The Penis Whisperer

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By Lauren McAllister

Apartment living is not for the faint of heart. Spending one’s days in a little box which is above and below and next to hundreds of other identicle little boxes adds a certain “lab rat” element to your existance. Privacy is an illusion. Personal space is a fantasy. There is not one blade of grass you can call your own. You’re forced to share other people’s smells and insects and sounds. But every once in a millenium, a small crack appears in these impersonal dungeons and the light of humanity trickles in through the fissure.

There was an old man living in the apartment building right across from mine. I would see him every night getting ready for bed. What is “old” to a young woman, like me? Hard to say. He could have been 50 or 70. When you’re 23, 35 can seem a positively ancient. But this guy was definitely not 35. I don’t know if he didn’t have curtains or he just chose never to draw them because every evening at precisely 11:30, I would watch him come into the bedroom and take of his shirt off and pants. And then this somewhat handsome, vintage gentleman, would do the strangest thing. He would cup his penis in his hand and it looked for all the world like he was talking to it. Just a couple of sentences and then he would gently pat his daddy dowel and get into bed. I have no idea what happened after that. The lights would go out and I’d spend the next hour masturbating and thinking about that floppy old penis of his.

Perversely, I often wished that he would jerk off. I imagined it slowly growing in that cupped hand as he began to rub the shaft. The way his pace would speed up as he got close to cumming. I imagined his head rocking back and a strained look consuming his face, right before he shot big streams of mung out onto his bedroom floor. Then he’d take a handkerchief out. Not a Kleenex but a real old-fashioned cloth handkerchief and he’d gently wipe the residue off the head, like he was cleaning the end of a candleholder or a trumpet.

That’s really my whole fantasy. By the time I got to imagining the candleholder/trumpet cleaning, I’d be cumming out my ears with at least three fingers up my vagina. Yep, I owed that old man a lot of very, very nice orgasms.

Desite the  monstrous monoliths we were forced to call home, the surrounding neighborhood had retained a sweet villagey kind of atmosphere. Plenty of coffee shops and markets selling cool enthnic foods you’ve never heard off. There was even a newstand. One day I spotted the old man entering “Bean There, Done That.” It sounds very trendy but it’s not. They have a fairly tasty array of coffees and all the pastries are made locally. It was about 10:30 in the morning. Oh yeah, I’m unemployed. Luckily, my parents don’t want me living at home, so I get the rent paid and enough money for the bare essentials while I “find myself.”

This morning, I found myself in “Bean There, Done That,” trying not to stare but learning everything I could about the “Penis Whisper.” He ordered a Ristretto coffee and a slice of Cassata. Everyone seemed to know him in there. He joked with the waiter and the odd customer as he rapturously worked his way through his morning dessert. I was so curious, I ordered the exact same thing. It was good but he made it seem like it was sex turned into food.

My mystery man was there the next day and the next. On my third trip to the café I decided to take the plunge – mostly in my  neckline. I dressed up sexy but somewhat understated. In fact, I looked so good I would have fucked me as I stood over him at the table. “Would you mind if I sat here” I asked in a very friendly manner.

“Please. Help yourself.”

I could tell by those three words and the way he said them that this guy was 100 percent a gentleman.

“Do you live in the neighborhood, too?” I inquired, with a smile that would have had most men jerking off under the table.

“Ah, yes. I live in one of the old apartment buildings on 3rd street.”

“Wow. So do I. Amazing I’ve never seen you before.” I was so hoping that he didn’t say, “Well you’ve been staring at me from across the café since Tuesday.”

He didn’t.

“The make the best Cassata here,” I dropped into the conversation.

“It’s very good. I have a piece in here every morning.”

The trap was set. We talked for an hour-and-a-half. He told me about his mother and his job before he retired and the ducks he feeds at lunch.

“I’d love to go with you to feed the ducks, if that would be all right?”

I find ducks to be greedy, filthy and quite aggressive creatures but I was feeling like a spy now. Playing a part and skillfully weedling my way into his world. His name was Anthony and he was 65 and a long-time widow.

By the end of the weekend, we were the best of friends. He was such a sweet old man, I couldn’t help becoming ludicrously fond of him. And when our little outings were done, I would go home and watch him talk to his cock before turning out the light. By now, I was beginning to feel really guilty – perhaps stupid – about secretly spying on him and then masturbating like a high school nerd who just discovered computer porn.

After two of the most enjoyable unemployed weeks of my life, I decided to own up to my crimes. That morning, as he was draining the last of the ristretto from his demi-tasse I admitted to everything. Watching him. Following him. Wanting to get to know him. I didn’t tell him about all the masturbating but hey, you have to leave some mystery in a relationship, right?

Anthony actually took the news quite well, considering I sounded like an unhinged stalker. He told me that he had no secrets and I could ask him anything.

Well, my number one interrogative was why he left his curtains open when disrobing. I tried to make it sound as classy sounding as possible. 

“I’m an old man and life has taught me that no one has any interest in my genitals and I like to fall asleep looking at the moon and the stars through my window.”

Now the big one. “What do you say to your, ah, penis before you turn out the light?” And I braced myself for the kind of withering rebuke a question like that deserved.

“I simply say ‘I’m sorry’.”

I didn’t know what to expect but I certainly didn’t expect that… or understand it.

“Sorry? For what?” I was getting way, way too nosey but I couldn’t help myself.

