Its not the Size that Counts - Part 2

Please note that the previous part of this story (Its not the Size that Counts - Part 1) is available here

The next day, when Steven called me, I was nervous. I kept telling myself that I couldn't keep dragging this relationship on, no matter how attracted to him I was. We'd both end up frustrated. Steven invited me over to his place that evening; he was going to cook for me. I almost chickened out and said no - I could just refuse to answer the phone ever again, couldn't I? - but remembering my promise to J, I accepted.

I was incredibly edgy that day at work, dropping things and confusing one patient with another. I tried to give an antibiotic prescription meant for an eighty-year old with a bladder infection to an eighteen-year-old kid with an obviously broken arm. Everyone kept giving me strange looks - I'm scatterbrained, sure, but not normally not that bad. I finally confided in J, telling him about my date, and he again extracted my promise to give Steven the reasons behind the break-up. Damn stubborn gay guys!

I called the doc who was scheduled to relieve me at 3 when my shift ended, and begged him to come in early, claiming a headache. I doubt he believed me, but hearing real frustration in my voice, he agreed and came in at 2. I hurried home, stripped, and climbed into bed, planning on taking an hour power-nap before seeing Steven. He'd insisted I didn't have to bring anything for dinner, so I figured I had lots of time. I was exhausted from the evening shift the night before, but even so, sleep just would not come. I lay there, in bed, thinking about what I could say to Steven, and what his response would likely be. I was completely depressed at the prospect of dumping the only decent, funny, sexy-as-hell guy I'd met in a year because of something that seemed so silly.

Trying to talk myself into ignoring my fear, my mind scanned back through a variety of sexual memories, eventually settling on the night I learned exactly what the doctor meant by 'problems' with having sex...


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was fourteen. Just four years after my accident. I hadn't really thought about it since; when I was ten, having surgery on a large vaginal tear and being told that sex might be difficult hadn't really made much sense to me. Besides, I don't think it occurred to anyone that I might be having sex at the tender age of fourteen.

I had always, as I mentioned, had a weight problem. Being chubby all my life, as well as having glasses, braces, and zits, had always made me the target of the school bullies. I frequently went home bruised and humiliated, hiding it from my parents who I had learned would phone the school and the parents of those responsible. Bitter experience had taught me I didn't want attention brought to my problems, or punishments to my attackers - it only made things worse. My insecurities also brought me some other attention; attention I didn't know at the time was a Bad Thing.

He was four years older than me, which now doesn't seem like much. But the difference between fourteen and eighteen is actually pretty massive, both from an experience and a confidence point-of-view. He was attractive and reasonably popular; someone whose name I knew but who I would never dare talk to. Until one day, at school, he said a very casual "Hello," in the hallway. The few friends I had (also 'misfits', generally) were in awe of me for the rest of the week; Luke had actually spoken to me, at school, voluntarily in front of a whole bunch of witnesses.

Over the next three or four days I worked up the nerve to walk past the staircase where he and his friends hung out; normally I would not have been caught dead in that area. It wasn't an area known to be friendly to unpopular 'little kids'. But I'd figured that I'd already suffered the worst from several of Luke's friends, and there was nothing new they could do without being expelled. I was not, however, brave enough to look any of them in the eye as I rushed past during lunch hour.

I just about dropped my whole armful of books on my toes when a hand reached out and grabbed my arm as I started climbing the stairs; it was Luke.

"You're Sarah, right?" I nodded mutely. "Do you know who I am?"

"Luke Henson," I almost whispered, afraid I'd wake myself from this dream in which the boy of my fantasies knew my name. He smiled at me, a dazzling display of expensively maintained white teeth, and I just about swooned on the spot. He introduced me to his buddies, and then asked "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

I told him I was taking the books in my hands up to my English teacher on the second floor, and to my utter amazement, he took the whole stack from me and offered to accompany me. I must have somehow managed a nod, and we soon climbed past his friends and through the second floor doorway. After dropping off the books, he gave me a bit of a strange look.

"You sure went the scenic way to get up to Mr. Hess' room, Sarah." I'm sure I blushed. I couldn't think of anything to say - surely he would realize I had a crush on him, had made too much of him saying hi in the hallway, and would expose my hopeless lunacy to the whole school. "I'm glad you did, it gave me an excuse to talk to you."

I blinked. Twice, I think. Hearing that after expecting to be told off as the pathetic little worm I felt like, it took me a minute to adjust. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"I was hoping you might go to a movie with me tomorrow afternoon," he offered. I stared at him for a full minute, before pulling myself together and stuttering an acceptance. "Great! How about we meet at 3 at the mall?" I nodded mutely. And before I knew he was gone - and I had a date.

