The Second Lesson

She found it before I could even answer.

"Can you go again, honey?" she asked, and her hand closed around the soft, spent weight of me, rolling it gently, weighing it like fruit at a market. "Hmm? Can you?"

"I don't—" I started, and that was as far as the sentence got, because what was the truth here? Nothing worked. Everything worked. My legs were gone, my brain was gone, and my cock was lying in her palm like a dead thing with a memory.

"Shhh." She put a finger to my lips. "Don't think. Boys always think. Let Viv handle you."

And then she slid off the lounger and knelt on the tiles between my knees.

She didn't hurry. She never hurried. She bent down over me and let her tongue out first—just the tip—and touched it to the underside of my cockhead, right where the little V of nerves gathers, and drew it slowly up. One long, wet, dragging stroke, so slow it was almost cruel. My whole body flinched.

"Ohh," I breathed.

"Mmmh." She did it again. Same spot. Same unbearable slowness. Her tongue was flat and warm and impossibly soft, and she licked me like she had all afternoon, like the cicadas were keeping time for her.

My mushroom head was still slick from being inside her, still swollen and pink and half-mast, and every pass of her tongue made it stand up a little more. It was absurd. It was obscene. It was the most alive I had ever felt.

"You see?" she murmured against my skin. "He is waking up."

She was right. To my total amazement, my cock swelled back to full in what felt like seconds—thick and straight and straining, standing up off my belly like it had never come in its life. The blood rushed back in a hot wave, and my balls pulled up tight behind it, tender and heavy all over again.

And that's when she asked, casually, in the middle of licking me:

"Could you come clean my pool tomorrow too, honey?"

"Wh—" My brain was three seconds behind. "Yes. Yeah. Yes."

"Come at noon, then."

"Okay."

Just like that. Arranged. She had a cock in her mouth and she was scheduling me. I said yes to noon the same way I would have said yes to anything she asked, and she knew it, and the little hum of satisfaction she gave around my shaft told me she knew it.

Then she opened her mouth wide and sank her head down.

And I watched my cock disappear inside her.

That's the part I couldn't get over. I watched it. The head slid past her lips and teeth into the wet heat of her mouth, continuing further until her nose was almost in my pubic hair, while I felt myself pressed against the back of her throat. She held there. Then she came back up, slow, dragging her lips along the whole length of me, and did it again.

How does a woman get a cock so hard and so fast? I'd had girlfriends my own age. Good ones. Sweet ones. And it always took work, always took a hand and a wet finger and five patient minutes and a lot of hoping. Vivian had taken a dead cock and raised it from the grave in about ninety seconds with nothing but her tongue and that slow, knowing patience.

The rumours must be true. All of them. Every single one.

I lay back and let her work, and somewhere in the fog I started trying to guess which brothel she'd come out of. Was it one of those places in Madrid with the red lamps? Somewhere on the coast? Somewhere far away, another country, another life, a house full of men and her on a mattress learning exactly this—learning to take a soft cock and make it hard, learning to take a hard cock and make it wait? She blew me like a woman with a technique and a theory. Like a woman who had been trained.

This was nothing like the blowjobs I'd had. Nothing. Those had been enthusiastic, sloppy, and hopeful. This was architecture. She was slow on purpose, because slow was worse. She used her tongue on the ridge and her lips on the shaft, and one hand cupped around my balls, lifting them, feeling their weight like she was checking the level of something. She'd take me all the way down, hold, and let her throat squeeze me, then pull off with a soft wet sound and lick the head like a lollipop.

A boy's dream come true. That's what it was. Straight out of the magazines under my bed, except real, except better, except with a little silver toe ring in the corner of my eye to prove it was really happening.

The summer of being made a man. That's what this was.

"Honey."

Her voice pulled me out of it. She'd popped off me, and my cock stood there in the open air, wet and shiny and twitching, pointing at the sky like it was trying to get back to her.

"Would you like to try doggy?"

Those eyes. She turned them up at me and locked on and held, and there was no room in the world for anything else.

Fuck a woman from behind. From behind.

