Lovers USAmerican Lovers Sex

Door-to-Door Salesman

Yes this is a true sex story and yes I was 19 when it happened. It was consensual and fun and it’s a great memory. These are sexy stories for women, not pussies. If you don’t like the age thing or older men pressuring younger women for sex then don’t read it.

I answer the door with a knife in my hand. There is a hot black man, staring at me with wide eyes. I feel like an idiot. 

“Hold on.” I say, putting the knife down on the counter. I tell him the truth. “I was cooking dinner, didn’t expect anyone, didn’t mean to scare you, just totally forgot to put it down before I answered the door.”

“Yeah maybe I’ll just…” he backs away from the door in fear, butI can see humor in his eyes.

“No, no, seriously, come in, how can I help you.” I smile. He smiles back.

“What are you making?” he asks.

“I’m defrosting vegetarian chicken, it’s not exciting.” I admit. I’m tired.

“That sounds exciting to me, maybe I can have some.” he jokes. 

“You better tell me why you’re here for dinner, first.” I quip. He gestures to the knife on the counter.

“Yeah I betta, huh. My name is Kalonji Jefferson. I’m a student, here selling magazine subscriptions and books, so we can go on a school trip.” he hands me a piece of paper. I have a feeling I’m being played. This is a stereotypical opening to sexy stories for women.

“You’re way too old to be a student.” I say, looking him up and down. The timer goes off that I set for the defrosting of storebought agricultural waste masquerading as food. I open the oven, take the tray out and put it on the stovetop. There are six fake chicken cutlets on the tray. 

“I’m a grad student.” he says. I pick the knife up and stab one of the cutlets through, then eat it off the end of knife. I’m trying to defray the standard start to sexy stories for women. I know we have chemistry. I’m testing it.

“I’m a grad student too.” I say, mouth half full of fake chicken. “You want some?” I nod at the chicken. 

“You mind if I use my hands?” he asks. 

“Nope.” I reply, stabbing another cutlet. He picks one up and chews on it.

“Not bad.” he says, lifting it in the air a bit. “What are you studying?”

“Film.” I say, chewing. “They don’t give us any time, so that’s what what you see here is happening, with the frozen food, shitty overpriced student apartment that is within walking distance to the school, and the socializing with random men at my door.” I chew and swallow. “What are you studying?” I ask, leaning on the counter.

“Sociology.” he says. I still don’t believe him. Probably due to my own racism. He claims to be going to UCLA – the rival school to USC – yet here he is down in South Central Los Angeles at USC student housing. It all seems off.

“Let me look at what you have.” I say. I look through his paper order form and choose a generic cookbook. I write him a check for $29.99.

“Nice to meet you, Zoe.” he says, looking at my name on the check. “And thank you.” I’m seated at the table at this point.

“So you study hard, huh, they work you hard. You want a massage?” 

I look at him. He’s stacked. Gorgeous. Muscular, but soft. My height. Thick build. Honey brown skin. I’d guess him at about 30. He’s a gorgeous man with whom I have great chemistry offering me a massage. 

Some part of my brain tells me I’m not supposed to accept random men into my home and let them massage me, but I tell it to kick rocks.

“Okay Kalonji I will take a massage.” I say. 

While he’s massaging my shoulders I think of the stupid boy I’ve been working too hard at for too long. Even knitted him a fucking sweater. We’re supposedly seeing each other soon. I can’t do this without fessing up, not if I want to fool around with him. How the hell am I going to get with him after sleeping with the door-to-door salesman? He’ll totally use any excuse to make things difficult for me, push me away. And what an excuse this is.

Kalonji slips the straps of my bra off my shoulder. I’m wearing a shiny silver sleeveless t-shirt. His touch is broad and deep and way better than the shitty controlling boy I’ve only even really hooked up with a couple times.

