All the Best Stories Start with 'i'

Ok, I'm exaggerating. The stories I like start with I.

I want to know that the author is there, that these are personal memoirs, shared. I want to know what was said, what was felt, what was touched, and I want it natural and new. The impersonality of the he did she did leaves me uninterested.

Let's get something else straight right from the start. I won't be telling you how long my penis is, or how big her breasts are, or how many minutes I can last. If you really want those things, you can fill in the details however you desire. I'm just here to tell you what happened, and what is happening, and what I know will happen one day.

And to let you see it through my eyes. Eyes that were right there, real and involved. I give you this as a gift, and I need nothing in return.

Make no mistake: I love her. This is not a tale of random encounter, or conquest. This is a tale of love and love alone.

I met her online. I know that's become practically a cliché, but it is the modern way, and a good way. We became friends before we had the pressure of conversation. We learned the basics in a calm and careful way...the advantage of the chat line is that you can think twice about what you say. Words are not birds that once released are beyond our control.

It started with two advertisements. We were on the same service, each looking for something that we couldn't find in our closed worlds. I was looking for a relationship, while she was just testing the waters. I wanted a woman in my life: someone real and warm and permanent. She wanted a friend, to remind her that men can be a good thing.

We've both been through rough times. I was over mine though, and she hadn't had the luxury of time. Divorce can be easy or it can be difficult: mine was the former and hers was the latter. She really needed support and caring, and I have both in spades.

It started out slowly...I won't bore you with the details. I'll just tell you that the first time we met, I felt my heart thump hard, and my breath become short. I kissed her chastely on the cheek, and felt like the luckiest man in the world.

The first time I touched her body was like coming home at last. We shared a deep kiss, and knew there was more. We proceeded in slow stages, wanting this to be more than sex. I asked if it was ok to touch her breasts; she gave me permission. I took liberties, and reached down the top of her skirt to touch her intimately. Her hand was on my crotch, and the sign of my desire was undeniable.

There was a moment when she had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, and I knew she had made her decision. We climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and I laid her back gently on her bed. She reached up and put her hands on the back of my neck, and looked straight into my soul. We kissed for long minutes, lost in the sensation of mingling, finding what had been lost to both of us for so long.

I found my hands had a life of their own, and while my eyes were crossed below shut eyelids, I slid my fingers silently across her neck, her arms, her forehead. I pressed myself down on her, just the smallest bit arrogant, just a touch of demanding. I felt her breasts against my chest, so alien in their femaleness, so inviting. I put a hand under her shirt and moved it up her smooth skin, stopping to trace the edge of her ribcage, fitting my hand into her softness. At last I came to the gentle roundness that was the object of my desire, and moved it from below, feeling its delicate resistance.

I love a woman's lingerie, the border she wears between the outside world and the personal. Her protection, her safety. There's always a magic moment for me, when all that stands between me and her is a layer of flimsy fabric. I sat her up and lifted her shirt over her head, turning it inside out, and tossed it to the floor. Her bra was black and slightly wicked, and I had to pause and drink in the picture before me. She was beautiful, and at that moment I wanted her so badly it almost hurt. This time, I put both hands on her breasts, and possessed them utterly.

She put her head back and sighed, and a line was crossed. She had made her decision, and was making herself right with it. My decision had long ago been made, and I was thrilled that she was joining me on this side of the fence. Again I pulled her to me and our tongues met in a sacred dance. I could sense her desire growing by the minute.

I knew that this was all new to her. Her experience had not encompassed me or the likes of me; she had been a virgin to her boyfriend, who became her husband, which was all she had known. The guy was a screw-up: how could he not treasure this? I determined that she should set her own pace, but that I would push her in the direction I wanted. This was for both of us.