I just nodded. Of course I nodded. She was in charge here, and we both knew it, and the beautiful thing was she never once had to say so.

"Good boy."

She got up off her knees and turned around and lowered herself onto the lounger on all fours.

God.

Her back arched, her tits hanging heavy and swinging gently beneath her, her waist dipping, and that round tan ass pushed out at me, and she gave it a little wiggle—a slow, deliberate little roll of the hips—and between her cheeks, framed there, her slit was already wet again, pink and soppy and open, glistening in the shade. Inviting me. Daring me.

I scrambled up behind her so fast I nearly fell off the lounger. My heart was hammering. I was so horny it hurt, so hard I could feel my pulse in it, and I took myself in hand and aimed and put my cockhead right against her opening.

Her outer lips were hot and slippery, and they parted for me the second I touched them.

"That's it," she breathed.

I pressed. Nothing else. Just pressed, and let her know I was there.

"Give it to old Viv."

And she pushed back.

Not me—her. She rolled her hips back onto me, and my thick head sank into her in one smooth, easy, slippery swallow, past the tight ring of her entrance, deep into that wet heat, and I felt her stretch and give around me, and I groaned out loud.

"Ohhh, that's it, baby."

And then—this is the thing—she started fucking me.

Even though I was the one behind her. Even though my hands were on her waist, even though I was the boy in the position of power, the one on top, the one doing it. She fucked me.

She set the rhythm herself, rolling back onto me in long, slow, expert strokes, and my cock just glided in and out of her, in and out, slick as anything, and all I had to do was hold on to her waist and try to breathe. She knew exactly how far to pull away, exactly when to push back. She never let the head all the way out—she'd ease forward until just the tip was caught at her lips, kept me there, held me there, and then swallowed me back up to the root, over and over, that beautiful mouth of hers between her legs, knowing precisely what it was doing.

And I just watched. Watched myself slide out of her, wet and shining, and disappear back in. Watched her ass bounce softly against my hips. Watched her fingers curl into the lounger cushion. It was hypnotic. She was a machine and a magician at the same time.

Her expertise was so far past mine it stopped being embarrassing and became something like relief. I let it happen. I let her use me. She rolled and squeezed and pulled and swallowed, and every so often she'd clench down hard at the end of a stroke, right when I was deepest, and milk a little moan out of me.

"Now you have to fuck me too, honey," she coached, easy as a teacher.

I blinked. "What?"

"Now you move." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I am giving you the hole, baby. Now take it. Push into me."

I pushed.

"Mmh, yes. Harder."

I drove into her, and she gave a low, satisfied hum.

"Don't slam it all the way every time," she said. "Long strokes. Pull back slowly, push in fast. Let me feel him go."

I did it. Pull back slowly. Push in fast. Her whole back rippled.

"That's it. That's a good boy."

And that's when it clicked—what she was really doing. She wasn't just letting me fuck her. She was teaching me to fuck her, the way you'd teach someone to drive: hand on the wheel, correction by correction, until the motion stopped being thought and became instinct. Short strokes, deep strokes. Roll the hips; don't just pump. Watch her, listen to her, feel what she does, and answer it.

"Hips higher, honey. Angle up a little—there. Oh, yes, right there."

I angled up, and something in her changed; her breath caught, her hips stuttered, and she pushed back hard against me with a little greedy sound.

"See?" she panted, glancing back over her shoulder at me with that smile. "You can learn."

The lounger creaked beneath us. The cicadas screamed in the pines. Sweat ran down the small of my back and down the line of her spine, and I held her waist and fucked her the way she told me to, slow pull, fast push, over and over, while she took every stroke and taught me every one.

"Again," she breathed. "Keep that rhythm. Don't stop. Old Viv is going to come like this, honey—don't you dare stop."

I didn't stop.

She came on my cock.

Not like before. Before had been a fist and a shudder, a controlled thing, a woman letting go on purpose. This was different. This was her rhythm breaking apart in my hands.

