When I read erotica, one of the things that most interest me is the first time stories; the tales of people losing their virginity. Most of these are, frankly, fairly silly. Some few are well written and even highly erotic, but unrealistic. Only a few ring true.
I lost my virginity, to a boy, at sixteen. It wasn’t a particularly memorable occasion. I didn’t have an orgasm, I didn’t have any pain, the earth most certainly did not move for me, and I didn’t get caught or pregnant. He wasn’t bad, but it was only his second or third time, too, and he wasn’t particularly competent at what he was doing. It was such an unremarkable experience that I’m not going to bother to write about it.
My first time with a girl, on the other hand, was out of this world, but that was only because she was already highly experienced and knew exactly what to do. I’ve already written about her in the first part of this series; I’m not going to talk about it here again.
Instead, I’ll write about the time I took someone else’s virginity; one of only four or five times I’ve done that in my life, and one time that certainly went off well, for both of us.
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When I was in college, I’d had no intention of ever returning home as far as possible; my plans were to get a job as soon as I graduated and move as far away as I possibly could. But just before the summer holidays I got a letter from my mother – this was the late 1990s and letters were still something people wrote routinely – telling me that I needed to return because her sister and her son – my cousin – would be visiting and my mother could not handle them alone.
My aunt, whom I had met many times, lived far away from my mother, on the other side of the country; they couldn’t stand each other and I hadn’t the faintest idea why she would come visiting. Later on I discovered this was something to do with the disposition of the property left by their parents, my grandparents, which had been under some kind of legal restriction from sale, until now. The property was not too far from my hometown, and my aunt – who was divorced – had come back to arrange with my mother to sell it and split the proceeds. And she’d brought along her fifteen year old son, since he was too young to stay back alone.
My cousin, whom I’ll call Bob here, wasn’t a bad kid. We’d known each other over the years, and I’d always thought of him as a shy but not unhandsome boy, more interested in books than people. He wore thick spectacles and had one eye that was a slightly different colour from the other, which I believe got him called “weird” by some of his classmates. Children can be the cruellest people in the world. This had more or less driven Bob even more into his books than he otherwise might have. I had once seen him with his head stuck in a history of the fall of the Romanov Dynasty for six hours straight. Being fond of books myself, I’d never teased him about it.
Anyway, I’d reluctantly said goodbye to Mila for the summer. She was planning to spend her time in a beach resort, working part time and, she said, having sex the rest of the time. The morning before we left she insisted on shaving my pubic hair. “And don’t forget your birth control pills,” she said, looking up from between my legs with a grin. “You don’t know when you’ll get lucky.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I relied.”You’re so funny.”
“Why?” she’d replied.”You don’t need to spend the holiday celibate, you know. I’m not planning to, and I’m not planning to get pregnant, either.”
“At least men fall all over you,” I said. “You’re not plain like me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied. “You’re pretty enough for me.” And, spreading my labia apart with her fingers, she leaned forward and licked the tip of my clitoris with her tongue. “See?”
Of course we had sex after that, but I was still convinced that the only lovemaking I would have until I returned to college would be with my own fingers. Still, I’d allowed her to force a spare strip of birth control pills on me before we left; she dropped me to the train station for the journey home. It was the same day that my aunt and Bob were due to arrive, and in fact I was still opening the gate when their taxi stopped behind me.
My aunt was as I remembered her, like a plumper, much friendlier version of my mother, with less grey in her hair and more make-up on her face. She screamed in delight when she saw me and crushed me in a bear hug, burying me between her large breasts. I glimpsed my mother watching us from the front window, an expression of distaste on her face, and I thought at once that this visit would be a disaster.
It wouldn’t, but that was not for want of my mother’s trying.
“Where’s Bob?” I asked my aunt. “Isn’t he with you?”
“He’s getting the bags,” my aunt said, and a moment later the taxi had driven off and there he was.
