The Professor is an excellent storyteller. Whether it be about his work, coaching, his family, or his sexcapades, he has a way of capturing your attention and investment. He teases his audience, building tension and interest, in no apparent rush to get to the much-anticipated climax. This week, he took that to an entirely new level.
You see, The Professor had his first ever threesome. As much as I love telling stories about sex, I also love hearing about them- and while I wasn’t present for the affair, after hearing (experiencing?) the story about it I feel like I might have been.
It had been a few weeks in the making; he had connected with a couple of women who were interested in playing together, and who also each happened to be playing with him. Imagine that. After it happened, he refused to give me any of the details that I was craving, insisting that the story would be better in person. He was, as usual, absolutely correct.
By the time he made it to my place a few days later, I was absolutely dying for the story. He took his time coming inside, making small talk. I am not known for my patience, nor for my restraint, but with this man I know that he sets the pace. At long last, I finally heard the magic words: “So, I have a story for you…”
One of us suggested that we go upstairs to my bedroom for the story- mostly because we were absolutely going to have sex after, but also because it was bound to be a very long story, and we wanted to be comfortable. We got naked and laid beside each other under the blankets, my body vibrating in excitement at finally getting all the spicy details. We were touching, but not intimately; I was not yet interested in sex- he owed me a story.
He toyed with me for a while longer, feigning difficulty at remembering exactly which story he was going to tell. I felt like a child about to learn the secret behind Santa Claus. My inner perv just knew the story would be good, and I love listening to his experiences- he has a great perspective.
The story began, and he had my rapt attention. He spared no detail, to my delight and immense frustration as he described arriving at the hotel, ordering food, arranging logistics, etc.- I was very ready to fast forward to the naked parts, but could tell that he was enjoying my torment. He idly stroked my breasts as he talked, less in an effort to arouse, and more so as you would twirl a strand of hair. The end result, of course, was still arousal.
My nipples hardened as he described the arrival of the first woman; their easy banter, her overt excitement as she begged for something to take the edge off before the other arrived. The Professor, of course, obliged- he is most accommodating when he wants to be.
The professor indulgently described a shower scene when the other woman arrived; all three of them headed to the generously appointed shower, a good gateway to the rest of the evening. They took turns soaping each other up, breaking the ice and getting a feel for the dynamic. He took his time explaining, allowing for some eye rolling irony of “of course I helped to lather, I always want to be helpful” or “I took a step back as they focused on each others’ nipples”. He was clearly enjoying the story, not to mention my impatience and rapt attention.
His hand travelled along my stomach and from breast to breast as he described drying each woman off, his words perfectly illustrating the sexual tension that filled the room. They moved to the bed, and the women started making their requests.
One wanted to be fucked from behind while going down on the other.
The other wanted him to go down on her while she was licking the other’s pussy.
He wanted to fuck them both, and toy their asses. He wanted to give them countless orgasms, and turn them into puddles- he has a knack for that.
And around and around they went.
He stroked my clit as he talked about stroking one of theirs, his words painting the picture of two women engrossed in each other while moaning in the pleasure that he provided. He described the ideal push and pull of a threesome, each partner giving and taking in equal measure.
My attention was decidedly split between his expert retelling of every detail, and the building tension between my legs. He of course knew this, and did nothing to relent. He noticeably giggled a few times at my expense, his fingers pausing as he asked whether I needed to take a break.
“Fuck no, don’t stop” was usually my response. I was at times unsure if I was referring to his fingers or his voice- very likely both.
“It seems like you aren’t listening,” he said with feigned disappointment as he applied more pressure to my clit. He had just finished telling me about how much one woman had enjoyed the taste of the other, both of them marvelling at it as his cock was buried deep in pussy. Was I listening? No idea.
With great effort I refocused, trying to follow his words as his fingers danced practiced circles between my legs. He would demand eye contact as proof of focus. He would ask me to repeat what he’d just said as my eyes rolled back in my head. Ever the Professor, checking learning and comprehension.
Eye. Roll. (In more ways than one).
His fingers moved inside me as he described putting them inside another woman. My mouth was decidedly less occupied than hers had been, given that it wasn’t eating pussy. A shame, really. But I digress.
“And then, do you know what I did?” he asked, pulling my focus back. His fingers had picked up the pace, darting in and out of my slippery hole as he spoke.
“No idea,” I said earnestly, having briefly lost track of the story.
“Well,” he continued patiently, “if you recall, this woman is a squirter. So while her face was buried in the other, I buried my fingers in her, kind of like this.” For emphasis, he adjusted his fingers inside me, curling them deeper around that special spot.
I caught on to what he was doing moments before it happened.
“And then, you won’t believe it,” he patronized, “or, well, maybe you would,” he said with a smirk. His fingers curled, his hand pumped, and I was gone.
I squirted everywhere. All over his hands, all over the sheets.
Just like she did. Imagine that.
His hand finally relented, his soaked fingers circling back to my clit. My focus was anywhere but his words, but he made sure to pull me back before he continued the story.
Five, six, seven, who knows how many orgasms later (both for me and for his threesome partners), the story was over. He, as is his constant state, looked quite pleased with himself as I laid in a pool of cum and sweat and desire (my constant state).
“I thought you might like that little story,” he said nonchalantly, as if he had just told me a funny anecdote from the classroom.
“It was okay,” I breathed back, just before he fucked me.
The man is an excellent storyteller.