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Madrigals. Chamber Choir. Just the sound of the words inspired sheer boredom in me. For weeks I suffered through the worst elective of all time, only attending class for the grade. At eighteen I had little idea how to navigate college life, so I stuck with the class, opting for the credits over entertainment.
The semester passed quickly, and soon enough the Christmas concert was upon us. Solos. Wassail. Men in tights. Thinking of all those fools, me included, ruining the culture of times past made me cringe. Maybe it was only the thought of my mandatory costume that had me afraid, maybe not.
I drove my ’85 Dodge Ram van to the Watchtower, an old lighthouse now used for Renaissance Faires and other festivals. The place actually looked pretty kick ass—renovators built a brick façade around the structure, turning it into the town’s own castle turret. Other students and guests, all dressed in their medieval get ups, wandered around the grounds laughing and joking. I pulled my costume from the back of my van.
“That’s an old school van.”
I looked up to see a short, dark haired girl with horn-rimmed glasses walking by.
“I had to pimp it out so I could haul my band’s gear to our gigs,” I responded without thinking.
“That’s what all the boys driving their dad’s beater say.” The girl smiled, turned and disappeared among the crowd headed into the Watchtower.
Burn. I chuckled anyway. Once in the bathroom, I slipped on the ball gripping tights that functioned as pants. Then the idiotic hat and every other part of the costume made me look foolish. At least the ensemble was as ridiculous as every other costume out there. At least the ones every other guy wore. Or so I thought at first. Right up until I notice how good my package looked. A nice bulge accentuated my size in the same manner some of the corsets accentuated breasts on the women in costume. Besides, the rental shop gave me a sword. A real sword. Steel blade and all.
Unfortunately, because the choir was the in-house entertainment for the evening, our class stayed backstage in the greenroom most of the night. Until our performances were over, we huddled in small groups waiting for our performance. Our director let those with early solos filter into the audience to mingle at dinner with everyone else, and our numbers backstage soon dwindled. With only five or six of us left, I pulled the sword out to admire the fine piece of weaponry.
“My what a big sword you have,” a voice whispered.
I turned my head to see the short girl from earlier. Voluminous breasts pushed outward, almost bursting from her corset, so much so it took me a moment to remember to look her in the eyes. But she was looking down—whether at the sword in my hand or the package bulging from my tights I didn’t know.
“Good thing I know how to use it,” I responded.
The bulge in my pants expanded a tad.
“That’s what all the guys say.”
This time she looked me in the eyes, than darted them to my tights and back.
“That glance tells me you’re in need of a demonstration.”
Again she walked away, leaving me with a growing hard-on. I might have worried, but found out she was in an upcoming number. I swung the sword a few times to get my thoughts on track before the choir returned, using the exertion to take my mind off things. A minute later, the rest of the choir returned. Chris, a classmate who was taking chamber choir for the third straight year, sat in a chair next to me.
“Hey man,” I said. “Who’s that girl in the green over there?” I said, pointing to my verbal sparring partner.
“That’s Rochelle. She’s hot! I’ve been trying to get in her pants for years now.”
“Never.” He eyed me like I was crazy. “How do you not know people from class?”
“I’ve spent the entire semester being too afraid of class to notice who’s here. I don’t like singing in front of people. But I signed up to get over that fear.”
The minute I said it, I realized it was true. But right then I noticed Rochelle just returned from a number, her dark hair swimming in front of her face, her horned rimmed glasses, and breasts almost spitting out of her dress. I wondered what her ass and izmir escort bayan hips looked like, but the dress kept them hidden.
“Tombstone, you’re up,” my teacher called for my solo.
My three numbers came and went in a blur. During my solo, my experience from being in a rock band took over, and I left the stage to a rousing, if drunken round of cheers. I loved it.
My solo was close to the last of the night, so when I finished, I had missed most of the in-house party, and the crowd had thinned. With so few people left, I changed back into my jeans and a t-shirt. I grabbed a turkey leg from the caterers and headed back to my van.
Again I heard Rochelle talking to me.
“Apparently you can use one weapon.”
She had changed too, her wonderful breasts now covered by a t-shirt, but her ass perfectly framed in her blue jeans. She had her hair pulled into a pony tail. I wondered how she snuck up on me.
“I guess I’m not like all the guys,” I said, this time more interested in keeping her around than having two quick exchanges and calling the conversation good.
“That’s yet to be seen.”
Something stirred below my belt. Now I knew I needed to find a way to give her a proper demonstration.
“The implication to your statement is that you want a real weapons trial.”
Rochelle, feigned shock, and waved a hand in front of her chest. “Maybe.” We reached my ’85 Dodge Ram. The van still ran strong all these years. I opened the side door and hung up my costume. Then shut the door.
“It’s only about 10:10. It’s a little early,” I said.
Rochelle shrugged her shoulders. She looked off across the bay, the moon hanging above the bridge, lighting the water below.
