Invasion

My name is Jenny Carter. I'm a nice white girl of twenty-eight—at least, I think I'm nice. Some of my friends think I'm a bit on the meek and mild side, and maybe I am. But I'm no pushover! I've always believed there should be pretty clear differences between the sexes—and society seems to have decided that it's women who should be the caregivers and nurturers of the species, so we should be sweet and kind and gentle and—well,

nice.

Don't get me wrong: I don't like men to be mean and nasty and brutish or cruel. I love men who are strong and muscular, but they have to be respectful of women, otherwise it's no go. I've had a few relationships over the years, but they haven't worked out. I'm still looking for that perfect guy who is powerful without being rough, self-confident without being arrogant, smart without being a know-it-all, and tender without being soft. Is that too much to ask?

The thing that I'm going to describe happened one Wednesday night in summer. I have a tiny little two-bedroom house in a small town in Illinois, and I kept the windows open all through the house to get some cross-ventilation in. I don't have any air conditioning, so this is the best I could do. I ended up wearing my sheerest nightgown—a little baby-doll thing that only went down to the middle of my thighs—and tried to get to sleep.

About an hour after I went to bed, I heard something funny. The next thing I knew, there was a man in my bedroom.

He'd come in through the bedroom window—somehow he'd managed to remove the screen on the window.

Well, you can imagine that my heart just about stopped! I just gaped at him, clutching the thin bedsheet (it's all I was using—no need for a blanket in this heat) up to my neck and wondering what he wanted and what he'd do.

He was not a very tall guy, and from what I could see of him (there was a bit of moonlight coming in through the window, so it wasn't pitch-dark) he looked pretty young, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. All he was wearing was a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. Even in my terror I wondered why he wasn't wearing a ski-mask or something over his face, so that no one could recognize him. Maybe it was too hot!

I somehow found my voice, although my words really came out in a sort of croak. "What are you doing here? You—you'd better leave!"

The guy made no movement. He was standing only a few feet from my bed, gazing down at me. And the weird thing was that the expression on his face made him look . . . frightened.

Well, maybe he was scared because he'd officially committed a crime and might get sent to prison if he got caught. So I tried to use that to my advantage.

"You'd better get out of here right now!" I said in my best schoolmarm voice. But he didn't budge.

Then he knelt down next to my bed. What he did next surprised—even stunned—me.

He reached a hand out and stroked my cheek tenderly. Then he muttered, more to himself than to me, "Oh, so pretty."

Now I don't think of myself as the Marilyn Monroe of my generation. I do hope that I'm one of those women that guys "won't throw out of bed" (ugh! what a horrible expression!). I have nice curves at bust and hips, and people say I have an appealing face—regular features, Cupid's-bow mouth, bright green eyes—framed by soft auburn hair. Maybe I might even win a local beauty contest or two—but you won't see me in the swimsuit issue of

Sports Illustrated!

This guy kept stroking my cheek as if I were a stray cat he was trying to make friends with, so my sense of fear went away a little. If he really wanted to attack me, he would have done so already.

And then I suddenly realized I knew him. He lived in a house a few doors down from me—a house not much bigger than mine. I'd seen him around for a few weeks, so I guess he was new to the area. He must also have seen me going to work, coming home from work, tending to my garden, or whatever.

Is it possible that he'd developed a crush on me just from watching me, without even saying a word to me? I now began to sense that his fear might be due to extreme shyness. Maybe he'd never had a girl before!

So I tried a more gentle approach. "What's your name?" I said.

"Chris," he replied instantly.

I know it sound stupid, but the first thing that shot through my mind was:

Chris and Jenny. Jenny and Chris. Has a nice ring to it.

I guess I couldn't help it—it's what women think about a lot. Whenever they meet a new man (even under circumstances like this), they wonder: is this the guy I'll be linking my fate with for the rest of my life?

But that was silly. There was no way I'd have a relationship with this man—not after he'd broken into my house. But the trick was to get him

out

of my house without causing an incident.

"Chris," I said in the mildest tone I could manage, "I really think you need to leave. You shouldn't be here."

Now his caresses had moved down to the area of my neck and shoulders. He seemed afraid of going any lower.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered.

Well, thank heaven for that! I instinctively trusted him. Chris seemed the sort of guy who was just incapable of lying. Wish there were more like him!

I pulled out one of my hands from under the sheet and just held it against his own cheek. It was pretty smooth, and the skin was nice and soft.

"Chris," I began.

Then something strange happened.

He let out a moan, burst forth with "I'm so sorry!" in such an anguished voice that it squeezed and then he—

Well, he lowered his head on my abdomen and began to cry.

Now don't get the impression that I don't think men should cry. In many ways I feel the world would be a better place if men

did

cry more often. A guy so often locks up his emotions within himself that they often come out in very destructive ways. Women long ago learned the benefits of tears.

I now felt sorry for this poor guy—he was really in a lot of pain. I'm sure he was feeling guilty for invading my house and frightening me, but I think he was in some kind of agony because—well, because of

me.

