[ Obligatory caution: adult material lies ahead. If you cannot buy a ticket to an NC-17 movie, then you shouldn't be reading this. ] Copyright (c) 1998 by Anne Arbor (AnneArbor@hotmail.com)


Remembering When (by Anne Arbor)

Jeremy and I had been sleeping together for a month -- once or twice a week at his place, maybe once a week at mine -- before he finally asked me a familiar question that most new lovers eventually raise. We’d gotten each other all hot and juicy with a languid me-on-top 69, and when we couldn’t stand it any longer, he slipped on a rubber and I just straddled him and gave myself a good scratching of my itches. My first orgasm was quick to arrive and peaked sharply, though it served more as a temporary tension reliever than an all-out climax. Jeremy just pushed up into me and held my hips and watched me ride it out, grinning at me with a bemused expression on his face.

I played with my second one, keeping it lurking right at the brink of no return, teasing myself to get suitably frantic. I squirmed on him and got us both twitchy and panting and close. Too close, as I discovered, when in a sudden rush he surged his hips and squeezed my breasts and gasped, “Oh Annie, oh, oh, oh,” and twitched his release within my tender grasp. He made amends by cheating his thumb against my clit until I surrendered with hyperventilating pants and appreciative grunts, a squirming pelvis and spasming cunt.

Afterwards, after we’d disengaged and adjusted into our nighttime spoon, Jeremy wrapped around me from behind and fondled my breasts. “So,” he started, “I’ve never asked you. How did you lose your virginity? Was it one of those horror stories with a pimply-faced kid with a hair trigger?”

I thought for a moment how to answer. “That’s a complicated question,” I said simply. “It was in high school. He didn’t have pimples. It was fine.”

“What do you mean, ‘complicated’?” Jeremy continued. His tone was more curious than demanding.

“Not now,” I demurred with a sleepy voice. “Maybe later. Long story.” Jeremy’s hand cupped each of my breasts in his goodnight ritual, seemingly uncertain which one would be the last he would touch. “I love you, baby,” I whispered. I snuggled myself back deeper into his arms and drifted away.

- - - - - -

It was the summer of ’69, between my junior and senior year of high school. Scott, my boyfriend, and I had been going together for six months. He was everything a teenaged girl could want: smart, cute, polite, and gentle. I’d had my share of boyfriends before Scott, one or two serious ones a year going back to eighth grade, and with each of them I’d learned more and more about puppy love and sex play. I’d had years of practice necking, and by my junior year I was fairly proficient at it. I felt comfortable enough with a couple of guys to allow them to touch my breasts, but nothing below the waist. That, I have to say, I reserved for my own fingers, and by my junior year I was masturbating almost nightly.

With Scott I felt ready to take another step or two. I was sexually curious, even if I was a bit bashful, and Scott was the perfect unaggressive playmate who allowed me to take those steps whenever, and however far, I chose. That summer we both had fulltime jobs, but we were able to get together several nights a week for a movie, or a burger, or for quiet talks. Or for an hour or two of lip-locked passion in his mother’s car, the Lovemobile.

We preferred his mother’s old Chevy Impala to my mother’s newer Thunderbird. Not that the Thunderbird wasn’t fun to drive, but the back seat of the Impala was far more comfortable for when the car stopped moving forward. Earlier that spring we’d been rousted from one Lover’s Lane or another. We’d only been making use of the front seat, both of us being both too shy and deathly afraid of being huddled in the back seat when the police car made its slow, methodical pass and shone the high-intensity beam through our window.

My stroke of genius was to suggest that we park in the huge local auto assembly plant employees’ parking lot. The 3:30-to-midnight swing shift packed the parking lot with hundreds of cars and no people. We’d drive in, find an empty inconspicuous open spot, and know that as long as we kept our heads down, we'd be undisturbed for hours.

Of course, it was never a problem to keep our heads down. It was even easier to do that in the back seat, without that pesky steering wheel getting in the way. We’d park, douse the lights, and dive into the back seat before the roving security patrol made one of its infrequent passes down our row.

