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The typing continued and she kissed her way lower, engulfing his hardness in her mouth. She took him deep, teasing with her tongue, with one hand on his balls while the other worked the rest of her clothes off. She realized he wasn't typing, so she let his cock slip out of her mouth, kissed her way down the shaft, caught his eyes with hers, bared her teeth and set them firmly on his hard shaft as if to bite. His eyes widened and he quickly went back to typing. She gently nibbled her way down his shaft, licking at the shaft between his balls, looking for a sensitive spot to tease. She kissed and licked her way back to the head, and with a swirl of her tongue, engulfed him again. The way his hips jumped, his quick intake of air followed by a deep moan, reminded her of how she responds to a tongue swirling her clit. As she bobbed her head up and down, she slid a hand to her pussy, to give herself a swirl and a gasp and a moan. Her own wetness surprised her, and suddenly she needed to. My natural air of melancholy was often mistaken for unhappiness caused by some trouble, hence my fellow students always tried to cheer me up in vain. I knew exactly the cause of this melancholy: I was in love, not with a particular person, but with the notion of love and masculinity. My burgeoning body longed to be touched, kissed, dominated. Its thirst demands to be quenched by a virile body. Every night, in the dark silence of the night, my hand would caress my entire body and experience the unknown excitements of new territories. I would pause for a long time at my penis, wondering at its changing shape, the hard, powerful phallus in contrast with the softness of the balls, I would gently touch it first, moist as if between the crimson lips of a blooming youth, then strike it violently, my whole body and mind borne u*********sly to the bottom of the darkness by an uncontrollable whirlwind of passion. There, at the bottom of the darkness, the blooming bodies of those legendary.
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