“Wow!” I said,
Bob had changed since I’d last seen him, a year previously. He’d grown a good ten centimetres, his shoulders had broadened, and his arms were much better muscled. But the expression in his eyes, behind the thick lenses, was as shy as ever, and when he smiled it was as always, as though he was amazed at the fact that he was talking to someone who wasn’t a character in a book.
“Juliana,” he said, “I just found out today that you’d be here, or I’d have brought a book for you. I’ve been saving it for you, it’s on the building of the Great Wall of China, and –“
“You can talk about that later,” my aunt broke in. “Let’s get the things inside, and get relaxed a bit. Really, Juliana, if I let him, he’d bring a trunk full of books! He’s going to end up being a professor if he isn’t careful.”
That, by the way, is what Bob did. He is now a professor of history in a major university. His students give him top reviews.
That was, of course, then in the unimaginable future. My mother opened the door like the gatekeeper of a surrendering fort reluctantly allowing the barbarian hordes to enter. And right then we discovered that we had a little problem.
There were only two bedrooms, my mother’s and mine. Where was everyone to sleep?
My mother made her decree immediately. “You, Fiona,” she told my aunt, “can have Juliana’s room. I’ll stay in mine. Bob and Juliana can sleep in the living room. The sofa folds out and there’s enough space on the carpet to make another bed.” Fiona is, of course, not my aunt’s real name, just to be clear.
“No, I don’t want to deprive Juliana of her room,” my aunt replied quickly. “She’ll need space of her own. I remember what college accommodations are like.”
I would have liked to be in my own room, but if I did my mother would have started accusing me of being selfish the minute she got me alone. “No, that’s fine,” I replied. “Bob and I will be fine together. We can read books together.”
Bob laughed. “She’s right. We’ll read and discuss books all night.”
That was the late afternoon. We had an early supper and then my mother and aunt took themselves to my mother’s room, to discuss things, as they said. Before going, my mother turned on the television, which was tuned to some movie channel.
“There,” she said, “you two can watch that.”
“We don’t want to watch television, mum,” I protested.
“I said watch that,” she snapped, turned the volume up higher, and then went into her room with Bob’s mother and shut the door hard enough to almost be a slam. Bob and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“She doesn’t want us to overhear whatever they’ll talk about,” he said.
So we watched the film. At this distance in time I don’t recall what it was, but fortunately it wasn’t some mindless action film tailored to explosion aficionados. It was, also fortunately, before the era of endless superzero flicks based on children’s comics. I rather think it was some kind of horror film, just bad enough to be really funny. At any rate it kept us giggling and making sarcastic comments long enough for my mother to emerge from her room with my aunt, both of them looking fairly upset.
“They haven’t been able to agree,” Bob said, unnecessarily. At any rate, they soon said good night and retired to their respective rooms, telling Bob and me not to stay up late but go to sleep.
“You can have the sofa,” I told Bob. “I’ll sleep on the floor.” This was not an altruistic move on my part. I knew that sofa, and the carpet was a far better option. Bob shrugged acceptance and went to the bathroom to change. And then I suddenly realised I had a problem.
In The Amorous Adventures Of Juliana L. Part 1 I have described how I had been used to going to bed in a Mother Hubbard night dress until Mila taught me to throw it away and start sleeping in the nude. By this time, months later, I was so used to sleeping naked that I could not even imagine putting on something to sleep in. Besides, I had no Mother Hubbard, in fact no sleeping attire of any kind at all.
So, with no other option, I decided to quickly strip and put on a loose T shirt and shorts with nothing on underneath, in the hope that I would be able to sleep in them. I’d just finished before Bob returned, in an identical T shirt and shorts. The only difference was the colour.
“Ha ha,” I said. “I suppose we’ll have the same dreams as well.”
