How Did You Learn To Love Fellatio? Ch. 03


The first two chapters of this series have an introduction that will be omitted here, since most readers will probably have already seen it. I will just remind readers that the chapter has three parts: the question and immediate conversation; the woman’s story in answer of the question; the following conversation with the man who asked the question.

The young woman in this chapter is based on someone I knew long ago. I never asked her, but she probably would have told me, since she was quite open about her past experience. What she replies to the question in the first part are things that she really did tell me. The rest is my idea of how it could have been, but maybe I could still ask her. 🙂 Recently, she found me via internet, and we have been corresponding, chatting about the past.

(You can believe all that, or not.)

* * *

“How did you learn to love cocksucking?” I asked Annie [name changed], as we were lying together after she had demonstrated again that she did.

“That’s no secret, that I do, just haven’t told anyone how I learned. I told you that when I was nineteen I moved in with a man twice my age, and that I learned to squeeze his cock out of my pussy. It wasn’t just in my pussy, of course; I learned with him.”

“I was pretty sure of that, but I have wondered how it happened that you move in with a man who could have been your father.”

Annie shook her head with a smile and began her story.

* * *

He wasn’t a father figure, mine is a good deal older, then over fifty. Did he think of me as a daughter? I don’t know, he didn’t have kids, had been divorced for a few years. I didn’t move in with him after a flirt or more; it wasn’t like that.

When I had job after high school, I moved in with two other girls, two of us sharing a room. His apartment was in the same building, and we all knew him. He was helpful with little things in our apartment, fixing stuff and the like. Then the other girls had boyfriends and wanted them to spend the night. I wasn’t a virgin — happened back in high school. So when they told me about wanting to sleep with their boyfriends, I was a fifth wheel, of course.

I can’t remember exactly how it happened the first time. Did the girls suggest it, explain it to him? I know that I didn’t just go and ask him if I could spend the night. Anyway, he agreed, and after supper Saturday, with a bundle of bedding and my toothbrush, I went to his door. He smiled, glancing at my bedding, but didn’t say anything about, just saying that he hoped I would be comfortable on the couch. We had a beer and watched TV and said goodnight. He had shown me the gust WC, and I used it, realizing that I had forgotten pajamas. I quickly spread out my bedding and got under the covers in my panties and polo shirt, without my bra. Then called to him goodnight. He called back that he would make breakfast, and said goodnight.

His apartment was like ours: living room, guest WC, kitchen, bedroom with a bathroom and another room off the living room. I slept well enough, but awoke early, being in strange room, at first a little surprised, and then used the WC.

This is getting too long. We had breakfast, a good one, and then I returned to our apartment. Oh, he had thanked me for my visit and said that I could come again, if it helped my flatmates. It did, I did, two or three more times like that, remembering my pajamas. It got to be a regular thing, he asking me about the next weekend, and we got into a comfortable routine: beer and TV, breakfast together, me then helping with it.

Then one evening, no, in the morning over breakfast, he looked at me over the table and said:

“Don’t misunderstand me, but, well, if it is like that with the girls, well ….”

He was hesitating a lot. He started again:

“Don’t misunderstand me, but, well, I’m not suggesting anything between us, but, I was thinking you could move in here. Don’t misunderstand me; I just thought it might be more convenient, and — you know — three girls, always two against one.”

He looked at me, looking almost embarrassed. He had been right about “three girls.” I nodded and asked the first thing that came to mind:

“On the couch?” recognizing that I was in principle agreeing with his suggestion.

“Oh! Oooh! There are twin beds. I could move one to the other room, though it’s kind of full of my junk; and you’d still have to go through the bedroom to use the bathroom, of course. How could I have suggested that, that we share a room.”

I almost laughed, wondering myself and about his obvious discomfort, but liking it; it was so honest; he really didn’t want me to misunderstand him, the obvious; that he was suggesting something between us. I said the next thing that came to mind:

“I can’t pay any rent; I’m on the contract with the girls, all I can afford.”

He looked more relaxed and replied:

“I wasn’t expecting you to; that’s no problem — just the beds.”

“I can do some cleaning, laundry, can cook a little,” I replied.