“There’s an awesome view nobody knows about, just off the road here,” she said. “You drive us in your dad’s van.”
We hopped into the van and went down a little service road for Watchtower vehicles. Sure enough, not fifty yards down the path, another gravel road headed down Lighthouse Hill. Two minutes later we parked on an outcropping hidden by trees on three sides and a view of the bay on the other. Even people driving down the gravel road wouldn’t be able to spot us.
The minute I put the van in park, my friend below the belt rumbled around in my pants.
“How old are you, Tombstone?” Rochelle asked.
“Eighteen. How old are you?”
“Older than you.” Rochelle flashed a wicked smile, moonlight glinting off her glasses.
“Turn about is only fair play,” I said. “You might as well answer.”
She twisted a finger through her ponytail and kicked her feet up to the dash. She twisted her lips this way and that as if considering whether or not she should answer.
“I’m twenty-five. Does that scare you?”
“Why would it? Shouldn’t it turn me on the way you’re flirting with me? Pulling down and older woman and all?” I smiled back.
“No one’s done any pulling yet.”
Ooh, the girl knew how to get my juices flowing. And the way she smiled, I knew she knew it.
“True, But sometimes you gotta polish the weapon before you use it.”
This time I grinned at her, hoping my responses were just as effective as hers were on me.
“If you can handle a good polishing,” she said, “maybe we can have a proper weapons demonstration. Get in the back.”
I climbed to the first bench seat in the back. Beyond that I had removed the other seat in favor of a mattress where I holed up some nights after a gig. I sat on the bench seat, and Rochelle climbed into my lap, straddling me.
“Holy shit!” she exclaimed. “You’re a confident motherfucker, aren’t you?” she asked seeing the mattress when she looked over my shoulder.
There was no use explaining the real reason for the mattress, so I put my hand on the back of her head and pulled her to me, out lips touching in a gentle kiss. Her tongue searched for mine. My hard-on grew.
“That’s the reaction I want,” she said, squirming around on top of my lap. She pulled my shirt over my head and kissed my neck. God, it felt ecstatic. I let out a moan.
My hands played with her hair. Her hands roamed my chest, my abs, sending shivers up my back. Then she stripped her shirt escort izmir and bra off in one smooth motion, revealing the longest, hardest nipples I’d ever seen.
“Damn!” I said. “Those nipples are the biggest I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled big, showing me all her teeth. It was a cute smile with dimples.
“C’mon, you’re only eighteen. How many real girl’s tits have you seen in your life? Not photos or porn. Real life tits.”
“Four girls. Your tits aren’t the biggest I’ve seen. But the nipples are. Your breasts are beautiful.”
She took her glasses off and places them on the passenger seat. Her skin turned a slight shade of pink in the moonlight, and she whispered, “Thanks.”
Without waiting any longer, my tongue went to her breast, to the nipple on my left. I licked from the base to the tip, then down the other side. She shuddered, and it spurred me on, inspiring me to take as much of the breast in my mouth as possible. The hard nipple fought against my tongue the entire time, poking my tongue with force. Rochelle let out a few small moans.
“Mmm.” And then “Mmm,” in quick succession. When I reached up to pinch her other hardened nipple, she let out an “Oh,” in a breathy, throaty whisper.
After a few minutes, she slid to her knees in front of me. Nimble fingers unhooked the button on my jeans. My cock itched for release and wanted out. It wanted warm hands and hot mouths and slobber and pussies and ejaculation. Rochelle yanked on the zipper, reached a hand into my pants. My cock throbbed, growing harder in her hand. I pushed my pants, and she helped me pull them all the way off.
Sitting naked in the car excited me, especially when I noted how our heat already fogged the windows. Rochelle stroked my cock, once, twice, three times.
“Very nice on the size,” she said. “Big. But can you handle a good polishing?”
She took the head of my cock in her mouth, licking the tip. My low groan escaped, despite me trying to hold back. Her tongue swirled under the shaft, around the base, then up to the head and down to my balls.
“That’s the way to lick it, bitch,” I said.
Rochelle moaned while she worked. I took it as a sign for me to keep talking. “You like that hard, long cock in your mouth, don’t you?” I asked.
She nodded her head and brought a hand up to squeeze my balls. The combination of hand and mouth had my squirming. I wrapped my hands in the seat belts on the bench seat, holding myself steady. The girl knew how to work her mouth.
“Someone really talented at polishing would deep throat that sucker,” I said.
Rochelle came up for air. “Remember, this test is for whether or not you get extra time with the demonstration, not for me to pass a polishing test.”
We both laughed.
“And here I was thinking you already liked my cock. Just deep throat me already. What better way for me to pass your test?”
She swallowed my cock then, whole. It took everything I had not to cum in her mouth. I yanked on the seat belts again, groaned, yanked some more. Surprisingly she didn’t gag, but massaged my balls. The way her nose tickled my pubic hair made me even harder.