We didn’t. I don’t know what dreams Bob had, but I had none, because I never really managed to sleep. The months of sleeping naked had made me unable to drop off for any time with my skin covered, on top of which I’d got used to sleeping in my own bed at the college and the carpet, I discovered, was less than a substitute. Whenever I dozed off for a few minutes I snapped awake again and then couldn’t get to sleep again. I found myself thinking of Mila, of her naked body leaning over mine, the touch of her lips as she kissed me on the mouth before hoisting my leg over her shoulder and grinding her vulva on mine. My vagina began to moisten, but I couldn’t even masturbate; Bob was literally within touching distance of me. I could hear him breathing, and once his arm flopped over the edge of the sofa so close that I could feel his body heat on my cheek.
Around three in the morning I gave it up as a bad job, Tiptoeing in bare feet to the bathroom, I did the usual morning things, and then went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. I had just taken my first sip when I heard a noise and turned around to see Bob standing there, watching me.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said apologetically, as though it were a crime.
“Well, neither could I,” he replied, rubbing his eyes, which looked naked without his spectacles. “I could hear you tossing and turning.”
“Uh, sorry about that.” I found myself looking at Bob, not as a cousin, but as a young man. Standing there with his hair out in spikes and his T shirt hanging half out of his shorts, he looked appealingly vulnerable, and, suddenly, very desirable. I felt almost impelled to step forward, hug him, and kiss him on the lips. How would he ever react if I did that? I felt my cheeks warm with a blush, and quickly turned away, reaching for the electric kettle. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
It turned out that he did.
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Over breakfast my mother made an announcement. “Fiona and I are going to the old house,” she said. “We’re going to look it over and make…arrangements…for its disposal.” She shot a look of positive hatred over the table at Bob’s mum, who sipped at her cocoa demurely and didn’t even bother to look up. “We’ll have to talk to a solicitor and real estate agents. We’ll be away the rest of the week.”
“You two aren’t going along,” my aunt said, licking a smear of cocoa off her lip. “It’s just the two of us.”
My eyes were burning with sleep and I had a hard time taking in their words, but I realised that they didn’t want us listening in on their arguments. “So when are you leaving?” I asked.
“Right away,” my mother said. “There’s enough food to last you a couple of days, and after that you can go shopping. There’s money in my drawer. If you have any emergencies you can contact Fiona’s mobile. Emergencies only, mind.” This was back when few people had mobile phones and one had to pay to receive calls.
“Bob has the number,” my aunt informed me. “Don’t look so stricken, Juliana, you’ll be fine.” I wasn’t looking stricken, I was looking exhausted, and trying hard to suppress a yawn.
At last, at around eleven in the morning – my mother’s “right aways” never were – they left. “Your lunch is in the fridge,” my mother called over her shoulder. “All you need to do is heat it.” Well, that saved me from having to cook. To this day I hate cooking.
After they’d gone, I decided to have a shower and then try to sleep for a bit in my own room. Bob was already nose deep in a thick book, and as I walked to the bathroom I stopped long enough to tilt it up for a look at the cover. It was, I saw with surprise, Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf.
“What’s this?” I asked, grinning. “You’re thinking of becoming a Nazi? And here I was assuming that you were left wing. Next thing I know you’ll get a swastika tattoo.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “It’s important to know what something is before you can oppose it. It’s a fascinating primer on the philosophy of fascism. Though,” he added, “it’s incredibly badly written. I don’t know how anyone ever published it.”
“Probably because they’d have had their heads broken if they didn’t,” I said, ruffled his hair, and walked on to the bathroom, grinning. Any other boy his age would probably have been reading some trashy “action” novel (Alastair Maclean was still someone teenagers read then, for instance, as was James Hadley Chase). Only my cousin was bright and inquisitive enough to read something like the long-dead dictator of the Third Reich’s political memoirs. Again, I realised that he was no longer a child but a young man, and like the morning it brought a flutter somewhere inside my chest. But that flutter was overtaken by a huge yawn. Stripping, I showered quickly, wrapped myself in a towel, went to my room, threw the towel on a chair, fell into bed and within minutes was asleep.
(By the way, a decade later I finally read Mein Kampf, and it was an appallingly badly written but eye opening insight into the fascist mindset. Bob was right about that…again.)