“He nodded with Escort bayan a smile, but repeated questioningly: the beds?”

This time I did laugh, had to. He did too, but couldn’t know what had occurred to me. When I caught my breath, I told him:

“If I had been worried about ‘the beds’, I could have been all along; lots of nights for me to worry, for you to ….”

“I didn’t!” he replied with a cheerful expression, adding: “I won’t.”

“Then we can leave it in your room.”

“You want to? That would be nice.”

I nodded, and we both chuckled with smiles. Then I said:

“Don’t know what the girls will think; they won’t believe this, probably already been wondering. At least, neither of them have asked any leading questions.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. Yeah, funny, you here as often as they’re with their boyfriends. They’re probably never going to believe anything you tell them.”

“No! Hmm?! Good for our reputations, our bad ones.”

“Don’t want to disappoint them. Oh! I didn’t mean it like that, just that you might as well let them think whatever they want.”

“They probably, surely will, when I tell them that I’m moving in with you.”

“Bad for our good reputations,” he replied with shrug.

“Um-hmm!” I agreed, then asking: “Today?”

“You want to tell them and wait and hear their comments?”

“Oooh! No!”

So I moved in with him that morning, not yet having seen where I would sleep. The girls thought the worst or best with appropriate/inappropriate remarks. I just smiled, rather liking their assuming that I had been doing what they did every Saturday night. I had met their boyfriends, youngsters like us and like the couple of boys I had slept with. If their boyfriends didn’t do it better than those two had, they should be a little envious at the thought that I had with a more experienced man.

I promised to keep paying my share of the rent, and was gone, after two or three trips to his flat. Finally, I saw my new bed, freshly made. On the carpet, I recognized that he had moved them apart, next to opposite walls. He showed me where I could put my clothes and in the bathroom, that he had cleared one side of the cabinet for my things. This was going to be nicer than arguing with the other girls about whose was whose and where in the bathroom.

And I liked the feeling of being the only woman in a household, kind of more grown up, and he seemed to be treating me like that, especially when he said that he wanted to take me to dinner, explaining that he had to, since he hadn’t planned for company.

I wondered if he had anticipated that we would both have to change clothes, a first test of how we would do that. I had stopped wearing a bra, when I visited him, hardly apparent with my boobs. Anyway, he grabbed a better pair of pants and fresh shirt and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, only returning after calling to ask if he could.

Later, when he did that, he’d asked if I had clothes on, and then later: “Are you decent?”

He took me to a nicer restaurant than I had been to before. It did occur to me, that if we hadn’t clarified our situation so well, it could have seemed like that we knew each other better, if you know what I mean.

Then we were back in his flat, now having to get undressed and go to bed. We managed that like we had in the past, my using the bathroom, returning in my pajamas, carrying my clothes. Then he got his pj bottom and went off, returning when I was in bed. I thanked him again for dinner, and we said goodnight.

So, it was like that for the next day or two. He took his shower at night, and I, mine in the morning. As we got accustomed to that, we became less formal with our clothing. Did he or I start it? Was it his or my fault the first time he saw me and bra and panties? It didn’t matter, just made things easier. Why not? He could have tried to get in my bed every night, not that I was fearing or expecting that he would.

I just explained that now, not having thought about it back then. I didn’t have any thoughts about him like that, but, of course, I had to play with my pussy sometimes. Then I realized that some nights his shower took a lot longer. Yeah, that was when I played with my pussy, while he was in the shower, how I recognized that it sometimes took longer. That didn’t bother me, to the contrary, it let me enjoy myself better, but, of course, I wondered about why, until it occurred to me that he might be doing the same thing.

Of course, I thought, if I did, he must too. Then I did start thinking about him that way. And I discovered that the thing with my pills had been moved; he knew I was on the pill and could only assume that I wasn’t a virgin, and wonder why I was still taking them. I had been wondering, myself, months after the last time I had needed them.

He wasn’t going to jump in my bed, but he needed what I needed. How long had we been sharing a room together by then? Weeks, maybe a couple of months. I began to think that this was a little Bayan Escort silly, maybe talked myself into thinking it was. Why shouldn’t two people do what they both needed, regardless of emotions and what we had agreed. Had I agreed to anything? I couldn’t remember, or didn’t want to.