“This would be better for both of us if you took off your bra.” he says. I stand up. Look him in the eyes. Take off my bra but keep my shirt on. Sit back down in front of him. “Oh I see how it is.” he says. He massages me more deeply, broadly. Fingers in circling spirals outwards from my neck down my back. I arch my back. 

Kalonji slides his hands down my shirt but both the arm and neck holes are too tight for him to get too far. It’s still a chaste massage with plausible deniability. He then heads the other direction, lightly touches my neck and massages the base of my skull. It feels really fucking good. I purr.

And then stop him, and tell him all about the cheating I’m doing. He laughs. Another sign of a man older than he says he is.

“You like music?” he asks, changing the subject and nodding at my CD collection.

“Who doesn’t?”  I ask. He smiles. 

“You never know. All types out there. Let’s take a look.” he pulls me by the hand and we sit looking at my CD’s. Mostly he just says “Okay?!” in that stereotypical black USAmerican accent that makes me giggle each time. “You like Kool and the Gang.” he says, pausing there. 

“I like cheesy 70’s everything.” I answer. It’s true. I’m in the middle of my 70’s phase. Hence the shiny silver sleeveless t-shirt. And the Kool and the Gang.

We put on Kool and the Gang, because why not? Then we talk about school, and life. He tells me that “Kalonji” means “warrior” in Swahili. Looking it up today I see that “King” and “Seeds of a Plant” are the two most common meanings. He tells me he wants to visit Africa someday.

“Okay. you invited me in. Fed me dinner. Had a nice massage. Played me Kool and the Gang. Do I get to kiss you now?” he asks, catching my hands in his. I don’t respond. I kiss him.

Our chemistry already has me wet. The way we navigated the initial exchange of me answering the door, the dance of male, female, black, white, stranger, peer. I like what he brings out in me. We’re laid back, and fun, and flirty. We push on each other.

And the kiss is the same. Deep and wild and then soft. Him chasing me with his lips, me escaping just to devour him totally until he retreats. We play and flirt and tease and nip at each other and it turns into necking and sway, standing in my living room.

I try to back out again because of the stupid boy I think I’m supposed to be avoiding sexy stories for women for. 

“Mmmhmm. Why don’t we go into the bedroom and do more of this cheating.” he says, not at all caring about my stupid less than a boyfriend even, just as I shouldn’t and wouldn’t if I weren’t still a teenager.

I’m on the verge of not being a teenager though, and so I drop the concern for stupid boy and get present with the hot man in front of me. I lead him into the other room for sexy stories for women.

We get to licking and touching a little bit. Deep kisses. I feel him harnessing his male need. He just wants to fuck me more than anything, but he is holding it in. Holding it back. I can feel his desire pushing against the gates.

On the bed, kissing. He looks for my limits. Pushes past them always first in voice. Consent.

He has his hand down my pants.

“Oh you so wet.” he murmurs into my shoulder, kissing me, stroking me. “Let me make you come.”

“Least you can do.” I gasp.

“After you made me dinner.” he picks up my lead, flirting with me as he rubs my clit gently with his thumb and forefinger, occasionally lightly rolling it between the two, which makes me jump. “Can you please let me look at those titties bounce without your shirt now?” he begs.

“Only if you stop teasing me and do it like I like it.”

“Yes ma’am.” he says, and instantly slips into tight, soft, delicious circles. His fingers are soft, deliciously so, like he takes care of them. Like he’d wear gloves to wash dishes. I moan. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know what you like.” he whispers. “I know what you like.”

I take off my shirt. 

Kalonji strokes my clit expertly, talking  to me the whole time. He’s not talking dirty, more encouraging.

“Yeah, that’s it baby, you can do it.” and “Come for me” type cheerleading. I love it, and come quickly and often. He howls with me on the last one “Get it!”. I roll over into him. His shirt also off, body built and balanced, smooth.

Then comes the line.

“Have you ever been with a black man before?” he asks. I frown.

“I’ve been with a black woman before.” This much is true. It usually throws them off guard.

“That’s not what I asked you.” Not in his case.

The truth is that I have not had PIV sex with a black man at age 19 because I’ve only had PIV sex with three men. So I don’t know what to tell him, and am not interested in starting a feminist conversation about the definitions of sex with a man who just made me come half a dozen times.

“We’re not having sex tonight Kalonji, I’m not doing that with a perfect stranger, I’m a safer sex educator.” This much is also true. 

He’s a complete stranger, and it’s still the nineties. I have taught too many safer sex classes not to use a mint-flavored condom on him. I think now about an African lover I had later, who said that the only reason I made him use a condom was that he was black. Even though I had just recently stopped my coitus interruptus less safe phase and was committed to using condoms with every partner – there was still some truth to that probably, I’ll believe I have yet plenty of unconscious racism to undo.

I don’t think race played much of a hand in my choice to use a condom for oral sex with Kalonji, but who knows. I think it was just because he was a total stranger, and at that age, I had never given a blowjob to a total stranger. It remains the only blowjob in a condom I remember ever giving.

The condom is a bit too small for Kalonji’s full-sized dick, rigid, with a tear of precum at the tip. I smudge the moisture down over his head as I put the condom on, and he murmurs appreciation.

“Let me help you get that on, it’s tight. I bet you’re tight too…” he moans, gliding his finger into my cunt longingly after he gets the condom on. He hears the no, but he keeps asking.

I go about teasing the tip of his cock with my tongue but quickly realize that the sensation doesn’t translate through the condom. Engulfing him with my mouth I massage his balls with my hand. My rhythm is slow at first.

“Faster.” he says. He’s desperate to come and I’m used to edging. He’s a strong, confident man and the neediness in his desperation is a contrast that draws me deeper into eroticism. I work his cock faster, feeling the tip of the condom hitting the back of my throat. The mint flavor is long gone.

“Suck it!” he says. “Suck.” 

At 19 I’ve never had a man give me these kind of verbal instructions while sucking his cock, and I’m dripping wet at being commanded for his pleasure. I suck, pulling my cheeks in around his shaft, and go as hard and fast as I can take it. 

“Oh yes baby, yes girl that is the way I like it. Oh fuck, woman, you sure I can’t put it in? Just the tip.”

I laugh around his cock, this is actually the first time a man has used that line on me, but I’ve of course heard it before in pop culture. And then I give him my all, ramming my head with him, sucking as hard and fast as I can. His series of verbalizations break through the silent sex I’ve been having with repressed white boys and my nipples harden and my cunt lengthens as I’m propelled into the next level, sexually. Silent sex no more. Begin the era of sexy stories for women.

“Yes girl, you are so good to me. Mmmm. That’s right. Suck my cock. You’re so good at sucking cock. Eat that.”  As his body tightens his words leave and it’s noises and moans and the sounds of the suck until he groans “mmmm, it’s coming, oh yes, oh daddy’s gonna come in your mouth right now.” 

Kalonji smacks my ass with his hand and grabs a handful of it as he strains against the bed. The condom jerks with his jets and fills with hot liquid at the back of my throat. He throws his head back, takes a deep breath, and then engulfs me in hugs and kisses.

We relax in bed for a bit, bantering. He tries to convince me to have sex with him a few more times, and I tell him maybe when it’s not our first date. 

“So, when we gonna do more of this cheatin’?” he asks, grinning, on leaving. We’re still at the chunky Nokia phase of cell phones, the first flip phone will be released later this year. He enters his number into my chunky Nokia cell phone.

“Soon. I’ll text you.” I say, and we kiss goodbye.

I do text him, once. He never responds. No more sexy stories for women with Kalonji.

About 4 months later, the cookbook I ordered from him arrives. I look it up and realize the price I paid for it is about 70% of what it is listed for online. It isn’t until I give away all of my things to become nomadic that that cookbook goes up on eBay. 20 years later, it sells for the same price I purchased it for.

Another sexy story for women from when I was 19

Another time I had sex with someone who showed up at my door


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