Remembering Rachel

My cock is as hard as it has ever been.

I haven’t had an orgasm in more than a month. The pills … they talked about “sexual side-effects,” but they never got specific. Understandably so. If they’d said, “Take these pills regularly and you’ll never have an orgasm again,” how many prescriptions would have been filled?

It’s throbbing. I can feel it. With every heartbeat it pulsates, rubbing against the coarse sheet. I hold my breath for a moment and imagine that I can hear it. Shuf-shuf. Shuf-shuf. Shuf-shuf.

I turn my head and look at the clock. Two thirty. I awoke moments ago from a dream that I can no longer remember, awoke to a feeling of hardness, of urgency.

I can feel the heat of my erection on my belly. It strains upward, swollen to unprecedented proportions. I dare not touch myself — ejaculation would be instantaneous; I know this instinctively — but I can tell. A man is comfortable with his cock. He knows its size and its girth and its weight. It’s not something he thinks about, nor is even really aware of, until he stops taking his pills and wakes up three days later at two thirty in the morning with an erection easily twenty percent bigger than any he’s ever experienced before.

I imagine that if I bend forward slightly I will feel the hard, slick head of my cock against my cheek. I can feel it, an imagined sensation so vivid it borders on hallucination. I can feel the head of my cock slide gently across my cheek and press against my lips. I lick them, wetting them, inadvertently sliding my tongue over my cock head.

This is crazy. I haven’t had autofellatio fantasies since I was a teenager. But oh, to be that limber again. In this increasingly liberal times it is often said that most boys receive their first oral stimulation from their own tongues, an experiment carried out during those blissful few months when the penis grows faster than the rest of the body and backs and necks are lean and limber. Is it true? I have no idea. I know that the first tongue to touch my cock was my own, and that it was the better part of a decade before anyone else’s reached that sacred place.

I have not thought of that in years either. Now the memory brings me to what feels like the brink of orgasm.

Her name was Rachel, and we discovered sex together. We were both twenty one — I was three weeks and two days older than her — and we were both virgins, she by choice, I by necessity. We dated; we even slept together, in her dorm room or in mine, but always in sweats or shorts or some other latter-day chastity belt.

She was aware of my penis, of course; when one shares a bed with a boy one can’t help it. I sprang to full erection — nothing too far out of the ordinary, but enough to be proud of, according to my clandestine glances in locker rooms and a few exposures to pornography — with every kiss, every caress. She wasn’t afraid of it; when we spooned in bed she would never hesitate to rub her buttocks against my erection and then giggle at my sharp intake of breath. But that was as far as we went.

Until one night. Isn’t that how these stories are supposed to go? “Things were like this, until one night.” It happened suddenly, or so it seemed to me. She said it without preamble: “I want to give it a kiss.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, and said so, not with words but with my puzzled expression. She reached down and gripped me through my shorts. “I want to give it a kiss,” she said again in the same matter-of-fact tone.

Remembering this has caused my erection to swell to even greater proportions. I fear I may burst at any moment.

Rachel slipped her hands into my shorts, circling the shaft of my erect cock with her slender fingers. Her hand was cold. I remember that part most vividly of all: Her hand was so cold it hurt. She nudged me over on my back, kissed me on my jaw and slid down under the covers.

I said nothing. I just knew that at any moment my mom was going to knock on the door and tell me it was time to go to school.

Keeping one hand on me, on my cock, she slid my shorts down a bit with the other. She pulled my cock out and let it lay on my belly, stretching up just past my bellybutton. I felt her run the tip of one finger down its length, exploring. Then I felt the warmth of her breath. Then I felt her lips.

I thought I would ejaculate immediately. I more than thought it: I knew it. I felt myself coming, felt the pulses inside me, behind my balls at the very base of my cock. But instead of coming rhythmically, spasming out of control, there was just one contraction. A fat drop of seminal fluid welled up out of my cock — I felt it rather than saw it; this was all happening under the covers — and dripped onto my stomach.

Rachel kissed me again, softer this time, puckering her lips around the sensitive part where the head meets the shaft. Another hard contraction, another rush of fluid. She giggled. “Are you doing that on purpose?” she asked, her voice muffled by the bedclothes. “Doing what?” I asked, out of breath. “Twitching like that,” she said. I started to say “no,” but she kissed me again, and this time she parted her lips ever so slightly and allowed the tip of her tongue to touch my cock. I spasmed. “Like that,” she laughed.

