I used to get laid from writing erotica.
It probably seems impossible to believe now. But this was the early 2000s. There were no smartphones or dating apps. Personals sites existed, but mostly they were filled with people who were lonely and curious but not willing to actually meet someone. Nobody imagined a future where literally everyone was willing to date someone they met online.
Amazon also existed, but there wasn't a self-publishing industry where everyone was trying to make a living writing smut. There were just a few big sites where people went to read erotica online or share their own fantasies, and most of the stuff published was over-the-top pornography that involved chance meetings turning into threesomes. Typically with older men and younger girls.
In my case, I was in my twenties a naive romantic who liked to write about great sex and falling in love. So it wasn't surprising that I ended up with an audience of mostly women who were also young, optimistic, and a little naive.
Still, I never expected to meet anyone. I wrote primarily for myself and enjoyed the thrill of getting some kind feedback every now and then. At most I hoped for a little flirty back and forth via email or maybe on instant messenger.
That's what happened with Hannah.
It was the spring of 2001. I was 23 at the time. She was a high school senior who had just turned eighteen. She was also a virgin obsessed with sex and romance.
I'd posted a few stories in college, but I really started writing after I got my first job. I suddenly had a lot of extra time since I didn't see my friends as often and nobody was going out for drinks or playing cards all night like in college.
I thought of myself as a decent writer. I've never been an expert in grammar. I don't spend a lot of time finessing a sentence. I'm a terrible proofreader. But I did have a good imagination. I could take things that had happened to me in real life and embellish them. It filed a niche that wasn't as common. A young man writing about young love instead of exploitation.
We started emailing about my stories and it led to chat sessions. Of course they were flirtatious. And then they turned sexual. We could talk about other things, like pop culture or politics, but it always came back to sex.
Hannah was insecure about her appearance for no real reason. She was cute with dark hair and green eyes and a retrousse nose. She was a theater nerd and extremely opinionated and she wasn't thin, and that meant she wasn't popular with clueless high school boys. But she was curvy in the best of ways. Like the actress Virginia Madsen. She lived three states away, but in the fall she was starting college about 90 miles from where I lived.
Cell phones were still in the dark ages in 2001. The service was spotty and there limits on your minutes and overage fees. Still, we talked a few times. She had kissed a few guys and done some over the clothes petting, but nothing more. No oral. No breast play. She was about as wholesome as you could get for an eighteen year old who spent her time reading erotica and chatting about sex with older men.
"I just want to get it over with," she told me. "I want you to fuck me. I'm tired of waiting for someone to make it special."
Just talking to her made my cock hard. She seemed a little crazy, but in the best way.
"I think I just want to be a slut for a while. I'm don't want a boyfriend. I'm too young."
Her favorite show was "Sex in the City." She dreamed of that kind of lifestyle.
"What do you want to do?" I asked her.
"I want to do it all. I want you to pop my cherry. I want to give a blow job. I want to be used."
"You're a bad girl," I told her.
"That's me," she said. "I want to be slutty Hannah. I'm tired of being a nerd."
I blew my load talking to her.
The whole thing made me nervous. I'd never met someone online. And an attractive woman who just wanted to drive 90 miles to fuck seemed too good to be true. Plus I was still a romantic at heart. I thought her first time should be special. With someone she had dated for a while.
But I also couldn't say no. I'd convince myself I wasn't interested and needed to break it off. But then I'd start thinking about the possibilities and we'd chat again. The plan was for her to come visit me the weekend after she moved into her dorm room. So we went back and forth for months.
That August she ended up losing her virginity. She had a few drinks at a party and asked her gay best friend to fuck her so she could get it over with. She didn't cum and neither of them had much fun, but she was no longer a version. And I had no reason to be hesitant.
She was extremely forward.
"I'm driving down Friday after class and staying with you until Monday."
She was a woman on a mission. It was obvious that she liked me and was open to romance if it happened. But even more than that, she wanted to experience sex.
Hannah showed up at my door with in black halter top that hooked her big tits and an ankle length hippie skirt. She was more attractive than her picture. There was a mischievous energy in her green eyes. And her curves were sexy as hell. Every girl I'd fucked before her had a tiny waist and small breasts. I was excited for the change.
We sat down in my living room on the couch. I offered her a drink but she declined.
"Are you nervous?" I asked.
"A little."
"Do you regret coming here? We don't have to do anything. We can just hang out."
She leaned toward me. She had beautiful, full lips painted red. She kissed me on the lips.
"Does that seem like regret?" she asked.
We immediately started making out. It was different than anything I'd ever experienced. I'd had one drunken one night stand in college. Other than that, all my sexual experiences had come after several dates and extended make out sessions and wondering if it would happen or not.
There was no doubt with Hannah. And I had to be careful not to rush things. I wanted it to be fun. I wanted her to experience anticipation and foreplay.
I stood up and took her hand.
"Let's go to the bedroom."
She started to strip as soon as we got in the room. She was like an athlete getting ready for the big game.
"Just your skirt," I told her. "Leave the rest on."
I turned down the bed and she lied down. I flipped the overhead lights off and turn on a lamp in the corner and lit a couple of candles. I put on a Cure CD. I loved fucking to the Cure back then. I unbuttoned my shirt and took off my jeans and got in bed with Hannah.
She was wearing simple black nylon panties. I put my hand between her thighs and moved upwards as we kissed. I trailed my fingers over her pussy. She gasped then kissed me harder.
Her lack of experience was obvious. It wasn't that she was clumsy. It was the way she responded to every touch. Younger men are in a rush. They're focused on their own pleasure and the thrill they get from touching a woman.
I was focused on pleasing Hannah. I wanted her to know that her pleasure was as important as my own. It wasn't only about me. I didn't need to rush to get what I wanted. I could take my time.
"Do you like when I touch your pussy," I asked.
"Yes," she answered. She spoke with a thick Philadelphia accent that was exotic to my southern ears.
"Tell me," I said. I kissed her neck. I rubbed my fingers up and down on her silky panties, tracing a circle around her wet cunt.
"I like it," she panted.
I pulled my hand away just for a second. She let out a little whimper of frustration.
"Tell me what you like," I said.
She opened her eyes. For a second she was puzzled. Then she realized what I wanted.
"I like when you touch me...there," she said.
I rolled away from her across the bed. I let out a frustrated mock sigh.
"What?" she asked. She had a worried look on her face. "I said I like it."
I moved back toward her. I spread her legs aggressively and kissed her beautiful lips. I rubbed her pussy firmly through her panties.
"Then tell me what you like" I said sternly. "Do you like when I rub your pussy?"
