14 comments/ 52779 views/ 2 favorites Nostalgic Ramblings By: Lothario the Great It's 2:13 p.m. on the East Coast, a murky gray day, just the kind I like. All my afternoon plans fell through, so I'm walking around my apartment naked, trying to solve a problem in my head. Also, I'm masturbating like the steam drill that killed John Henry. My roommate, who's also my sex partner, is out for the day, so I'm having fun by myself. She knows I write stuff for Literotica, and I'm sure she won't appreciate me mentioning her as my "sex partner" instead of my "girlfriend," but I don't appreciate her having a threesome last week with two girls from the restaurant where she works, so life continues to accumulate little moments of angst the way a beautiful beach retains the trash the tide brings in. Shit, that's downright poetic. The problem du jour is what to do with "Chicago Hotel Adventure." By the time you read this, you'll probably already have seen part 4, but today, I'm really stumped on what to do with the last part of the story, and many of the Literoticans are wondering when the hell I'm going to post that last chapter. I'm as psyched as anyone that the story is so good, but I've really painted myself into a corner. If you've read parts 1 through 3, and you know anything at all about good storytelling, then you know I face a tough path toward a great ending. How could it top what's come before? It probably won't. In the end, George Lucas and I will have to settle with a stellar first three parts. But that's not really what this submission is about. You see, I have an idea on how I can break through this minor mental barrier, and it all starts with brainstorming. Ideas create themselves, and you must stand by and allow it to happen. You just have to listen to your subconscious sometimes, you know? Right now, every time I try to think about "Chicago," my subconscious keeps turning my attention to an incident I remember from my senior year of high school. I figure I need to get the idea out of my head, and if it's as steamy as I remember it to be, and if I write it well, then I'll have my next post for the pervs back at Literotica. So, let's start typing. I don't keep a journal, but if I did, it would probably read like my stories read -- random, unedited thoughts, strung together as the muse dictates. I know how to edit my work for clarity and a reduction in errors, but who gives a fuck. Why should my recollection of the memory be more pristine than the memory itself? And why is my dick so hard even though I'm typing these ridiculously profound elucidations? I turn myself on with my own pontification, I suppose. Anyway, here's the story: It was the spring of 1992, and I was getting ready to graduate from high school. My girlfriend and I had just broken up, and she was my first in every way. You may be surprised to learn it, if you've been paying any attention at all to my writings -- true stories of group sex, bi-sex, public sex, dom/sub sex, Rep/Dem sex... you name it. But at the tender age of 18, I'd only been with one girl. Hell, I'd only kissed three, one at the age of 14, the one before that at age 8. But my high school sweetheart was something special. We both started out naïve and ended up giving each other Ph.D.'s in sex ed. I highly recommend it... well, except for the part where you exclude anything from the relationship other than sex. That's definitely the reason why everything went so sour. What a thoughtless horndog I was. I could try to explain why my relationship with that girl was so great, but unless you've been there, you just won't get it. What's so fun about fumbling around like an amateur for an entire year? Trust me, it just is. Grades went down the toilet, friendships got put on hold, but the orgasms were always stellar. And when we finally got past months and months of finger painting and snapped on our first condom, let me just say, even the awkwardness was sublime. For a time, we were true soulmates, whatever the fuck that means. (There's another reason I can't tell you about my relationship with my first true love, and that's because we were both 16 and it was very physical. It's just not cool to talk about teenage sex on Literotica, which is to say, it's not legal. So do the Feds bust down my door once they learn I engaged in statutory rape? Was it mutual rape? I've read enough stories on this site to know rape stories aren't taboo, but that's not what this was at all. I've seen a website forum about masturbation where all the submitters are 13 and 14 year old girls, and while that makes me very uncomfortable, the hard cold truth is that I started jerking off at 14, and so did you and your sister and your dad and your best friend and your parole officer. I guess I'll just have to wait until I see this story posted to learn whether or not this parenthetical got edited out. I doubt that will happen. Wow, just look at how my philosophical introspections are turning me on once again. Put a social studies textbook in my hand and my libido goes through the roof.) It was good and we liked it, but we were kids (18 by the end of it), and we didn't know what we wanted, and it ended in April. By the time May came, I realized too late that I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life with her, and that I probably better ace some finals in order to get my grade-point average back up. Then I caught bronchitis, which put me on the bench for track, which was another scholarship option that vaporized on me. The biggest part was the regret. Not that I'd messed up on school, not even that my relationship had fallen apart. No, I regretted all the missed opportunities with OTHER girls. That's right, studs, you know what I mean. Things may be bleak with the girl you just dumped, but you are the creature you were meant to be, and that means you're always looking ahead to the next sexual encounter, whether your brain is a willing participant or not. Your frontal lobe may be screaming, "Don't think about other women! Can't you even remember ten minutes ago, when your heart was decimated? How can you want MORE of this?" But your dick doesn't care. One of those girls for me was Melanie. (The name I've given her in this story is the ONLY part that isn't true.) Melanie was two years older than I, and I first met her in band. (Go on, laugh.) She played oboe and was good at it; I played trombone and hated it. Ours was a three-year school, so I was enjoying my first year (sophomore) as she was completing her last. One day, a mere week after starting high school, I got locked out of the school without my wallet and didn't have a way home (long story, who cares). This was before cell phones, and also, I was sort of an idiot. Well, Melanie drove by the front of the school and saw me sitting there. She offered to give me a ride, and I said yes. That was the single moment at which I began to believe I might rise above my own junior high mediocrity and become what the ancient sophists referred to as "cool." Melanie was perfect in every way -- blonde, muscular from playing basketball, very nice to everyone she met, and approachable. I'd learn later that she was also very smart and quite giving, but during those first weeks, she was simply another unattainable goddess in a sea of high school goddesses. Never once during that car ride did I believe I had a chance with her, but the mere fact that she was aware of my existence was an affirmation that I didn't NOT exist. Perhaps the popular kids weren't just looking through me after all. It was a milestone. In some ways, Melanie was responsible for me finding the courage to ask out my first girlfriend. (Let's call her Madame Ex.) Ex was my age, and we'd been friends for a long time. Only after my body pumped out the prerequisite amount of testosterone did I begin to see her as a sex object, and only after Melanie befriended me did I realize I could talk to Ex about things other than movies or the mall. And so I began to look at Ex in a new way. In the meantime, Melanie was looking at me in a new way, and I had no idea. Why should I have? A senior lusting after a sophomore? By Jove, man, wouldst thou stand idly by whilst the planets crash 'nto the sun? These things go against the natural order! No no no, I was meant to be with Ex, plain and simple. She was pretty but not intimidatingly so, smart but not brilliant, foresightful but not ambitious. Also, she was brunette, and just between us, I was more into brunettes, and perhaps to this day I think of them as more obtainable than blondes, although the opposite is perhaps more true. See how convoluted the reasoning becomes? Just try having this discussion with yourself when you're sixteen! Ex and I hooked up, and Melanie and I stayed very close friends. Melanie dated older boys, graduated from school, went to college, dated more boys, lost touch with me. Years passed, Ex and I imploded, and then May of '92 arrived bringing bronchitis in its wake. The fateful day was a Thursday, a heavily clouded day just like today. I was home excused from school, listening to "The Soul Cages" by Sting. I had very poor taste in music then, don't be distracted by the fact. Daytime television sucked as much then as it does today, so I sat on my bed reading comics by the gray light of my window. A knock on the door. I remember thinking it was probably the mailman; my parents would still be at work this early in the afternoon. When I opened the door, there stood Melanie. (Pause while I silently relive the moment...) Pardon me, had to deal with a severe flashback there. I can tell you in varying degrees of detail everything that happened that day, but I can tell you with PRECISION the moment that Melanie showed up at my door. For one thing, she was the last person I expected, and she was also one of the people I'd most like to have seen at that moment. It's a powerful combination, and it leaves an impression. Every detail is burned in the mind -- the careless way her bright blonde hair was tied back behind her head, the healthy white glow of her skin, the fact she wasn't really wearing much makeup that afternoon. She had on a boy's burgundy knit golf shirt (was that something she bought for herself, or did she get it through more risqué endeavors? Hmm...) with tight plaid shorts and sneakers with those short socks that showed off her ankles. You don't see plaid shorts around much these days, but in the early 90's it was pretty prevalent. Besides, she could have worn an XXL leisure suit and I still would have wanted her. I even remember the tiny red zit she had on her left temple. Now, you may not want to hear that Melanie had a pimple, because anytime YOU write a story for Literotica -- or I do, let's face it -- the girl has flawless skin like a porcelain vase or a bar of perfect soap or blah blah blah. To be fair, whenever I remember the incident, I usually remember Melanie without the pimple, so you'll have to do the same as you read my story. At the end of the day, most of you writers craft perfect women for your stories, but those of you who've actually HAD sex with a woman are familiar with all sorts of skin blemishes and love handles and other imperfections that you actually grow to love or admire or turn into a fetish. As for Melanie, well, that pimple is the single flaw I remember. Everything else was storybook good. I wore denim shorts and a black t-shirt, which is what I still wear when I'm alone, if I wear anything; early habits die hard. My hair didn't look as good back in those days as it does now, and I remember worrying that it was out of place. What a little geek I was. But she probably didn't care about my hair, considering how my face lit up at the site of her, and hers at seeing me. She stepped forward and gave me a big hug, the kind you give when you see an old buddy after a long time. Innocent, to be sure, but very warm. We'd missed each other. She asked why I wasn't at school, and I told her I'd had bronchitis. She made a sympathetic face, and I told her it was pretty much passed and I was just playing hookey at the end of the house arrest I'd been assigned. It didn't take much convincing for her to agree to stay. At this point you're asking, where's the dialogue? You want to know exactly what she said, and what I said, and how we mugged and moaned and pleaded and yelped. Truth is, I remember a lot, but not everything, especially the words we said. And since I can't relay precisely what happened and how, to put down the words would sound hokey and sort of dishonest. When I write a fictional story, the dialogue is a very important component, but when I remember times like this, they're hardly important at all. The good stuff happened after the blabbing. Melanie sat on my bed next to me and we listened to Sting. Melanie was more of a Smiths and Erasure kind of girl, and I really resent that she didn't try to expose me to better music back then. Today I'm all about the Hives and the B-52s and Radiohead (at the moment it's Neko Case blaring from six channels), but back then it was Duran Duran and Steve Winwood and whatever other shitty artist was on the radio that afternoon. But like I said, I learned from the mistake, no regrets. She told me how college was, and who she'd been dating, and how much she missed home. Then I told her about breaking up with Ex, and that was pretty much what the rest of the conversation was about. Oh yeah, baby, that's right. Talkin' about ex-girlfriends with someone who has a crush on you. For those of you paying attention, you know that the good