"Oh—" Her voice cracked high. "Oh, don't stop. Don't stop, honey. Keep fucking me. Keep—"

And then she went tight. Her whole back arched down and her hips shoved back hard against me and her cunt clamped around my cock in a long, rolling, wet convulsion, gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing, like a hand squeezing the length of me from the inside out.

"Take me harder," she gasped. "Harder, baby, come on—"

I did.

I let go of everything I'd been trying to remember and just shoved. Fast, deep, brutal little strokes, driving into her as hard as my hips could go, and the sound of it filled the whole garden—the wet slap of our bodies, the creak of the lounger, the two of us breathing like we were running.

"Ugh—" A grunt tore out of her with every shove. Not pretty. Real. "Ah—ugh—yes—just like that, honey—"

My stomach muscles caught fire. That's the only way to say it. After the first time, after everything she'd already taken out of me, the hard shoving lit my whole core up like a match, that low burning ache right under the ribs, and every stroke made it worse, and I loved it. My thighs burned. My back burned. My hands had her waist in a death grip, and she was pushing back into every single thrust, meeting me, doubling the impact, her ass bouncing off my hips with a smack each time.

"Just like that," she coached, ragged, breathless, and still teaching even now. "That's it. Short strokes. Hard. Right there, don't lose it—"

Her fingers clawed the lounger cushion. Her tits swung heavy beneath her with every shove, and she let out another long, filthy grunt and pushed her face down into the fabric, arching her back so I could get even deeper, and I did, and she moaned like it was the answer to something.

She looked back at me over her shoulder. Sweat on her temple, hair stuck to her cheek, eyes half shut and gleaming, and that mouth curled up at one corner.

"Are you going to fill me with your wonderful seed, honey?" she cooed, sweet as anything, sweet as a woman offering tea. "Hmm? Are you going to fill old Viv's pussy up good?"

I couldn't even answer. My throat was dry. My balls had gone tight and heavy and hot, drawn up close, and every drive into her ground them against her soft skin until they ached.

"Fill me," she whispered. "Come on, baby. Give it all to me. Every drop. Fill my pussy good, honey—show me what a big boy you are—"

That did it.

The feeling climbed out of my balls and up the shaft, and there was nothing I could do but let it break. I shoved in to the root, buried to the hilt in her, and came.

Hard. Harder than the first time. My whole body locked and shuddered, and my cock jerked inside her, once, twice, three times, thick hot ropes of it pumping up into her, and I heard myself make a noise like an animal that surprised us both.

"Yes—" she breathed. "Yes, honey. That's it. Give it to me."

And she didn't stop moving.

She worked her hips in slow, short, rolling grinds against me, keeping me buried, and her cunt began that deep rippling wave again, milking me—literally milking me, squeezing and stroking and drawing on my cock like a mouth, pulling the cum out of me one pulse at a time. I could feel every rope leave me. Could feel my balls empty themselves, twitching and pumping until there was nothing left, and still she clenched and coaxed and drew on me, and one more weak gush came, and another, and she took them all with a soft satisfied hum.

And then, right as I was on the edge of oversensitive, right as my whole cock was screaming, she came with me.

Her back snapped down. Her cunt locked around me like a fist and fluttered in fast, hot little waves, over and over, and she gave a long shuddering groan and ground her hips back onto me hard, riding it out, dragging every last tremor out of both of us at the same time. My knees shook. Hers did too, I think. For a few seconds we were just two bodies locked together, twitching, breathing, sweating, both of us coming around the same buried point.

"Ah!"

"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop—keep fucking me."

Whatever she'd taught me in the last two minutes, I threw all of it at her at once—slow pull gone, long strokes gone, just hips and drive and hunger. I gripped her waist and shoved into her, and she shoved back to meet me, and we found the rhythm together, hard and fast, my hips slapping against her ass with a wet, ringing smack that echoed off the tiles.

"Ah—yes—harder," she grunted. "Take me harder, baby. Don't be gentle with old Viv."

Harder.

I planted my feet on the tiles, hauled her back onto me by the hips, and drove. Every stroke buried me to the root. Her whole body jolted forward with each one, tits swinging heavy beneath her, her fingers clawing at the cushion, and out of her throat came these low, rolling grunts—uh, uh, uh—that weren't delicate at all, weren't the pretty little sounds I'd expected from a woman like her. Real ones. Grown ones. The sounds of a woman getting exactly what she wanted and not pretending otherwise.

