrow and makes a wry face. ‘See what I’ve gotten myself into,’ she seems to be saying.
I would have spent a lot longer, and been way more enthusiastic about eating her out, but hey, that’s me and my appetites, and I’ve been deprived lately. Anyway, after a quick two minutes, he comes up with a smug air of completion on his face, apparently feeling like he’s done his duty and is ready for the next act.
She does not argue the point. They roll over and once again he is on the bottom. He still has not seen us. She straddles him, facing us, reverse-cowgirl style. She grins and winks in our direction, grabs his big fat strap-on dildo, and inserts it into her pussy. It slides easily up inside, and she sighs a deep, fat sigh of contentment. She starts riding him, bouncing up and down, grinding back and forth. Her pussy makes sexy slurping sounds as it devours the dildo. She plays with her clit, pinching it delicately between two ladylike fingers as she fucks. His real, undersized but flesh-and-blood penis bounces futilely as they fuck, oozing frustration and pre-come.
Leighla nudges me, then nudges me again. With her eyes, she tells me what she wants me to do. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I do not object.
I climb up on the bed with them, insinuate myself in between his legs, and proceed to suck his cock while she rides the dildo.
This is not the first time I’ve sucked a dick, but it has been a very, very long time; and I was never what you’d call an expert at it. In fact my experience was limited to a brief, mutually-embarrassed week-long fling, my freshman year of college. But, frankly, it isn’t that complicated. Especially with a fairly small and over-excited cock, there really ain’t that much to it.
Thank whatever god you want: my hipster practices good hygiene. He’s clean and freshly washed. His dick feels kind of nice in my mouth. I let it slide in between my lips, alternating swallowing him whole with just sucking on the tip while stroking the shaft with my hand. Her bald pussy is slurping up the dildo right next to my face. The scent of sex is deeply intoxicating, and has an additive effect with the MDMA that is either delightful or excruciating. She is still scrubbing away at her pink, inflated clit while she fucks the dildo. She grins down at me. I lift my mouth off his penis, grin back, press the flat of my tongue hard against the underside of his glans, and jerk him off, hard and fast.
He makes a little “I’m coming” noise, kind of a squeak honestly, and squirts off, right into my open mouth. It doesn’t take bad; it doesn’t taste particularly good either. I swallow it all, and pop my mouth back over his softening cock and suck out the remainder of his salty, bitter semen.
She is grimacing, brow furrowed, bouncing up and down on his dildo with a literal vengeance, scrubbing at her clit like she’s trying to erase a bad word. She needs to come, in the worst possible way. I wet one finger, reach around her backside and part her cheeks, and slip my fingertip just inside her asshole. That was all she needs. It sets her off, and she comes, tits shaking and blushing, abdomen heaving, hair flying everywhere, howling at the top of her lungs. It’s a beautiful sight to witness.
I let his soft little dick slide out from between my legs and crawl off the bed, disentangling myself before things get complicated. More so, that is, than they are already.
My own dick is throbbingly hard, protruding awkwardly from the front of my pants.
There is a little hatch in the ceiling, with its very own ship’s ladder, in the far corner of the bedroom. Leighla and I climb up the ladder, through the hatch, and out onto the roof.
The sun is not quite up yet. We stand at the parapet and look out over the magnificent twilight spectacle of lower Manhattan, ghostly towers rising in the morning mist before us, sunlight just now glinting off the very tallest spires.
Leighla stands behind me, wraps her arms around me, kisses the nape of my neck. Her soft breasts are pressed against my shoulder blades. I can feel her heat, and it makes me ache. A good kind of ache.
She deftly unbuttons my pants, tugs my paisley boxers down around my knees, my cock jutting out like a bowsprit, cooled by the soft morning breeze. She takes my dick in one hand, pumping fast and hard, and, hiking up her skirt, she grinds her pantied crotch against my bare asscheeks while she jerks me off. She rides me hard, kissing and biting the back of my neck, and we come at exactly the same moment, gasping and crying out loud as the sun rises over the East River. My semen jets out in a ballistic arc, spattering down onto the sidewalk five stories below.
We compose ourselves, and together we descend through the hatch, back into the rapidly dwindling party. There is no sign of the hipster kid or his bedmate; my olive-skinned geneticist is passed out on the couch in the arms of another woman. The ecstasy is wearing off now, a lingering tingle in my nose and toes and cock. We slip out the door and down the stairs, and out onto the streets of a city that is just now starting to wake up.
Leighla slips something into my hand just before we part ways at the subway station. Her panties, white cotton with the chemical symbols of the periodic table printed all over. The crotch is soaked through and through. “I think,” she says, looking at me seriously, weighing her words carefully, “I think that you just might be a keeper.”