‘The sexual aim consists in the incorporating into one’s own body of the object’: A sophisticated encounter with my classmate’s cum [FM]

So, a certain feminist psychoanalyst on whom I had a huge crush (unrelated) was launching a book at SOAS, and since Charlie’s place was just around the corner, he could be easily persuaded to go. I’d been sitting at the foot of his bed for most of the afternoon, my legs stretched out in front of me with my laptop on top of them, and I was revising a story which an editor friend had gently assured me amounted to five thousand words of turgid garbage. Though I don’t really remember what had happened earlier in the day, the likelihood is that we had done one or the other of the things we usually did together, which were sneering at the work of writers we had met and detested in person, or having anal sex.

It had been a long time since either of us had paced the corridors of a university building but, for me at least, the corridors of university buildings seem always to remind me of the years in which I first became the disgusting sexual libertine that I remain: cripplingly shy, unable for love nor money to maintain eye contact, yet happy to expose my orifices to anyone who can name their favourite episode of *Ulysses*. We arrived in good time, and I dimly noticed that the place was absolutely packed with people I recognised; one or two lecturers who had taught me, some classmates that Charlie and I had both despised, and various figures of ill repute who made me feel glad that I no longer cherished ambitions of working in academia.

You’re probably not interested in the details here. It was your average weeknight in Bloomsbury, really. My favourite feminist gave a talk, I tried unconvincingly to pretend that she wasn’t even part of the reason I was horny, and Charlie was just exceedingly gracious about the whole thing, right down to the outlandish suggestion that I wanted to find an empty classroom someplace where I could suck his cock.

So we ducked out just as the Q&A was getting started, and I helped myself to a glass of wine from the table outside, which had been left unattended for some reason I couldn’t fathom and thought it best not to worry about. I offered Charlie a mouthful of warm chardonnay which he willingly took, and we walked through some echoey corridors until we’d left the festivities well behind us.

You’ll be amazed, I’m sure, to learn that this wasn’t my first rodeo. Back when I had routine swipe-card access to deserted university buildings, I used to be very happy to make the trek there in the dead of night, splatter bodily fluids around the place and look forward to the moment, perhaps the very next morning, when I would sit and make notes about Mikhail Bakhtin at a desk that had been polished to a mirror shine by the squeaking friction of my bare arse.

One time, in fact, in the largest lecture theatre at [redacted] University, my college paramour Lucy ate me out with her thumb in my asshole, as I slumped forward onto the very same lectern where I had watched a tweed-jacketed type get his lecture notes confused and blunder his way through a painful hour on D.H. Lawrence. I orgasmed both wetly and expressively, trickling into my jeans around my thighs, thinking that my moans were unusually loud in the big, open space of the theatre, then realising that the lectern’s built-in microphone was switched on.

In an unlit classroom, with too few chairs and too many desks, I ground my knuckles into Charlie’s stomach, kneading the deep furrows between his abs, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him. Like the overgrown teenager I used to pretend I no longer was, I kissed him fiercely and sloppily, shoving my tongue urgently into his mouth, nipping at his lips with my teeth when I felt like he wasn’t responding enthusiastically enough. I bit his bottom lip, harder, and he brought up his hands to cup my ass, squeezing so tightly that his fingers dug painfully into my flesh even through the material of my jeans.

‘What’s got into you, Lottie?’

‘The usual,’ I said, or something like that, and Charlie gave me an offhand shrug.

Charlie manoeuvred me back until I was sitting on a table, and he unbuttoned the shirt I was wearing, not quite aggressively enough to send buttons flying across the room, but not too far off either. Pulling an irritated face as though he hadn’t really grasped what bras were for, other than impeding his access to my boobs, he tugged down the cups of mine to expose my nipples, tilting my head roughly back to kiss me as he pinched and pulled them hard enough to make me whine with pain.

‘This wasn’t the deal, Charlie,’ I said, in a voice barely above a whisper, as though the corridors were packed with enthusiastic and hard-working students who might burst in at any minute.

Charlie looked confused, so I gesticulated at his crotch. I could see the thick outline of his cock there, and that he was already hard, or something close to it. Hopefully I was able to keep from licking my lips, but I think it was clear either way what I wanted.

‘Take it out, then,’ I said.

‘And why should I do that?’ Charlie said.

‘Because I want to watch you do it.’

And, to his credit, he did. I sat back on the table, my legs splayed in my jeans and my tits out, and I played with my nipples as I watched him loosen his belt, unbutton his own jeans and pull out his cock. He stroked it for a while, his eyes focused on what I was doing to myself, and then I slid down onto my knees in front of him. He went on stroking himself, as though he was going to cum all over my face and walk out of the room, and I was mesmerised for a moment by the fluid motion of his skin over the shaft and head of his cock, then I gently nudged away his hand and replaced it with my own.