I rushed home after school and called over all my girlfriends, and we frantically went through my closet looking for something to wear. I told my parents I'd be going to a movie with Michelle, and made arrangements to meet her in the mall at one o'clock. I planned to change and get ready there, where my parents wouldn't see. She left my house that evening with a bag containing my shortest skirt, most flattering top, and all the make-up I'd managed to hide from my parents. Her parents were more liberal than mine, and so she was going to lend me the full array of her make-up as well.

The next day at three I was waiting anxiously in front of the theatre, looking as good as I thought I could. My hair was pulled up into a high, off-centre ponytail (it was the eighties, after all), I had on a just-above-the-knee length denim skirt, and a blue blouse. My face was caked in all the make-up Michelle and I had been able to figure out how to apply, from eyeliner to foundation; I had scrupulously covered up every zit, and you could even notice my eyes through the thick glasses. I didn't wear lipstick - "What guy wants to get lipstick on him if he kisses you?" was Michelle's wisdom on the subject. I'm glad now that no pictures of me like that exist anywhere - I'm sure I looked like a clown from the circus, but that day I felt damn fine.

Luke showed up right on time, and even paid for the movie. I don't even remember what we saw; I don't think I saw much anyway from cloud 9, where I was seated. At some point, I remember watching him instead of the movie - if he noticed, he didn't give it away. By the end of the movie, he was holding my sweaty hand; I floated home, when it was over.

That was the first of many dates. He was a perfect gentleman, and it took him three weeks to kiss me the first time. I was so nervous I just about threw up when I saw him leaning in, but I managed to stay looking calm. His kiss was, well, wet, for lack of a better word. He slobbered on me a bit, not that anything he could do would have bothered me at that point. I was the first one of my school friends to kiss a boy, never mind one as cute as Luke Henson.

We didn't really hang out at school, but we saw each other after school almost every day. He frequently gave me a ride home, although he had to stop and let me out a block from home - my parents knew by then that I'd been seeing him, and although they didn't approve they couldn't really stop us from seeing each other. They could, however, make my life hell if I did anything that broke the rules, such as driving in a car with him. I don't know what it is that freaks parents out about cars; there was no way anything was going to happen in the racy but cramped sports car his parents bought him.

My parents also had this big thing about making sure we were never alone together. He was not allowed into my room, under any circumstances. The more humiliating part of it for a fourteen-year-old who wanted so desperately to be cool, however, was that if I was going to go over to his house, my dad insisted on driving me, and would actually walk me to the door to make sure his parents were home. I realize now that it was normal, sensible parent stuff, but at the time, it was horrifying that my parents still thought of me as such a child when I was dating Luke Henson!

The first time I was at his house was sweet. I met his mom, and we hit it off immediately. I think she thought I'd be a good influence on her son, who was a little too popular in her mind. I ended up talking to her most of the time, as he watched TV. Eventually after the first few times we spent more and more time alone in his room, playing games, but mostly kissing. His mom started going out after my parents dropped me off; I think she thought that some private time would cement the relationship.

While it initially took him a month to kiss me, it took him considerably less time to progress from that to other things; before I knew it his hands were sneaking up under my shirt, while he humped his cock against my leg. Thinking back on it, in my mind fooling around meant he must have loved me, and all I had ever wanted was to be loved by someone I wasn't related to. So despite being nervous and shy about my body, and getting no satisfaction from his fumbling, clumsy attempts to give me pleasure, we progressed until for the very first time I was on my knees, staring a very erect penis in the eye.

I had no idea at that point what normal size was for a guy, but Luke assured me he was very large (I've since learned differently - he would barely qualify as average). I hesitantly touched it with both hands, deciding that my sex ed classes were woefully inadequate in preparing me for how ridiculous a circumcised penis looks up close. It was wrinkly, even when hard, and there was hair everywhere. There was a huge, tortuous vein running along the underside of his shaft, and smelly fluid leaking out of the slit in the tip. What Luke lacked in patience, he made up for in enthusiasm, and I discovered the hard way why they called ponytails 'blowjob handles'. Taking a firm grip on my long, frizzy hair, he pressed his crotch into my face. Not being prepared for this move, I twitched as his precum was smeared across my face; some of his pubic hair got caught in the spring mechanism of my glasses, and my twitch forcibly yanked it out. Letting out a howl of pain, he released my hair and I jumped away from him and leapt up off my knees, in a hurry to apologize, without even knowing what I had done wrong.

