I could receive a blow job from a woman that could deep throat a fire hose, and I would still prefer to lap my tongue over a woman’s pussy and ass any day of the week. I’ve never gotten a complaint. Oral sex is like Christmas on crack for me. I don’t know why. Ever since I first saw my first spread pussy in a 70s Penthouse magazine I have been fascinated with those pink folds of flesh.
We all have those stories of the best oral we got or gave. For me, the best blow job I had made me shoot like a cannon, but that memory pales in comparison to the best oral sex I have given. That memory is in Technicolor.
During the year, I teach high school English, but in my free summers, I work as a butcher, a job that put me through college. A friend owns a small shop and I help him out twenty hours or so during the week. Extra money and an enjoyable job.
I was thirty. Lisa was twenty-one. She looked just like a Barbie doll and I’m not saying that as a lazy description; it was absolutely true. She DID look like a Barbie doll. Heavy breasts with half-dollar nipples that sprung to attention like baking timers. Bronzed, flawless skin. Hair so blonde it shimmered.
Lisa had two things that made me as helpless as a three-legged kitten with her. One, she always smelled fantastic. Always. Lisa was a cashier girl going to school part-time. Saying she smelled good might not sound impressive, but you try always smelling great at a butcher shop. She somehow did. Her perfume smelled like roses and vanilla. Still, smelling great wasn’t even enough. Affairs are a huge risk as some of you might know. I won’t take that plunge haphazardly. Those are the assholes that get caught.
But this second thing won me over.
She made no secret out of wanting to fuck me. I am tall and reasonably good-looking, but I am not Sean Connery. I wasn’t used to knockouts approaching me so aggressively. Later on, when I asked why she pursued me, she said part of it was being a teacher. She had a thing for teachers.
“Would you let me fuck you in the ass?” I asked.
She replied “yes” instantly.
I would have to be a eunuch to turn that down. She answered that question a half-hour before the butcher shop closed. I stood in the cutting room, a bottle of bleach in one hand and a scrub brush in the other and heard myself say, “Come back an hour after close.” The regular workers left at seven in the evening but I always stuck around until eight, sanitizing and scrubbing the place. We ran a clean shop.
Her eyes lit up like road flares. “Really?” she said.
I nodded and turned away to clean. My head swum with visions of her naked and wet and wanting, but I had to concentrate on cleaning for now.
That was the longest hour of my life.