“No,” I said to her, barely able to articulate the word. “It’s a reflex.”

“Is it bad?” she asked between kisses, kisses that were starting to blur together into what I was just beginning to realize was my very first blow job.

“No,” I said again, “good. Means I like what you’re doing.” I felt her smile.

Rachel continued to kiss and to lick my cock for a hundred million years. When she reached the head the sensations became familiar: These were things I had done to myself years before during those late-night masturbation sessions. I would squeeze my feet between the mattress and the foot-board and wrap my arms around my knees and pull, hard, until I could stick out my tongue and lick the very tip of my cock. A few times, just a few, I was able to pucker up my lips and nurse at the tip. One hard suck, two, three, then my come surged out and into my mouth, filling my mouth in an instant, the feel of the hot, thick liquid on my tongue triggering some kind of feedback loop that made my orgasm that much more intense until finally I collapsed on the bed, back aching, spitting come out of my mouth all over my pillow.

I wondered, briefly, how Rachel would react if I came that way. Then I felt the hard contraction behind my balls and decided to think about other things for a while.

She reached the tip of my cock and discovered the wetness there. “Did you come?” she asked. “No,” I said, “that’s the stuff that comes out before.”

“Stuff comes out before?” she asked. She was as new at this as I was. Newer, really, for I’d been masturbating for years. I felt her fingertip swirl around the ever-growing puddle of seminal fluid on my stomach, then I felt her tongue. She smacked her lips. “Tastes okay,” she said. “Kind of sweet. I thought it was supposed to be sour and salty. That’s what the girls say.”

“Come tastes different,” I said.

She froze in mid-kiss. “How do you know?” she asked.

She continued to kiss my cock ever more passionately as I told her the story. I told her about how my cock had grown to its present size while I was still less than five feet tall, how I’d first discovered that I could lick and suck myself, how I’d masturbated that way.

“You came in your own mouth?” she asked me between kisses. I made a noise of assent. She seemed to consider this for a moment. “What was it like?” I told her as best I could. “Did you swallow it?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I spit it out.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It just seemed like the thing to do.”

“They say girls are supposed to swallow it.”

“Who is this ‘they’ you keep talking about?” I asked. She laughed. “You know, they. The locker-room girls. The people who write for Cosmo. They.”

“Oh,” I said. “And they tell you to swallow?”

“They do,” she mumbled, her mouth pressed against my shaft. “They say that that’s what you’re supposed to do to make your man happy.”

“I don’t think I’d care very much,” I said, seriously considering it. At this point I was desperate to think of anything except what her lips and her tongue were doing to my cock. If I let my concentration slip for even an instant, I was sure that this discussion of come would go from the abstract to the concrete very quickly.

Rachel continued to kiss me, stroking me timidly with her hand, for another million years or so. Then she said, “So this is a blow job.” She said it absently, as if talking to herself.

“Well,” I said, “sort of.”

She laughed again, hot breath on my cock. “You mean I’m supposed to do this?” And she pulled my cock up so she could slip the head into her mouth.

I bit my bottom lip, hard.

She took her mouth off of me and returned to kissing.

I tasted blood in my mouth, metallic and hot.

“John?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Just that you haven’t taken a breath in a while.”

“Oh,” I said, blowing the word out. “Yeah.”

“Did you like that?”

“Hated it,” I said, trying as hard as I could to play it cool and knowing that she’d see right through me. “Couldn’t stand it.”

“I could tell,” she said, “by the way you got all tense and stopped breathing.”

“Yeah. That’s the sign all right.”

“How much of that would I have to do before you come?” she asked.

I held my breath again for a second, then said, “At this point, pretty much all you have to do is say the word ‘come’ to make me come.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, her lips pressed tight against my head. “So if I said that you can come in my mouth …” she said, laughing as she felt my entire body tense up.

“Oh, God,” I moaned, utterly involuntarily.

“Hmm,” she hummed again. “I said it, but you didn’t do it.”

“You’ll never know how close I came,” I said.

She snorted. “You said ‘came,'” she said, and then we were both giggling.

It took us a minute to stop laughing. When we did, she said to me, “I want to be serious for a second.”