Luke was gracious about it, in some ways; he taught me, relatively patiently, how to give oral sex. He explained to me in detail how to keep my teeth - and my braces - well covered, how to use my tongue to best advantage, how to keep the pubic hair back out of the way... actually, when I think about it, he taught me a lot of valuable things which I retain to this day. So before I went home that day, I eagerly sucked his cock into my mouth, practicing all he had taught me, desperate to please him, to make him love me.

Anyone reading this can, I'm sure, see what was coming; I, at fourteen, had no clue. I continued to date Luke, performing oral sex whenever we could get a minute together, alone; I really had no concrete idea that oral sex could be performed on a woman. Luke continued to want more and more from me. First it was taking my shirt off, so he could fondle my rather ample breasts while I sucked his cock, then he wanted to rub his cock between my breasts for a while before erupting in my mouth. The first few times I gagged when he came in my mouth, but I learned to suppress that reflex (apparently, the taste is very dependent not only on the particular guy, but also what he eats; Luke's steady diet consisted of McDonalds, which did not make for a pleasant experience).

Before long, Luke had me taking my pants off, at first just touching me, but soon enough he wanted to have sex. The whole concept of sex terrified me; not only was I worried about getting pregnant (despite having been on the pill for two years to control my period), I had no real idea of what it was, and had some mild heebie jeebies about the basic concept of someone sticking something inside me. I brought up many objections to Luke, many reasons not to have sex. But for each objection, he had an answer - a counter-reason for why we should. When I brought up pregnancy, he assured me he would use a condom and I was on the pill. When I brought up my age, he told me how much more mature I was than the other girls at school, even the ones his age. When I told him I was afraid it would hurt, he promised me he could make it feel so good for me that I wouldn't mind the pain; he told me stories of his previous girlfriends and how much they'd loved his cock.

The clincher, though, was when he told me he loved me. He held me in his arms and kissed me passionately, and then added - as an aside - that people who really loved each other made love, showed each other physically how much they loved each other. And with that, I was sold. Luke was going to go out and buy condoms the next day, and we made plans to get together at his house on the weekend. I told no one about our plans; I figured anyone I told would try to talk me out of it, and I knew that my only chance to keep the guy who loved me was to have sex with him. If I didn't, he'd think I didn't love him, and it would be over. The thought of losing him was more than my pathetic self-esteem could take.

The fateful day came, and after throwing up that morning from fear, I cleaned myself up and headed to Luke's. My dad, as usual, walked me to the door; after saying hello to Luke's mom, dad left. Luke's mom left shortly after, and Luke and I were alone. Taking my hand and leading me to his bedroom, Luke smiled at me encouragingly.

"Are you sure we should do this?" I asked breathlessly.

"Of course baby. Don't you want me to show you how much I love you? Now why don't you get undressed?"

Resigning myself to the inevitable, I slowly stripped. Sitting self-consciously on the edge of the bed, I watched the object of my every teenage fantasy slip his t-shirt over his head, and slide his jeans and boxers off to the floor. He laid down on the bed and pulled me over beside him. He let his hands roam all over my body, pinching my nipples just long enough for them to start to feel good, then stopping. He grabbed a condom package, and rolled it onto his cock, which was already hard and weeping fluid. He slid onto me, his legs between mine, and kissed me once, before attempting to thrust into me.

Nothing was as it should have been, I reflected, lying on my bed years later. I realized after the fact that Luke probably hadn't had much, if any, experience with sex. His stories were just that: stories. There was no foreplay, and he didn't even really try to make sure I got any pleasure out of it. I was dry as a bone, and not at all excited. We had that awkward conversation, as he tried to get his cock into me, you know the one:

Thrust "There?"

"Nope."

"There?"

"Nope."

reposition -- thrust "There?"

"Definitely not!!"

Before long I was giggling while trying to protect my ass from accidental penetration; Luke was getting frustrated. Finally he demanded that I position him in the right place so he could get inside me. I reached down between us with one hand, lining up his cock with my defenseless opening.

"Go slow?" I requested, guiding him as his head slowly penetrated my virginal opening. The feeling of stretching wasn't too bad at first, but as he pushed in further, the dry walls of my vagina were being pulled in with his cock, tugging on the band of scar tissue lining the bottom of my canal. Crying out in pain, I pushed against Luke's shoulders with my hands, and he paused.