His cock felt warm and firm in my hand, the skin so soft and yet the flesh beneath so hard, and I continued to watch it, entranced, as I began to stroke him myself, angling his cock upwards, tugging the waist of his jeans down a little lower so I could cup his balls in my other hand, then start to lick and suck them as he tilted his head back and relaxed against the wall behind him.

The floor was hard underneath my knees, and I shifted my weight so they hurt a little less, the crotch of my jeans rubbing ever-so-slightly against my cunt as I did, sending a few tingles shooting upward into my stomach.

I started to rub myself through the layers with my fingertips as, eventually and slowly, I took the tip of Charlie’s cock into my mouth. I remember that I held it there for a while, barely moving my mouth, kneeling at Charlie’s feet with my breasts yanked out of the cups of my bra and my hand on my pussy, just circling the underside of him slowly and gently with my tongue. Charlie always tasted delicious—smooth and warm and a tiny bit salty—and I let my tongue gradually explore more of him.

Of course, and true to form, it didn’t take long before I wanted more of him, and I took him deeply and longingly into my mouth. I felt the tip of his cock nudge the back of my throat, felt my jaw stretch as my tongue tried to attend still to the underneath. I pushed my mouth hungrily toward the base of his cock, gasping as I came up for air, stroking him now his cock was thoroughly wet, circling the tip in my palm, trying to wipe my mouth in a dignified way with my other hand.

Never one for inappropriate bouts of tenderness, Charlie responded very eagerly indeed to my obvious desire for his cock. He tangled his fingers in my hair at the back of my head, thrusting hard into my mouth, gasping with pleasure as my mouth and throat seemed to open up to take more of him. Sooner or later, I stopped listening intently for footsteps in the corridor outside, preferring instead to relax into the gentle rhythm of Charlie’s cock gliding wetly against my lips, my tongue, the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat.

‘Don’t swallow it.’ Charlie said.

I was confused, and I wondered if I had misheard him. It’s not all that often a man doesn’t want you to swallow his cum. But I didn’t have much time to think about it, because moments after he said it he was filling my mouth: I felt a hot jet of him hit the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat, pooling in the centre and around the sides of my tongue.

I looked up at Charlie quizzically, my mouth full of hot and salty cum and his cock, which he slid gently from my mouth, as though trying carefully not to spill anything.

‘Yeah, like that,’ he said.

Probably I looked up at him with some comical open-handed question gesture.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Hmmm?’ I said, since I could hardly form any words without making a mess of my own tits.

‘Exactly,’ Charlie said, ‘just like that.’

And with that, Charlie rearranged himself back into his jeans, buttoned them up and opened the door, looking back and forward along the corridor. Hastily, I got back to my feet, scooped my boobs back into my bra cups and started buttoning my shirt.

‘We’re alright,’ Charlie said. ‘Come on.’

And so Charlie led me back through the corridor, back along sticky linoleum floors and past anonymous doors to anonymous classrooms, past a vending machine filled with dusty old Kind bars, and all the while I tried to stop myself from trickling any jizz down my shirt.

And don’t get me wrong, there was nothing particularly unpleasant about Charlie’s cum, which I had on occasion willingly ingested even after he had licked it out of my arsehole. He wasn’t some kind of cigar-and-steak-tartare-chomping eighteenth-century nobleman. But still, it’s a bit of an odd texture to keep wobbling around under your tongue for that long, and pacing through empty corridors, approaching the hubbub of voices helping themselves to the wine reception, all the while with a mouthful of cum, just feels like a strange and slightly wrong combination of feelings. Like eating your mother’s roast chicken while wearing a buttplug, which I have definitely never done, because I don’t eat chicken.

And of course, just to pile on the ridiculousness of the whole affair, as we stepped through a pair of swinging double doors back into the mass of hobnobbing academics, my feminist crush caught my eye, and said ‘Lottie, isn’t it?’

And of course, there was really nothing I could do but smile weakly and hope I didn’t pull a telltale mouthful-of-salty-phlegm-and-detergent face as I followed Charlie out into the fresh and cool air of the early-winter evening, trying to look like I had somewhere important to be.

‘You can swallow now,’ Charlie said.

I spat it into a flowerbed.

‘You’re a pervert, Charlie.’

I’m sure the subtlety of my remark wasn’t lost on him.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/ih5jj2/the_sexual_aim_consists_in_the_incorporating_into

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