Men I’ve Loved Fucking

The Other MILFs — Quentin

You’d better drop your trousers, because this could get sloppy.

Tori regales her therapist with selected highlights of her sexual history. This is part 25 of a 26 part episodic series (because there’s a seasonal special coming down the Tantalizing Tales chimney on Christmas Eve); each chapter is a stand-alone story and was published here on Tantalizing Tales each Wednesday. You can find them all here…

Doctor Bonner seems to need a moment to recover from my last story. He leafs through his notes, fidgets in his chair, and quite clearly adjusts his discomfort behind the cover of his desk.

Eventually, he speaks. “Well, that was illuminating. So, Tori, after twenty-six tales —”

“Twenty-five, doc. I didn’t have a story for Q, remember?”

He nods. “Of course, the incomplete collection. Nevertheless, I believe I’ve learned enough. My overall impression is that you’re a confident, capable woman who takes a lot of pleasure from life, and that’s nothing you need to worry about. You have a slight tendency towards impulsivity and risk-taking, but you’re aware of it and managing it successfully. And you’re in full command of your own sexuality, which is admirable. In short, I don’t believe you need my professional help.”

“Thanks, doc. I still feel guilty about being such a slut, though.”

He steeples his fingers, giving me a look of mild concern over the top of them. “I may be able to help you with that matter, although not in my role as a therapist. And if I cannot help you as a therapist, then ethically, our professional relationship must end here.”

It’s over. I failed. “Thanks a bunch, doc. It’s been… illuminating. ”

“I’m no longer your therapist, Tori. Please, call me Quentin.”

I practiced in front of a mirror for the possibility of this moment. My eyebrows show the merest flicker of surprise, as though I’m trying to conceal the shock of finding out his first name. In truth, I’ve always known. I didn’t choose this man for the good of my mental health.

“Thank you, Quentin. I’ll go, then, if we’re done?”

He holds up his hand: stop. “I’m no more religious than you, Tori, but I do recognise the psychological value of the Catholic sacrament of confession. Telling someone else about your private sins can alleviate shame; if you actually have any, I imagine our sessions helped reduce it. But there is a second, equally important component of the sacrament: penance, which can lift the burden of guilt. Would you like my help with your feelings of guilt?”

‘Penance’ had better involve his cock. “Yes, please, Quentin.”

He opens a desk drawer and takes something from it: something flat, square, and foil-wrapped, and about the size of a condom.

“Come to me, Tori.”

I stand, eagerly, but he holds up his hand again.

“A truly repentant woman would seek redemption on her knees.”

So that’s what ‘penance’ means. Technically, a completed blowjob would qualify him for my collection, but I’ve waited weeks for this cock, and I’m not settling for anything less than a solid fuck.

I drop to my knees, and my elbows, arching my back to keep my head low, and the slow sway of my ass visible, as I crawl towards him.

When I round the desk and arrive beside his chair, I see my prize. I don’t know when he got his cock out, but I wish it had been five weeks ago because it’s a practically perfect penis: about six inches long, not so girthy it couldn’t fit comfortably anywhere, and with a slight, smooth, upward curve.

Quentin hands me the condom packet, then stands and reaches into his fly to lift his scrotum out too. “Lick my balls, Tori.”

When I lean forward, my tongue flicking hungrily over my lips, he takes half a step back.

“No, no. First, wrap your lips around this,” he taps his knob, “Then lick my balls. I want a demonstration of those deepthroating skills you’ve bragged about.”

“You’d better drop your trousers. This could get sloppy.”

While he’s unbuckling his belt, I’m unwrapping his gift. It’s bubblegum flavoured, which is my favourite, luckily.

Or is it luck? I let him know I liked these condoms when I told him Bob’s story. Perhaps he put that in his notes. But why would he record such an irrelevant detail? No, it’s probably simple serendipity that his mouth-watering cock will have an equally mouth-watering flavour.