We were never in a rush. We’d finish our sodas and talk about our day, complain about our parents and our siblings, gossip about our friends. Eventually the conversation would dwindle and the unhurried necking would begin, with deep open-mouthed kisses and dancing tongues, intertwined limbs and squeezes and little muffled moans.

It was the classic progression that summer. When mere necking became tame, Scott slipped a hand underneath my T-shirt to caress my bra-encased breasts and to discover my aroused nipples that were all too obviously delighted to be found. He soon learned to unclasp my bra with one hand, and I was eager for him to do it. After two evenings having my shirt and bra tangled up around my neck, I began to unsnap it myself as we drove into the parking lot and amuse Scott by extracting it out of one sleeve before dropping it onto the floor. Once in the back seat his hands and his mouth would alternate breasts, teasing my sensitive curves and hardened nipples to the point that, by the end of the evening, my pussy was so wet and achingly aroused that I could climax with a mere minute or two of furious diddling once I got home and into my bed.

By the beginning of August we were dry-humping, and I was more frustrated than ever. Now Scott spent only a minimally polite amount of time on my breasts before mounting me, both of us fully clothed below the waist, and methodically rubbing his cylindrical lump against my crotch until he panted and sweated bullets and shuddered in a unilateral orgasm. Thankfully, this phase didn’t last long.

Looking back on it, I suppose I was a one-girl Sex Education class. “Touch me,” I finally whispered to him one hot and humid night as he began to maneuver between my thighs. He inched his hand inside the elastic waistband of my shorts and inside my panties, down across matted pubic hair until he struck paydirt and discovered how open and juicy I was.

“Jesus,” he muttered, a sentiment that I echoed with moans. Soon my shorts were down around one knee and completely off the other leg, and Scott’s hand was stuffed inside my panties and his fingers were wandering up and down my labia, encouraging them to blossom into fat petals. His fingers played in my slickness, from dipping inside my twitchy vagina to strumming across the bone-hard length of my swollen clitoral shaft and its supersensitive little nubbin.

He was a quick learner and was eager to please. He discovered how to flicker at my clit, at first softly then with greater and greater intensity until my legs strained wide and my butt rose off the seat and my arms wrapped tightly around his neck. My breathing became frantic and my orgasm would just roar through me. Only then would he reluctantly withdraw his hand and gently stroke his erection against my panty-covered sopping pussy in our Pretend Intercourse, finishing himself off by a vigorous rub against my pubic bone.

I was in love with him. I was in love with sex.

We didn’t stop there, of course. “I want to come with you, Annie,” he begged one night with his hand jammed between us and fiddling with my pussy inside my underpants. “Let me rub against you for real,” he pleaded. The thought of that sent a ripple of anxiety through my body and a warm rush where his fingers were playing. “I won’t go inside you,” he promised.

He had my clit trapped between two fingers. I was desperate to come. “Okay,” I replied in a small voice.

His fingers withdrew and he fumbled with his shorts with one hand while holding himself up with a straightened arm. He got them down to his knees, then maneuvered his underwear down to join his shorts. His shirt draped over his cock. I couldn’t see anything. My head was spinning.

When he eased back down on top of me, though, I could feel it, a cylindrical ramrod jutting up and out, nudging against the heat inside my panties. Scott put his hands underneath my shoulderblades and kissed me, breathing hard through his nose. His erection prodded and jabbed at me, trying to find the right angle to rub against me. I tried to adjust my own hips to get him there. We seemed to be in an incredibly clumsy tangle of bodies and limbs and clothes.

“Please let me feel you,” he repeated. I knew it was time. I snaked a hand between us, brushing past an alarmingly large, stiff rod of flesh, and pulled aside the crotch of my panties. He sighed and then I felt the first electric jolt of his erection, felt this alive, mysterious thing against my own intimate folds. “That’s it,” he whispered, “I won’t go inside.”

“I know,” I replied. Scott scraped against me, snagging friction turning to slippery after a few tentative strokes. His cock notched lengthwise between my lips and he pressed forward, scrubbing me with the underside of his shaft and sending shivering ripples through my clit that radiated through my pelvis in waves.

Scott started and stopped, started and stopped, giving out little grunts and moans. I was overwhelmed by the newness of the sensations, his heavy body pressing me into the upholstery, the heat boiling off his chest, his turgid flesh and crinkly pubic hair brushing past my fingers, the top of my heat edging against the padded armrest, his hairy calf against my smooth-shaven one. And when he quickened his motion and gasped “Oh Annie!” and prodded the tip of his penis farther up inside my panties and onto my pubic hair, I nuzzled the crotch of my panties back over his shaft and pressed it against my body, capturing the full force of its spasms as he ejaculated fiery globs against the naked skin of my belly. I could feel the pulses along the underside of his shaft against my clit, and it drove me half crazy. My fingers wobbled his throbbing erection back and forth against my raw pussy and then I came, too, gasping and quivering and sharing happy little grunts in his ear.

We got even bolder after that. Scott kept getting better at holding off his climax, and I tempted fate by becoming less and less concerned about pregnancy and more and more enthralled by the sex play and shared orgasms. Soon he was spurting directly onto my inflamed pussy while I unabashedly frigged myself with his sticky juices, and it seemed like our biggest fear was dripping on the vinyl upholstery. When I discovered the thrill of masturbating myself while Scott pressed the tip of his cock at the very entrance to my vagina, allowing me to climax before he rubbed himself to his own against my labia, we found ourselves edging progressively away from Pretend and closer to Real.

Holding his cockhead poised at my opening evolved to nudging the mushroom-shaped head partway inside. And that led to getting the entire head inside, and then on another night to penetrating what must have been a delicious inch or two. Scott wouldn’t move a muscle once he’d worked his way inside. He’d just insert himself there, his cock erratically twitching, and my fingers would strum wildly on my clit until my body shuddered in those huge cresting waves as my vagina pulsed around his thick intrusion.

The decisive moment came in late October. After school restarted in September, our only Lovemobile night was Fridays, since the assembly plant was closed on Saturday nights and the parking lot was empty. The evening was cool. We were both naked below the waist. I was lying on a blanket, and the other half of it was flipped around Scott’s back. I had one ankle curled around his leg, the other foot on the floor. I was open wide for him. And Scott was finally inside me, completely and totally, and we were both enjoying the sensations of deep slow-motion fucking.

“Scottie,” I told him, “Tell me when you’re going to come.”

“You know I will,” he answered, dreamy in the world of the back-and-forth trading of his twitches and my clenches. “Annie,” he finally said, “Almost there.” His involuntary twitches were becoming more frequent. He started to withdraw.

“Wait,” I said, restraining him with my legs. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Scott grunted a anxious-sounding distracted reply.

“I went to Planned Parenthood last month,” I continued. “I got on the Pill.”

“What?”

I figured I had his attention with that one. I bumped my hips up and squeezed my legs even tighter around him, capturing his whole length inside me again.

“You can come inside me now,” I whispered to him. My hands pulled his butt and I relaxed my leglock and rocked up against him. “Will you do that for me?” I teased him, “pretty please?”

He would, and he did. He groaned and drove into me, faster and harder, sending shivers through me every time he bounced off my clit. I felt his rigid maleness, felt his strength and his urgency and my own. When he jammed himself into me that one last time and squeezed his arms tightly around me in a primal embrace, I gazed with wonder into his scrunched up face and heard his soft moans and felt the familiar rhythmic twitches in their unfamiliar surroundings. “I love you, baby,” I gasped. I imagined I could feel the hot splash of his spurts, and then in a mad glorious rush I came, too.



Anne Arbor can be reached at:

AnneArbor@hotmail.com



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