Jill Redyforit - With A Little Lust

"Suck, baby, suck," I grunted.

She pounced on my wet, sopping organ like an animal, ingested it to the hilt and commenced sucking it in and out of her hungry mouth with wild, plunging strokes. My cock swelled and pulsed as the vortex of her lips and tongue rolled, lashed and flickered around the searing length of pulsing flesh.

Faster and faster she pumped, her ass, tits and torso bouncing, twisting and writhing… driving me closer to the heights with each lustful movement.

I could feel the molten ball of my hot semen 15 gathering in my scrotum, ready to gush. Waves of raw, searing lust coursed up my spine, down my belly, through my loins and back down to my groin.

"Oh baby… suck that thing… yeah… OHHH… Jesus! Take it… take it all, you wild cocksuckin' cunt… Now! Now! I'MM… YEOWWWW!!"

My back arched sharply, driving my cock all the way into her throat, and I shot my hot load of gushing sperm into the pumping, whirling depths of her mouth and throat. It came in a series of violent, sharp spurts as my orgasm gripped me.

An enormous swell of searing, raw lust exploded in my guts, rolled up my spine and burst with blinding, dizzying force in my brain. "OHHH… GOD!!!"

The next thing I knew or saw was Jan. Her voracious mouth was still sucking. Her strong fingers squeezed my ball sac with urgent force, attempting to squeeze another glob of my come from the drained vestibule of my core.

I pulled her head up and my cock slid out. Her lips were dripping with the salty, creamy substance of my come. "Hey, baby, enough! You've drained me."

Licking the come from her lips, she swallowed and looked at me with a smoldering, lustful gaze.

"How did I do?"

"Baby, you're a bona fide, natural-born cockeater."

She seemed amused at that "What's so funny?" I asked. "I was just thinking about Walter. I mean, the 16 first time I go down on him. The poor man will probably faint."

"Faint, hell! You just take it easy the first couple of times; you're liable to kill the bastard," I exclaimed with a chuckle.

She giggled too. "One thing will be wrong."

"What's that?"

"His cock can't hold a candle to that big hard thing of yours. My God, do all men come so much? I must have swallowed a pint of that delicious stuff. I almost choked when it first shot into my mouth."

"Different strokes for different folks, baby. Don't sweat it. The way you eat cock, his will probably grow several inches within a year. Remember, you hungry cunt-it's a muscle, and muscles get bigger the more they're used."

"Wonderful," she smiled. "Now, when do I get fucked for real? I want that huge thing in my cunt!" Her fingers closed over my semi-hard cock and it began to swell again.

"One thing at a time, baby."

"Cliches, always cliches. Well, I know a few, too," she said in a husky voice. "Practice makes perfect. So I'm going to practice."

Before I knew it she had gobbled my cock again and was sucking it with long, gliding strokes. It was obvious I'd get no sleep that night because my cock decided to agree with her, it was responding beautifully.

Janet Judson was wrong about one thing. I certainly did know how many women had deep-seated sexual hang-ups; Dr. George Sherman and his wife Joyce had shown me the scope of this problem in statistical and emotional terms that would astonish even Janet.

The Shermans had been post-graduate medical students at U.C.L.A., examining and analyzing the basic foundations of human sexuality when Masters and Johnson had published their first studies on the subject. Inspired by the calm boldness of the two Eastern pioneers, the young, dedicated couple redoubled their own efforts while digesting every last detail of the Masters and Johnson data. Several years passed, and the first sensationalism of the bold new sexual frontier died down, at least in the public mind. Meanwhile, the Shermans forged ahead with their own studies, most of which involved clinical surveys among college students, a few call girls and various other samples of the general public. Funds for their work were extremely limited during those two years, making the results of their studies limited but astonishingly revealing; particularly in one area. While Masters and John son continued to refine and expand their work across a wide spectrum of human sexuality, Joyce Sherman firmly insisted that George and she specialize in female sexuality-mostly because they had such limited resources and couldn't afford to effectively explore both sexes and the variety of problems involved. George had agreed; it made good economic sense and he knew that his spouse had a much better feel for finding new, rewarding pathways in their chosen scientific area.

Their work and fortunes blossomed by a quirk of fate in 1969. They were contacted by a prominent law firm in Los Angeles and informed that a grant had been bestowed upon them for the purpose of pursuing their work. The benefactor had insisted on remaining anonymous, but the grant was not. It provided $100,000 per year for ten years; a million dollars with no strings attached except the usual formation of a non-profit foundation, financial arrangements and records. Thus was born the Sherman Foundation. Within six months a building was constructed, equipped and staffed. The location was chosen with care; a tree-covered, three-acre site near Malibu Beach. It was perfect. Near the congested environs of the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, yet secluded from the curious public.

I first became involved after resigning from my commission in the Naval Air Force. I'd given up the military in an attempt to salvage my marriage. Barbara, my estranged wife, had never been able to adjust to my long absences from home; at least that was the rationale she continued to pound home. While never really passionate, our sex life had gone from mediocre to non-existent over a ten-year stretch. My resignation was for naught, because after six months at home the situation became unbearable. Finally we added to the divorce rate, and it was over.

Wifeless, jobless, and with no special skills, I turned to job-seeking as a distraction from the painful wounds inflicted by the tempestuous six months of violent fighting and the cold, vicious ordeal of court orders, lawyers, settlements, and that crowning day when the court made me a single, lonely man.

It was during this job-seeking period that I answered an innocently phrased want ad from the Sherman Foundation. It had simply stated the desire to interview single males, between the ages of twenty-five and forty, who were emotionally stable and without children. Remuneration to be negotiated. In brief, it said nothing at all about the type of work being offered.

My interview with the Shermans, the following morning after I had phoned for an interview, was both unusual and educational.

Seated in their large, well-furnished office, I studied my potential employers while they pored over my resume. George Sherman was a ruggedly handsome man in his mid-thirties. He was a powerfully built guy, with a deep chest and heavy shoulders. Even the heavy black-framed glasses perched on his straight nose failed to make him fit the popular image of a physician. His virility was undisguisable, as was his sharp intellect.

Joyce Sherman, his wife and associate, looked more like a lush show girl than a Doctor of Behavioral Sciences. Even the white medical smock she wore failed to obscure her full breasts and voluptuous hips. A thick, black cascade of lustrous hair hung down in raven splendor over well-formed shoulders. Her enormous, blue-violet eyes were shockingly frank and bored into mine with an almost wicked gleam as she looked up from my papers.

"I see you've recently been divorced, Jack. May we ask why?" she asked, a trace of a grin flickering across her full lips. They were perfect; velvety smooth and sensual.