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Ruth and Greg Go to ‘Plan R’

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(Note to readers: This is the third installment in a series, but this story was written so that it isn’t absolutely necessary to first read “Ruth’s Experiment” and “Greg’s Project,” both posted in Erotic Couplings. The sex is pretty hot in both of those, however, so you might want to read them anyway. There is one more installment, “The Trending of Greg and Ruth,” to be posted a few days after this one. The suggestion that Ruth and Greg are posting these items on this very web site is not to be taken too seriously. Also, all of these fictional characters are presented as past 18 years old, and all of their fictional sex acts are presented as performed by consenting adults.)


My penis was in Ruth’s mouth. With all of the overwhelming sensations she was giving me, in the basement of my brain I wondered if I could ever find words to describe the feeling. OMG. That’d have to do for now.

We were in my dorm room on a Saturday, experimenting with oral sex. Giving it and receiving it. Through sessions like these we learned about how men and women share body pleasure, with which we don’t have much experience.

With at least one mouth occupied (as it were), we didn’t talk much. That was helping us relax and enjoy, because lately what we’ve talked about wasn’t always relaxing or enjoyable.

We are the ‘Greg’ and ‘Ruth’ who have posted here about how we get ourselves off through breast sex. I fondle and suckle her to nipple orgasms, which finish with her letting me fuck her tits, and ejaculate while fully enclosed in their soft warmth. We have written about this in the hope that it can help dating couples find low-stress safe sex as an alternative to both penetrative sex and no sex at all. Some people have commented that they like the idea and have had good results with our approach. Other people say we’re losers with no right to lecture anyone about sex.

“Gonna cum,” I whimpered, as she sucked the top of the prick while pumping the rest with one hand and fingering my balls with the other. She answered with a neutral “Mmm,” and picked up the pace and the suction, and got more of the prick into her mouth—telling me she was okay with what would happen. My head flopped back on a pillow and I let nature take its course. Wet tight tongue hot spasm suck suck suck spasm spaz spaz suck smooth lick! Maybe that’s better than OMG.

Ruth got one foot to the floor, stood, and walked to the bathroom. I heard her spit and rinse. I lay on my back, letting the spots before my eyes fade away. Then I felt her lift my hand and put a warm wet washcloth in it. “Guess that was pretty good, huh?” she said. I knew her well enough now that I could hear the smirk in her voice. She leaned down and kissed my forehead, then sat her naked self next to me on the bed, crosslegged.

I sat up enough to start wiping my putz. I don’t spew all that much, but any amount can be annoying when it dries. Ruth has theorized that my small load enables me to get more erections more quickly, and while she doesn’t have medical data to support this, I was stiffening again as I cleaned up, and felt as though I could go again soon.

In case you haven’t read “Ruth’s Experiment” or “Greg’s Project,” we’re sophomores at a university we won’t identify (like our real names), and became fuck buddies almost by default. Neither of us looks like much, and we’re overweight, and we don’t feel romantic towards each other (or anyone else, really). But we get along, despite having different worldviews, and after we overcame some jitters we started catching up on the sex we assumed everyone else our age already had, routinely.

I flung the washcloth over my shoulder towards the bathroom, where it at least landed on the floor tile. I smiled at her. “Your turn. Spread ’em.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding uncertain. “Hope it isn’t too gross.” She lay on her back, and I got on all fours between her legs. I was pretty chill, I thought, as I ran both thumbs along her slit and gently parted the labia. She had been totally in charge, giving her first-ever to-the-finish blowjob (and to someone who’d never had one before), so I had to be the same while eating pussy, with vice versa on both counts. We had started by trying to sixty-nine, lying on our sides, but as we received pleasure we failed to keep providing it, so we resigned ourselves to being either provider or recipient.

Her crotch got wet in a hurry. I closed in and put my tongue right on her clit. She twitched but said “Yeah yeah” quietly. I started licking. No big deal about taste or smell, which I knew had her worried.

I reached up to fondle a breast. She said, “Not this time,” and moved my hand away.

I stopped mouth contact long enough to ask, “How come?”

“I want to know what happens just from, from there,” she said. I guess she was having a moment of skittishness about saying ‘pussy,’ which she usually said routinely. “My boobs blaze up now from anything. Let me find out about between-the-legs Trabzon Escort only.” She smiled down her torso at me. “Sorry to make you work harder.”