My stomach muscles started to burn.

That was the first thing that told me how hard I was really going. Deep in the core of me, that tight band under the ribs, pulling and aching with every shove. My thighs too. My lower back. Sweat ran into my eyes and dripped off my chin onto her spine, and I didn't care, couldn't care, kept hammering into her because stopping had stopped being an option.

"That's it," she panted. "Ohh, that's it. Just like that, honey. Just like that."

Just like that. So I gave her just like that.

"Don't change anything. Keep it right there. Ohh, you're doing so good."

Praise. Every time she praised me I fucked her harder, and every time I fucked her harder she praised me again, and the two of us spiraled up together like that, her coaching me straight through it, her voice going thin and breathy between the grunts.

"Angle up—yes, right there—oh, you learn so fast—"

Her thighs started to shake. She went quiet for a second, then let out a long, cracked moan, and her whole back arched like a bowstring, and she came.

Hard.

Her cunt locked down on my cock and rippled, squeezing me in waves from the entrance all the way up my shaft, and she pushed her ass back onto me and ground through it, riding out every last second of it against my hips. "Ohhh—fuck—oh—"

And she didn't stop. That was the thing. She came, and she kept fucking me right through it, greedy, working herself on me, and now her voice changed—went soft and low and filthy in a way that was somehow worse than the grunts.

"Are you going to fill me, honey?" she cooed, glancing back over her shoulder, hair stuck to her cheek, eyes half shut. "Are you going to fill old Viv with your wonderful seed?"

"Yes—" I managed.

"Say it. Say you'll fill my pussy good."

"I'll fill your pussy good."

"Mmmh, that's my boy." She clenched around me on purpose, slow and deep, milking the stroke. "Give it to me. All of it. Pump that hot young seed right up inside me. Make a mess of me, honey, come on—"

My balls had gone tight and hot and heavy, aching in a way that was almost pain, that electric second before everything tips over, and she felt it happen. She felt it—I swear she did—because she stopped talking and just pushed back and ground down on me, deep, holding me buried, working me with that slow-rolling squeeze of hers.

"Give it," she whispered.

I gave it.

It hit me like a truck. My hips stuttered and locked, and my cock jerked and started pumping, thick hot rope after rope of it, flooding her, and I heard myself make a noise that wasn't a word. My hands dug into her waist hard enough to bruise. My eyes squeezed shut. Every muscle in my stomach and legs went rigid and stayed rigid, held there, locked, while the stuff just kept coming out of me in pulses that felt like they'd never stop.

And she came with me.

Not a second later—right with me—her cunt clamping down and fluttering around my shaft in fast little waves, taking each pump of mine and answering it, grinding back onto me through her own aftershocks. Two people coming at once, and I'm too far gone to even be amazed by it.

Then came the part I'd never felt before in my life.

She started milking me.

Long, slow, deliberate squeezes, rippling up from deep inside her to the head of my cock, drawing it out of me. My balls emptied—emptied—every last drop pulled up the shaft and pushed into her, and she kept going, kept squeezing, patient and expert, until I was so sensitive it made me wince and shiver, and still she didn't let up, dragging the very last of it out of me like she had a right to it.

"Mmh," she hummed. "There we go. That's every drop."

I was finished. Absolutely finished. My cock was still inside her, twitching weakly, and she held me there with that soft muscle grip until I finally went soft and slid out on my own, and I felt the little warm spill of what I'd left behind.

She stayed on all fours a moment, breathing hard, then lowered herself down onto her forearms with a satisfied sigh, cheek on the cushion, ass still up, wet and flushed and used and completely content.

Behind her, I sat back on my heels on the lounger and tried to remember how lungs worked.

"Good boy," she murmured into the cushion, without even looking up.

The cicadas still screamed. The sun hammered the tiles. Somewhere in the house, a clock I hadn't noticed started ticking again.

To be continued.