I woke suddenly in the mid afternoon, from some dream of a shadowy figure standing over me, looking down silently. Rays of sunshine leaking through the blind were falling on the far wall, but were nowhere near the bed. Rubbing my eyes, I dressed – a T shirt and tracksuit bottoms, good enough for home – and went to the living room. Bob was still there, reading his book.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Let’s have lunch.”
“All right,” He glanced at me and away quickly. “If you want.”
I frowned. There was something different in his manner, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Maybe it was something in the Hitler book, something that he was trying to understand. Maybe we could talk about it later, I decided, going over to the kitchen and putting things in the microwave. By the time I’d finished, Bob had come to the kitchen and was standing watching me. “Juliana,” he said suddenly.
I looked up from putting plates on the little dining table. “Yeah?”
“Uh…nothing. Forget it.” He didn’t seem to be able to look me in the eye. “The food looks good.”
I hadn’t even taken the food out of the microwave, but let it go. The food was good, prawn and noodles with cheese. There are many things wrong with my mother, but she has always been a great cook. And there was enough not just for lunch, but for dinner as well.
We ate. Bob still wouldn’t quite meet me in the eye. “Help me wash up,” I said after we’d finished. He did, without a word. He was still silent when we went back to the living room. I finally nudged his shin with my bare toes.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong? Did you get some bad news or something?”
“No,” he muttered. “What bad news could I get?” I was trying to think of what to say next when the doorbell rang. Frowning, I went to the door.
There were a couple I didn’t know. Young, early twenties, the young man in a suit, the woman in a light cream-coloured dress. “Er,” he said, “I was wondering if we could use your phone. We’re, uh…” (Once again, remember, this was the 1990s and not everyone had a mobile phone.)
“What my husband wants to say,” the girl added, holding his arm possessively, “is that our car broke down, and we’ll need someone who can fix them to come and take a look.” She smiled widely. “It’s our honeymoon. We’ve just got married, and if we can’t fix the car, well, our first day as a married couple and all…”
“Yes, of course,” I said, standing aside hurriedly. “You can call whoever you need, but I’ve no idea of any garage’s phone number. Um, there’s a telephone book, so…”
“Car trouble?” It was Bob, speaking over my shoulder. “I could have a look if you want.”
I blinked, astonished. “You know about cars?” I whispered to him, pulling him down the passage a short distance.
“Yes, I’ve been working part time at a garage on weekends. If they have a tool kit in their car I could probably fix it.”
“Right.” I went back to the door, where the couple was waiting. “If you don’t mind, we have a suggestion. Bob here knows about cars and he could fix yours for you.”
They looked at each other, then at him, and seemed favourably impressed. “It’s down at the corner,” the girl said.
“Right, I’ll come with you.” Bob pushed past me and went down the path.
“I’ll come, too. Just let me put on shoes.” However, I couldn’t find any footwear in a hurry, and by the time I’d ferreted out a pair of slippers and got down to the street, Bob and the young man had got the bonnet up and my cousin was poking at the engine. The girl looked round as I walked up.
“We’re so lucky we found you,” she said. “Your boyfriend says he can fix it.”
“He’s…” I began, about to say ‘He’s not my boyfriend’, but then some impulse took over. “Yes, he’s good.” I glanced at her. “In everything,” I added. From the first moment I’d seen her clutching her husband’s arm, I hadn’t liked her at all. The way she’d kept talking about their honeymoon put my back up, and I had an impulse to show that I wasn’t exactly lacking in company between my legs either. To my satisfaction, I saw her blink.
“Ah, yes.” She glanced at the car and back at me. “I’m Valentina, and my husband is Errol.” (Actually, these could even be their real names. After all these years I have absolutely no memory of what they were called.) She began talking about where they were from, how they’d met, and repeated about nine times that they’d only got married this morning and that this was their honeymoon. I didn’t listen to most of it, and I don’t remember any of it now, except that they were headed for the coast and wanted to make their destination, some resort town or other, by tonight. “How’s it going, dear?” she called eventually.
