Mr. Gray, Samuel, Sam, Part 1

It all began many, many months ago. I was home from school on Spring Break, and I’d just been expecting time with family, time with friends from grade school, not an almost-bruisingly passionate kiss from Sam. Nor the rest. He’d told me for years to call him by his first name, “Samuel,” or maybe “Sam,” anything but Mr. Gray. And now, my first kiss from a real man had come from Mr. Gray. Sam.

We’d spent some time together every time I came home from school. He’d take me out to coffee, sometimes lunch, and I hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was obviously something unspoken in the air, something that was almost said by the hugs he would give me each time we parted, something that was almost said, or maybe was said, by the subtle, almost unnoticeable compliments he’d give me while we sipped our coffee or ate our food.

The night in question, he’d offered to pick me up at the bar I’d gone to meet my friends at, as I didn’t have a car – I’d even taken the bus home to save money, instead of flying. I didn’t really enjoy the time at the bar with my friends. None of them really felt familiar anymore, almost like I’d left my affection towards them behind, along with my old, childhood bedroom and everything else I didn’t take away to college with me. We’d talked about old memories, things we’d done together as children, but I felt a bit removed from everything in the past, and from them as well. When Mr. Gray appeared at the door of the bar around ten, I tried not to seem rushed about leaving, even though I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The bar felt cramped. I’d felt an unpleasant tightness inside myself as soon as I’d entered it, and so I gulped down the rest of my beer, smiled, apologized about having to leave so early, even though I didn’t mean it, not really. I shrugged into my jacket and walked out the door, Mr. Gray just a little behind me.

I felt like I could truly breathe again once we got to the alley his car was parked next to, and then I gasped as Mr. Gray took my hand, and led me into the darkness contained between the walls beside his car. I leaned up against the wall, staring up at him, and he placed a hand on my right hip, then one on my left, and then he came closer, pressing himself up against me. “God, Andrea, you’ve gotten so gorgeous. So…sexy,” he said, breathing the last word into my open lips, his own mere inches away. And then I surprised myself by closing the distance between our lips…perhaps because I’d finished my beer too fast.

His lips were gentle, at first. He kissed me the way a well-mannered gentleman might, which was how I’d thought of him until then. Then the pressure of his lips increased, a forcefulness behind his kisses appearing, then growing, and a low, vibrating moan came from him, sending a shudder down my goosepimpled arms. He pulled back for a second. “Are you cold? And is this…”

The question hung mid-air, and I shook my head in answer, then said, “Just a little.” He started to pull back from me, and my next words surprised me. “Please, keep kissing me.” I was beginning to realize that a hunger was growing within me, to have more, more from this man who now thought of me as a woman, as someone to touch, to kiss, and, maybe, to fuck.

His grip on my hips tightened, and he pressed up against me again, his own body now pressed tight against mine, and I could feel his dick pressed against my stomach, hard, ready. I reached for it, and he said, “No, I want this to be about you, Andy, all about you.” He stroked my cheek, trailing the backs of his fingers down my face, and then he got down on his knees, said, “Pull up your skirt. I want to see how wet you are.” I lifted the lengthy, black, ruffled fabric, hiked it up above my hips, and then he was kissing another part of me, his lips light against my panties. “These have to go,” he said, and I laughed. He pulled them down my legs, kissing the parts of me that they slid over – my left thigh, my right knee, my ankles. I slipped each foot out of them, and he surprised me by placing them in the pocket of his slacks. “I want to remember this,” he said, looking up at me, and I thought for a moment that I saw something more than just lust in his eyes, something, though I didn’t know quite what it was.

Then he spread me wide open, and I forgot to do anything other than feel. His tongue was so much more skilled than the boys, the one girl, who had tasted me down there at college. His tongue danced across my clit like no one else’s had, appreciative moans coming from his oh-so-talented mouth. I’d been told I tasted sweeter than most girls, and maybe that was true, because he paused to tell me that I was delicious. While his mouth was away from my pussy, he looked up at me, and said, “Keep your eyes open. Look into mine.”   His mouth returned to its work seconds before I was going to beg him to continue, but he only gave me a few flicks of his tongue, then he stood up, and then I did beg him to continue. I had to have more, I told him, I wanted so much more, I almost said, and he kissed me, interrupting my words, and I could taste how sweet I was on his tongue, on every inch of his mouth.

Before I could begin to beg, to plead for him to continue, he threaded his fingers through my hair, and his other hand found my pussy, found it wet, hungry, and he slipped two fingers inside, fucking me hard, roughly, each plunge inside me bringing gasps and stutters from my lips, gasps and stutters that were swallowed into him. I felt like I could tell him anything in that moment, felt like he was mine, almost. Then, “Almost,” I said, “I’m almost there,” and he tightened the grip on my head, shoved me up against his mouth, and bit down on my lower lip, as his fingers sped up, in, out, in, out, and I tumbled over the wall between “almost there” and “there.” All the noises I made while I came were lost to his lips, holding mine tightly shut, and that was lucky, because it wasn’t a gentle tumble over that wall – it was a free-fall, a swan-dive, into a powerful flow of pleasure, all concentrated on that one, so sensitive, so very wet part of me.

When I had finally finished coming, Samuel pulled down my skirt, smoothed down my hair, smiled at me. “You’re so beautiful, Andy,” he said, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and thanked him.

On the drive back, he was silent, but right as we pulled up to my mom’s house, he placed his hand on my knee, turned towards me, and said, “You know, I really like you, Andy. I’ve been thinking about you since you got back from school last time, about the beautiful, kind, wonderful woman you’ve become. I know it’s too late to get your father’s blessing, but if it’s okay with you, I’d like to visit you at school sometime. Sometime soon.”

I smiled at him, suddenly so very shy, and kissed him on the cheek. “Sure, mister…Samuel. Sam.”

“That’s more like it, Andy. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

to be continued…

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Maggie Morton

Maggie Morton's first novel, Dreaming of Her, is published by Bold Strokes Books - it's an erotic, lesbian, fantasy novel, and has a fair share of romance as well. Her gay, fantasy novella A Fairy's Embrace is published by Xcite Books, and her writing appears in various anthologies, including Eve's Big Bang, Kinky Girls, and Dark Desires. She lives in Northern California with her partner and their Japanese Bobtail.

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