He wanted me, but didn't know how to approach me in the usual way. He was too bashful to strike up a conversation with me, or to knock on my door and say, "Hey, we're neighbors, let's get acquainted." A lot of guys are like that.

So what else could I do but stroke his head gently and murmur little nothings to try to calm him down? But Chris was bawling his head off, pressing his face against my belly, his hands clutching at my hips and thighs. I could feel the wetness of his tears against my, um, delta.

I really didn't know what to do—but the next move turned out to be Chris's. What I think happened was that, even in the midst of his crying jag, he detected a certain . . . aroma exuding from the part of my body where his face was.

And so, still sniffling but not wailing anymore, he slowly and tentatively raised my nightgown up to my waist. I was naked underneath.

He looked at the area as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. I have to admit, I have a pretty lavish bush. My last boyfriend didn't want me to shave, so I gave it up. That fur really covers a wide area, and sometimes it embarrasses me when I look at myself nude in the mirror. But I like to please my man!

I guess I should have stopped Chris from doing what he did—and what he was going to do. In short, the next thing he did was to part my legs a little, so that he could see that my pussy was pretty wet. That's what was causing the smell. But I was so startled by his actions that I couldn't say or do anything.

And so he lowered his head between my legs and began licking.

It didn't take me long to realize that this guy was no amateur at pleasing a woman. His licks and nuzzles made more of my fluid pour out of me, and now he brought a hand up and inserted a few fingers into my pussy. But it was his lips working on my labia and clitoris that really got me going, because in about three minutes I came.

That sounds pretty fast, doesn't it? Well, my guilty secret is that I come early and often. I always have. There have been times when, while playing with myself, I've made myself come four times within an hour. And every time I come, my whole body—but especially my legs—go through a kind of trembling or quivering motion that I just have no control over.

That's what I was doing now, as Chris kept on licking me, sometimes reaching under my body with his hand to massage my bottom. I think he was startled when I came so fast, but he gave me a broken smile through his tears as he looked up at me.

I get kind of dizzy after an orgasm, so I just stared bleary-eyed at him as he stood up and, in under a minute, stripped naked.

My jaw dropped as I saw him standing over me. He had muscles all over, from shoulders to chest to thighs to calves to even his bottom (as far as I could tell from this angle). What is it about muscles that sends goose-pimples through a girl? Well, I have to say that there's just the faintest bit of fear—the fear that a guy could crush you with all that strength—but also a tingling delight in the thought that he could wrap his arms around you and hold you tight and kiss you all over and do all sorts of other things. A woman is pretty helpless in the arms of a man like that, but there's a strange sort of pleasure and even a kind of tranquility in that. Maybe it goes back to caveman days, when a woman wanted a big, strong man to protect her from wild animals.

And I also have to say that, in the midst of my amazement at Chris's overall physique, my eyes did gravitate down to the area of his groin.

His penis, already fully erect, must have been about eight inches long. Holy cow! I haven't seen—or felt—very many of those things, but this was certainly one of the bigger ones I'd come upon. And I have to say that's also something that sends shivers through a woman. The moment she sees a cock she wonders,

What will it be like when he lies down on top of me and fills me up with a thing like that?

And believe me, a cock like the one Chris had can really fill a woman up.

As I lay there gazing up at him, feeling frightened and excited at the same time, he slowly came forward. And yet, it still looked as if

he

was frightened. He extended a shaky hand and took hold of my nightgown at the shoulders. Then he tugged it up over my head and tossed it away.

He gasped at what he saw. He was just devouring me with his eyes, going from my boobs (whose nipples were pretty thick and erect) to my stomach to the bush at my delta to my legs and even my feet. His face kind of crumpled up as he again whispered to himself, "Oh, so pretty!"

Then he climbed up onto the bed and got on top of me.

Even so, he actually didn't touch very much of me. Although I spread my legs (there wasn't any point in fighting back, was there?) and let him place his body between them, he remained looming above me with his arms held straight down on either side of me. Of course I felt his abdomen pressed against my own, and that big penis of his knocking at the door of my cleft. I thought he was just going to go right in, but he remained frozen in place.

With a strangely pensive look on his face, he said, "May I?"

Well, that was nice of him! He certainly was the most unusual invader of my private space that I'd ever encountered. (Not that anything like this has ever happened to me, of course.) So what else could I say but: "Yes, you may."

So he entered me.

He went in slowly and gently, also lowering himself down on me. It's funny how a woman's body instinctively gets into position for sex even in a situation like this, without the mind being able to do anything about it. I wrapped my arms around his back, and my legs encircled his hips. It's just more comfortable that way. I mean, I'm not just going to lie there spread-eagled while he did his business. I could feel him going in inch by inch—and I have to say that I felt a little

stretched:

my vagina had never accommodated such a large organ. I was incredibly wet, and he didn't have any trouble going in pretty far. In fact, I felt his balls banging against my labia as he began getting into a good rhythm.

Oh, my, he really did fill me!

I will admit that I'd not had one of those things in me for more than a year. I guess I'd missed it without realizing it: maybe that's why I didn't put up much of a fuss. Anyway, as he kept on thrusting into me, he kissed me all over my face and neck and shoulders: there was clearly a lot of passion in him, and I couldn't help kissing him back or just letting him enjoy my body as much as he wanted.

