"Grant, this is Angela. Angela, this is Grant."
When Carrie said that she had a particularly special virgin for his consumption this Friday night, Grant was skeptical. Sure, the two dozen cute young things that Carrie had fed him in the past several months were all quite nice—and some of them quite a bit more than nice—but they didn't really raise his temperature all that much. He had taken to heart what Carrie had said about giving them "a good experience," and so far no one had gone away disappointed. There was, of course, the predictable pain of penetration (both front and back—although some of them had balked at rear entry, and Grant never forced them); but once that was over, the girls seemed transfixed by the big, burly man who had relieved them of their unwanted virginity. He worried, in fact, that some of them would develop a crush on him, gaining feelings for him that he could never reciprocate. But if that had happened, he didn't know about it.
But when Carrie all but pushed the shy young woman at her side into his room, it was he who was bowled over.
Angela Dean was rapturously beautiful in a way that he had never seen in any other woman—not even his mother, who up to that point had embodied for him the acme of female beauty. But whereas Jessica was the very picture of ripe womanhood, Angela was a heartrending representation of the first flower of femininity. Most of all, it was her face. Delicately oval, its best features were the hauntingly beautiful and faintly melancholy purple eyes and the smallish but exquisitely shaped mouth. There was a demure hesitancy in her expression—typified by her looking away from him after an initial wide-eyed gaze, followed by a delicate blush that wrung his heart—that he had never seen in any girl or woman before. And although she stood tall and firm at about five foot six, she seemed like a porcelain doll fashioned by a master craftsman who had infused his creation with both his skill and his love.
And yet, Angela didn't in any way seem weak or fragile. Her figure was svelte but not unduly thin, and her generous curves at bust and hips made it hard for Grant to fathom how she could have remained untouched by a man up to this point. She was wearing a simple blouse and skirt, but there was an elegance in her bearing that made him think of such movie stars of an older generation as Ingrid Bergman or Barbara Stanwyck. But neither of them had the striking, expertly styled, silver-streaked hair—a kind of capstone to her overall loveliness.
So it was Grant who seemed tongue-tied when he stammered, "H-hi."
"Hi," she said in a low voice that went right into his heart.
Carrie was taken aback by Grant's reaction: she couldn't ever recall him seeming nervous or discombobulated when meeting a prospective sex partner, especially one with no experience. She said, "Well, I'll leave you to it," and drifted out of the room.
Grant got up from his desk—he was wearing nothing but his robe—and led Angela by the hand over to the couch. Sitting down on it, he urged her to sit next to him.
"Tell me something about yourself," he said.
Angela was startled. She couldn't know that Grant had never made any such request with any of the other virgins he had been with, and she didn't exactly know how to proceed. But encouraged by his gentle smile, she began telling him some of the particulars of her life.
She had been raised in a rural area in southern Washington State, and she was very close to her older sister, Sara, now living in northern California. She felt she had had an idyllic childhood and adolescence, but she yearned to get away from the stultifying aspects of rural life and see what she could do in a big city. But her shyness had made her reluctant to go to parties or on dates, and she had devoted herself mostly to her studies—she was majoring in French literature. Like Grant, she was a junior.
Grant was struck by that revelation. She had something of the bearing of a freshman—but in other ways she seemed ageless, like a Greek goddess. The prospect of delving into the body—and the mind and spirit—of this pristine twenty-year-old was becoming painfully urgent to Grant. And yet, he found her life story so fascinating that he continued to question her about it, carrying on for more than half an hour.
By this time, Angela had placed herself on Grant's lap, her arm resting lightly around the back of his neck. His head was close to her breasts, but he didn't reach out to touch them, even over the thin fabric of her blouse. But his fixed gaze on them made Angela breathe a little more quickly, her chest rising and falling and her face again gaining a crimson glow from a blush.
She wondered how long she was expected to natter on before the business of the evening was to take place, when finally Grant said almost shyly:
"May I take off your blouse?"
She swallowed and said, "Yes."
He unbuttoned the blouse with careful attention, then tossed it aside. Looking up into her face, he said: "And your bra?"
She nodded infinitesimally.
He was expert at removing the garment, and he managed to undo the clasps with a single motion of one hand. He let the bra fall to the floor—and then, looking at what was revealed, he gasped.
"Omigod," he breathed, "so beautiful . . ."
They were indeed the most exquisite breasts he had ever seen—and that was saying something. They were quite large—38D, he estimated—but they were superbly firm and round, and their nipples were already jutting out in anticipation of a man's touch. Their shapeliness and texture rivalled his mother's, but there was a fine down upon them that made them seem like the work of a master sculptor. As he hesitantly reached out to touch them, he came close to weeping at their sheer beauty.
