Cole, or Fucking an Experienced Virgin
I may have been a thirty-something over-padded divorced mother of two, but with Cole I could be 15 again. It was a well-plotted game we devised and brought out every so often, not TOO often, during the year I reigned supreme queen of his delusional little world. He had to get higher than a kite on meth to do it. Conversly, I had to be stone sober, and preferably awakened from the depths of REM sleep, which in both cases happened a lot in those days. Often his weird friends would be downstairs listening. It must have been the play-acting, the illusion within the illusion, the fantasy within the fantasy, that led us to twisted heights of passion we still talk about, years later, in an affectionate-remembrance sort of way.
One particular night, Cole wandered in around 2:30am, and he wanted a virgin. Or more like three or four of them. I was to be his cherry-popping party. He had it all planned: we'd go down to the river, throw down a blanket, and he'd be my first. He graphically described what was on his mind while I struggled awake and into persona. Soon, there I was, on a isolated beach, having dropped half my years, now innocent, illegal, and alone with an older male slut who was determined to have me.
The element of resistance was key, and had to be established right away. "No!" my teenaged self told him in response to his proposition, skittering back to the edge of my bed (edge of beach blanket), glaring.
It wasn't that she didn't find him attractive, but she wasn't sure she wanted HIM to be my first. He was a little scary. Overpowering. He didn't really love her either, she didn't think.
I will now interrupt this piece of erotica to give some guidance for the following. My alter-ego, the virgin(s), is referred to in 3rd person, "she." She could be my own youth or any of the hip-hugger jeaned, glitter belt-wearing, streaky-haired little hotty wanna-be sluts that prolifate the whole country in the last couple years. "I," of course, am myself, in the present. When playing this role, it was necessary to separate my real self from my character. "She" got to act it out, but 'I' still had to be present to interact with Cole & have the real pleasure.
Back to our story...
"Will you scratch my back?" he plied, the whiney little beggar.
Although it took some persuasion, the girl agreed to that much. He stripped off his shirt and pants and lay face down.
For a moment I was both myself and the character being portrayed; or, she borrowed into my skills. I'm a natural masseuse. Cole received the benefits of my abilities, often incorporated into our sex. This was just one of those times. It always worked best sitting astride his back, which she cracked for him and dug into with the heels of her sweaty little palms. Every few minutes he'd ask, "Does this turn you on? Are you wet?" In character, I snorted and denied it.
When he rolled over underneath, she modestly jumped off and kneeled to the side of him. "Scratch my chest," he demanded, the spoiled brat; sighing at his calculated
encroachment on her comfort zone, she obeyed anyway. His eyes glittered and the bulge in his boxers grew. she cast her eyes down pretended not to notice.
"Oooh, look at those pretty pink nipples." He fiddled with them till they were painfully hard. "Does my baby want some lovin'?"
He was being cheesy on purpose, to make the virgin sensibilites nervous and sick; he liked the power-struggle aspect. "Do you want some dick, baby? Have you ever touched one before?"
She shyly admitted she had not.
"Will you please touch my cock? I really want you to touch it. Pleeeeease? It would feel so good."
He wheedled, almost, not quite begging. She let him lead my hand slowly to the front of his fly, pulling back a couple of times.
Not sure what it was supposed to feel like, she put her hand on his prick, then around it through his underwear. She was almost surprised it wasn't some alien thing.
"Yeah, baby, that feels good." He removed the boxers altogether and said, "Now do it again."
