Cum Quick
Story Codes: MF, Exhibitionist

Cum Quick
by Liz Doherty

This is a long shot, but I’m finally through the family holiday hoo-ha,
and have a couple of hours before my flight home to San Francisco .  
Who wants a bit of fun?  I'm attractive, open, healthy and easy, and like
my men the same. I can’t host, but maybe you’ve got a room here at
the hotel?  My flight leaves at 8:30, so hit me quick...

Gil was in his late 30s, bearded and kind of husky, not my usual type, but I was
in no position to be picky.  He wasn’t in the hotel, but lived not far away, and
agreed to meet me in the lounge for a drink.  I figured if we were into each
other, we could get a room at the hotel; I was prepared to spend on a room the
hundred bucks Grandpa had pressed on me as I left, I was that ready.  He
arrived just when he said he would, a rarity in San Francisco , where everyone
thinks they can get across the small city in twenty minutes, but where reality
usually means at least an hour.

He was funny, cute and playful, and our brief but animated discussion covered
a bit of politics, some holiday stories and very little about our personal
situations.  He said he was single, and I saw no sign of a recently removed
wedding ring.  I didn’t much care:  this wasn’t going to be an ongoing
connection if I was three thousand miles from home.

We didn’t get a room because he said he had a better idea.  His small white
pickup was parked on the street a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I rolled
my small suitcase out, chucked it into the open back of the truck, set my cell
phone alarm for seven o’clock, and reminded him that need to be dropped at
National by 7:30.

My hand in his lap, exploring the cloth of his khaki pants and the shape and
size of the growing hardness beneath, we drove through the twinkle lights and
sale banners of post-Christmas suburban Alexandria , and into an enclave of
neat, brick houses built in the forties, which reminded me of the neighborhood
of my early childhood years.  As darkness arrived, he parked by a playground,
pointing out a house across the street he’d lived in as an adolescent, and told
me of once seeing a teenage girl give her boyfriend a blowjob on the swings,
the first time he’d felt aroused, a sweetly endearing story that both touched and
excited me.

We walked hand in hand to the swing set, where he leaned back against the
frame and grinned at me.  We were both laughing as I sank down, the ground
beneath my knees damp and cool, and brought his now fiercely erect penis to
my mouth.  Like a shy school girl – well, maybe not that shy – I tentatively
lapped at its head, then licked my way down his shaft, getting him wet and
ready.  Before long he had my head in his hands, and was rhythmically forcing
my face tight against his body.  I wondered whether the girl he’d watched years
ago had been as skinny as me, or as brazen.  I braced my hands on his hips to
control the depth; he was about seven and a half inches, so I didn’t have to
resist much. I have a very deep throat.

When I sensed he was close to coming, I released him, stood and looked him
straight in the eye.  “What happened after the blow job?”  Luckily his pants
hadn’t dropped all the way to his ankles, or he might have tripped as he carried
me the five or so steps to the picnic table, where he opened my jeans,
efficiently pushed them and my underwear down, and lifted me to the edge.  I
was glad that the Alexandria parks department kept the tables there well
sanded and painted, or I might have had splinters in my ass.  Face to face, with
my legs wrapped around his waist and my jeans hanging from my left foot, he
pounded deeply into me for five or so minutes at the edge of that table.  We
laughed when we came together as my phone alarm went off.  It was only then
that I kissed him, with the gentle tenderness of the teenager I had once been.

He dropped me at National right on time at 7:30, and I passed through airport
security in jeans with muddy stains on the knees, smiling and contented, ready
for sleep on the plane.  It was only then that I realized that my flight wasn’t
scheduled out of National, the airport I’d flown in to, but out of Dulles, forty
miles outside of the city.  Shit.  I found a cab outside willing to race over there
for a flat seventy-five dollars, and made that flight by moments.  I called Gil
from that cab ride, giggling as I left him a voice mail message.  “Thank you for a
lovely evening.  See you at school on Monday.”

© 2008 Liz Doherty

Liz Doherty is a writer and editor living in San Francisco, and a regular
user of the Craigslist personals.  She continues her on-line, sex-first
search for her smoking hot Mr. Right with honesty and humor, and still
hopes he’s lurking there amid the acronyms, euphemisms and raunch.  
She can be reached through her website: