The First Time

Do you remember the first time you made love? Not the first time you had sex. I'm not talking about that moment that was equal parts pleasure and terror, when the whole act seemed so taboo and horrifying, yet your desire pushed you forward to a climax that was as uncertain as it was wonderful. I mean the first time that all of the pieces clicked, when you were with a person you were in love with and the moment was simply perfect.

I do.

Her name was Jenny. She was a little bit of everything to me. A brunette beauty. A mischievous grin that filled out a sweater with just the right curves. She was brash and clumsy, too clueless to be truly embarrassed yet self-assured enough that she always seemed to take her latest fax paus in stride. She was a cat that always landed on her feet, not quite sure if she'd fallen or leapt on purpose.

We'd met in high school and started as casual friends. She'd been dating a jock named John that immediately went for the nearest skirt the instant Jenny left the room. I was dating one of the most amazing girls I'd ever met - a totally uninhibited sexual dynamo that had been hiding behind a wallflower mask. Kim was 5'2" of drama club president, big blue eyes and naturally curly hair. Everyone thought we were the sweetest couple and had secretly voted us the last two virgins in high school.

If only they had known.

It turned out that Jenny and a few of her friends had wondered. I've never considered myself particularly well-endowed. You watch enough porn starring men with giant penises and read enough erotica centering around 10" cocks and even a descent-sized tool is left to shame. As Jenny would later put it, "You're just perfect - not so big as to say, "Dear God, No!" but big enough that you leave a woman thinking, "Dear God, Yes!"

But I'm getting ahead of the story.

It was the late 1980's and, in order to spend a little more time with Kim, I had joined my high school's jazz choir. Every morning before school, we'd stand in a circle, clustered around the scattered microphone stands and sing. I had been designated a tenor and was thankfully comfortable enough with what Kim and I shared in bed not to consider singing the higher registers a slight to my masculinity. After all, the year before I had been the starting outside linebacker at my previous high school. I was a good-looking, muscular jazz vocalist (I also played sax) with a romantic streak a mile wide.

Little did I know that every morning, there was a secret scuffle across the circle of microphones, girls silently positioning themselves to stand across from me. As Jenny later told me, "TYou looked great in jeans, but there were these linen walking shorts you wore - they weren't too tight, but they didn't leave us guessing. We all wondered how little Kimi could handle all of that."

So here we were, a year later. Kim had hit me with a, "I don't love you anymore - in fact, I'm pretty sure I never did," break-up from out of the blue. John had chased one too many girls and Jenny had finally handed him his walking papers. High school was behind us and we stood silently terrified of the big bad world that we were suddenly expected to face. Jenny leapt, I caught. We became best friends and incredibly compatible lovers. Well, at first, we were just best friends. John had left her gun shy and dissatisfied. It may be a bit crass, but her hardline of "I've tried sex and I don't like it," had softened the first time I went down on her. And things had only gotten better from there.

Our relationship had always contained a marvelous sensuality. While sex for us could be raw and animalistic, leaving us in a sweaty, exhausted tangle of arms and legs, it was typically soft and slow, sensations drawn out to impossible heights, passions slowly teased to life. Our early courtship was spent simply touching each other, marveling at the way a jawline traced its way beneath a gentle fingertip or how her hair cascaded between my fingers. Sometimes we wouldn't even kiss. Countless afternoons were shared, simply touching, lost in the depths of each other's eyes.

I think it was good from the very first time I slipped inside her, from the moment that I first felt her soft fingers wrap around my hard cock, slowly moistening the head of my penis as she traced the length of her pussy. I like to remember that the first penetration was heaven, that something happened as I slowly slipped inside her, as we shared a simultaneous breath and surrendered to what we became together.

Maybe it was like that. Maybe not. Everything I remember about us was good. But amidst it all, there is a special morning we shared together that stands out forever in my mind.

We had taken some time off from our respective jobs and were staying in a small cabin owned by a relative of mine. You could wake up in the morning and watch the deer in the meadow across the river as the fog slowly lifted from the narrow mountain valley. I'd wake early, slipping from her sleeping arms, rewarded with a half-conscious smile for my efforts, a sort of, "I know you're in my world and it makes me happy," sleepy grin. Naked and barefoot, I'd hurry across the hardwood floors to build a fire. A quick stop to put water on for hot chocolate or tea and I would slip back into her warm embrace. Nothing chases away the chill than the naked embrace of a woman you love.

I was content to lay forever in that bed, feeling Jenny curled up in my arms, her head resting on my naked chest. She would sleep and I would slowly stroke her hair, certain I was the luckiest guy in the world.