“You did for me,” I said, and got back to ‘work.’ This was similar to when we had our first penis-in-vagina sex. I was so afraid of going off early that I not only didn’t touch her breasts, but I had her keep them clothed, and even then I closed my eyes. It worked. I stayed erect and didn’t blast until after she came. Clearly those fine E-cup orbs of hers can be distracting to both of us.

I brought in fingers once in a while, but mostly I munched carpet. Tried several different ways of licking her clit, even made a little tooth contact. A few times, I pushed my tongue inside her as far as I could. Had to rearrange myself now and then, to avoid neck strain, but everything seemed to work really well for her. She clutched at the bedclothes, raspy breath became loud moans, and her left leg flexed and pounded the bed several times as she came.

“Did you learn what you wanted to know?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said, wheezing.

“Good.” I moved up her torso, grabbed her tits, and slobbered on them. This set off the gigglefest I was hoping for.

After we rolled over a few times and messed with each other, she asked, “So you didn’t mind?”

I let some impatience show, because we’d been over this plenty. “No, Ruth, whatever you’ve led yourself to believe, there’s nothing repulsive about your genitalia. A little sweaty, a little musky, quite juicy, probably nowhere near as bad as what got into your mouth a while ago.”

She licked around my mouth and tasted what was there. “Could be worse, I guess.”

What you’ve read so far obviously isn’t about titfucking or nipple orgasms. Just as obviously, Ruth and I don’t limit ourselves to breast sex, although we really like it, and still do it a whole lot, and try to refine our techniques. But we continue to write and post what amounts to our sexual discovery journal, I guess because we are a couple of losers. Think about it, though: Would we be developing our idea of safe sex for hot, confident people who have no trouble getting every kind of sex? No. We’re doing it for people like us.


The following Tuesday night we were in what we’ve called the ‘bookish bar,’ just off campus. For whatever reason, the ad hoc discussion group that meets there had gotten bigger, and coalesced on Tuesdays specifically. As far as we can tell, nobody actually organizes this, even though the same four or five people seemed to do most of the talking. Neither Ruth nor I has ever had a high profile (carrying over our timidity last year, as freshmen), mostly listening. This is much easier now, with twelve to fifteen people in all and a couple of them adding to the ranks of know-it-all extroverts. We hovered on the fringe and drank hipster microbrews. Then, as we did long before our awkward agreement to get in the sack, we drifted off to a table of our own.

She seemed edgy, as she had been before our oral session. The fact that we were talking quietly like this probably gave away that we were (something like) a couple, but we had seen no reason to believe that anyone else cared.

“You okay?” I asked, cutting off our extension of the big-group discussion.

She exhaled, looking away. “I’ve been stalling on something. I shouldn’t wait until Saturday.” That was our friendship-with-benefits day, when we freed up some time in the belief that we could get class assignments done on Sunday.

I was worried, about me as much as her. “What is it?” My mind insisted on scrolling through pregnancy, herpes, pregnancy, chlamydia, pregnancy, etc.

She read my mind, and smiled. “Not any of that. Our project. People keep trying to get advanced information from us, even though we’ve made it clear that we’re newbies.” Our posts were averaging about fifteen chatroom comments a day.

“There have been detailed posts, and videos, by more experienced people,” I said, and then took a relief pull on my beer. “We don’t have to be authorities.” I was actually hoping that we could drop that role. Dealing with comments was cutting into course work time.

I raised my glass again, and got a mouthful. Then she blurted out, “Should we do this with other people?”

Spit take. Most of it onto her face. Hilarity ensued for half a dozen people nearby. A chuckling bartender tossed Ruth a dry towel. And now, people were giving us lingering attention, with probably some of them concluding that she is pregnant.

“If breast sex is going to be A Real Thing,” she said quietly, mopping her face, “It has to work for lots of people. Including ladies who have less impressive fun bags.”

“Don’t see how I could help with that.” My main focus was on our new situation. I was getting ticked off, thinking that we still weren’t interesting to the other bar patrons as people, but for our presumed predicament.

“You could make love to smaller tits.” Trabzon Escort Bayan Now she looked around, getting nervous. “On, on other women.”