I pulled my shirt off too, and we pressed skin to skin for the first time. The room was slightly cold, and the warmth of her skin was a welcome contrast. I leaned down to lick her neck...something I always feel compelled to do, but have never known why. The skin was clear and soft. I let my tongue draw a line along the tendons, finding the hollows. At last I could resist no longer, and trailed my way down her chest to her breast (the left one, I think) and circled it widely. My hand went to her other breast, and cupped it firmly. Her nipple stood up and I touched it with the very centre of my palm, moving my hand slightly in small circles. I lifted my fingers from her, so that only her nipple could feel my touch, and held it there calmly, feeling a shudder run through her body.

I chanced at that moment to look up at her eyes. She was watching me with a wide-eyed fascination, engrossed in the sight before her. I remembered again that it might have been years since someone had touched her with caring, if ever, and I resolved to make this a perfect time. In my mind, I was having a virgin, and I wanted this to be the best memory she had ever had.

I laid her back again, and pulled her skirt down. Her panties matched her bra; the black made her skin look very white in the half-light. I lay down on top of her, my arms taking my weight, and returned to our interrupted kiss. We stayed like that for a long while, letting our worlds come together, slowly but with a determination that seemed to come easily to both of us. Our hands roamed freely over each other. I was fully hard in my jeans, and she gripped me with determination. I heard her sudden intake of breath when she realized how hard I was for her.

She pushed against my chest, surprising me when she pulled with a little irritation on the waistband of my jeans. I sat up and pulled them off, and my hands stumbled a little in my eagerness. I hoped stupidly that she didn't notice.

Did I mention my thing for lingerie? There is a moment that I love like few others, when I am faced with the decision to remove the sweet barrier or to gaze and touch further. I made my decision and she lifted her hips in acquiescence. I pulled them from her, stopping momentarily to let the smooth fabric slide through my fingers. I was seized with a desire to hold them to my face, to breathe in their perfume, but I didn't want to appear too far gone, and I let them fall to the floor. The first words since we had come upstairs came from her: she wanted me naked, and I complied. At first I forgot to take off my watch, but I noticed it when I reached for her, and placed it on the table beside her bed.

We lay back down, my erection pressed against her, and I leaned in to take a hard nipple in my mouth. Her breathing changed subtly, and I knew I was having the effect I desired. The smell of her cologne was intoxicating, and I breathed it in through my nose while I concentrated on what I was doing.

I must digress a moment. We are not children, my love and I. We carry the scars and healed wounds of our age. Gravity and impact have done their best to both of us. She had warned me with great trepidation of her imperfections, and I had explained that I wanted all of her, with no reservations, and with no hesitation.

When I saw the scars, I was both surprised and relieved. The surprise was this: it was less than I had expected, and I dismissed it quickly. The relief was for her; this was nothing to me. It was part of her, as was her history and her desire, and this I could do for her: to reassure and to make it part of us. I ran my fingers through the furrow of her past, and leaned down to slide my tongue over it. I told her that it was nothing, and I meant it, and she seemed relieved as well. My scars are otherwise, not visible but part of me, and I was no less sensitive than her. I felt sympathy, but I let my lust overwhelm it, and returned to the task at hand. I placed my hand fully over her sex, and just left it there.

She had me by the cock, her hand wrapped tightly around it. We stayed like that for a few moments, each with a handful of the other. I was on my knees by her side, and I leaned over her to take a firm nipple in my mouth. I took my nourishment from her, feeding my spirit from her body.

I'm good at this: I know it and I knew she knew it. To make good love to a woman, you must love her, and I did.

She sat up, moving me back, with my erection in one hand and my testicles in the other. She rolled them gently, producing a loud groan from me: I have always loved this. She stared at me, taking in the size and shape of me, and perhaps imagining what this might feel like inside her. I have long arms, and I could still reach her...I cupped her mons with my hand, then gently slipped one finger inside her. She was wet with desire, so wet I gasped with surprise.

It was our first time, and her trust was not yet complete. She didn't take me in her mouth, for fear of contagion, and I understood completely. I had no such qualms, however, and I left a trail of saliva from her breasts to the crease between her leg and her body. This is another part of a woman that I love, that sensitive line that leads from hip to crotch, that in all of us tingles when touched. It is perhaps the most sensitive part of our bodies that is not actually a sexual organ. I love to be touched there, and I love to touch there. I could feel her tense and then relax as my tongue made it's slow journey from her pelvis on down.