How many more nights did it take for me to get up the nerve to tell him he could shave while I was taking my shower? That had always been time constraint in the morning. He immediately agreed. Of course, a shower curtain that didn’t let him see anything, but he liked it, talking with me a little while he shaved. If he had known how I washed my pussy, when we talked longer?!

Did he offer to give me towel before he left the bathroom, or did I ask him to? Same difference, he did, with a soft chuckle and then bumped against the door to let me hear that he was leaving the bathroom. We had stopped closing it. Did he then steal a glance, when I stepped out of the shower? I never knew, but I didn’t wrap the towel around me to keep him from seeing anything. After that, he always flipped my towel up over the rod for the shower curtain. Did his showers more often take longer? It seemed so. Oh, one evening I “forgot” to put my pills back in the cabinet. They were there the next morning.

Then one evening, when I recognized that his shower was going to take longer, I managed to take my hands off my pussy. I couldn’t stand this any longer, and went and sat on the toilet in my shorty nightgown. His shower was taking longer. Whatever I had been thinking till then, I suddenly realized that he was going to open the shower curtain and suddenly see me there — with his cock still a little arouse?!

I waited. Didn’t seem like he was really washing. He turned off the water, and I flushed the toilet.

“What are you doing here?!” he asked.

“Had to go again,” I lied.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’ll give you your towel,” I replied and reached out and caught the corner of it, pleased that I could, and tossed it over the rod.

“Thanks, he mutter, then repeating:

“You shouldn’t be here. Why?”

“Had to go.”

“I don’t believe you. Why?”

He was drying himself behind the shower curtain. I hadn’t planned this, whatever I had been thinking before, but I had to say something:

“This is silly, you ‘washing’ yourself, while I’m in bed doing about the same.”

“You do? You know?” he muttered.

“I do, just took me a while to figure out why your showers sometimes take so long.”

“Shit!” he muttered softly, but then asked:

“And what’s ‘silly’?”

I felt better about how that was going, and replied:

“That we both do, when, well, you know, like we talked about before I was here.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“You said you wouldn’t. I just indicated that I believed you, trusted you, since you hadn’t already. I liked that, still do — but that was months ago.”

“Hmm? Have you got something on, at least?”

“What you saw before.”

“No panties?”

I blushed; I hadn’t thought he had noticed, could have seen, but then smirked to myself at his confirmation that he looked, and replied:

“You weren’t supposed to notice. No, especially not, when I hear that your shower is going to take longer.”

“Hmm! Anyway, you’re not going to see anything, if that was what you were expecting.”

“Oh no! That’s why I flushed, when I suddenly realized that you might pull open the curtain.”

“Hmm! Very tactful of you.”

I checked that my shorty was on my thighs, and he pulled the curtain aside, holding his towel around his hips. He looked at me with a wry expression. I smiled sheepishly.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he muttered, adding:

“And certainly not to tell me that, if I understood you correctly.”

“Too late now,” I replied, realizing that he must be able to see that my nipples had popped out.

Shit! I had involuntarily drawn my shoulders back a little! I wiped my forearm over my breasts. He murmured:

“I think I did.”

“I hope so.”

“Now go to bed — your bed. If you do, talk about it some other time. I’m not going to ask.”

I nodded and held down the hem of my shorty as I stood up. When I felt that I was stretching the cloth over my breasts, my nipples popped out again. He almost smiled, as he nodded towards the door. As I left the bathroom, I turned my head back and said: “Saturday morning.”

In bed, I wondered about my having said that, committing myself to return to the subject, and then tried to find a rhyme in our conversation: trying to recall his words — and mine. At least, he had understood me, and he hadn’t really said anything else. He could have said lots of things: a simple no, we won’t; that we should move my bed in the other room; even that he thought it would be better if I moved back in with the girls. But he hadn’t.

He returned and got in his bed, murmuring goodnight, like he always did. I pretended that I was already asleep, wondering about Escort Saturday morning. I had two more nights to think about it all.