Angela let out a gasp of her own when Grant took one of them in his hand and then brought his face close to it and delicately placed the erect nipple in his mouth. His own realization that he was the first man to experience these heaven-sent globes was matched by her own sense of the same fact. For all Grant's extensive experience and Angela's total absence of it, both had come to the understanding that a woman's breasts were far more than utilitarian objects for the nursing of infants: there was a deep, heavy symbolism in them that represented a haven of safety and security for the troubled males of our species.
He kneaded them with his hands and rubbed his face all around them. He sensed that he might easily have a climax just from this, but he reluctantly realized that that was not what Angela was looking for. He pulled his face away, looked up at her, and said:
"Stand up, please."
She did so, knowing what was coming.
He unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Stepping daintily out of it, she waited for him to peel off her panties.
The revelation of her gorgeous nudity caused Grant to come close to fainting. He had never seen the like—the flat stomach, flaring hips, firm curves of her bottom, strong thighs, tapered calves, and especially the thick, dark patch of fur at her groin, where he sensed that some moisture was already appearing. Angela's breathing was becoming still more agitated as she exhibited her nakedness with a paradoxically demure pride.
He got up himself and let his robe fall to the floor.
Her eyes bulged at the sight of his erect member. In her naïveté, it seemed enormous. Somehow she wasn't expecting it to be so big, and her excitement was now infused with a faint trace of apprehension. Grant, who had always been tickled at how some women seemed afraid of a man's cock, now wished he could reassure her that the organ was meant both for her pleasure as well as his own; but he sensed that that realization would only come to her through experience.
"Would you like to suck it?" he said quietly.
She nodded absently and dropped to her knees. The cock was standing all but vertically next to his groin, and she had to use a certain amount of force to pull it down and get it into her mouth. The first feel of that velvety hardness in her mouth was as inexpressibly thrilling to her as it was to him; and she seemed to have an instinctive understanding of the need to use both her tongue and her lips to enhance his sensations.
Grant was getting so stimulated that he stopped Angela after a few minutes, urging her to stand up and then lie down on her back on the bed. She naively expected that the moment of truth—her first penetration by a man—had arrived, but Grant had other things in mind. He gently parted Angela's legs and buried his head in her groin, and she felt for the first time the exquisite pleasure of a man's lips and tongue on her labia and clitoris. The sensation was so novel and striking that she let out a little cry, immediately suppressing it by placing a hand over her mouth.
But his actions produced their desired result in a matter of minutes. She watched wide-eyed as Grant's head bobbed up and down, licking and sucking with gusto; and as he placed his hands under her bottom in a characteristic gesture that inflamed both him and her, she felt that gradual but telltale sensation, proceeding from her sex and radiating over her entire body, that signalled the imminent eruption of an overwhelming orgasm. This was another first for her—having a climax in the presence of another human being, and a man at that. It shouldn't be a surprise that she felt a modicum of embarrassment at this intimate moment, and the choking cries that she usually gave out when pleasuring herself in the privacy of her own room and bed were deliberately suppressed even as Grant's continued licking drew out her orgasm far beyond its usual duration.
She couldn't even look at him as he gazed up from her muff and gave her a sly grin of self-satisfaction. He truly loved making women come, but Angela was so mortified by what she absurdly felt was her shameless display that she covered her face with her hands even as her body released its final shudders of ecstasy.
"Was that nice?" Grant said a bit impishly.
Angela didn't even want to answer, but felt the need to say or do something. Still covering her face, she nodded jerkily.
"I'm glad," he said placidly. Moving up her body and placing his own frame between her legs, he said: "Are you ready?"
She removed her hands from her face and gave him a look of mingled fear and excitement. "I—I guess so."
"Just relax," he said reassuringly as he directed his cock to her cleft.
The first touch of his member against her lips agitated her beyond reason, and she almost bucked her hips to thrust him off of herself. Realizing how ridiculous she was being, she resigned herself to undergoing the procedure—but then, when he inserted the first inch or two of his organ into her, her alarm came over her again and she let out a cry that was less of pain than of apprehension—the apprehension that she was on the threshold of true womanhood but not emotionally or even physically ready for it.
"Shhhh," he said, stroking her face gently. "It's okay—you can do this."
But he had come up to that familiar barrier, and both of them knew it. Angela started whimpering like a little girl, and Grant didn't know how to proceed. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt or wound this divine creature.
"Should I stop?" he whispered. He had done that in a few instances where some virgins had become so freaked out that they couldn't go through with the act. He didn't blame them: it struck him as one more injustice that nature had inexplicably inflicted upon the race of females. The "first time" never hurt a man, but it almost always hurt a woman.