I roll the condom on him, my cunt fluttering in anticipation as I finally get to touch what he’s spent so long trying to hide.

This won’t be a sensual blowjob. I’ll barely even be sucking, and there will definitely be no fancy tongue work: the last thing I want is for him to finish before he can fuck me.

I give his cock a quick kiss, then open wide, and take as much of his length as I can, until he hits the back of my throat and I gag on him. I bob my head, grateful he isn’t holding onto it and trying to fuck my face, happy that he’s letting me choke myself, over and over, until thick saliva is filling my mouth and dribbling down my chin, and his cock is slick with spit, and my next bob goes too deep and suddenly he’s past the sticking point, his cock is being tightly caressed by my welcoming throat, and my nose is brushing his belly. I push a little further, take him a little deeper, open a little wider so my tongue can snake out, its tip tickling the shaved skin of his scrotum.

Quentin finally touches me, but only to hold my head still while he withdraws his magnificent cock. It looks even better now, a coat of glistening drool adding a sheen to the latex hugging its perfect form.

He approves of my efforts. “I’m impressed, but I don’t want to cum in your mouth. I’d rather fuck the cunt I’ve heard so much about.”

Yes! I don’t even care if he’s any good: as soon as he’s in me, he’s my Q, and my collection will be complete.

“How do you want me, Quentin?”

“Why don’t you hop up on my desk?”

I’d rather bend over it, but hey: his office, his rules. I lift my skirt, perch on the edge of the desk, and lie back, raising my legs high and wide.

He just stares for a moment, his head tilted to one side, as though he’s appraising an artefact. “It’s remarkably ordinary.”

“What were you expecting? Teeth?”

He runs a fingertip lightly down my slit, drawing a shiver from me. “I’m not sure. Something which would justify the attention of hundreds of men.”

“It’s a warm, wet hole, doc. That’s usually enough.”

He slides two fingers inside me and nods. “Warm, welcoming, and already extremely wet. Did crawling to me excite you?”

“Not as much as swallowing your cock. It’s beautiful. I want it inside me.”

I lower my legs so I can wrap them around his back, pulling him closer, until he’s pressing against me.

He rocks his hips, his spit-slicked shaft sliding between my lips and brushing over my clit. When he reaches down to take hold of his cock, my legs relax their grip so he can align himself for entry.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he taps his knob lightly on my clit, intensifying my need without satisfying it.

“Do you want me to be your Mr Q, Tori?”

I thought my desire was obvious. “Chrissake, doc! Take this as clear, enthusiastic, verbal consent: stop teasing, and fuck me!”

He pulls back a little and adjusts his angle. Then, poised to penetrate me, on the brink of fulfilling a goal I’ve spent five fucking weeks working towards, he turns his head to look at the clock.

He can barely suppress his grin. “Oh dear. I’m sorry, but your hour is up.”

“Noooo!”

“Do try to look at the positives, Tori. There’s an important life lesson here: redemption is not an act, it’s a process. So, I propose a new arrangement. You’ll keep your regular appointment, but I’ll serve as your confessor, not your therapist. You’ll bring me one story each week, and we’ll spend the remainder of the hour exploring the many ways you can atone for being a…” His cock taps my clit again as punctuation, “… Conniving. Little. Slut.”

My desire was obvious: it’s been obvious to him since that second session, when I told him I only had twenty-five stories. The whole time I thought I was toying with Doctor Bonner, he was playing me. Asshole!

I do still need my Q, though. “Will I have to pay your usual rate, doc?”

“We’ll work something out.”

Sounds like a deal to me.

Tori will return on Saturday in a Christmas Eve special.

Every story in this series was inspired and illustrated by a picture of the beautiful, versatile, talented and prolific model/photographer/musician/artist Victoria Borodinova. While Tori was named for her, Tori’s personality is not based on the real Victoria. Probably.

If you enjoy Tori’s tales, you can support Victoria’s work here.