Hello, horny readers!
The other day, I was enjoying the memory of my first college boyfriend. I credit him for being the catalyst of my love for cockteasing. For many women, cockteasing comes naturally, but they acknowledge it as a means to an end. I on the other hand, discovered through him that I was the type of woman for whom seeing a man in the throes of frustrated desire was the end, the reason, the result to be enjoyed. I suppose I’m guilty of being a little sadistic, but that might be inherent in being a cock tease. I believe that while sadistic, my discovery was as much a matter of innocent wonder for me as anyone else’s more vanilla awakenings, and I recall it with just as much sentimentality.
Cuddlebear, as I called him, was tall, lanky but very fit (he played soccer on our University’s team), shy and polite, and bookish with just the right amount of hipster flair. He had a beautiful, 8″ uncircumcised cock which leaked so much precum that by the time I’d sent him, teased and frustrated, back to his own dorm room, his boxer shorts would have a wet, sticky stain on them the size of a salad plate. But it wasn’t just his sensitive, reactive cock that made him perfect for cockteasing. There were other elements that came into play to create the perfect storm of tease and denial.
First, Cuddlebear was a religious boy, and wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. He considered masturbation to orgasm a sin if he did it himself, but if it simply happened as a matter of course while we were “cuddling”, it was the equivalent of a wet dream. He always said, after the first few frenzied moments of french kissing and groping, that we couldn’t let things go too far. I loved how he swallowed and trembled, how his attempt at a declaration was always so laden with pleading. “I know, Cuddlebear. I know”, I always reassured him. My horny readers might expect that I would have taken pleasure in inducing him to break his extended chastity. But it was watching the war behind his eyes and feeling the surging in his loins that excited me most.
We always “cuddled” the same way. Cuddlebear liked me best in just my panties and a tight little tee shirt, with no bra underneath. He would keep his boxers on. I would lie on top of him in my bed while we kissed. He loved to rub, squeeze, play with and suck on my tits. It was almost a form of breast worship. I would occasionally arch my back so that he could rub, squeeze, and play with them through the fabric. Soon, he would lift my little tee shirt one side at a time, cup both hands around one voluptuous breast, and worship my nipple with his tongue and lips before pulling my teeshirt down again. And all the while, I would be using his throbbing cock for masturbation, the hot crotch of my panties sandwiched tightly up against the ridge threatening to tear right through the cheap material of his boxer shorts.
At first, I suppose the point was mutual masturbation, his beliefs about wet dreams notwithstanding. We both expected him to cum from our frottage. I certainly didn’t have a problem doing so. But what we quickly discovered was that he couldn’t. Yes, he was one of those horny males who could come achingly close to orgasm through the simple rubbing of genitals, but never go over the edge. Once or twice, in a spasm of lust he would pull the crotch of my panties aside, pull his aching, dripping cock out from the fly of his shorts, and rub it directly on my clit. All I would have had to do was to push myself back on it, and I know that in his frustrated state he wouldn’t have stopped me. But I never did. I didn’t want to take responsibility for the guilt I knew he’d feel.
No, that’s not true, horny readers. You know me too well by now to believe that completely. The truth is, being fucked by my Cuddlebear, enjoying the thrill of draining his balls that way for the first time, riding him, feeling him and hearing him explode in ecstasy and repressed lust, not even that was as satisfying to me as our little ritual. Not even that would have been as satisfying to me as listening to his concentrated growl and short breaths as he struggled to meet my grinding hips in a way that would allow him to cum like I repeatedly did.
Maybe it was the psychological repression over such a long period of time that talked his body into holding back. I don’t know, and we never discussed it. Cuddlebear transferred schools after our Freshman year, and our relationship barely lasted through the summer because of it. We lost touch, and I heard through the grapevine that he got married soon after college. I hope he’s happy, and that his first night of wedded bliss was all that he hoped it would be. You see, he holds a special place in my heart because he is associated with some of my first and fondest cockteasing memories.