Damn me. I sensed weakness, and advanced. “And what about you?”

In a tiny voice: “Vice versa. Other guys.”

I looked away, trying to let the steam dissipate on its own. Mostly, it did. I said, “Can we table this discussion until Saturday?”

She nodded. “If I’m invited.”

“You are,” I said sharply. Then I remembered who she was, and what we were for each other. I smiled, pretty much sincerely. “Of course you are.”


This is Ruth, taking over the writing. Greg says he needs a break, and I sure do understand.

Do you need a refresher on our looks? I’ve got brown hair to about mid-neck and I do nothing much with it, my nose is kinda bulby, I have brown eyes and a few old acne scars, and I’m flabby. Just focus on the tits. Greg has limp black hair, ears that stick out, brown eyes, not much of a jawline, and he’s flabby. His dick is average-size, I think, but it’s a workhorse.

Or maybe I’m lying about some of that. Ultimately it may be a lost cause, but we’re still hoping for privacy.

On Saturdays, we satisfy our curiosity. This time we explored different positions for pussyfucking. (See? I can say pussy. Well, write it. And say it out loud, but sometimes not when the subject is my own pussy. I probably wouldn’t say pussy into a bullhorn in the stadium during a football game. There was, in fact, a game going on right then, as I cowgirled him.)

We were at a nice steady buzz when he said, “You think I want somebody else?”

I brought one of his hands to my bosom, and grinned. “Probably not right now.”

He chuckled, fondling. He’d had a few days to calm down, but also to find ramifications. “You know my success rate in dating. How far do you think I’ll get with this? ‘Hi, Babe, it’s okay that you have little knockers, I’ll stick my prick between them anyway.'”

“We’ll have to work something out,” I said, lamely.

I raised his hand higher and licked the fingers, then put it back on my boob. We both moaned a little.

I said, “I have some friends who are pretty open about their activities. Maybe I could suggest something to somebody.”

He pulled a face. “Really?” Then his eyes closed and he gave a long deep breath. I felt his prick flex. Maybe from my pussy’s mad skillz. Or maybe…

He was close to cumming, but he got back on topic. “Are you really up for this? We could both get laughed at.”

I was up for it enough to think about it as maybe a good idea. But him taking one side on an issue sometimes sends me more definitely to the other. Different worldviews, my share-the-wealth versus his capitalism. We find common ground, however, as libertines, and I was getting close to an orgasm, and I wanted us both to enjoy. I leaned down, put my unfondled boob on his face, and babbled something like this: “You know who should get laughed at? There might be ten hot guys in the stadium, shirtless, body painted in school colors, and they spent money to get into the student section behind the end zone. They’re not fucking, and we are. Let’s laugh all the way to ecstasy.”

What our voices did next wasn’t exactly laughing. Maybe it was more like cheering, because our two-person team scored. We laughed after he pulled out and we saw that the condom was intact.

In the shower we resumed the discussion. As he wrote earlier, not all of our talks are relaxing or enjoyable. But we try not to dodge issues.

“So you’d be okay with me, um, doing it with someone else?”

Like I said, no dodging, but it took me a couple seconds to say, “Are you hurt by that? Would you rather I be jealous?”

He stopped soaping my boobs, so, bad move on my part. Then he said, “Maybe. Guess I still have a fragile psyche. Like I feel expendable.”

We rinsed. Then we got towels.

“And as far as ‘doing it,'” I said, drying his package, “Remember, this is our alternative to getting serious. A nipple orgasm should be a nice experience, after which a woman can move on.”

“What if I like her?”

I think that just escaped from him. He looked like he wanted to erase it.

“If you meet your soulmate,” I said slowly, “I won’t stand in the way.” Yes I will! rose a panicked silent scream from some mental depth. Don’t leave me lonely!

He pressed on, but with a quaver in his voice. “And what if some hot guy in the end zone scrapes off the body paint, bangs your boobs, gets you off, and says he wants to be your guy forevermore?”

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of that, if hormones are really a part of thinking. But I was sincere when I said, “I can see giving a titfuck to a total stranger. Nothing more than that. Again, this is an alternative to commitment sex.”

Which we had now engaged in, several times.

I opened my towel and said, “C’mere.”

