"Are you even listening to me?" Abby asks.
We're sitting at the table, our laptops open—Abby's sitting directly across from me and I know we're supposed to be brainstorming the story for our book, but after receiving the world's best blowjobs the last few days, I can't keep my eyes off of her fucking tits. I mean, she's wearing this low-cut tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. I'm fucking serious. It's white and I can even see the outlines of her perfect nipples under the fabric.
How does she expect me to concentrate?
"My eyes are up here," she says, waving her hands at me.
"Right," I say. "Back to the book."
"I know I've said this before," she continues, "but I want this story to revolve around guys with big dicks. The bigger the better. I'm talking a good 12 inches … and lots of 'em."
I laugh. "You know it's not jut about size, right?"
"I don't know what planet you're from Mr. Size Doesn't Matter, but it's always about size," she grins. "Mark my words. Always."
"Hear me out. It's not the size that matters, but what a guy can do with it."
She rolls her eyes. "How cliché of you, Aidan. Believe me, I've had a small cock, and it just didn't do it for me. I can promise you that."
"Can I be honest with you?" I ask.
"Of course. Always."
"I think you hold back."
She looks at me for a moment before responding, a confused look on her face. "What's the supposed to mean?"
I know I'm treading in uncharted fucking territory now, so I need to be careful. I don't want it to sound like I'm criticizing her, but I think honesty is the best policy in situations like this. If we're gonna write a bestseller together, some things have to be said.
I continue, "It just means that instead of letting yourself be completely in the moment, I think you suppress yourself. You hide. You want to let it all out, but you stop yourself around me."
"Okay, so what are you now? My sex therapist?"
I lean across the table and brush one finger over her plump lips before kissing her. "No, no—you've got it all wrong. I'm just trying to help. Here, let me explain it another way. Fucking someone—and I mean having exceptional fucking sex—is a lot more than some guy sticking his cock in you, am I right?"
I watch as she slowly nods in agreement, and I continue. "So much of it is mental. It's the chemistry between people—the way he touches you, the way he smells and smiles. It's the way he uses his mouth on you, and the way he talks, and moves. All I'm saying is, if you just focus on cock size, you miss out on all those extra things that make sex so much fucking fun. You're trying too hard. That's all."
"Trying too hard? What does that even mean?" she asks.
"It means you're focusing on one aspect of sex—a guy's cock," I say. "You need to embrace it all if you don't want a book that flops on the market."
"I'm not sure I'm totally following you," she replies, grabbing a glass from the table and taking a sip of water. I can tell that I've got her thinking, though.
"I get that there's a full package to think about, but the cock reigns supreme in this equation. Don't kid yourself."
"You know what I think?" I ask, watching her take another drink. A grin is now spreading across my face. "I don't think you're really comfortable around cocks."
"What?" she bristles. "This coming from the man who just hours ago said that over the last few days I’ve been giving him the best blowjobs of his life?"
I continue, "You did. I meant that. And sure, you like to write about cocks, but a real cock cums. Are you comfortable with cum?"
I'm not sure if she knows where I'm taking this game, but I can feel my own cock twitching to life in my pants. It's beginning to strain against the fabric, like a caged animal threatening to break free. I stand up so that my cock is eye level with Abby, and I walk closer to her.
She's looking at the hard shape forming in my pants, but she isn't saying anything now. She swallows and remains quiet.
"I'm guessing that you really like cum, don't you?" I say, slowing unbuckling my belt. I slide the leather from the loops and undo the button, my fingers stopping on my zipper. I hold it there for a moment.
I look into Abby's eyes, but she still isn't saying anything.
I grab her now-empty water glass from the table in one hand and with the other I slowly drag my zipper down.
Anticipation is building in Abby's throat and she swallows again.
With my zipper down, I reach into my boxers and grab the thick shaft of my cock. It springs into the space between Abby and I.
Not wanting to waste any time, I spit on my hand and then begin jerking off. I'm stroking my cock from tip to root. I'm moving slowly at first, building tension, and then moving faster. I can feel my heart racing. My hand moves faster and faster until time and space become a blur, and I can feel my cock pulse. I angle the empty glass under the tip of my cock and I allow myself to explode—releasing my cum in a surge of steady streams. I keep stroking and watch as I fill the glass. Some of my cum spills over the rim. Now here's a cocktail I want to watch Abby place between her lips.
Abby shifts in her seat, staring hungrily at both my cock and the glass of cum.
I hold her gaze. "Drink it," I say.
She continues to sit and stare at me in silence, debating her next move.
"Go ahead. Play with it," I continue, my eyes daring her into action. "I want you to show me just how much you like my cum."
Abby