The Girl from Geneva
“That reminds me of something fun,” said the pretty, blond, late 30-ish lady in the dark, lacey outfit who had been quietly sipping away at her drink for some time, as champagne corks were popping around us. We were at a friend’s wedding party at a prestigious Amsterdam hotel, and I didn’t know anyone. She introduced herself as Natalie, a jewellery designer from the French speaking part of Switzerland. There was something maternal about her, and also a little needy. And she was beginning to get a little tipsy, too. “I like to get guys off,” she confided in me in a low tone, leaning over precariously and giving me a very good view of her ample cleavage; “and seeing champagne shoot out like that... it really jogs my imagination, if you know what I mean.” I knew exactly what she meant, and thought by myself what a willing participant I’d make. She took another sip of champagne, then deftly got up and pulled me away, toward the elevators.
In her room, we barely managed to close the door before she was all over me, pretty much ripping my shirt and trousers off me instantly before maneuvering me onto the bed, where she straddled me with an intently amused glimmer in her eyes. Her dress had ridden up on her thighs, and I could see that she was wearing no underwear. Her large breasts were close to popping out of the low-cut top of her dress, with her pearl necklace swinging lightly between them. A very nice sight.
“You have a cute accent,” she said, beginning to occupy herself with my underwear, to which I acknowledged that I was from Quebec. “I hear everything in Canada is very big,” she said, putting her hand on the front of my boxers, “is that true?” Now she had found what she was looking for, and pulled it out. “Look at that,” she said, “already standing at full attention, poking its head out! Did I do that? I hope I didn’t hurt you? I can be a bit fast, I know... Well, let’s see if this one will perform the champagne bottle trick...” and she sat down next to me, playfully slapping my wrist for trying to pull down her decollete.
“You’ll get hold of them soon enough,” she said with a warm grin, holding my shaft in her closed hand. She had pearl colored fingernails, and began to pull forward on the shaft skin, causing it to bunch up against the rim of the glans. “I’m an expert at this, you’ll see,” she said, intensifying her effort of bringing the skin over the rim, “all it takes is a little bit of skilful glans massage with the foreskin... that invariably gets all the guys off.” But as much as she tried, there was no skin rolling forward to encase the glans. Perplexed, she stopped and leaned in for a closer examination. I could feel her pearl necklace against my penis as she asked, “what happened to your thing? This is such a short foreskin... and it seems to be stretched back! How do you ever push it forward?” I told her the thought had never occurred to me, and that I was circumcised. “So, this is what circumcised means?” she exclaimed incredulously, “the whole foreskin taken away and tightened backwards? I always thought they only clip off the little dangly overhang, so that the tip of the head pokes out a little? Oh, and there is a dark ring around it here, too. Is that where they fused the two foreskin layers together after the cut? So it wasn’t me after all who had exposed your glans when I pulled out your penis, it’s always like that! I am speechless. That seems so excessive! Like they are trying to prevent you from jerking off. Is that what this is about? How do you ever do it then?”
She let me take over, and I began to demonstrate it to her.
“This seems like so much work,” she said in a pitying tone, moving closer, “come, let me do something else. I am sure it will be nice for your naked friend to feel some warm skin around him for a change.” She took it in between her big breasts and began to massage it that way. “We can’t do this to the end, or it’ll ruin my dress, of course,” she said with a note of regret in her voice. Then she thought better of it and took it in her mouth. “All men usually come within two minutes,” she explained apologetically, then returned to sensually caressing my tip with her lips and tongue.
That was when the door suddenly opened. Natalie let out a small cry and hopped on top of me, covering me up under her dress while pulling up her decollete. “Sorry, wrong room,” a voice came from the door, which banged shut again. But now I was inside her. What a lucky coincidence. She made no moves to pull out, and let me have her.
After a good twenty minute workout, during which she orgasmed frequently and ferociously, rolling back her eyeballs till only the white showed under her eyelashes, she finally collapsed in a heap and said she couldn’t possibly go on. “And how can you last this long,” she asked.
Her dress was now beyond salvage.
Oh well. We let room service bring up more champagne.