part is coming up, because this conversation is the classic segue to sex. Girls get jealous when you're dating them and you bring up past lovers, because they wonder if they can live up to what's come before, but BEFORE you start dating, ex-lovers are simply something for the girl to be curious about. She wants to know that you're experienced, and that you miss the physical relationship more than you miss the ex-girlfriend, and that you are ready to move on and start having more sex again as soon as possible. In fact, the moment I knew something was stirring between me and Melanie was the moment she asked, "So, what kind of stuff did you guys do?" It sounds so simple, but it's really the first part of a very complex process. First, she has to ask the question just that way so she can hear you talk about having sex and being naked and getting raunchy, because the girl is horny and that's exactly the kind of thing that will get her even more worked up. Second, she can't say anything like, "Is that okay to ask? I didn't mean to pry. Oh, I'm so embarrassed. Did I embarrass you?" That's exactly what she WANTS to say, but she's trying to create a mood here, and bringing polite societal rules into the mix is counterproductive to the atmosphere she's trying to convey. Needless to say, while I was sitting there staring at Melanie's thighs, thinking how nice it would be to get something going with her, she was seducing ME. Good times, buddy, good times. I was horny, too, so as soon as she asked, I said, "We did EVERYTHING." I had to say it quickly to confirm for her that no apology was necessary, that it was okay she asked. After that, she bounced on the bed a little and told me she wanted all the details. Over the year we spent together, during the time she was a senior, we had several similar conversations -- in tone, not in content. Not about music either, damn it. Mostly we talked about movies and books that we both liked, or people we knew, or things we'd done growing up. It's exciting to share details about your life with someone who "gets" you, and once you have the same kind of conversation about sex, well, what comes next is inevitable. We spent about half-an-hour going back and forth on the sex subject, and while it started out pretty tame, it got graphic by the end. It's true that I'd learned a lot during my time with Ex, and there wasn't much we didn't do, but DOING sex is a hemisphere away from TALKING about sex, and I'm telling you, sitting there with Melanie was my first honest-to-golly sex talk, and it was fucking fantastic. I'm not even convinced she'd talked like that before -- I was probably her first as well. It's liberating, you know it? To capitalize on all the great skills you've developed regarding social conversation and idea articulation, to apply those skills to describing what you've done while naked with a member of the other gender, how it felt, what you'd like to try next. Sometimes the anticipation you develop in moments like those is better than even the hard reality of actual sex. No, I'm not a fag, shut up asshole, I'm just saying that I've had conversations with girls that were better than the sex that followed. Your friend knows what I mean, yeah him, the good looking guy. Half-an-hour doesn't sound like a long time, but it's longer than it sounds. Positions... tender moments... things that were whispered, things moaned... favorite kisses... best orgasms... By the end of it, we were both exhausted and also both incredibly turned on. She had the most beautiful pale skin that burned a little red when she was hot, and she was damn hot at this point. What happened next is really my favorite part of the story. We were still sitting on the bed, me with my back against the window sill, Melanie beside me, kind of nestled back against my shoulder and the wall. It sounds deliberate, but it didn't come across that way, because it was a twin bed and there are only so many ways you and a friend can share space on a twin bed. Yes, I know, she wanted to be closer, and I wanted to be closer, so it WAS deliberate, but you have to understand the game we were playing. Both of us had the same idea: If she (he) doesn't want to kiss me or touch me, but there might be a chance she (he) does, what position could I be in where either one is okay? How to abort the mission without consequences? When that's the game, a lot of factors have to line up before you can move to the next level. For starters, the conversation has to peter out. Melanie was lying beside me like that, and one moment we were talking about sex and future lovers and maybe even school and schedules and shit. The next moment, the talking hit a lull. The proper thing to do during a lull, so we are told, is to regroup your thoughts and develop a new topic so the conversation can move forward. Fortunately, sometimes you end up with someone you like a lot and feel really comfortable with, and that lull is actually a nice time to just sit and enjoy each other's company in silence. You might not even realize how much you enjoy simply being with that person UNTIL the lull arrives and you have the opportunity to stay quiet and enjoy it. Another important ingredient in the mix was Sting playing on the cassette deck. I can't remember exactly how the lull occurred or what the last thing said was, but I do remember that "The Soul Cages" (song not album) was playing when it hit. If you know the album, you'll recall that this song is a guitar-driven rocker, or what counts for one in Sting's world. Melanie and I sat pressed side-by-side as we listened to the song, and it was just something to do. (Later I remembered that this song was about fisherman losing their lives at sea and confronting Satan so they could bargain for their freedom, but I wasn't paying any attention to that shit at the time, thankfully. Sting, you are one disturbed Englishman.) What next? I'll tell you what next. I took her hand in mine, that's what. No ceremony, no words, not even a pang of doubt in my mind or gut. I just wanted to slip my hand in hers, and I did. It felt right... "proper" is the word. We'd both been wondering for an hour whether we were attracted to each other, fumbling around for words to figure it out, and one touch was all it took to understand what a thousand words couldn't illuminate. We weren't in love, we weren't really even friends in the way we had been, but there was a physical spark at work, and now we both knew it for certain. Nostalgic Ramblings Ch. 02 Chapter 2: China Girl What happened between me and China Girl? That's a question a big fucking percentage of you out there want to know. So I'm going to tell you. If you happened to click on this story because you recognized my name, then it's likely you've read "Fingers of Fury," which was the first post I ever submitted to Literotica. It's a how-to article about giving a girl not merely multiple but continuous orgasms. I refer to China Girl at several points in the article, because she's the first girl I ever performed the technique on. You could say she's the one who taught the technique to me. I'm always fascinated by the question of who exactly posts stories on Literotica. Are they writers who simply decided to select sex as their narrative topic? Or are they, like me, compelled or even destined to dwell on their own sexual nature and history to the point that they have NO choice but to write down their ideas and share them with other people? Fact is, I hardly go a week without thinking about China Girl and our time together, because it was the first uninhibited sexual experience I ever had, and therefore the most profound of them all. When I started reading Literotica posts and decided I had something to contribute, there was no question in my mind that my first post would be about her. Like I said, she is constantly in my thoughts, especially when my hand is around my cock and my mind goes wandering for an idea that will keep it hard. But tonight I'm sitting at my computer trying to finish a few written works of a type vastly different from online erotica, and it's just no use. Jacking off wasn't enough to get her off my mind, nor was turning on porn, closing the shades and beating myself to death for about two hours. No, my sympathetic nymphomaniacs, the problem is entirely mental. This memory wants to be voiced, and I'm going to oblige it. Oblige it, and oblige those of you who've asked about her. .............................................. I was 23-years-old, a college senior who had just finished my fifth year and second major, hating every second of it. You didn't ask for my opinion on college degrees, but I'll give it to you: All you need to get the job you want, other than skill and will, is a single bachelor's degree; the master's is good for more pay faster, but that's it. A doctorate? Who gives a FUCK. MD's need them, but literary professors? Give me a fucking barium enema instead. So yes, I'm bitter that I wasted my time and money that last year, but also, I'm bitter that so many of my good college friends left a year early. The fifth year was a devastatingly lonely time, and the summer following it was even worse. A college town in the summer? Try a college town summer after a year where you didn't know anyone anyway. And for an additional kick in the balls, my girlfriend of the previous year continued to antagonize my soul that summer, even after she'd sucked all the blood from my heart via the artery in my dick. Turns out that once she got back home from college, roughly eight-hundred-miles away, she decided she wanted to "make it work," and I, being the slavish sex addict I am, agreed to not date anyone else. At the time, I didn't know I wouldn't see her again until goddamn Thanksgiving, and that this would be our last face-to-face. It wasn't her fault I was an emotional pussy, but I do have regrets, let's just say that much. This is a very important fact to keep in mind as you read the story to follow. Most of you out there are saying, especially through the lens of adulthood which you and I share, that I was not really obligated to stay faithful to a girl who non-surgically removed my heart and then proceeded to spiritually lobotomize me from halfway across the country. But a handful of you are or were conservative Christians, and you know how your brain gets turned around when you think you've made a promise to someone and you're in danger of breaking it. The guilt is just too much! I see some of you nodding your heads and the rest just looking confused. You must trust me on this point, quickly now, so we can move ahead with the tale. So I was lonely, but I did have two good pals, both performance majors with whom I'd spent some time on the stage. But they both had steady girlfriends and healthy sexual appetites, and I don't blame them at all for not returning my calls. Still, they did quasi-frequently invite me over for dinner and videos. Sometimes I bought the pizza. What a pathetic poser. One such evening, I arrived at the bachelor pad to find that one of my friends had a guest visiting from out of town. Her name was Mary (or something that sounded very close to it, I'll let you choose which). I'll never forget Mary's first reaction when she saw me. She ran up to me and hugged me, asking me how I'd been since we last saw each other. You see, I knew Mary, and I didn't know Mary. She was two years older than I was, and for a time earlier in my college career, she had been in the same performance group as I. I knew her face, as I did all sixty students in the group, but I don't think I really knew her name. For one thing, she was an older student, and most of the older kids in there tended to be uber-confident, self-righteous artistic egomaniacs, and being friends with them was like signing up for a perpetual penis-measuring contest. (The metaphor works for the girls, also.) Plus, she was EXTREMELY quiet. I tended to gravitate toward louder kids, because I made noise myself and that's who I thought I got along with best. Why try to defrost a quiet (perhaps shy but deafeningly quiet for whatever reason) girl I hardly knew? But she saw me that night, and she was thrilled, and that's the kind of girl Mary was - she knew you to whatever degree, she lost you then found you again, and she was very happy to have you in her life again. With the emotional state I was in throughout that summer but that night in particular, it was a powerfully good feeling and a great first impression for her to make. Mary stayed in town for about three weeks, floating between jobs and content to wander free-spirit style around her old stomping grounds. She slept on my friends' couch, and they showed her proper host courtesy by only fucking their girlfriends at an off-site location. Meanwhile, Mary and I and the two guys would hang out every night for the next four nights. What happened next in this story is one of those moments that's just too fucking outrageous to be true, and that's why you roll your eyes when you read a fiction work and the characters do shit like this, because if you'd been sitting next to the author when he typed that, you'd have said, "Dude, that's ridiculous. Nothing like that ever happens, and it will only sound unbelievable if you leave it in." But this is my story, my memory, my nostalgic rambling, not yours, so you can believe me or go to hell or both, because I'm leaving it in the story. On the fourth of the four nights, the two bachelors, Mary and I sat watching a movie. It was "The Long Kiss Goodnight," which is exactly the kind of movie you want to watch as you sit next to a pretty girl, because who the fuck cares why that chick lost her memory or whether she'll ever get it back, so let's fuggedaboudit and make out instead. (No, we didn't make out, but close.) Another piece of exposition before the plot continues: The bachelor who was friends with Mary had never dated her, but he was fiercely protective of her. Let's call him Bachelor No. 1. The other guy, Bachelor No. 2 is a great guy and a closer friend, but he's not really part of the story, except for the fact that he's the one who told me the following: Bachelor No. 1 simply and deeply wanted to kill every man who had ever touched Mary, looked at Mary, fantasized about Mary, or breathed toward Mary. He never laid a hand on her himself, I know this for a fact, but that's how lackeys are with the goddesses they worship. This fact, Bachelor No. 1's profound hatred toward anyone pursuing Mary, was the fourth reason why I never thought I'd have a chance with Mary. The third reason, as you'll remember, was that I had a "girlfriend" keeping me on a leash that was simultaneously short and long. The second reason was Mary's age; again, you adults reading this know that two years is nothing in terms of age separation, but kids figuring out the world sometimes get hung up by the tiniest social misconceptions. And the main reason why I thought I could never ask Mary on a date: She was hot. It's so easy to explain it all in hindsight, as to why she radiated sexual energy like a leaky nuclear core, but at the time it was a complete fucking mystery. So quiet, so very quiet all the time, and yet she had this look in her eyes as though she wanted to eat every ounce of food on the nirvana buffet but couldn't because of the damn karmic diet she was on. Plus, there were little choices she made that gave her a dangerous, charged feminine air - the too-short shorts, the too-tight T-shirts, the scrunchy that kept her long black hair from blocking the view of her perfect neckline, the tastefully sparse but meticulously applied makeup. And above all this, she had the physical attributes of a... god, I'm at a loss for words. I was about to say "Playboy model," but that's not fucking right at all. How to sum her up with a metaphor? She had a purely Chinese form, the result of immigrant parents, so her dark eyes were eternally hidden behind long-lashed slants. Every visible portion of her yellow-olive skin was absent of flaws. Several inches shorter, and so very thin. A Playboy model? No, more like a fairy from the ancient tales of a primal earth filled with magic, where nymphs and spirits crafted emotions with their hands instead of their words. Mary wasn't just sexy; she was a representation of all that sexy was meant to be. I've been with big women, tall women, pale women, and they were all beautiful in their way, but when I close my eyes and imagine the perfect woman, she looks so very much like Mary. But back to night four. We were watching "The Long Kiss Goodnight," and I sat on the same sofa as Mary. How do you plan these things? Sometimes you don't; it's just her picking a place to sit, and you doing the same, and you both ending up beside each other on the sofa. The next part is complicated to remember and almost impossible to describe. The main gist is this: My fingers stroked her pussy lips, and she allowed me to do it. What the fuck? I mean, one minute we're sitting there watching Samuel L. Jackson deliver some paltry soliloquy, and the next, Mary is sitting so close to me that she's on top of my hand. I'll try and piece it together... My palm was face down on the sofa. After a while, I realized she was sitting on-slash-against my hand, and I was surprised to not have noticed it before. With those shorts she wore, my hand felt nothing but the toned flesh of her thigh. With my hand falling asleep, I wiggled it. Mary verbally apologized and sat up so I could move my fingers. I said, "That's okay," then I flipped my palm upward and allowed her to sit back down on my hand. God, how did we pull that off? A lot of subconscious shit at work here, folks, with a bit of self-denial thrown in for good measure. Anyway, the rest is pretty obvious. My fingertips started to press against the insides of her flesh, and she didn't seem to mind. I thought (or felt), "There's no way she doesn't know I'm coping this feel, so she must not mind." My fingers worked their way up her legs until they stroked her crotch along the panty line. Now, I'd paid my share of visits to that special place between a girl's legs, but this was the first time I really noticed that the female pussy radiates its own heat. Mary's crotch was literally warm and growing warmer. Suddenly, I felt her pubic hair. Listen, listen very carefully. You know as much as I do about the nature of memory and the games our minds play; there's no such thing as a truly honest memory, only the closest approximation our minds can construct without our mental limits. But fuck, I mean, I REMEMBER exactly how it felt. Her flesh was satiny smooth and warm, except for an area of single hairs that were so widely spaced they seemed to be individual in nature, and soft to the touch. If I'd spread her knees and examined her with a microscope, I wouldn't have a better memory of what she looked like than I do from what my fingers felt in that moment. If this memory is a close approximation, then I want every memory to be that clear, the good and the bad and the ugly. My life is made up of my memories, and that means this moment is my life. She came. I'm certain of it. At least, in retrospect. I wasn't interested in getting her off, but rather going as far toward stealing second base as I could go. But when she shifted her body to pull my hand away, I swear she was shivering and very tense, and if she wasn't trying to suppress the evidence of a minor orgasm, then she was at least very close. In any case, she didn't move very far away at all when she repositioned herself and went back to watching the movie. Indeed, the bachelors never had any clue, nor will they. Oh, I just remembered something, about why Mary was in town, and it's important. (Should I go back and revise the text so that it's factually accurate, or just admit that memory has holes sometimes and it's filling up with recall before your very eyes? Fuck editing, and fuck editors. I'm an artist, goddamn it.) Mary had to come back to get some stuff out of storage, or rather, from her old bedroom in the old house where she'd lived for two years with her old college roommates. The reason that's important is because, on the following night, Bachelor No. 1 called me up. "Hey man, we're all going over to Mary's old place to help her pack and move it all to her new apartment. Are you free to help?" Not only am I someone who genuinely likes to help others, but I was also damn lonely and looking forward to being around other people as much as I could. You're thinking to yourself at this point, "Yeah, and he wanted to jump Mary's bones as well." But I meant what I said about those four reasons why I thought I had no chance with Mary. Besides, wouldn't it be enough for a girl to just want to take advantage of a sexy moment and then pretend it never happened, so as not to lead a poor collegian down a path of mistaken intention? What I'm trying to say is, I really only went to help her move. By the time I got there, three cars were filled with boxes and junk including furniture that had been bungee'd in the trunks. While they put the remaining few boxes in my backseat, I went in to see what was going on. Bachelor No. 1 said, "We're all done except for the cleaning." You see, the place had to be spotless or the girls wouldn't get their deposit back. The biggest problem was the bathtub. Holy fucking shit, have you SEEN what girls can do to a bathroom? I mean, guys leave pubes and piss all over the linoleum around the commode, but with girls, it's just fucking EV-ERY-WHERE. Hairs, soap scum, a layer of makeup on the mirrors and counters... and the nastiest yellow tub ring I've ever seen in my life. Since I got there to late to help pack, I thought I'd contribute by fixing the disaster in the tub. I took off my shoes and socks, grabbed a steel wool pad and some Comet, and got to work. Mary walked in the bathroom and discovered for the first time that I was on the premises. No joke, she squealed with delight to find me cleaning that tub. I suspect there are several reasons for this. First, I'd already made a dent in the project, and she was happy to know the deposit was actually going to be in her possession. Also, it must have been a pleasant surprise to know that there are still men in the world who will clean a woman's bathroom and not expect sex in return. (Women, don't forget, just because a man doesn't expect sex doesn't mean you have to not offer it to him; he'll still accept.) But I mostly like to believe that she was most happy to see that I was the guy who was the guy cleaning the tub. She was, I feel, looking for reasons to justify the strong attraction she felt toward me. At the same time, I was overwhelmed by the gratitude she showed to me, and because I think gratitude is such an important component of getting along with others in society, I immediately found my reason to be attracted to her as well. That, and the fact that she was a fucking hottie. Now, here's another part of the story that strains the bounds of credulity but is indeed completely true. You've heard the phrase, "So incredible you couldn't make this stuff up," right? This is that. Because I was the last one there, I happened to be the only one with an open passenger seat; the other cars were crammed with boxes and shit. Now, the drive we were about to make, from Mary's college town residence to her new apartment in her new town, was about an hour drive, which is nothing in New England. She and Bachelor No. 1 had left her car at the new apartment, so they could talk together for the hour drive, the intention being that they could continue the discussion on the way back. But for some reason, Bach. 1 had stuffed his passenger seat with shit as well. Why not pack my car instead? I suspect he wanted Mary to ride with me, but not for the reason you think. You see, Bach. 1 was a notorious emotional busy-body, and he loved to ask me every time I came over to the house, "You doing alright? I know it's a hard summer for you." He felt bad for me, you see, the bastard. So when he saw that Mary and I were getting along reasonably well, me must have "convinced" her that I need someone to talk to during the hour drive back, and perhaps he asked her to "do him a favor" and cheer me up. Little did he know. That was one great car ride. It was one of the most honest conversations I've had with any person in my entire life, male or female. (The majority of my soul-searching has been with male buddies; I just don't trust myself to discuss deep emotional matters with girls without turning it into a manipulate-her-into-the-bedroom situation.) I told her I was in a relationship that stifled me; she told me she'd just been dumped but was glad for it. At some point, I asked her if she'd like to go on a date. Those are the words I used, but it's vital you know the context. Mary explained that she spent a lot of time in our old college town, and it was sort of crumby because Bachs. 1 and 2 were always off fucking girls and, although they tried to keep her entertained, they didn't really have the stamina to devote time to Mary during her visits. I told her, "Well heck, if you want to call me when you're in town, we can go out and eat a bite. Call it date or whatever." It was just that sappy and plutonic. No, I'm not forgetting that I nearly fingered her. You think I'm contradicting myself by saying that I wasn't coming on to her, and that she knew it. But you've got to understand the power of denial. I really really thought I was in a committed relationship, and she really really respected that I was. Yes, we both wanted to jump each other's bodies like lightning striking a radio tower, but neither of us could be the first to admit it. There was a pervasive air of... let's say, politeness. I swear to god, social conformity is such a fucking waste of time, and no one tells you this. You either figure it out on your own, or you never do. All that to say, I wish I knew then what I know now, in regard to so many moments in my life. Except this one. The tenderness of it all was just so perfect, like a fly trapped in amber - an event resulting from exact influences converging at once. Mary smiled and seemed very appreciative that I would be so gentlemanly as to keep her company during her visits. The agreement of future meetings made the second half of that car trip much sweeter, much more honest. We talked about every topic we held dear - music, drama, books, philosophy - but NOT sex. Not yet. You see how the subconscious works, especially with someone you truly understand from the start? Nostalgic Ramblings Ch. 02 Needless to say, our "date" was not long in arriving. Three nights after the apartment move, Mary's two hosts arranged to be with their girlfriends on the same night, leaving Mary alone and bored. Bach. No. 1 convinced Mary that she should take me up on my offer of a friendly date; it's important to know that he thought of me as a "knight in shining armor," especially after seeing me clean that damn tub. I'm sooooo glad I did that. Also, I mean really, how much convincing did she need? (Deep breath as I prepare to relive this night for the millionth time...) The atmosphere on that summer night was humid and hot. For New Englanders, this is "fun" weather; we experience horrible humidity year-round, so its either freezing humid (unbearable) or hot humid (an opportunity to wear less and play more). I picked Mary up in my pee-oh-ess Grand Am. I remember having to replace that car's goddamn transmission three times before I finally allowed it to give up the ghost. On this night, without the cold to cripple the clutches, the shitmobile was running fine. As you'll learn momentarily, that car was the perfect machine to be driving that night, and I'm forever grateful to it, whatever junk yard or compactor in which it eventually found itself. I had just removed from the backseat and floors all the food wrappers, school papers and book, old clothes and various miscellaneous items; not to throw away, mind you, but simply to toss into the trunk. You see? I'm being totally honest with you! You doubting bastards. Remembering Mary as she left the bachelor pad and made her way for my car, I'm left suffering the worst chill; it's sexual excitement mixed with a subatomic compulsion to miss that girl for the rest of my life. Her black hair fell around her shoulders in a marvelous cascade, and from the neck up she could have walked confidently into any opera house in the world and turned approving heads. She'd done herself up as beautifully as she could, considering that all she had to wear that trip were shorts and T-shirts. But am I complaining? My heart skips to remember those clothes - the dark brown baby-doll tee with the white piping, the denim shorts that hugged just enough of her upper thighs to avoid being labeled Daisy Dukes, white Keds and sports socks that showed her ankles. I recall her outfit, and what her outfit revealed... a tight athletic body comprised of smooth exotic skin, toned limb muscles, a set of perky B-cups and a charming, disarming smile. I'd never wanted a girl so badly, nor felt so inadequate next to one. The events leading up to our disrobing are a blur. I know we went to a burger joint and got the specials; I insisted on paying, and she protested but not enough to seem boorish. The honest talk from the previous car ride continued as though no interruption had occurred, but this time with a twist. We talked about sex. Not the act, but the mindset - that is to say, we talked about relationships and our opinions on fidelity. This is key to understanding the final results of the excursion; unless Mary and I were able to overcome the roadblock which was my long-distance relationship, then neither of us could proceed as we wanted to, either into a declaration of "like" or whatever else we felt was appropriate. The vital part of the faithfulness discussion did not occur in the restaurant, nor during our long walk along the riverside walkway where the city lights looked so beautiful and the first glistening glow of summer heat-induced sweat could be seen around Mary's neck and arms. After we'd been sitting on a park bench for about an hour, playing gin with a deck of cards I'd brought as per our prior arrangement, we decided it would be nice to just get in the car, go find a quiet place overlooking the river and listen to music in the dark. This is precisely what we did. I'm not proud to say that I picked a spot where I'd previously taken another girl, knowing it was secluded enough by location, distance from civilization and the placement of forest to allow for romantic couplings. Regardless, when we got there, Mary said to me, "Oh my god, this is so perfect. I love it here." An hour later (time was really flying at this point), Mary continued to pepper me with questions about my relationship with my ex. She politely respected my decision to remain true to someone I'd had feelings for and with whom I'd promised to stay faithful, but she found subtle ways to let me know what she really thought about the way this girl was messing with my head and, more importantly, how she'd done me wrong in the past. But I took the discussion in a different direction. I told Mary that I thought my ex (my ex-ex?) was still dating (now there's a euphemism) other guys back in her home town, and - this is a crucial point - that it didn't really bother me. I told Mary that fidelity in pre-marital relationships didn't impress me all that much, because until you get married, it's all a big opportunity to find the one you want to be with for the rest of her life. And I mean to tell you, she could not have agreed faster. She said, "Oh yeah, I totally agree. I don't think there's anything wrong with dating more than one person. I don't even anything all that wrong about keeping it a secret, when you know that person wouldn't understand." Now it's true, as this story shows, that I was a dense young fool, but NOBODY is that dense. It's really rather remarkable how, at this point in my life, I was so much more accomplished at seducing women physically than I was at asking them out on dates. The fact of the matter is, I had been in this position several times before, where I knew that a milestone in the date had been passed, and all I had to do to get physical with the girl was to take it slow and make it happen. This does NOT always mean sex; every girl has the same set of vibes she sends out when she's ready to get physical, but "getting physical" does not mean the same thing to all girls. Some want to kiss, hands above the waist and that's it, while others are sexually starving and don't even ask you if they can unzip your pants. With Mary, there was a part of my brain that kept seeing her as a fragile, cripplingly shy victim of nature, and it was this part of my brain that continually forgot about the sofa-orgasm affair. I truly believed we were about to make out, and that was it. It started like this: I asked her, "Mary, would it be alright if I kissed you?" I cannot forget how she reacted to that question; it's another one of the moments I can recall with exact precision. She said, "Oh my god, no one's ever asked me that before." The question truly seemed to take her breath away. I turned off the car, sending the music away as well as the air conditioning. With the windows rolled up, as they needed to be if I was going to make out with a girl and not be heard across the river by who-knows-who, the humidity started to build right away, even before we touched. I took Mary's hand in mine, leaned forward and pressed my lips against hers. There was a console between us, in the front seat of that old Grand Am, and we had to lean over it to kiss. I put my hand on her neck, and she tightened her grip on my hand. Immediately we abandoned all pretense of friendly politeness and began french kissing in earnest. Mary's mouth was actually the first to open, and I quickly followed her lead. Her breathing was labored, her lips soft and unhurried. At this point, dear reader, I can describe for you how she tasted and smelled in such a way that you would recognize the sensations right away and have a much deeper understanding of the moment. But I'm not going to. These memories I now decide to keep for myself. There's so much more to tell, and if it's not enough to satisfy you, then tough shit, Sherlock. There was a moment at which I knew that Mary and I had developed a unique emotional bond which we were about to strengthen and transform through physical contact; I still had no idea if we were going to have sex (I'd know very soon), but that's not what I'm talking about here. When you're with a girl, and it's right, and you both feel each other, then you find a rhythm between your minds and your words and your bodies, and that rhythm pounds and flows in perfect syncopation no matter what you do to help it or stop it. That moment came for Mary and me when we both reached to hold each other in the exact same instant. What's more, we both knew that I was meant to move into the passenger's seat, and I moved at the same moment she pulled me. I knew where the lever was that lowered her seat back, and I pulled it, lowering Mary slowly. I laid on top of her body and kissed her. We made out hard for several minutes - I licked her neck, nibbled her ears, placed smooches across her chin and forehead and nose and eyes. She tasted my mouth with her tongue, breathed her heat onto my face and neck. Her hands moved up and down my back and arms, pressing against my muscles through the T-shirt I wore, already growing sticky from the summer heat and the warmth growing between us. For those of you who have read my other work, you know that the moment at which a fully-clothed woman allows a fully-clothed man to place his hardened penis against the girl's open legs is the moment at which heavy petting turns into a seriously likely, almost certain precursor to downright coitus. That moment came suddenly for me and Mary. As we rolled and embraced and grabbed at each other's bodies, Mary simply allowed her legs to open and take me in between. It was a sweet reward for all the emotional investment I had put into this girl, which is a cynical thing for the adult me to say. At the time, I was grateful, very grateful and humbled that such a beautiful girl would allow me to pleasure her in such a way. I rocked my penis against her loins with expert precision; I'd known for a long time where the clitoris happened to be. Mary pulled my shirt out of my shorts and lifted it right over my head. She did this so suddenly that I almost resented not having time to permit the act, which is just the sort of silly thing a self-absorbed English major is supposed to feel when a gorgeous girl is taking off his clothes. Even as I tugged at Mary's shirt, lifting it above her bra, she was already unbuckling my belt with ravenous speed. At this point I started to suspect that Mary was a creature of dangerously intense sexual appetites. Or I should say, that Mary was, LIKE ME, a creature of dangerously intense sexual appetites. You can see why the prospect excited me so, coupled as it was with the physical presence of that girl in my arms and not just the prospect alone. But I want to examine that for a moment. Would you believe that there's a point in most boys' lives at which they learn that girls enjoy sex as much as they do, and before this point, the believe that they ALONE are the gender that wants it all the time? The revelation is earth-shattering, filled with potential, and deeply gratifying. For me, this was that moment. What came next was the only unpleasant surprise of the night, although it would turn out to be the basis for one of my most steadfast fetishes. I took off Mary's bra and found that she had padded her A-cup breasts up to B-cups. Nothing was ever said between us of the discrepancy, but when a boy has been lusting after a girl, the WHOLE girl, he is looking often at her tits and longing to feel them and kiss them and play with them for hours. I did this to Mary, and when I learned that the objects of my desire were less impressive than previously advertised, I was let down, not a little due to the fact that I'd been lied to. You know, of course, that she didn't mean to lie to me. She was just a normal girl who didn't want to look like a boy, when what she really wanted was to be lusted after. It wasn't some devious plan, just a part of growing up. Adults do it too, boys and girls, and that's all that needs to be said. Fortunately, I learned quickly that there are benefits to being with a girl with small titties. Mary's nipples were very hard and very sensitive, as I discovered when I first started to suck on them. I love sucking on nipples and always had before this night, but from that point on, anytime a girl has little boobs, I imagine how hard and sensitive her nipples must be and my dick turns hard pretty quickly. My attraction to sensitive nipples is only the symptom of my fetish; the fetish itself is that I like to give a woman orgasmic pleasure, and a girl with sensitive nipples is a girl more likely to enjoy sexual sensations across the entire region of her flesh, therefore making her much more likely to experience orgasms. As you will see, this was certainly true of Mary. Another one of my favorite memories from that night was the point when I tried to take her shorts off. Would you believe that Mary wore pants so tight that even SHE had trouble taking them off? If you're paying any sort of fucking attention to the story, you can see how she was trying to seduce me even as I tried to do the same to her. Those damn shorts were deliberately snug, perhaps painfully so. The revelations that night assaulted me like machine-gun bullets; I don't think I'd ever before experienced a girl dressing to make herself appear sexier to ME. I knew girls did this for other boys, especially in the movies, but for ME? Like I said, the thing I felt was gratitude. That, and undistilled animal lust. Within about ten minutes of my arrival in the passenger seat, Mary and I were both naked, our clothes scattered across the driver's seat, dashboard, center console and floorboards. I took an especially long while to remove Mary's panties; I equated this moment, during any date, with the swallowing of the last bite of a gourmet dessert, a delicacy to be savored before it vanished. Mary was sweating. I say those three words, and they looks so dull, but they strike an electric spark in me that sounds like a chainsaw in my ears. I'd been in the shower with a girl before, and I'd gone skinny-dipping with one, and it's true that I had an affinity for wet girls. But before