I stopped just shy of her sex, teasing, stretching out the moment, hoping to build her anticipation so far that she would have to grab me by the hair and move me. She didn't do it, and I remembered something she had confessed to me.

No man had ever done this for her; she was a virgin to the mouth of a man.

The thought stunned me, and I realized that she had no idea of what should come next. I resolved not to tease her, but to teach her. I wanted her to know exactly what I could do with this, the organ of communication. I pushed her legs apart.

I wanted to plunge into her at that moment, but the sophisticate in me had other plans. Sensing her eyes on me, I withdrew a few inches and looked up at her. Again I saw the look of rapt fascination. I returned my gaze to where my fingers were now kneading the soft flesh. It was a picture that will live with me always.

She was not like many women: she was so neat and tidy, so delicate, like a flower undisturbed by the elements. She had trimmed her hair into a single line up from her magic place, which suited me perfectly ( I'm still a teenager in some ways). Her outer lips were deliciously fat, concealing almost completely that which lay between them. I could see the inner lips just peeking up, and the hood of her clitoris balanced above them like a tiny pearl. I memorized all I could in a short time, and returned to my task.

Placing one hand on each thigh, I spread her legs wider, and she opened slightly for me. I pulled the skin down on each leg, opening her further, until I could see everything. I held her like that for a long minute, breathing into her, and sampling her dusky scent. Finally I bent my face down to her, and in one long lick took her from perineum to the vertical line of fur that marked her like an arrow. She sighed, and placed her hands on the back of my head. I hoped she would remember this moment forever.

Slowly I licked up and down, remaining outside her. She was tense again, but I hoped it was with lust and pleasure, not apprehension. I let her get used to the feeling before doing any more. I got up on my knees, and used the fingers of my talented right hand to spread the wetness at her entrance all over her. One finger then another slid into her, so smoothly and supplely that I could have been handling wet silk. I moved my fingers in and out slowly, while pressing my palm against her clitoris. She liked it: she reached down and took me by the wrist, pressing me hard against her. I thrilled at the touch; there is nothing like knowing you are doing right.

I continued with my fingers for a little, then withdrew them and replaced them with my mouth. I pressed my tongue into her, seeking her depths. She wriggled and put her hands back on my head: I wished I could see her face without leaving my task. I licked up and down, up and down, circling her clitoris at the top of each stroke. At last I placed my lips fully around it and sucked it lightly, tickling it with my tongue, then placed my tongue flat against it and pushed hard. She responded exactly as I wished, with an upward jerk of the hips, almost dislodging me. I maintained my movement and position, interrupting myself every few seconds to breathe and to lick downwards and up again.

I have a thing for good head. I always want more of it, except perhaps when I'm actually inside a woman. To get, one must give. It's only right. I wasn't very good at it when I first learned...I didn't know then that to please a woman, one must be very determined and consistent in one's actions. I learned with a will, however, and I was resolved to use all of my skill now.

She tasted so clean and pure that I knew I had found my place. There was no bitterness, no aftertaste; just the simple nectar of the goddess' desire. I have never been so blessed.

I continued in this vein for many minutes. After a few, I realized that she would not climax this way, but I was neither disappointed nor deterred. It takes time to learn to relax into pleasure, and this was brand new to her. I returned to plunging my tongue as far into her as I could reach, plumbing the depths of her private ocean, pulling the moisture out into the world. My face was covered with it...she had so much liquid to share with me. I reveled in it, grateful for a chance to show off.

At last she had had enough, and she lifted my head off her. I was so hard that I felt as if my whole being was being pushed into me. I wanted to be inside her right then, but again I stilled myself, and returned to kissing her while I fondled her breasts. We kissed for a very long time, but I had no fear of losing my erection: I had never been so in love in my life.

As I held her there, my face now buried in her chest again, I heard words that took my breath away. "I want you inside me," she said. There was nothing else to say.

