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underpants and blushed.
    And took them off.
    His penis was good sized and oddly shaped. At least it looked unusual to me. I haven’t seen that many cocks. Howie’s, three boys in college, and a few pictures and statues, but the pictures and statues were never of erect ones. I suppose they must show erect ones in the little pornography shops around Times Square. I suppose there are some women who are ballsy enough to go into one of those shops and buy a magazine with pictures of men’s cocks. I am not one of those women.
    This particular cock was sort of cone-shaped, much thicker at the base than at the tip, sort of like an inverted ice-cream cone.
    I got on my knees in front of him and kissed the tip of it and then took its head in my mouth.
    “Oh, Jesus! Oh my God!”
    He was enormously excited, and worried I guess that he wouldn’t be able to make it last. He reached for me. I climbed on top of him. His hands went immediately to my breasts. I hardly noticed them. I didn’t want to be handled, I didn’t want him to touch me at all. In fact I didn’t want him to do anything. I wanted to do, I wanted to fuck him and not the other way around, I wanted to do it.
    I got on my knees and I straddled him and I took his cone-shaped cock in my hand and rubbed it across myself (say the word! rubbed it across my cunt) and lowered myself on it and it sank in, sank all the way in and this feeling went through me, all through my body, and it was like losing my virginity it was exactly like that and I came instantly the instant he was inside me I came and came through my entire body, a total orgasm that hit me without any real prior excitement, there was no getting hot first, there was just this quick rush of orgasm. I came in a flash, that is what it was, that is exactly what it was, I came in a flash.
    He was starting to move his hips.
    I said, “No, lie still, please, lie still, let me do.”
    He did and I did. He lay still, and I lifted and lowered, up and down, up and down, and at first it was mechanical, which is not to say that my heart was not in it because it most definitely was, but that I was getting nothing out of this but the aesthetic pleasure of fucking him well. But I had every desire to do just that. And somewhere along the way there was more than a spirit of amateur professionalism on my part, more than the delight in craftsmanship, and I knew that I was going to come again. I felt excitement mounting up again and knew I was going to make it, and I ground faster and faster against him, leaning way forward so that the top of his shaft rubbed against my clitoris (what a sweet word, except I don’t honestly know how to pronounce it, whether you accent the clit or say it so that it rhymes with Horace and Boris and Morris, it being a word you read more often than you speak it aloud) and I kept doing that so that I was using his cock to masturbate with, that is what I truly was doing, and I knew it at the time, and that somehow added to the excitement of the act. He was a tool, his tool was a tool. I was using him. Which was probably why I wanted to be on top and why I wanted to do everything and not be touched by him. The dominant female.
    Sometimes I have fantasied while abusing myself that I was one of those women in the pervert magazines all done up in leather corsets and high heels and having sex with a man tied in a chair. I don’t think I would really like that but I like the fantasy. Maybe I would like the act also.
    I liked this act, though. I was just about to make it, and I was looking down at his face, and his eyes were closed and his teeth clenched, and he started to twitch and he made it and I felt his come spurt into me, jets of it, he must have been saving it up for weeks, and I watched his face as he came, and that did it, that sent me over the edge, and I came with him and fell forward and almost passed out on top of him, his cock still inside me, still reasonably hard, and I almost blacked out.
    It