Oh, the girls: of course I saw them often enough, having to survive their pointed remarks. He had been right, denying everything just made them more curious and suspicious that I was lying. After the first couple of times, I didn’t say anything, hoping my attempt at an aloof, superior expression let them think whatever they wanted.

With hindsight, perhaps hearing their remarks had an influence on me. That just occurred to me, but maybe somewhere in my subconscious there grew the feeling that if they thought he and slept together, and surely anyone else would, he also could think it was strange that we weren’t, my word that evening: “silly.” But that is only hindsight.

Next morning, Thursday, we stuck to our usual routine in the bathroom and dressing, silent until we were making breakfast, back on safe ground away from bed and bath. The same that evening. I wore panties under my shorty, and he had a brief shower; the same thing again Friday morning and evening.

Both nights, I feel asleep wondering what I was going to say Saturday morning and wondering what he could be thinking, knowing that I had committed myself to talk about it again. It did occur to me that I could chicken out and not say anything, but that would be silly too; a little girl’s way out of the situation, like a toddler covering his eyes and believing that what he had seen wasn’t there any more. I wasn’t a little girl: I had started something and committed myself to follow up, but how?

Were we going to sit at the breakfast table, looking at each other — or avoiding each other’s eyes — and I say something? What? Blatantly? “I think we should sleep with each other.” “I want to sleep with you.” More indirectly? “Everyone must think we sleep with each other, and we both now know what we do at night, just a poor substitute, don’t you think?”

That was nice; he couldn’t deny that masturbating was a poor substitute; he would at least have to agree with that. And when he had, he would have to have a good argument why we shouldn’t. I couldn’t think of one; but I didn’t want to, I admitted. But was I going to be able to sit at the table and just open the conversation with that line? And what was it going to be like before breakfast, both of us knowing we were going to talk about it?! Worse than my having surprised him in the bathroom to talk about it. I was still a little surprised that I had.

I woke up Saturday morning, immediately recalling all my thoughts, trying to put them in order. I glanced over and saw that he was lying facing the other wall — still asleep, or already awake and worrying about what I was going to say? Suddenly, I realized that I could at least avoid the tension of our waiting for breakfast. To hell with worrying about what I would say. I drew back my covers and went to his bed. As I drew back his covers and got in behind him, I said:

“It’s Saturday morning, good morning.”

“What the fu..!” he exclaimed softly.

I had to snort as his response; almost using the right word, even if he didn’t mean it that way.

“Don’t worry; I’ve even got panties on; we aren’t.”

“I sure hope so! But you want to talk now?”

“Why not? I didn’t want you to be worrying about it until breakfast, and I didn’t either.”

“But not in my bed.”

“Hm-hmm! I know, you don’t have to say it: I shouldn’t be here.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Couldn’t think of a better place to talk about it.”

This was going better than I had expected, my words just coming to me. He snorted and said:

“Almost said that again!” and rolled back towards me.

I almost slid my arm over his chest. He turned his face to me with very wry expression and remarked:

“And I’ve got my shorts on too.”

“Didn’t have to tell me; I wasn’t planning to find out. Besides, I’m going to have to go to the bathroom, but not yet.”

He smiled with a slight nod and agreed:

“Me too.”

“Hopefully not yet?”

“Hm-hmm! I could cheat, tell you I had to and escape before this gets to sticky.”

“Or I could,” I suggested.

“Not both at once,” he replied, and we both chuckled. Then he looked more serious and said:

“Now, since you’re here, talk.”

“Should be pretty obvious, after that evening, and now here: ‘silly’.”

“That isn’t something ‘silly’, what you’re suggesting.”

“No, just the word I had used, but you know what I’m suggesting.”

I waited for his response. My thighs twitched together; I was going to have to go. Had he noticed? He had snorted silently. Then he smirked slightly and said:

“I think I have to go, before I saying anything more.”

“Not before I do,” I replied, my thighs twitching together again.

“Then go, it seemed like it.”

I rolled out of his bed and hurried to the bathroom. To my surprise, he joined me, while my pee was still hissing in the toilet, my panties around my knees. He smirked and said:

“You do have panties on.”

“And you, shorts.”

I kicked off my panties, giving him a grin, wondering if I was going to wipe myself with him watching. He twitched his thighs, returning my grin and said:

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