“This may very well be the best damned blowjob I’ve ever had.”
She whimpered when I said it, and I knew. This was turning her on too.
“Keep your mouth on me. Don’t stop.”
She whimpered again before coming up for air.
The way she moaned emboldened me. “Get back to work. You’ll orgasm for me while you suck that thing. I know you will because you’re my bitch.”
Her mouth was working me before I finished my statement. Her hands massaged my naked thighs, making it harder to control myself. She shivered and shuddered with each motion.
“There you go. I know you’re about to cum. Cum for me baby,” I said.
Rochelle shuddered again, released my cock from her mouth, and cried, “Oh that’s so good!” Her body spasmed in front of me, shaking from her orgasm. I didn’t wait and I grabbed her head and pushed it to my balls. She took one in her mouth. Little moans escaped while she sucked my balls and shuddered.
“That was a good polishing!” I said. “One of the best, if not the best.”
Rochelle came up for air again. “You izmir escort know it was the best. How many girls have actually sucked your cock?” she asked.
“One. Then you.” I said, feeling a blush come on. “How many times have you had an orgasm while sucking cock?”
“Just you,” she said, her hand slowly stroking my cock to keep it hard.
We were both blushing then. She smiled at me with those dimples in her cheeks, and I was surprised at the dominance of my speech. I’m not sure where it had come from.
“It was the dirty talk that pushed you over the edge,” I said, sensing it worked for her too.
“It was. I’m not used to letting people talk to me like that, but I liked it.”
“You’re such a smart ass, I’m sure most people wouldn’t talk to you like that,” I said, and pulled her off her knees, bringing her too me. We kissed, hard deliberate, my hands caressing her breasts. Those nipples still turning me on. My cock still danced—straight up. Hard. Almost hurting for release. My hands wandered down Rochelle’s stomach, stopping at her waistline. One finger caught in the pants near the button.
“I think you’ve earned the full weapons demonstration,” she said while unbuttoning her pants and wiggling out of them. “Head to the back,” she commanded.
She stood to go, and I smacked her ass cheek. Then she lay on the mattress in front of me. I knelt in front of her head and licked between her legs. Immediately she squirmed and moaned, her hands pushing me down on her.
“That’s not what we’re her for,” I said during a breath, although I wanted to lick her and drive her crazy. But first we needed the weapons test. I grabbed her legs and rolled her over, putting her in front of me. She leaned over, giving me access doggy style. I took my cock in my hand and smacked her ass cheeks with my cock, teasing her. That didn’t last long. I needed her. My cock slid in her tight pussy all the way to the hilt.
“Oh . . .” I said.
My cock throbbed. Ached. The way it felt inside her had my head spinning. I waited a moment, enjoying her tight, wet pussy.
And then I thrust. Hard.
Rochelle grunted, then moaned, then screamed. I grabbed her ponytail, and pulled using it for leverage. Quick little grunts escaped my mouth, especially when I grabbed her hips for leverage and to thrust harder.
“Keep screaming,” I said. “I’ll keep going if you keep screaming,”
Rochelle nodded before putting her face in the mattress to dampen the noise of her screams.
I replaced my hands on her hips for leverage again. My balls made smacking noises with each thrust. I wanted to cum. But I needed her to know I could use my weapon. I needed to show her I wasn’t like all the other guys. When I felt myself getting close, I pulled out, and spun her on her back. I spread her legs wide and slowly put the head of my cock just inside her pussy lips. Slowly I pushed all the way in, then slowly pulled out. I loved to tease.
“You want it faster than that,” I said as I repeated the process.
She only nodded her head, her eyes closed while I worked. She kept her eyes closed, so I thrust hard. Fast. Deep. Her eyes went wide.
“Something like that?” I said, and she nodded.
I pulled out and thrust slowly, oh so slowly again. I was barely hanging on. I was almost coming. But I knew this was maddening her as well.
“Say please,” I said.
“Please, Tombstone, Give it to me hard.”
I thrust as hard as I could, as deep as I could, holding onto her feet, which were above my head for leverage. Immediately she screamed, long, hard, loud, and I lost all control, my load exploding into her. I kept pumping in time with my grunts and moans, not ready for the orgasm to end. Each burst corresponded with my thrusts and I felt my juices mingle with hers.
After a minute I fell to the mattress beside her, sweat covering my skin. She put her head on my chest to cuddle.
“I don’t know which was better, the first orgasm or the second.”
I had been in so much ecstasy I hadn’t noticed her second orgasm. Was it during the doggy-style or after? She’d been screaming either way.
“Nobody’s ever talked dirty to me like that,” she said. “I like it.”
“Just another weapon to add to my arsenal,” I responded.
“I’ll have to see what else you can do later,” she said.
I smiled, knowing if she waited another few minutes, I’d be ready to go again . . .
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