He opened his, smiling, and we closed them around Escort Trabzon ourselves. What’s not to like about naked clean hugging? Familiar. Safe.

We got under the covers and cuddled and again postponed the discussion, while we dealt with insecurities that hadn’t gone away. At least we can fuck happily while our fellow students cheer for likely victims of concussions.

Okay, look. We like what we’re doing with each other. We probably care about us more than anyone else at this school does. But, seriously, we’re not in love. And if anybody posts a clip of that song by 10cc, I’m deleting it.


My dorm floor has a TV room, maybe a relic of the past, like this building’s big communal bathrooms. It probably didn’t cost the school much to put in a 32-inch flatscreen a few years ago. The residents on my floor (all women) drop in there when they get sick of studying and need to veg out. Mid-day, the TV is usually dialed to soaps or talk shows. Today, I found five women watching a certain show that specializes in paternity DNA testing. Some of us vied to do the best imitation of the host’s tagline, “You are the father!”

My fellow students were dissing the three ‘guests’ who had been hauled in by a pregnant woman as possible parents. The viewers maligned the appearance and inferred sexual prowess of these males, and the standards of the pregnant woman for having submitted to the males’ entreaties. This was making conversation in general pretty raunchy, maybe another escape from reality for someone bogged down in, say, 18th-Century French literature. I filed away the fact that this was a good place and time to find women talking about sex.

Then one of the women, a blonde, said, “Have you seen that thing online about titfucking?”

My first impulse was to flee.

One of the others said “Whaaat?” Another shook her head and said, “Gross.” The rest either kept watching the show or gazed at their phones.

I made myself freeze. Nobody looked my way. I relaxed a little.

The blonde said, “The part about breast orgasms is actually pretty interesting. Mostly you have to get the guy to play with your boobs the way you like, so you’re right on the edge when he starts going between. Then the boob squeezing, and all that, can finish you off.”

A dark-haired woman looked up from her phone and said, “Where would I find that?”

Over the next couple minutes, links to the site where Greg and I post were sent around, even to the African-American woman who had said “Gross.” It finally occurred to me that staying out of this could be suspicious, so I asked for the link also. I was dressed in my usual loose, nondescript clothes, but this didn’t prevent the others (who, after all, knew me at least as a neighbor) from saying that I probably had the means to make a guy happy. I dodged by bringing up the other side of the activity, saying that I’d always heard that nipple orgasms wouldn’t be available to someone like me.

Fortunately, attention returned to the screen, modified slightly with assertions that those guys wouldn’t even be allowed between the viewers’ breasts. Covertly, I watched two women who now had the site showing on their phones, and were reading intently. I’ll call them ‘Meg’ and ‘Shelley.’

The next night I saw Shelley at dinnertime as I entered what was now a food court, on the dorm’s ground floor. (Last year it was a cafeteria.) I knew her well enough for us to eat at the same table. We talked politics, and issues with the college administration. I think it wasn’t too out of nowhere when I later asked, “What did you think of that, uh, website?”

“Oh, the hot one?” She said with a not-too-embarrassed smile. “It’s really interesting!” This sounded to me like she’d explored much more than our posts. With one finger she played with her hair, an almost cloud-like pile of light brown ringlets. “I looked up some other stuff about, you know, getting off that way.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “I tried it in bed last night, and I think I came.”

“Wow,” I said appreciatively. “What do you think about, um, with someone else?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, squinting. Her hair, which might be permed, helped limit attention to her beakish nose. So did her large, thick glasses. She spread her hands and sat up straight, displaying her nearly cylindrical frame. “I might not have enough to, um, hold up my end of the bargain.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said. I leaned in myself. “There’s this guy I know. Um, we’ve done it. And he’s good at it. Believe me, it’s really nice when there’s a mouth involved, as well as hands. And you don’t have to be, uh, big, for it to be good for a guy.”

Thinking about the addition of a mouth got to her. We talked for a while longer, with her bringing up that she didn’t want to get involved with a man at the moment, and she was worried about phone pics getting spread around. I mostly backed off, because I could tell she was convincing herself. When she asked me about my guy, I said he was decent. When she asked how I’d feel about this, I said I wasn’t romantic with him. When she asked if I’d be around to make sure nothing bad happened, I said sure. When we parted, I said I’d ask the guy what he thought of this, and get back to her.

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