Many thanks to editor
LarryInSeattle
for helping me remove the bumps in the road.
* *** *
A One-Sided Epic
I met her when I was seventeen and a college freshman. I was instantly attracted to this knowing, nineteen-year-old goddess. Her name was Molly Hancock and, despite the fact that she flirted with and teased me, I knew I had no chance to get into her. But make no mistake: I wanted to get between those thighs and into her.
Molly was slender and small-breasted but with wide hips and a dynamite ass. Several times she caught me looking at her gorgeous rear and smiled, amused by the fact of my desire. She had huge green eyes set in an elfin face. Curly, slightly frizzy, red hair perfectly set off her pale skin. It would take me two years to find out that it wasn't her natural hair color.
My upbringing seemed to me to have been rather tame and conventional when I talked to Molly, who seemed to have experience far beyond her years. She sometimes said things, suggested that she'd done things that were far beyond the pale of my awkwardly vanilla life experiences. Sure, I'd had sex a couple of clumsy, opportunistic times but not being a virgin didn't mean I knew a damn thing and Molly, with a bite of her lip or the intensity of those deep green eyes, had me convinced that she knew more about sex than I could ever hope to learn.
Over the next two years we stayed friends. She dated a succession of older guys and at one point even lived with a guy who was in his thirties. Her flirtations and her teasing me—almost taunting—about my attraction to her and my inability to do anything about it never ceased. Once we stayed up late studying for an exam together and we slept, fully clothed, in my dorm room bed. If I had understood then what I know now, we'd have both gotten what we wanted that night.
It wasn't until my junior year that I got what I had dreamed about from Molly Hancock. I ran into her at a bar one night. After exchanging greetings, we separated to mingle and later I noticed her draping herself over an old buddy of mine, Ryan. She seemed very interested in being close to him and, from where I was sitting, he seemed to be uncomfortable.
He and I chatted in the men's room a few minutes later and I congratulated him on attracting her affections, "Dude, she is looking hot tonight and she seems into you. You might be having some fun later."
"I don't think so, man," he countered. "That's one slutty chick. She doesn't do much for me."
"Are you crazy? I can't begin to tell you how much I'd like to be in your shoes."
"I've seen her do this with other guys," said Ryan. "It just seems insecure and desperate. It's a turn-off. I'll pass."
He went to say goodnight to his friends before he departed and I saw Molly lean over and whisper into his ear with what I had believed to be an irresistible gleam in her eye. Ryan's reaction wasn't disgust or disdain, but the blunt 'no' seemed to knock her back. He didn't attempt to soften it; he just turned and left.
I turned to talk to an acquaintance I had seen earlier and was surprised by small, soft hands from behind me, covering my eyes.
"Guess who!" said Molly.
Within moments I was feeling the full court press from her. She took every chance to touch me and drape herself over me, repeatedly rubbing those cute little breasts against my arm and chest as she leaned in to talk to me in the noisy bar. This wasn't flirting or teasing. It wasn't playing with my social awkwardness. It was the direct communication of sexual desire. I wasn't Ryan. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn't have resisted her. No part of me wanted to resist. I was swept up by my fervor for this stunning woman for whom I had lusted so long.
When she flashed that irresistible look and whispered a suggestion that we go back to her place, I didn't hesitate.
In the car, she leaned over and kissed me as we were stopped at a red light. She kissed me at the next one too. She leaned over and put her head on my shoulder and a hand gently on my thigh as she made small talk and gave me directions to her apartment.
Once inside the door, we locked arms around each other and kissed with feverish intensity. Devouring each other's mouths, we eased onto the sofa and writhed in each other's limbs, groping and rubbing. Each time we surfaced for air, I'd see that face from so many of my fantasies and dive in again. I undid her bra beneath her shirt and reached in to touch her soft breasts, my fingers trying to memorize the feel of every millimeter of her flesh. She kissed me more fervently. Her thighs, when I reached between them, clenched shut—not to deny me access, but to keep me from taking my hand away as she rubbed against it.
She stood to remove those tight jeans, leaving only her lacy green panties. When she stepped over to lock the front door and turn off the too-bright overhead light, I took the opportunity to remove my pants, freeing the painful erection that had arisen before we'd even left the bar and hadn't yet diminished. Molly looked at me and with a smirk and that teasing tone I knew so well asked, "You're confident, aren't you?"
She sat on my lap, her bare thigh against my erection while we kissed. I caressed her mound through her panties before reaching in to finger her. We wound up on the carpet. She pulled off her shirt so I could suck her nipples—which I did—before kissing my way down her flat belly to the wet crotch of her panties.
She shucked off her panties and I dove in with great gusto, relishing the feel of her wet cunt on my lips and her hands in my hair. As I thrust my tongue as deeply inside her as I could and licked and licked, getting more and more feverish, I noticed that she was not. I got the feeling that I was enjoying it more than she was. I felt her trying to nudge and move my head around, but I had no idea what she wanted. I was trying to please her with my tongue and she was getting frustrated.
When the events in this story occurred, I had been with ten women. Nearly every one of those women was a drunken one-night stand. I had no game, no smooth talk or social skills to pick up women. I didn't know how to start a relationship or even how to date. My only sex life was the result of liquor-assisted pickups, which are not conducive to learning the finer points of pleasing a partner, orally or otherwise. As I kept blindly tonguing her, I could feel her impatience grow until she sort of slid out from beneath my face and said, "Let's go to the bedroom."
She led me into the bedroom and guided me to sit on the corner of the bed, facing the doorway. She said, "Let me put on some music. I'll be right back. What do you wanna hear?"
I was in such an advanced state of lust, here with the object of my fervent and long-held desire, that literally any musical selection she could have possibly made would not have lessened the stiffness of my cock. I didn't care! I had seen a Bob Marley album by her stereo earlier, so I told her to just put that on.
When the first reggae beats started, she swayed back into the room. She had put on some sort of fancy lingerie. It was black and silky and lacy. No woman had ever put on lingerie for me before and the fires of my arousal burned hotter as she strutted and posed and danced for me, putting on a show—which lasted for just about thirty seconds. "Dammit," she swore with more frustration, "I just can't dance to this. Who would pick Bob Marley?"