"It's okay baby, it'll only hurt for a minute and then it'll feel good," he assured me, and proceeded to spear his cock in, bottoming out against my cervix. I screamed in abject misery, both from my scarred and stretched vaginal canal as well as my bruised cervix. I guess it was a good thing no one else was home. In a flash, I remembered the doctor's words from four years before: "Sex could be a problem." What an understatement!

Luke groaned and whispered incoherently in my ear how tight I was, and how good it felt. Every muscle in my entire body was taught, trying to fight the pain that coursed through me from my abused pussy. My kegel muscles must have been contracting rhythmically from the pain; before he even had a chance to pull out and thrust again, Luke came inside me, filling the condom.

He rolled off, holding the condom onto him with one hand; his withdrawal caused me to whimper in pain again. There was blood on the outside of the condom, and Luke looked rather pleased with himself as he removed the condom and wiped his softening penis off with a tissue. I rolled onto my side, in fetal position, and held my stomach as the cramps subsided. Luke strolled into the bathroom, disposed of the condom, and proceeded to get dressed. Seeing this, I gingerly sat up and started putting my clothes back on. I kept my back to him, suddenly shy and not wanting him to see my body (or get any ideas about a second round). Before I even knew what was happening, I was standing at the front door. He gave me a sloppy kiss, asked if I could come back over the next day, and said goodbye.

As I turned to go home, I realized that I was way too far from home to walk. Luke's door was shut, and I didn't feel capable of knocking on it and asking for a ride or to wait for my dad to pick me up. I walked over to the nearest bus stop, studying the sign, looking for a familiar bus number. With relief I realized that a bus that would get me to Michelle's house came by every 45 minutes on Saturdays.

I sat down on the bus bench to wait the half hour until the next bus came, and actually let myself think about what had happened. I was still uncomfortable down there, and I was sure there was blood seeping through my panties. I think I probably knew in the back of my mind at the time that I'd been used. But denial is a powerful thing, and I didn't let myself consider it that way. While the tears poured down my cheeks from pain, frustration, and disappointment, I kept repeating the mantra that kept me going: "He loves me, he loves me, he loves me..."

I told Michelle I left Luke's because my period had come early; I asked to borrow a maxi-pad, and went to the bathroom to clean myself up. I called my parents from Michelle's and told them where I was. They were pissed that I'd taken the bus without calling, but agreed to let me walk the half-hour home from there. When I got home I claimed I wasn't feeling well and went to bed, where I cried myself to sleep.

Luke and I had sex twice after that; he assured me that sex wouldn't hurt the second time, and while he was wrong, it was mercifully short each time. I imagine my scar tissue made me extra tight, and he couldn't handle the stimulation for more than a few seconds before exploding inside me. After the third time, I told him I thought we should slow things down. The pain was obviously not normal, and I wanted some time to sort things out; plus, I had realized that all we ever talked about anymore was sex. When we might be able to have it again, positions he wanted to try, how he was sure it wouldn't hurt anymore. I told him I wanted to go back to the beginning again, before we had started anything sexual.

The next time we saw each other, we actually went to a movie, held hands. It was nice. Then later, back at his place, we were sitting and talking, and he kissed me. I was okay with that, kissing him back enthusiastically, until he tried to reach up under my shirt and fondle my breast. I stiffened my arms, wouldn't give him access; he tried two or three times, then gave up. I went home early, proud of myself that I had stuck to my guns.

The next day he called me. He gave all sorts of reasons: our age difference, told me his mom didn't approve of me, and a variety of other bullshit. It didn't matter; the long and the short of it was that he was dumping me. I was devastated. I knew damn well he was dumping me because I wouldn't put out anymore, and that was confirmed at school the next day when his friends were calling me frigid in the hallway. Shortly after that he started dating this friend of mine, a girl named Jodi. Apparently she didn't have any qualms about putting out - I caught them having sex in the football field about a week later. Some friend! I never really forgave Luke or Jodi, nor did I get over Luke very easily. I occasionally ran into his mom at the grocery store, and she was always nice to me. She told me she'd always liked me, wished Luke had stuck with me instead of the train of other girls he'd dated since. Sex became this repulsive, torturous concept that I never wanted to repeat; it took me years to trust a guy to get close enough to even kiss me again, never mind have sex.

I was interrupted from my reverie when my alarm went off - it was 4:30, time to have a shower and get cleaned up before heading to Steven's.

Please note that the next part of this story (Its not the Size that Counts - Part 3) is available here

I'd really love to hear what you think. How about emailing me now before you forget!

Just fill in the boxes.
You can stay anonymous if you like
but I need your email address if you'd like to hear back.