Mary, it was always a remote fantasy; Mary turned that ideal into a bona fide fetish. She laid stretched out under me in that passenger's seat, breathing so deeply, and her body glistened before me in the night. I laid my hands on her as one lays claim to rare painting, with tender reverence. Her Chinese body was completely absent of hair, except for the miniscule patch above and around her pussy lips which I mentioned earlier. I was sweating also, and in that place where our emotions flowed back and forth in a perfect feedback loop, I knew she loved the sensation as well. I lowered myself onto her, pressing my hard, exposed penis against her pussy, and we kissed furiously. She spread her legs so wide I thought she must be in pain, slapping the sweaty bottoms of her feet against my thighs. As her legs spread, I experienced the burning wetness of her spread genitals. I can't say I'm absolutely objective about the veracity of my memories at any point after this one, but I like to remember that I shivered with ecstasy by simply feeling Mary's pussy against my penis, sloppy wet and impossibly hot. Before I continue, there's something I'd like you to tell me; if you were all in a room listening to my story, I'd ask for a show of hands. How many of you are the kinds of lovers who expect sexual intercourse and only stop when told a date won't go "all the way?" Good, that's good, I see you in the back there. Now, how many of you expect to NOT get sex UNLESS your date tells you to give it to her or him? I'm asking because I want to further explain my frame of mind during this particular night. A lot of you Christians in the room will know what I'm talking about when I say that not all encounters in which two people get totally naked with each other lead to sex. Sometimes, they want to stay "technical virgins" and finger each other and suck each other off and so-forth. It's gets complicated when you realize that even after you lose your virginity, you continue to operate under the assumption that your date might not want to give up her sexual integrity to the likes of you. See, I knew Mary wasn't a virgin, and she knew the same of me - we'd talked about it multiple times throughout that night's discussion - but until my penis actually penetrated her vagina, I had no idea if the night would lead to sex or not. It's true! And it still makes perfect sense to me. Even I am at a loss to explain it. To understand my state of mind the first time I inserted my penis into any girl - hopeful but unexpectant, naively so on both counts - is to understand how truly unique this night with Mary was, and how strong the bond between us was. Because I didn't ask permission, or wait for a sign in her eyes that she approved, or wait for her to be the one that took me and pulled me inside her. No, this night, I was the one to make love to her. I had to, you see. She drew me to her like a moth to its fiery death, with all the exquisite deliverance that metaphor implies and none of the pain. There Mary lay below me, her skin wet, her hands clasped to my arms as I held my weight above her. I often remember the way a girl's eyes went wide when I performed some astonishing sexual task upon her, but Mary's Chinese eyes weren't made to go wide and I don't really remember seeing them that night, not wide anyway. What I do remember is her mouth, always open no matter what sound she was making - wide open at this moment before I penetrated her, anticipating, horny as any human I'd seen before or seen since. Her small nipples filled with blood and stood erect, aching for my touch. Neither of us spoke or breathed as I placed the engorged head of my penis against her hot, cream-drenched labia. The lips were smooth and puffy, filled with blood so they seemed muscular. I pushed in, parting her pussy lips, causing her to tighten her grip on my hips. Mary whimpered. I know I tend to get superlative in my descriptions - she was the most this, the least that, the best whatever - but it's a simple matter of fact that Mary had the tightest, wettest, and hottest pussy I've ever experienced. Other girl produced more lubrication, but only initially - Mary's pussy stayed dripping wet all night, just like the rest of her body. Just as we had difficulty removing her pants, I had my work cut out for me inserting my cock in her vagina that first time. Subsequent visits got easier, but it was always a snug fit in there. For one thing, I'm average length but considerable girth. Not only did her pussy muscles squeeze deliciously, but they really had a big cock to squeeze. Full disclosure, yo. As it always goes, I did not fully penetrated her with the first stroke. I dipped inside, relishing the heavenly warmth, then wiggled myself a bit to push past folds of skin and muscle. Also, she needed a moment to take a deep breath, cry out in pleasure, and allow her muscles to relax to the point where I she could allow more of me inside. She relaxed, and I slid further in. There's comes a point, as you well know, at which complete insertion is a foregone conclusion, occurring sometime after the penis is about halfway inside. Mary and I reached that point, and I unceremoniously impaled her. Mary nearly passed out. I know what you're thinking; no lover is that good. Ha ha. I don't mean to imply that in the least. The fact that Mary swooned from the simple penetration of my penis in her cunt is a sign of how deeply and sensitively she experienced physical ecstasy. This was a sign of things to come. In the meantime, she regained her senses and pulled my body against hers. My fetish for all things sweaty began right at that moment, as our slick bodies slapped together again and again, her wet nipples sliding across my chest, her wet thighs gliding up and down my lower body. I can literally smell the sweat on her neck and face as I buried my tongue in her ear. Nostalgic Ramblings Ch. 02 When Mary came the first time, she spun my world on its ear. The way she devoted her entire being to the experience, her body flailing as it rode the wave of some massive energy wave, her mouth open and screaming as I'd never heard a woman scream except in horror movies... I only recall one other place where I've ever seen a woman invest so much of her soul in an activity, and in that place I've seen such investment many, many times - on the dance floor. When a woman dances, she has no choice but to decide that one part of her brain will shut down for a time so that her social inhibitions, her physical hesitation, and her self-scrutinization won't get in the way of the creation of art by way of the most delicate canvas she owns. This is how Mary came for me, and I felt her orgasm as a shared experience. She squeezed my stone-hard penis with her vagina muscles, pulled me close to her, vocalized her passion directly into my ear and deep inside my brain. I was amazed I didn't come inside her after the very first thrust, but the subconscious desire to keep fucking is advanced enough in the human male to keep any initial torrent at bay, at least for most boys who've had sex on a regular basis previously. Still, the entire first time with Mary felt like I was on the verge of exploding inside her at any given point. Of course, when the time finally came to ejaculate, any misconceptions I'd had previously about being close were quickly dispersed. When the moment truly arrived, there was no mistaking that semen was about to blast out of me and fly somewhere in the general direction of this girl. Are you surprised that we didn't use a condom? I never thought about it, I must admit, until the moment I nearly came inside her. I've seen a million and one porno movies where the guy fucks "gonzo style" as they say, with no protection, and I simply can't believe that those girls aren't on the pill. Do these guys truly have that level of control, that even the pre-cum doesn't seep out and cause accidents from time to time? I have to at least admit it's possible, because even throughout the most intense sex of my life up to that point, I didn't drip enough to cause anything terrible to happen with Mary. But it sure as hell was a close call. I pulled out of her just in time to shoot my seed all over her belly button and upper stomach. The worst part of a spontaneous sexual encounter with a beautiful acquaintance is the moment after the man comes. From this point, the uncertainty returns, although some things are far more certain than others, such as the question of whether you're gonna get yourself a piece or not. I remember the ex-girlfriend from that senior year of college, and our first night to have sex. She became awkward and guilty, and it was infectious. There was nothing left to do but put our clothes on and say goodnight. Almost two weeks passed before we kissed again; things moved swiftly after that, but the entire two weeks felt like that first moment after the sex, scary and disappointing. But with Mary, I knew right away that things were going to be different. She crashed against the fabric-covered passenger seat, breathing deeply, a satisfied coo escaping her lips over and over. I watched with amazement as she rubbed my jizz into her belly, then lifted her sticky fingertips and manipulated her own hard nipples. I was so immersed in the sight of a girl doing such a thing, which I'd never even imagined before, that I wasn't prepared when she took my cock in her hand for the first time. She stroked me expertly, drawing the come down to the last drop, swirling it with her fingertip across my painfully sensitive dickhead. I didn't realize it at the time, but she was cleaning me off as best she could, to prepare me for a second fuck. Starting with the moment Mary slipped my prick back inside her sopping wet twat, the experience we shared descended to a progressively less tender state. "Oh yeah," she cried as she pulled me down hard onto her body. I literally had no say in the matter; I plunged speechlessly into the reality of a second fucking of this beautiful goddess. I certainly didn't have any time to question whether or not I'd cleaned my cock off adequately enough to justify slipping back inside her; it just happened. Where the first copulation had washed over us both like a wave crashing low, the second was an aerobic workout, or perhaps weight-training sounds more appropriate; we weren't stretching, we were engaged in strenuous heavy lifting. All our communication was non-verbal for a long time, not counting Mary's (and my) cries of pleasure which included phrases like, "Baby... yes... god... oh my god..." For instance, when she wanted to lift her ankles up over my shoulders, I knew what she wanted before she could lift her legs to the proper height. It's odd what you think back on as the most important points of an event, but when those ankles latched over my shoulders, I knew we were speaking to one another on a cellular level. Her pussy opened wide for me, and I fell deeper inside her than before. Her vagina felt just as tight and hot, but nothing she or I did could stop me from moving effortlessly in my attempt to friction us both to the next orgasm. (Is "friction" a verb? It should be.) When I think of people making love, I remember Richard and Julia in "Pretty Woman," because even though you can't see them fucking behind that screen thing in the hotel room, you know they're moving slowly, methodically, with him stroking her gently in a repetitive way. Well, this wasn't that. I held myself above Mary's body with my forearms on the seat and my tiptoes on the floorboard, bracing my weight over her, so that I could pound her wet body with my vicious deep thrusts. This was, as you may already suspect, another first for me. How many girls had I made love to up to this point, and never truly fucked any of them? I recall a thought that flashed across my mind as I looked at Mary's face and pounded her petite form so hard she left an impression in the seat for the rest of the time I owned that car, and that thought was, "She knew I was going to fuck her this hard, and she surrendered herself to me anyway. She really wants it this hard." The second male orgasm is a long-time coming, no pun intended, and I was able to fuck Mary for what felt like half-an-hour. Certainly the muscle burn in my legs, arms and back would testify that it was at least this long. But the second female orgasm arrives quickly (for the girl who knows her body well enough), and Mary came so hard the second time that I thought I'd hurt her. I asked, "Are you okay?" Her reply was, "Keep fucking me." My cock, already hard, swelled painfully at the sound of these words. First of all, I'd never heard a girl say such a thing except in pornos, and not even there very much. Mostly in past experiences, the girl would say, "Please keep going," or, "That's so nice," or at most, "Oh my god." For that matter, I don't really recall many girls I knew in person up to that point who used language like that - real life is not like the Sopranos, as most of you already know. Furthermore, if I had to pick any woman to talk dirty during sex, it would not have been this quiet, socially withdrawn soprano with the unassuming gaze and acquiescent demeanor. And in not picking her, I would have been dead wrong. Once she uttered the word the first time, there was no stopping her. "Fuck me," she pleaded, enjoying the way the words sounded in her mouth and the reaction they had on me. "Fuck me hard, please, fuck me." I hadn't even pulled out of her as she came, and I simply continued thumping her pussy from the inside. This is the point at which I truly turned aggressive in my lovemaking. I remember slamming in and out of her with rapid movements, causing an almost vibratory sensation inside her that we both enjoyed. With utter astonishment I watched as her third orgasm arrived virtually on the heels of the second. No waiting for me to ask if she were okay, she dug her nails into the my neck, stretched her sweat-covered thighs further apart and said, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," in her soft but firm little girl voice. Here's another part of the story that actually happened. I'm reluctant to tell you about it, because depending on the mood I'm in, it affects me differently. I suspect it will scare some of you, and others it will excite. As Mary moaned and cried and screamed beneath me, there came a point at which she said, "Come inside me." These words had the immediate affect of breaking my rhythm, to the degree that a cow standing on railroad tracks breaks the momentum of an oncoming locomotive, inconsequently but measurable using the right instruments. Looking back I realize she wasn't asking me to impregnate her but simply crying out in pleasure for something she thought she wanted to experience. But in my head, I repeated the word "No" several times. (Sometimes when I think back to the experience, I remember actually saying the word out loud, but this didn't actually happen.) I have to admit that, even as church teaching ran through my head at a frightening pace regarding premarital sex, abortion and all the rest, I also wanted very much to shoot my come deep inside her and see how it would feel. In any case, all I did was kiss her lips and keep fucking her, completely ignoring what she's just said and reminding myself to pull out before I came. And come I certainly did. The volume of jizz was minimal compared to the first explosion, but the sensations I felt were far superior. Mary felt me pull out of her, and she grabbed my cock in her hands and stroked the very soul out of me. I yelled in pain and pleasure as I gritted my teeth and allowed her to fondle my cock in any way she wanted. I fell against her, and we embraced in a sweaty mess. By this point the car was filled with steam, fogging the windows to opaqueness. It was as though we'd created our own personal sauna for the night, and we both loved it. We kissed, tenderly, for a long time. At some point I decided we'd be more comfortable in the backseat. I don't think I verbally instructed her to follow me back there, because we didn't do much talking the entire time. All I truly remember is lying with her one minute in the passenger seat, and the next moment lying next to her in the backseat in almost the exact position. She was on her back along the seat, humming the same off-key note again and again, as I moved my hand and fingers along her wet flesh, fascinated by what she had allowed me to do to her body. Now comes the fun part. Sensing in that moment that Mary still had about a million orgasms left in her, I moved my hand down between her legs, which she willingly opened for me. My hand manipulated her genitals, slowly at first and then with more deliberate pressure. As expected, Mary squirmed with appreciation, her wet pussy sloppy and warm against my fingers as they explored her clit, her slit, her deep smelly tunnel. I licked the sweat from her torso, her chest. Her heart pounded so hard I could feel it through my tongue. Then she orgasmed, closing her legs around my hand again and again. I can't explain to you what compelled me to leave my hand there after the orgasm. I fully understand now that I sensed her body's ability to allow another orgasm quickly after the first, but at the time, I probably only wanted to see if I could get away with it. Could she really allow me to touch her sensitive pussy so soon after the orgasm? How wonderful it would be if she could. I began again to stroke her, waiting only for the most intense part of her previous orgasm to subside. My fingers pressed against the top of her pussy right against her pelvis bone, and she fucked my fingers with her gyrating loins. When she came, it seemed that the previous orgasm had never really vanished but was simply returning as the second portion of the same wave. Are there any fellow nerds in the room? I know that some of you reading this don't really get too excited by the prospect of learning new things; even the word "learning" bores you. But for others, the moment of discovery is really the only reason life is worth living, like the moment you first realize that sunlight causes plants to grow, that this plus that equals something larger than either... or that girls, the members of a gender which has a hard time putting up with fumbling boy hands long enough to produce a single orgasm in the span of one date, are actually MORE intense in their sexuality and sensational awareness than you are, despite the fact that you always come first. I watched in wonder as this girl completed her fifth and most intense orgasm but still seemed able, no, eager for the next. I obeyed. Mary became putty in my hands, or perhaps I was the putty. When I positioned my mouth over her pussy, she allowed it without hesitation and rode my mouth to at least two orgasms. She moved her hands across her wet body and mine as well, soaking in every sensory perception she could attain. Unlike our intercourse, where she goaded me on with her filthy language, Mary seemed to lose her ability to form words as I fondled her genitals in an attempt to sustain her orgasmic state, causing one after another. I remember the moment at which I realized it was a waste of time to count her orgasms, stopping at 40. I laid on my back, looking up at her as she stood above me, one leg on the floor and another on the panel behind the backseat. She held onto one of those handles above the door and twisted like a warm raincloud as she rode my fingers to one orgasm after another. Mary came hard, screaming, and fell down onto my body. She discover my recovered penis pressing hard against her abdomen, and she struggled to find the strength to pull herself into a sitting position above me. Almost in a daze, she sat down on my cock and filled herself with it. If she continued to be a tight fit, I did not notice; the interior of her vagina was so lubricated that I slid very easily into her, immediately feeling her body press down against my pubic hair. Mary was too tired to move, so I pounded up into her as she listed above me in a seemingly sleepy state. She wasn't sleepy at all, but more like in a hypnotic state; it must have been all her mind could do to survive the experience of the next orgasm rushing her direction. As she rode my hard penis, I moved my hands across her body, delighting in her body heat and the way my palms moved across her wet skin with an almost absolute absence of friction. Would you believe it was one of the happiest moments of my life, a revelatory experience, a defining moment? When a girl responds to a boy that way, opening her mind and body and inner essence up to him, that boy believes he can connect with the rest of humanity at such a level, and that anything he sets his mind to is accomplishable. It's funny what you think about during sex - appointments, the grocery list, movie moments that you thought you could rip off once you got in the bedroom with a girl ("Pretty Woman" for instance.) Often during my ex-girlfriend I'd think about other girl's as I fucked her, not because she wasn't hot and I didn't want her, but because my mind moves so quickly that it has trouble keeping interest in experiences that aren't new, even the experience of profound physical pleasure. The reason I mention it is that, in that moment with Mary, I don't believe I thought about anything except her and what I was feeling and what I made her feel. That must be why my brain remembers so much of the experience; it was divided between warring ideas but was instead unified in the purpose of archiving this night for all time. When she came, she screamed the word "Fuck!" at the top of her voice and flew off of me, landing in the corner by the door. She spread her body like a blanket, trying to cool down, trying to catch her breath. I moved my hand toward my own hard cock, still anxious to come, but up until this point in my life, I had always had a fear (cultural, not logical) of anyone else ever finding out that I masturbated. Even under these conditions, even with THIS girl, I didn't want her to see me stroking myself to keep hard. Then I had an idea. It doesn't sound like much to you, but it hit me like an aluminum bat. As I watched her caressing her own body, slowly luxuriating in the touch of her own body, I realized that she was a girl who masturbated. This must be part of the reason why she came so hard, so frequently and with so much stamina in reserve. From my place across from Mary in the seat, I asked her in a soft whisper, "Do you like to masturbate?" I promise you, she shivered, she literally shivered at the question. The word "Yes" escaped her lips almost involuntarily. "Do it," I said, this time in a whisper almost too low to hear. But she heard, and she spread her legs for me. The car was too dark to make out the finest details, but there was enough ambient light in the city outside to allow me to witness the glistening wetness on her puffy, swollen pussy lips. The fingertips of her right hand traced a line from her breastbone down her stomach to her slit. She used three fingers to rub herself, first slowly, then fast. Hard as I was, I stroked myself for her to watch. The experience proved too much for her, and she came almost immediately after she started jacking herself. I came also, and it was a big one. It landed all over me in a big white splash. Mary leaned forward and licked my semen from my stomach, swallowing it out of existence. This in itself was completely hot, but it helps for you to know that I hadn't had too many good experiences with girls and my ejaculate. Their reactions to having it on their faces and tongues ranged from tolerant (wordless licking with an undercurrent of "can I get this over with quickly, please") to disgusted ("I don' t like it"). So to watch Mary ingest my come as though she'd die without it was a moving sight. Exhausted at last, or so it seemed, she collapsed into my arms. I might have mistakenly thought she was asleep if she hadn't traced her fingers across my sweat-soaked skin, playing with my flaccid penis and drenched pubic hair, slipping her digits across my not-very-hairy chest and shoulders. I did the same, running my fingers across her body, allowing her time to cool down. But instead of regaining her composure as I tenderly touched her, she responded in a wholly unexpected way. It seemed my touches were turning her on even more. Mary didn't appear to need more than the stroke of my hands across her small breasts and tight stomach to cause her to breathe heavily with building sexual energy. Intrigued, I pinched her nipples. She inhaled sharply, a sure sign that I'd struck a sexual chord inside her. After only a few moments of playing with her chest, she came. Blown away by the sight, I kept going. I lowered my mouth to her ear and licked inside, breathing heavily on her skin as I did so. She grabbed my arm and came again, subsided, then came again. I stroked the insides of her thighs with the lightest touch of my fingertips, and this set her off once again. Orgasm followed orgasm as the girl shook helplessly in my arms, filled to overflowing with libidinous force. After only twenty minutes of Mary moaning and screaming in my arms, she put her hand on my face and said, "Wait, I'm gonna pass out... Wait..." Her breathing was shallow and ragged. The muscles in her stomach contracted and released continuously, as though orgasms were still flowing over her even after I had stopped touching her. I could not help myself. I touched between her legs, directly on her clitoris. She yelled, snapped her body like a whip and rode out the force of a crashing climax. "No more!" she shouted. "Wait! Please!" She wasn't angry - quite the contrary, indeed - but she needed me to know that if I didn't give her a moment she'd slip into unconsciousness, and neither of us wanted that. Nostalgic Ramblings It's funny, looking back, how deliberate the whole thing was, and hereby we replace the word "deliberate" with "slow." It's funny because today when I want a woman, we stand on her doorstep after the date, she invites me up or doesn't, and if she does we make out, get naked, have sex, then decide whether I'm spending the night or not, usually not. It's just as much a mad rush as the rest of my day, trying to fit fucking into my schedule between paying the bills and staying in touch with useless friends. But that afternoon, the world stopped. No pressure, no clock ticking, just that single touch of our hands and the feeling of Melanie's head on my shoulder, and the certainty that more would be nice but this was enough. My heart beat faster but not thunderously fast; her breathing sped up, but only slightly. My palms didn't sweat, my mouth didn't go dry. We just sat like that for a few minutes and felt relieved. And then, ah yes, and then. Then I turned my head. I didn't move another single body part, but she felt me looking at her. She turned her head upward but couldn't look at me. Really, we weren't trying to look, but to connect our lips. I could call it telepathy, some shared thought that we both knew what the other wanted to happen, but it felt more like magnatism. My mouth moved toward hers, and hers toward mine. Not a conscious thought, but rather, a physical force, just the natural world following its laws, bringing our faces into contact. Still so slow, so deliberate, until at last, her neck was craning upward a bit awkwardly, and mine craned downward, and we kissed. Our mouths met, and her lips felt so soft. The further we went, the more relief I seemed to feel, but there hadn't been any anxiety, so why the relief? Things were just working out -- what other word could fit? It was happening, it was really happening. That first kiss lasted a long time, and in many ways, nothing that followed could top it. The journey of a thousand orgasms begins with one kiss, and the first kiss is the hardest, and it was happening and happening well, and that meant the journey had begun. I didn't dare open my eyes, or move at all, or touch her. I simply kissed her, and she me, and it felt great. Meanwhile, Sting garbled and played his guitar until the song played out. Then, the last song on the album started, "When The Angels Fall." Do you know it? Haunting synthesizers played way too slow, a guitar with a light touch, and Sting singing lyrics about angels watching us dream. The verses are in a dreamy little major key, the chorus is in a minor key, and the final bridge is a bit more grand but still methodically paced and ethereal. The song ends in a sort of long, decrecendo play-out, as though some child is going to sleep. It's a very romantic song, the perfect makeout music. By the time the song ended and the tape stopped, the damage was done, and the rest of the Melanie story occured without a soundtrack. That song is truly the capstone of the memory. I didn't plan it this way, you realize. That's what makes it so perfect, that's what makes the memory so vivid in my mind. Here I was, making out with a beautiful girl while this seductive music created a romantic atmosphere, and I didn't even have to deal with the guilt of orchestrating it that way. And it worked, god did it work. She touched my face, and I touched hers, and the song carried us along like a slow boat on the lake, further onto each other's bodies. We kissed and kissed and kissed. Her mouth was hot and wet, her hands so greedy yet so giving. I felt her rubbing her palms against my chest, up and down my arms, even across my legs. As long as we both kept our clothes on, we could pretty much touch anywhere we wanted. To put it accurately, we lingered at first base for a long time. I wanted to kiss her cheeks, so I did. I wanted to lick the inside of her ear, and I did. She liked that a lot. In fact, second base started right about there (the spirit of second base, you see, not the actual fondling). She started twisting and humming as I lapped at her ears and neck with my tongue. I didn't think about how messy I was making her face, I just kept licking her, massaging her with my lips, nibbling her flesh. To my pleasant surprise, she wanted to do the same thing to me. She kissed my face all over, breathed her hot breath on me. You might wonder what's so sexy about getting your nose and eyes kissed by a girl, and I'll tell you -- it means you're completely at her mercy, and she knows it, because you can't kiss her, you can only breathe and be patient and enjoy the moment. Remember how I described her sitting up beside me? I leaned down and kissed her, and she had to look up. As the kissing proceeded, I gently laid her down on the bed, laid half on top of her, and reached my arm underneath her so she felt my hand on her back. But we moved around a lot. Sometimes we were side-by-side, sometimes she was on top. I remember one moment when Melanie was on top, I decided I wanted to kiss further down her neck. She had on that golf shirt, and somehow I unbuttoned the collar as far as it would go, and I kissed across her shoulder blades, on top of her shoulders, down to the top of her cleavage. I have to laugh at this point, remembering how I kissed her chest as far as her shirt would allow. First base, remember? She'd had sex before and so had I, but we were both good Christian kids and old friends, and even if we hadn't been, I was too much of a gentleman to think I could just tear her clothes off without permission. What if we were meant to date, but I pushed her into sex and she decided I wasn't the right boy for her, and she left feeling embarrassed right in the middle of our kissing? You laugh too, because you're a sex fiend like me here on the other side of adolescence, and you don't have any problem with loving-and-leaving, and neither do I. But don't you remember how different it was back then? You weren't looking for sex, you were looking for a (all-caps, now) BOYFRIEND or a GIRLFRIEND. Wouldn't it be better to have sex with -- ahem -- "someone you loved?" I wasn't thinking rationally about the facts of me and Melanie dating, because if I had, I've have remembered that she was in college far away and we weren't likely to last. But there I was, kissing her chest as far as her golf shirt would allow, thinking I didn't want to rush her if it meant she'd stop "dating" me. Like I said, I have to laugh. After the music stopped, I guess we'd been kissing for about ten minutes. Then, it happened. BAM, the magic. Do you know what I'm talking about? Can you guess? It was the moment she was on top of me, and her legs opened, and she sat spread eagle on top of my hard cock. Yeah, NOW you know what I mean. Here, hold on just a second while I explain it to the novices in the room. You see kids, making out with a pretty girl is a great thing unto itself, but that's the kind of stuff Amish kids are allowed to do with a chaperone in the room and a board between their lower bodies. But baby, as soon as your genitals connect through the clothes, you've arrived at a new place in the physicality. Deep down, hidden from your senses, your body has been building heat like a furnace while your hands and lips play their amateur games, but once you feel your cock rubbing the girl through her pants, your senses sit up and say, "Wait a minute, what the fuck is happening down there? I didn't authorize this!" Too late, constable, too late. Second base is just around the corner. And it was. Melanie's tongue probed deeper down my throat as her crotch rubbed against mine. For the first time I put my hands on her ass, marginally curious to see if she'd protest, shocked to find that she didn't, at which point I grabbed two handfuls of ass with gusto. The way we moved and rocked, you'd think we hadn't been aware of our own bodies before that point. Her thighs were hot against mine, her hands gripped my shoulders like clamps. The real sign that things were about to get raunchy was that her mouth, while still open and dripping into mine, had stopped moving. Her hips, however, had not. She was genuinely getting off. Ex and I had been here many times, you realize, and each time the action had progressed to its logical conclusion, nakedness followed by orgasms. But even at this moment, I wasn't about to impose on Melanie. If the furthest we went was cumming in our pants, well shit, that would be downright fantastic. We could even pretend afterwards that we hadn't gone as far as we both knew we had. Regardless of everything I'm telling you about my propriety and chivalry, I was the first one to untuck a shirt. I can even remember telling myself, Hey, I just want to feel the skin on her back, what's wrong with that. Ha! I wanted access to those magnificent boobies, that's what I wanted. I'd say she was about 24B, just the right size for a handful. She sure as hell tightened out that golf shirt. Why do I keep using that terminology, about how I would've been content with any stopping point? Because it's literally true. You see, I kept my expectations in check. She was only the second girl I'd ever honestly made-out with (or heavily petted, for that matter). I had to prepare my brain for the possibility that this could END at any moment. So of course, I was thrilled beyond words when she reached down and untucked my shirt as well, without lifting her crotch from mine. Even though she kept her torso leaned horizontally above me so we could kiss, she was able to move her hands up between us and run her palms over my naked chest. My shirt rose high as her arms played with me, until it hiked up over my nipples. That was all the cue I needed to try and do the same to her. I could have worked my hands up her back without lifting her shirt, but by pulling my forearms outward, lifting her shirt was exactly what I did. Within only a matter of minutes, her bra was pressed against my bare chest, with our shirts lifted up around our necks. My hands wandered up and down Melanie's back, over her bra straps, down her ribs, up to her shoulders. Still we kissed passionately and wetly, still we ground our genitals together through the terribly hot underpants and shorts. At last I moved my hands to the sides of her breasts, and her mouth froze on my neck. As I moved my palms underneath, softly cupping her fabric-covered mounds in my hands, she gasped once, twice, three times. When she moved up to kiss my mouth again, it was with intensity. Our tongues licked furiously. I squeezed her tenderly but with intent, truely fondling her tits. As I write this, I begin to see how much control I had over the situation. I was the first to hold her hand, I was the first to lean in for the kiss, I was the one who untucked her shirt... and I was the one who unsnapped her bra. To be fair, she came to my house. Oh yeah, and she straddled me so she could ride my hard cock through my pants. Well anyway, it was pretty mutual, but I'm not going to go on with anymore of this "I was so chivalrous" bullshit. I wanted her in a bad way, and that made me do things I didn't know I was capable of doing. This was only my second girl to de-bra, but I'd unsnapped Ex's bra hundreds of times, so it wasn't rocket science. And just like that, we were at second base. Reading it on the page, it seems to you like it took a while, but nothing could have moved faster. Don't think I'm contradicting myself, the whole thing was still very deliberate, even slow by current standards, but we didn't really stall at any of the points where we needed to keep things moving along, we just barreled through them. My fingers unhooked her bra -- and, well, yeah, I was a little nervous that I'd crossed a line; I held my breath a second in anticipation of her sitting up and saying, "Wait, wait, this is too fast." But instead, she kissed me faster, deeper. I moved my hands around and under, slid my fingers inside her bra cups, lifted the material up, and felt her naked breasts. Even the crotch-grinding came to a pause as we savored this moment. She hyperventilated into my open mouth as I felt her boobs, really FELT them. I fondled that girl so tenderly, reverently, like her experiencing flesh was a sacred ritual to perform through the sense of touch. Her nipples were swollen like thick stones and yet felt soft between my gently pinching fingers. Melanie apparently couldn't stand the waiting any longer, because she pulled her own shirt and bra up over her head with one swift yank. I saw her, sitting on top of me, naked from the waist up. Breathtaking, even now so many years after, literally breathtaking. I saw her, the tight lines of her toned stomach and upper arms, the minute jiggle of her moderate breasts, the definition of her neck and shoulders, and most of all, the dark pink of her nipples. And hovering above it all her face, her beautiful face, famed by her blonde hair like a halo, pulled flat against her skull by the pony tail band. She didn't smile at me, nor did she frown. Her countenance presented no human thought of any kind. She was pure desire, a mammal in heat reviewing her mate beneath her, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. I wonder if she saw the same look in my eyes. I wanted to remove my own shirt, difficult as it was with her on top of me. Once I started to pull, she helped me out of it. Next, I wanted to suck those nipples. I braced myself up with my elbows, reached around her back with one arm, grabbed her left boob with the other hand, aimed her nipple at my mouth as I sat up. The breasts entered my mouth, and Melanie dug her hands into my thick black hair, pressing me tight against her chest. I sucked and sucked, feeling her writhe in my arms, knowing she needed me to relent but knowing also I could not. I fondled and pinched the other breast with the right hand, supporting myself with the left. Can you believe she still had her shoes and socks on? After I laid her on her back, I placed my body down on hers again, as we mugged our mouths together as our naked chests pressed once more together. I felt her shuffling below as she kicked off her shoes and pulled her socks off with her toes. When the bottoms of her feet slapped against my calf muscles, something electric hit me. Melanie's legs spread open again, and I placed my crotch firmly against hers. Any illusions we'd enjoyed before were now shattered; this was sex without the intercourse. Every part of our bodies where flesh could be seen was pressed together, still not sweaty but definitely warm, and growing hotter by the second. And always the kissing, that deep throat kissing, the most intimate part of the encounter. Can you explain to someone who's never kissed someone whom they want badly what it feels like, what it means? Take it a step further -- imagine having sex, cock