Without a warning, without a single stirring, a stretch, or even a yawn, I would feel her fingertips gently tracing the length of my soft penis. She was content just to play. It wasn't as much foreplay as it was similar to the way that I lazily ran my fingers through her hair. The touch said, "I like you. You make me feel special." And then, with an impish grin, all of that would turn into, "Would you like to be my toy?"

My fingers left her hair to gently cup her jaw, softly turning her face toward me as I slipped down the bed, our lips meeting somewhere in the middle. It's funny how in memories there is no hint of morning breath, no sudden need to pee. But maybe it was like that. Maybe what we had was really that pure. Because when I kissed Jenny, there was nothing but her. There was no cabin, no chill mountain air that was slowly being pushed back by the crackling fire. There was only her lips, the way the caress of her nipples on my naked chest made my breath catch in my throat, as if I was afraid that breathing would send her scattering like a reflection of a perfect summer sky scattered by a splashing stone.

We kissed, our arms and legs slowly entwining, our bodies rediscovering how they fit together. My fingertips traced lazy circles over her naked shoulder blades and spine. Her lips would leave our kiss to find my neck; my chest; her eyes dancing with delight as my back arched, as I softly moaned. I teased her nipples between my lips, my mouth working lower, my heart racing as her fingers tangled in my hair and she gasped as my tongue first found her wetness. I would breathe the length of her labia, teasing her with my breath, stroking her with the warm air that slipped from between my lips. She would open her thighs, welcoming me, beckoning me, and I would savor the moment, the anticipation of when my tongue first tasted her wetness.

The first stroke would be long and slow, gentle and light, little more than a hint of what my breath had promised would come. I would softly lick her, over and over, teasing her, tempting her, letting her sensations slowly blossom to life. When she began to writhe, when her hips began to move to meet my tongue, I would know she was ready for me.

Slowly, firmly, I would lick her. Not hard, but a tangible sensation, a release in its own after the delicate ministrations that had awoken her senses. In a way, it was like a tiny orgasm. Her body would tremble, her lips would part, a whispered, "Yes," escaping into the morning air. I would slip my naked shoulders beneath her thighs, relishing the feel of her skin against mine. My fingertips would lightly trace their way across her hips, her belly, her legs, their touch harmony to the melody of my tongue. Her hips would slowly take on a life of their own, an almost imperceptible rhythm shifting them against the mattress, as if she was making love to my mouth, my tongue matching her speed. I would tease her clit, my fingertips moving through her tiny patch of well-trimmed hair, gently massaging her outer labia, tracing their length to the rhythm of my tongue.

She would gasp when I slipped a finger inside her, slowly, an inch at a time, moving inside her in the same way she welcomed my hard cock. Inside her, my finger would join my tongue in a duet, teasing her, feeling her build. Jenny's thrusting hips would become more demanding and I would answer their plea, letting her build until she called out my name, her legs stiffening into rigid limbs across my shoulders, her hips lifting off the bed as she cried out again and again.

I'm not sure if she ever realized that I still listened to her body even as she came, slowing my tongue to keep time with the shudders of pleasure that wracked her body, backing off the pressure as her orgasm faded, pulling away only when she began to tremble. Somewhere in the afterglow, she'd realize that she was in my arms, that I was holding her close and gently kissing her hair as I told her I loved her.

Somehow I would end up between her legs, her fingers wrapped around my throbbing cock. Even now, I'm nearly breathless remembering the anticipation. She would tease me, the wetness of her body an elixir to the burning heat of my erection. Slowly stroking herself with my penis, she'd let my anticipation build until, by some unseen signal, she would lead me inside of her. It was always a blur what happened next. Our lips would suddenly find each other, our hips moving slower than even my exploring tongue had dared to tease, arms and legs moving in an ever-shifting tapestry of skin.

I would slowly withdraw, a dozen heartbeats passing while I pulled out of her until only the head of my cock was left inside her body. Without pause, the journey would reverse, slowly melding us together, savoring the sensation of my rock hard cock slowly slipping deep into her warm, wet embrace. Over and over, like the glorious haze of some wondrous drug, we'd move in our own private dance. We'd explore all of the themes that had filled our relationship from the very first. Our hips slowly moving, we'd gaze into each others eyes, tracing a jawline with a fingertip or softly caressing a cheek.

In my memories, I never remember orgasming myself, but I know I did. All I remember is the perfect union we found together. Maybe that's why, even now, my own pleasure is never at the forefront when I make love. I was spoiled. Not ruined, just shown something so wondrous that even now I can feel her beneath me, our bodies slowly moving together as we made love.

Author's Note: This story is entirely true. Only the names have been changed to maintain anonymity of the aforementioned individuals. A special thank you to my Jenny. Years may change people, but you forever blessed me with a little bit of your magic.