Her husband, who was a lot nicer-looking than she was, glanced over his shoulder at us. “Almost done, Bob says.” As though in response, my cousin straightened up and nodded to him. “Try it now.”
Errol walked round to the driver’s side, leaned in and turned on the ignition. The engine turned over and caught with a rumble. “Hey, it works,” he exclaimed.
“I told you,” I said to Valentina. “My boyfriend can make anything work.”
Bob looked at me and for a moment I was afraid he was going to spill the beans, but he just snorted. “Not anything,” he told her, slamming down the car bonnet. “Not even nearly anything.”
“Well, she’s lucky to have you, anyway,” Valentina said. “What do we owe you?”
“Owe us? Nothing,” Bob and I said together.
“Oh, but we must give you something,” Errol said. He hunted around inside the car and fished out a couple of wine bottles. They were tall, bulbous and dark. “I’m sure you’ll like these.”
My mother would have had a fit if alcohol had entered the house, but my mother wasn’t here. “Thanks so much,” I said, taking them from him. “Happy honeymoon.”
“And we hope you have as good a time together tonight as we will,” Valentina said, winking.
As they drove away, we walked back to the house. “What was that about my being your boyfriend?”
I shrugged. “They must have misunderstood.” I hefted the bottles. “We have something to drink tonight. I was wondering if I’d have to go out to find us a few beers.”
Bob blushed violently. “I’ve never drunk alcohol.”
I kicked off my slippers as we entered the house. I’m one of those barefoot girls; I’ve always hated footwear of any kind. “There’s a first time for everything. You must have had a first time fixing a car as well.” I glanced at him. “They were impressed, and so was I.”
He still wouldn’t look at me. “It’s easy when you know what you’re doing.”
I looked at him after returning from putting the wine bottles in the fridge. There was most certainly something wrong, and I couldn’t tell what. He’d been odd ever since I’d woken up in the afternoon. And that suddenly raised a question in my mind.
Why, exactly, had I woken all of a sudden?
It was not as though I’d had enough sleep, because I hadn’t. It was not because the sun was shining in my face, because it hadn’t been. Had I heard something, felt something? I’d had that half remembered dream about someone standing over me.
Had I locked the door to my bedroom before sleeping? I tried to remember but couldn’t. I didn’t recall unlocking it before coming out, either.
And Bob, who had always been open and friendly, suddenly couldn’t look me in the eye.
So, there was only one explanation I could think of. I’d left the door unlocked, and perhaps it had swung open on a stray breeze. Or maybe Bob had wanted something. Either way, he’d either been passing by or had opened the door, and seen me lying stark naked on the bed, fast asleep.
I felt like grinning suddenly. The poor boy must be feeling mortified. And all because, like any normal teenager, he’d not been able to resist taking a good look!
And it was at that moment that I realised what I wanted to do, what, in fact, I had to do, if this thing between us was to be exorcised and we were to back to being friends again.
I would have to wait, though, wait till tonight, when the time was right. It did give me time to make some preparations.
I began with taking one of Mila’s contraceptive tablets (mentally thanking her for them), and then picked out appropriate clothing. Black shorts with no knickers and a pink and black halter top, the only one I owned; it was a little too tight, but that was all good because it pushed my nipples out into little points and accentuated my cleavage. Bare feet and legs, of course, but I took a few minutes to paint my nails and added just a dab of perfume. By the time the scent had reacted with my sweat, I knew from experience, it would add a very slight musk that – Mila had informed me – drove her crazy. I didn’t see why it shouldn’t have the same effect on Bob as well.
Instead of my mother’s food, I decided to cook. I’m no cook, anyway, but that was all to the good; I could make Bob help. And as I directed him to wash and chop cabbage and peel onions and potatoes, I made sure to brush accidentally against him as often as I could manage. Every few moments I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and more than once I saw him glancing quickly away.
“Now all it needs is to simmer,” I said. “While we’re waiting, let’s get started on that wine, shall we?”
They were chilled nicely by then, red and slightly too sweet. Bob gulped down his first glass as though it was water, and began coughing. “Careful,” I said laughing. “It’s supposed to last.” After that he sipped more cautiously at the wine.
By the time we’d finished half a bottle, the cooking was done and we adjourned to eat. As I’d expected, the wine had washed away enough of Bob’s inhibitions that he had begun to be less shy about looking at me, and once I even caught him ogling my chest. But he’d still not made any move on me, and when I “accidentally’ reached out with my toes and touched his shin he shied away like a startled colt.
I sighed mentally. Obviously, I still had more to do.
“Can you wash up?” I asked, when we’d finished eating. “I’ve a couple of things to see to.”
Leaving him to it, I went back to the living room. As I’ve said, those were the nineties, the internet wasn’t yet a thing for most people, there was no such thing as a porno site available for viewing, and my mother had never bought a VHS or DVD player. Not that it would have made much difference if she had, because she wouldn’t have been caught dead buying any film showing so much as a bare nipple anyway.
However, she did have cable television, and a look through the channels gave me a couple that showed so-called “softcore” movies. That was what I needed, and, ***********ing one, I wandered back to the kitchen, where Bob had just finished washing up.
“What do you want to do next?” I asked. “Why don’t we watch a movie?”
“All right,” he replied, with a shrug. “As long as it’s something more interesting than the horror thing yesterday.”
“I’m sure there will be,” I said, picking up the glasses and the bottle of wine. “And we can drink the rest of this while we watch.”
Now I’ve always preferred “softcore” movies to straight up porno. There is usually a plot of some kind, no matter how ridiculous, which makes up for the usually inept sex scenes. I don’t recall the name of the one we watched, but the plot was ridiculous enough; it was one of the “alien who for some reason looks exactly like a blond Californian woman comes to earth and has lots of sex with both men and women because otherwise the universe will collapse” genre. This particular woman apparently took on a human shape for her sexjourn, sorry, sojourn. And when she stripped…
“Why’s she got bikini tan lines?” Bob asked. Her untanned areas were so pale that the rest of her looked cooked in comparison.
“Why’s she got silicone boobs?” I asked. They stuck out from her chest like twin battleship turrets.
“Are they silicone?”
“Of course they are,” I said. “Real naked women don’t look anything like this. When you see one you’ll know.”
After that it got sillier and funnier. Our Heroine, stark naked, with the camera zooming on her shaved vulva and enhanced breasts, ran giggling through one of those standard issue mansions these movies are set in to the obligatory swimming pool outside, chased by a naked man. Only he wasn’t quite naked, because he for some reason held a T shirt clutched in front of his pelvic area, shielding it from the camera.
“Is the film afraid of showing his erection?” Bob asked, snorting through a half-mouthful of wine.
“Or perhaps the fact that he has no erection,” I replied, laughing. “It’s just a job where he’s concerned, not like real people who want to screw.” At that I saw Bob glance quickly at me and away again.
When the man caught up with Our Heroine by the poolside, they began to “have sex” on a recliner chair, he lying on top of her. Bob leaned forward slightly for a better look. “Don’t bother,” I informed him. “From where his buttocks are, his penis must be going into a hole in the chair or something.”
He glanced at me, the naked couple reflected in his glasses. “How would you know?”
I shrugged, deliberately casual. “Well, whenever I fuck a guy, his hips are between my thighs, not between my knees, that’s how.”
He blushed so violently I saw it even in the glow of the television. “Why,” I asked, “did you imagine I was a virgin or something?”
He didn’t reply, just took a quick gulp of his wine, and we continued watching the movie. It went as these do, with Our Heroine bedding both men and women with mind-boggling regularity. The girl-on-girl scenes were far more realistic, and the actresses actually seemed to be enjoying themselves in them. In one, Our Heroine – with a pretty Hispanic-looking woman’s head buried between her thighs – either had a genuine orgasm or faked one so well that I couldn’t tell the difference.
Finally it ended, presumably (I no longer remember) with Our Heroine flying off to her home planet, and the first bottle was over and we’d had enough of the second so that I was feeling slightly light-headed.
“That was good wine,” I said. “All thanks to you, and of course thanks to Errol and what’s her name, Valentina.”
“Wonder what they’re doing now?”
“By now they should long since have reached their resort,” I grinned, “so they must be busy fucking, exactly like the two in the film weren’t.”
He turned bright red again. I’d never imagined that my cousin would turn out to be so easily embarrassed. Also, he still hadn’t made any move on me, and by now, after watching Our Heroine heave her hips under the Latina’s tongue, I very badly wanted sex myself; not just to seduce Bob but because I needed to get off, and not by masturbation either. I was beginning to get frustrated. Did I need to push him down and pull his clothes off, or what?
“You know what?” I said. “This room isn’t really any good for sleeping in. The sofa is terrible and the carpet not much better.”
“I don’t mind the sofa,” he mumbled.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You won’t sleep a wink tonight either.” I pretended to think. “My mother would throw a fit if either of us used her bedroom, so there’s just one solution. We’ll share mine.”
“But I couldn’t.” He now resembled a beet in complexion.
“Of course you can, and will.” I took him by the hand. ”Come on, let’s go. My bed’s more than big enough for both of us.”
“I…” he gulped. “I’d like a shower first.”
“Got you,” I thought triumphantly. It wasn’t hot and the only reason he’d want a shower was as a cover for masturbation. “That’s fine,” I said. ”I want one too. We’ll have it together.”
He was still opening and closing his mouth when I stripped off my halter top. “It’s time you got to know what a real naked woman looks like,” I said. “Nothing like the plastic babes in the movies. And, anyway, “ I added, pushing my shorts down and off, leaving my vulva open to his view, “I like to sleep bare, so you’re going to have to see me nude, like it or not.”
He seemed turned to stone, his eyes fixed on my body, so I stepped forward, took off his glasses, and undressed him. He didn’t resist as I removed his T shirt, but when I began pulling down his shorts he tried to move back.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “I’ve seen plenty of penises. You don’t have to be embarrassed.” His penis, embarrassed or otherwise, was bulging the front of his shorts out into a stiff peak. When I pulled his shorts and underpants down it sprang out, an erection so rigid it was trembling. “Oh my,” I said. “That’s lovely. No,” I added, pushing his hands away. “I won’t let you cover it up. It’s beautiful.”
“I…” He began to stammer. “I’m, I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for?” I asked. “For this lovely thing? Bob, when a girl shows herself naked to you of her own desire, and you get an erection, she feels it’s a compliment to her. And I’m not going to let you waste it by masturbating, either.”
“What are we going to do?” he whispered.
I went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the mouth. His lips tasted of the wine. “We’ll make love, of course. Don’t you want to make love to me?”
He nodded, just enough for me to be able to make out that he had. “Good,” I said. “I very much want to make love to you. Kiss me.”
He pecked at my lips diffidently. “No, not like that,” I said, wrapped my arms around him, pulled him to me, and his mouth down on mine. Our bodies were pressed together and I thought I could feel his heart racing. My lips slid over his, and eventually his tongue pushed into my mouth and danced with mine.
“If I…” he said, when our mouths parted. ”If I, I don’t want to, to…”
“You won’t make me pregnant,” I told him firmly, and took him by the hand. “Come to bed.”
I knew that, having never touched a girl before, he might lose his erection at the slightest wrong move, so I didn’t waste time. Gently pushing him down on the bed on his back, I put a pillow under his head before straddling him. Holding his erect penis in my right hand, I spread my labia apart with my left hand’s fingers and let myself down on it. Bob’s eyes stared at me, fascinated, all the way.