I rose up over her, pushed her legs apart and looked down into her eyes. They were very bright, and a Mona Lisa smile played across her lips. I leaned in yet again to kiss her, as I brought myself to her very entrance, and held myself there.

She put her legs high over me, wrapping her arms around me. I pushed gently, and finally my cock pressed into her, opening her. She was so wet that I felt no resistance at all. I leaned my whole body forward, and slid completely into her.

If her breasts had been like coming home, this was like being enveloped by the whole universe. I felt a sudden completeness in my being, that here was where I belonged; had always belonged and would always belong. There was nothing else in the whole of my experience that mattered to me at that moment. I was fire in water, and I was fucking the whole world. She was not a woman to me; she was the female spirit of all, and I would use her the way a man must.

We are strange creatures, we men. We can never know the feeling of holding the world within us. Our beings are so outward, so pointed and directed. The only way we can taste that ownership is at the body of a woman. Many of us are stupid, and think only of conquest. Many of us know better, that a smile of a woman, that sacred invitation, is the gateway to the cosmos. I was in love, and I hoped beyond hope that my cock would tell her this.

I stayed in her without moving, absorbing all I could; the calm before the storm. Her cunt was warm and welcoming, talking to me in its way. She was happy; I could feel it; she knew she had done the right thing when she led me up the stairs. I hoped I wasn't crushing her (I'm a big boy), but part of me just didn't care. I'm a man, and I am arrogant and selfish, just enough to illustrate my desire.

My cock pulsed in warning. I was burning with lust, and I wanted to come already. I stayed still and let the moment pass. In fact, I had warned her days before that when we first made love, I would be too eager, and she had assured me that it would be ok. I didn't think it would be ok: I would have been crushed to lose my control at that moment. When the moment passed, my self-assurance returned, and I knew that I would give her the fucking of her life.

I looked to the side as I came down to my elbows; her legs were pointed up in a wide v, her feet arched and her toes curled. She pulled me down on her, wanting my weight, and pinning me to her chest. I could easily have broken free, but for that moment she was opening to me like a flower to the sun and I let her have her way. The desire to get down to a good solid fuck grew in me, but once again I stilled it for the moment. This was her moment: a moment when she would give herself up finally and completely in the way she had imagined so many times, and had never had the opportunity to fulfill. With her legs spread wide and her cunt so wet, she was open to me in the deepest way. I wanted to fill her completely, to climb up inside her with the totality of my being and make myself at home. Sometimes a cock seems like a small thing to give to a woman, who can surround worlds.

I gave her all the time I could, returning again and again to her soft lips and eager tongue, talking to her in the language of love. She couldn't get enough, but at last she relinquished her grip on me and I rose up to let her breathe freely. Her eyes had been closed, her face pointed up to the head of the bed, but now she opened them and looked at me expectantly. I began to fuck her in long slow strokes.

Once my moment of danger has passed, I can last a long time. It is something I had learned a long time ago: if you do not surrender to that first wild urge to plant your seed and flee, the wave you ride can take a long time to return. Many times I had put that wave off for too long, and had lost my orgasm entirely. This time the wave took me by surprise, and I came right to the edge of the abyss. My cock pulsed hard, once, twice, three times and again, but I did not come. The pleasure was all there, but the fluid was not. Women don't know this of men: we can't come ad infinitum like a truly pleasured female, but it doesn't have to be over with the first peak.

I wondered for a moment if I would go soft, and I did lose a little pressure, but miraculously maintained stiffness enough to return to the task at hand with renewed vigor. I returned to my slow stroking, pulling back until just the tip of my cock was still in there, and I could feel the walls of her vagina close after me. I wanted her to feel it anew with each stroke, that filling and command that characterizes my desire. Every few strokes I would pull back and hold there for a moment, taking the time to pay attention to the hungry orbs that were her breasts. She seemed to respond well to this, pulling my head down, staring at me wide-eyed as I looked up into her face. I could imagine a line of electrical fire connecting nipple and cunt, centred in clit and g-spot at one end.