and pussy slapping together, fluids flowing, bodies crashing. Now add french kissing to the mix. It kicks it up a level, doesn't it? How can kissing make the most extreme act, sex, more than it is? And how can kissing add a level of depth to every preceeding level as well, even though it's the first act itself, the simplest, the thing you have to get through to get to the rest? There's no way to put it in words, but when I remember grinding Melanie and fondling her naked chest and feeling all my flesh against hers, it's still the kissing that provides the key to the entire memory. She tasted good, not like any specific flavor, just the way a girl's mouth is supposed to taste. When Melanie reached down between our crotches and felt my cock through my shorts, it was a real showstopper. My eyes shot open and I froze, which made her eyes open also. Then she closed her eyes and started kissing me harder, as though to say, Don't think about it. She used both hands to unbutton and unzip me. She felt my penis against the white briefs I wore. Her hands grabbed me hard, caressed me through the fabric. My shorts slipped further and further until they were below the underwear. Then she reached inside and took hold of my penis. The sensation of her hand on my cock, the fingers wrapping around me, untangling my pubic hair which was steamy and bunched up from the rubbing... even the memory fills me with a great sense of satisfaction. It felt so good! Is that trite-sounding? Could I say it more poetically? Fuck, it was just great! She kept pumping me, over and over. I had the sense that she was really enjoying feeling me; she took her time, exploring me with her palm and her fingers. I leaned down and licked her neck again, an act I knew turned her on wildly. Simultaneously, I moved my own hand down to Melanie's plaid shorts, so tight around her curvy hips, and I unfastened her as she had me. My hand slipped directly down the front of her panties, and I felt her tender hair as hot and tangled as mine had been, although her pubic hair was much less thick than mine, softer, finer. My fingers kept working their way down, down, until my middle finger felt it -- burning hot wetness. Her hand that wasn't on my cock reached around my waist and grabbed hard; she had to brace herself. I did not penetrate her with my finger, but I did move my entire hand up and down her labia lips and the lines of her pelvis with eagerness. Sometimes my fingertip would find her clitoris, and at those moments, I felt her fingernails dug into my back. I loved that, and how her other hand would squeeze my cock a little too hard. At last it was time to be naked together. I used one hand to push my shorts and underwear as far down my legs as they would go. Melanie used her feet to pull them down the rest of the way, and just like that, I was naked above her, with my cock throbbing thick in her hand. She lifted her hips and pushed her own shorts down, and I helped remove them from her legs, and just like that, she was naked below me, with my hand pressing full against her loins. Melanie spread her legs wider and wrapped both her arms around my neck. I set my cock flat against her pussy and braced myself above her. We kissed, and I'm telling you, that was one wonderful kiss. Are you starting to understand the importance of anticipation to the success of the endeavor? I'm not talking about teasing, which is something girls often do in the absence of real anticipation; she'll lick your cock without sucking it, or drip candle wax on your nipple or some shit, or dance in front of you even though she can't dance. True anticipation comes from ignorance of what's about to happen, occurring only under those circumstances where sex isn't a foregone conclusion, and sweetheart, you're reading about that cirmustance right now. Well, you were. By this point, it's a foregone conclusion. We started rubbing against each other again, and if rubbing through our pants was fun, then rubbing naked was downright exhilarating. Sex is wonderful, but feeling the girl from the outside like that, it's nothing but pure friction, coupled with the idea that you're getting away with something. And girls, you know it's even better for you. Sex means penetration, and it can be a lot of work, but having your clit hit full on by a boy's dickhead for a few minutes is as sweet as an ellicit drug. And not many folks know this, and I sure as hell didn't that day back in '92, but it's such a fantastic precursor to sex for the girl, the way it gets all the juices flowing and the pussy lips open. Take the time to rub and roll like this, and you'll find the following penetration is a lot smoother. And well, what can I say, for Melanie and I, it was damn smooth. I looked her in the eyes, and she looked back at me. She sucked her bottom lip as she aimed my cock head into her pussy hole. I moved forward, slipping between the folds of her. You must think I'm was an indecisive loon when I tell you this was my favorite moment, after all the favorite moments I already described, but trust me, although some of those other moments were the best part of my afternoon with Melanie, the entering of the penis head into the wet pussy lips is my favorite moment of EVERY sex encounter, period. Not only is that the time when, magically, "the waiting is over," it's also the last truly perfect moment in the sex until the orgasm hits. So many things happen at once -- the cream her lips hold back is released (either a little or a lot), her vagina softly grips the cock and pulls it like a vaccum deep inside, and both of you feel your entire bodies relax in the most delicious way. Nostalgic Ramblings Further inside her I went, trying not to hurt her, trying to make the moment last, trying to keep my weight from pushing down uncomfortably on her, trying not to cheer in triumph. Suddenly, she pulled me down onto her, and I crashed on top of her nakedness, feeling my cock glide fast and deep inside her. She gasped in stunned ecstasy, as her arms grabbed me tight and her legs locked around me. For a long moment we were frozen in that position, neither able to move. Then she started to go at it. Slow at first, then without warning she really started to rock. I repositioned my elbows so my weight was braced, and then I began to fuck her back. Melanie opened her mouth and made the most beautiful sounds, loud breathing sounds, each one like a call from nature, sometimes an "Ah," then an "Ooh," but mostly just a loud whisper like rushing wind. And I made the same sounds, and that was all the noise in the room except for the squeaking of the bed. When I write sex stories, I like to add a bunch of different positions, along with a detailed conversation and pleadings for cum facials and other strokes of finesse. But Melanie and I didn't roll around during sex, and she didn't get on her hands and knees, and we didn't have any oral sex or cum swallowing or silk bondage or videotaping. We just made love with me on top, her legs open wide and me fucking her softly, pressing my sweaty crotch against hers, over and over for as long as we wanted, licking each other's faces and mouths and necks as we went. Often I would move my chest against hers, relishing the simple sensation of her naked boobs against me. We had sex like this for about thirty minutes, steady and good, completely confident, unashamed. Melanie came first, and it was amazing. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and whimpered. I felt her legs tighten even harder around me, felt her arms hold me with more strength. Her stomach was the part of her that trembled, not the limbs like I sometimes write I my stories. I stopped moving inside her so the orgasm could wash through her, flowing over her, filling her until it was time to pass away. She held me still for a minute, trying to catch her breath. Then she said, "Finish," in my ear, and it was the first word either of us had said for at least an hour. Her pretty voice punched a button somewhere inside me, and I barreled down the home stretch. She literally gritted her teeth as I pounded her climax-sensitive cunt, making movements that would cause friction against my shaft, exploring her wet vagina walls with my head, looking for the beginning of my own orgasm. Finally it arrived, and I was ready to explode. Looking back on it, I still can't believe we thought about doing it without a condom, but we sure as hell did. I didn't even think about what could have happened, and apparently neither did she. I just pulled out at the appropriate moment, let my cock aim itself at her tummy, and splashed my semen against into her belly button and across her tummy. I sat on my hands and knees above her for a very long time, feeling my cock twitch as the last drops plopped out of me and onto her stomach. She reached down and grabbed my cock. I yelped in sensitivity but didn't pull away, because if she wanted to enjoy the feeling of my sperm, then I was going to let her. (Besides, she was sensitive when she let me finish. How could I not let her touch me?) Finally it became too much, and I had to pull away. I collapsed on the bed beside her, a tricky feat in a twin-sized bed but not a problem when you're willing to invade the other person's personal space, which I'd just done in spades. I watched Melanie rub the jizz into her stomach. She left her legs open for a long time, allowing the room to fill with the ridiculously good smell of her sex. It was so strong, the aroma, not musky or acidic, nor sweet, but unmistakably physical, the smell of a good workout. We kissed, slow wet smooches with our closed mouths, thanking each other. After about ten more minutes of kissing and touching, we ended up lying still, eyes open, a bit zombified. Finally Melanie nodded to herself, as though saying, It's time to go. She stood up and left the room, and I got to see her naked backside. It's burned in my memory like a plaster impression, the image of her walking away from me, her nude posterior perfect in every detail, from the roundness of her bottom cheeks to the curve of her hips, all the way down her legs, up across the strong muscles of her back. She washed herself at the bathroom sink, and I made my way to my parent's bathroom. And what did I see as I entered the hallway? We'd left the front door of the house wide open. I shit you not, anyone could have walked right into the house and enjoyed the show. I tiptoed -- tiptoed, I say -- to the front hallway and closed the door, actually worried that someone might walk up at that very moment and see me naked, with jizz all over my crotch. Anyway. I cleaned up, she cleaned up, we both got dressed. There we stood in the center of my room, she looking up at me, my hands on her shoulders. She thanked me, or maybe she told me she had fun, I can't remember. Whatever we said, it was unnecessary and shallow and inadequate, because our bodies had said everything there was to say. Fully clothed, it was like we'd stepped out of the truth and back into a lie. Everything had changed between us, no one could deny it, so why did I feel like the moment was passed and everything had changed back? Perhaps I knew this was a one-time thing, and these emotions are what your body produces instead of rationalizations or predictions. Regardless of all that metaphysical crap, the moment eventually came when Melanie had to leave. We hugged at the front door, and I promised her I'd call that evening. Pretty lame ending, isn't it? Well, I was still on house arrest, remember? I had to be home when my parents got home, which could be anytime in the next two hours, and Melanie sure couldn't be there when they got there, because hey, if I'm sick, why do I have guests, and female guests at that? It would have been nice to sit around and discuss the finer points of good sex with Melanie, but she had to go, and that was that. We did talk that night, and we made out the next day, but it was behind my locked bedroom door with my parents down the hall, so it didn't go very far. At the end of the week Melanie went back to college, and that is what philologists refer to as the end of the story. It wasn't the last time I saw or spoke to Melanie, but it was the last time we acknowledged anything deeper between us than friendship. Knowing what I know today, there could have been a way to keep the relationship going. Plane tickets, long-distance calls, and (within a couple of years) e-mail and chat windows. But I was such a kid, and I still saw her as unattainable, even though I'd just definitively attained her. (fingers hovering over the keyboard -- gimme a minute) I don't know where Melanie is, and for that matter, I don't know where I am, either. This whole sex thing in my life has gotten way out of hand, but so has every other part of life, so at least I'm consistent. I don't have any regrets, but I don't think it's because I'm still learning anything useful. I keep rereading the story I just told you, looking for some deeper reason, some profound truth, and it's eluding me. All it is at the moment is a good memory, a pleasant memory, and it's actually pretty mind-boggling to think that I have as many of those as I do. Melanie and I went looking for a moment of human connection, and we sure found it. So what's the point of me typing all this out? I won't be so pedestrian as to suggest that you might find some life lession here where I did not, or that you even need one. All I can say is, I think I might have gotten past the writer's block I was suffering under. That will have to do for now.