I don’t really like woman on top all that much. In sex, I prefer variations of the missionary position, where I can feel the full contact of my man’s naked body on mine, and can wrap my arms and legs around him, pulling him as close to, and within, me as I want. But looking at Bob’s eyes as he watched my vagina slip over his penis, until it was buried to the base inside me, I felt an erotic thrill so intense that I almost orgasmed right at that moment; I was far wetter than I’d thought, so lubricated that his penis entered me without the slightest trouble, quite as though we had had sex together all our lives. In fact it was then that I understood why some women love to deflower boys in their teens, inexpert though said boys are in their introduction to sex. At that instant, I understood, this was a moment Bob would never forget, by which he would always remember me.
His penis was warm and throbbing inside my vagina, throbbing in tune to the beat of his heart, to his body’s music. When I began rocking my hips backwards and forwards, each time I thrust my hips forward his tuft of pubic hair bumped against my clitoris and sent an electric thrill through my body. I leaned forward to put my arms on the bed on either side of his shoulders, my breasts dangling above him, He raised his hands to my shoulders, raised his head, and took one of my nipples in his mouth. I shuddered and moaned, thrusting my hips faster, in rhythm to his rolling my nipple in his mouth. I felt his hands move to my back to cup my buttocks and pull me closer. His penis felt as though it was getting even longer and thicker and harder, and I knew he was close to coming. His lips shifted from my left nipple, licked across my breasts, and fastened on my right.
I felt my orgasm begin to approach as he began to buck his hips under me. It was like standing at the mouth of a tunnel, feeling the onrushing air and roar of sound as a train came down it towards you, inexorable and thrilling, knowing nothing you could do would stop it, seeing its lights shining on the tunnel walls and then on you, and then it was on you and in you and filling you from inside.
Liquid fire began pulsing through me, spreading from my vagina and clitoris up into my belly. My heart and uterus and fingers and toes clenched together, and my vision greyed out as the orgasm struck. It was so intense that I might have fainted for a moment, but just a moment. The intensity of the pleasure ebbed a little just in time for me to feel Bob thrust his hips up hard, and his own orgasm met mine in warm semen flooding through his penis and up into my vagina, painting my cervix with molten heat.
When we’d gained our breaths back somewhat we were lying naked side by side, my head on his shoulder, my arm across his chest. I moved it down to trace the length of his penis, flaccid but still warm and wet with my juices. “I thought you’d never had sex before,” I said.
“I didn’t,” he replied. ”This was my first time.”
“Oh? But you just fucked me like someone who’s done it many times before. You knew what to do and when.”
He coughed. “Well, I, uh…I read how to do it in a book.”
I propped myself up on an elbow and looked down at him incredulously. “A book?”
He nodded, blushing again. “A, uh, sex manual. It said what to do and when.”
I laughed aloud, delighted. This was so typically Bob! “And did it tell you more?”
He nodded again. “Oh yes, it has illustrated instructions on how to perform, uh, cunnilingus on a girl, and so on.”
“It does, does it?” I rolled over on to my back and spread my legs as wide as I could. “Come on, show me. Make me come.”
He did.
**********************************************************
My mother and aunt returned three days later. By then Bob and I had had sex all over the house, in the shower, on the carpet under the television (having real sex while one or other ridiculous pair of softcore actors pretended to have it on the screen above us), on my bed, on (greatly daring) my mother’s bed, and on the kitchen counter. It turned out that if I sat on the kitchen counter with my legs apart, it was just the right height for Bob to penetrate me while he stood between my thighs, both of us bending over to watch my labia kiss his penis as it thrust in and out of me. And we fucked over and over in the missionary position, too, where in my orgasmic throes I clutched him so tight that I left bruises on his shoulders and ribs.
In later years Bob and I have met often, but only screwed one time again. It doesn’t matter. He has a healthy sex life, with a succession of girlfriends, and I can’t complain about my own erotic existence either. And both of us will always have a piece of each other in our hearts.
I sometimes wonder if Errol and Valentina can say that.