“For not being the kind of man who could bring him a lady.”

“You mean to have sex?”

He nodded sadly. “He has never let me down, whether in my younger years or my marriage. It is I who have let him down and for so many lonely years. So, each night I apologize that I am all I can offer him for company.”

That was just about the saddest thing I’d ever heard. I stopped myself from crying because I knew it would embarrass him. “Well, you won’t need to apologize tonight,” I softly said, reaching across the table to touch his hand.

He looked a little confused. “But, you are beautiful and young and I’m just a sad old man. Your friendship these last few weeks has been a gift beyond imagining, please to not feel obligated to do something you’ll regret.”

“According to you, Mr. Dependable is going to make sure that I don’t regret anything,” I smile meaningfully while gazing down at the lap.

He smiled.

“So, what do you say? Are you going to show me that room of yours?”

I had never had sex with anyone over 28. This was a huge step for me but I knew it was the right one. He asked me if he could hold my hand as we walked by to his apartment. He was just so sweet and gentlemanly, I almost swooned.

When we entered the boudoir, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. He didn’t tear my clothes off and start trying to bury the worm. Anthony touched my face, looked into my eyes and kissed me like I was the only woman in the world. It was slow and sensuous and giving. The way his hand touched my breast set off fireworks in my brainpan. It wasn’t grabby and squeezy or instantly digging for nipple. He caressed and stroked and adored my chest to the point where I couldn’t wait to get my top and bra off and hand them over to him fulltime. And boy did he know his way around an areola. I gently held the back of his head while he patiently circled, kissed and sucked me into a stupor. This guy hadn’t had sex in years?? He should have been teaching courses in it. 

I managed to get his shirt off while unzipping my dress at the same time. If my horndog level rose any higher, steam would have started shooting out of my hoo-haw. The way he lay me on the bed was like ballroom dancing, with grace and style. I opened up my legs to let him do whatever the hell he wanted down there. This girl was totally at his service.

He placed his mouth on my absolutely aquatic genitals and feasted on them like my labia and girlie hole were a big, moist slice of Cassata. The way he moved his tongue and lips around my vulva and clitoris was like sorcery. I felt like I had jellyfish of the most succulent carnality floating up my vaginal canal and undulating throughout my body. This was what oral sex was meant to be, ladies. Holy fucking carpet licker! Anthony had me cumming down to my curled-up toes. Bolts of erogenic electricity were sparking off my clit. My inner thighs practically glowed with cunnilingual ecstasy. When I finally come down from my climactic cloud, I sat up and swallowed him in a kiss.

Time to get those pants off. Now, I’ve slept with probably more guys that I should have but you never know what to expect when that zipper comes down. Size and initial rigidity are always a question mark. But Anthony was right about his faithful doowanger. It did him proud. Straight as an arrow, right out of the box.

I wanted to show his criminally ignored penis that he had a true friend in my tongue. I nibbled his shaft and sucked on the very tip of his head. It was unbelievably important to me that I give as much care and attention to his cock as he’d given to my euphoric pussy. I really unscrewed the knob and played with the wires that night. I rolled his balls around in my mouth like they were the gold-embossed truffles. I licked his scrotum and anus like they were Haagen-Dazs Ice Cream. Every square millimeter was given the deluxe drool on his tool treatment. The second I tasted a little pre-cum ooze out of his squirter, it was time for mounting. The man had been waiting a looooong time for this moment and there was only one place I wanted  his splooge to end up and that was dripping off my cervix.

Should I hop on board or should I allow him the honors? I didn’t really have time to weigh the pros and cons because Anthony was on top of me in a flash. As he climbed between my legs, I opened my pussy lips wide so we could both watch his underutilized pecker sink inside me. First there was the stretch of my opening and then the feel of the first tiny bit off his head claiming my vagina for its own. By the time his whole helmet had gained entry, he was really feeling his oats. Just like getting back on that booty-bicycle, Tony was taking my licky-boat for a spin. He was an absolute master. Like having Itzhak Perlman playing his violin in my toy tunnel. He teased and he rewarded. Anthony hesitated and then he rushed. He knew when I wanted him gentle and when I wanted the shit fucked out of me. In the end, I came like a Texas fertilizer factory explosion. I screamed so loud he had to take his hearing aid out. I had two fingers up his ass and my ring finger tickling his scrotum.

A girl can tell when her man is about to pop his cork and Anthony was halfway down that runway. His pelvic thrusts became more intense and he drove his cock even deeper inside me. The speed of his hip dips increased, building up to that one last clit smacking plunge and then it all stopped. He let out a small moan and a decade’s worth of salty senior cream poured into me. I tickled his nuts to goose his output, but I didn’t really need to. His guck was everywhere.

After a few seconds, he raised his head and looked into my soul. It almost made me cry. I could tell that for the first time in years, he felt like a man again and there was a gratitude in those eyes that I will take to my grave.

We kissed and then he fell asleep. He was still a man, after all. I lay in his arms and when he woke up, he fucked me again.

I have a boyfriend now but I still let Anthony take me out for a spin two or three times a week. He’s had his way in every hole imaginable and Tony is an absolute knockout in each and every one.

Take my advice girls and get yourself a little senior service. Once you let a little silver in your crack, you’ll never go back.

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Copyright by Lauren McAllister 2022

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