After a couple of minutes of him buried to the hilt in me, I came again.

I told you I come early and often! And what happens to me, especially when a man is in me, is that I start shaking all over, especially in my legs, which almost seem as if they're having some kind of spasm. I could tell he was startled by my response, because he stopped kissing me and just stared down at me as I was trembling under him. My shivers got so violent that I almost dislodged him; but he clung tightly to me and pressed his body down against mine to stay firmly lodged within me. I actually like it when a man presses his body against mine: it's like this big, warm, living blanket covering me!

My quivering settled down after a little while, and he kept at it. But I knew he wasn't going to last very long—he was just so excited! And so, when he started pouring his stuff in me, groaning heavily, I felt every drop of his come bathing the walls of my vagina. Yes, I can feel that! And it was such a thrilling sensation for me—even though my conscious mind should have rebelled at the thought of this man, whom I hardly knew, sending his discharge into me—that I . . .

Well, I came again.

Actually, he'd finished his orgasm and was kind of lying like a dead weight on me, his cock still plugging me up. I do like the feel of a cock just resting firm and tight in me, without the guy even doing anything else. There's such a wondrous sense of

union

between male and female in that position. It didn't matter that this guy was almost a total stranger and really shouldn't even be in my place, let alone in my body. I just couldn't help feeling

connected

to him.

And so I came a third time, trembling under him, my legs almost kicking his thighs as the tremors coursed through me. I did end up dislodging him then; anyway, he was getting soft. So he rolled off of me and flopped over onto his back next to me as I finished my uncontrollable shaking.

So there we lay, two people lying naked in a bed after sex. At this point I could hardly even remember his name—or my own. He was a man, and I was a woman: that's all that mattered.

The question was: what would happen now?

Was he finished? His cock was lying on his belly, still oozing little drops of come. It wasn't totally flaccid, though, and it was even quivering a little. Was he just going to get up and leave? Even though I really shouldn't have tolerated his presence in my house, the thought of him departing like that filled me with dismay, even a kind of horror.

You see, once you've had sex with someone, it's never the same. You can't go back to a time when you

weren't

sexually involved. There was a bond between this man and me that would last forever, no matter what our future relationship (if any) was.

But Chris—I suddenly remembered his name!—didn't seem to be finished. A little roughly, he took hold of me and dumped me on top of himself. I landed a bit heavily on his chest, letting out an "Oof!" as some of the air was expelled from my lungs. He at once started stroking and fondling me all over.

Good boy! So many men seem to think that, once they've done "the act," then it's all over. It's

not

all over, guys! Most women like a little cuddling afterward, just to be reassured that they're loved and cherished. Well, Chris seemed to like cuddling a lot.

But I should have sensed what the next thing we were going to do would be. He was grabbing my bottom so hard that it was almost as if he was giving me a massage. I didn't mind that, but then he came out with:

"Can I go in back there?"

It took me a little while to figure out what he meant. Then I gasped. The idea! Isn't that kind of—obscene? I mean, it's what gay men do, and that's fine for them. But why would a guy want to do that to a woman? I hadn't done it, and didn't know any women who had. Of course, it's not something that comes up in everyday conversation.

He was looking up at me with the most incredible expression of

yearning.

I almost felt that yearning myself. At the very least, I didn't want to disappoint him. (He

had

made me come three times, after all!)

So I said a little nervously, "That seems to me a little . . . naughty."

"You don't like it?" he asked, almost in disbelief.

"No!" I cried. "I mean . . . I haven't done it before."

"Would you like to try?"

More shivers started going through my body—and not from an orgasm! I was becoming afraid again.

"I've heard it really hurts," I said.

"I guess it might," he conceded. "But lube will help."

"Will it?"

"Yeah."

And he got so excited at the prospect of going in me "back there" that he tossed me aside, got out of bed, and headed toward the bathroom. He came back in seconds holding a little blue jar in his hand. Jeez, that was my cold cream!

"

That's

what you're going to use for lube?" I said incredulously.

"Yeah. It works pretty well."

"Oh, so you're an expert on the subject!"

"Well, no. I've only done it a couple of times."

This guy clearly had more experience than I'd given him credit for—obviously more than me.

As he opened the jar and scooped out a big dollop onto his fingers, he approached me with the idea of coating my—you know, my spot—with the stuff.

"I haven't agreed to this," I said weakly.

Once again I was facing the prospect of having him force himself onto me. But I had to admit that he really hadn't forced himself before, so maybe I was being unjust to him. (But then, the cool air coming in through the wide-open bedroom window made me think again.) His response was sudden: he stopped abruptly, almost frozen in place like a statue. Then an utterly crestfallen look spread over his face.

He seemed on the verge of wiping his fingers on some Kleenex and trudging disconsolately out of my house. I know it sounds crazy, but I suddenly felt pity for him. He'd actually been quite sweet in his way—far sweeter than some of the guys I'd been with before! And so I didn't want him to be unhappy.

"Oh, Chris, you can go ahead and put the stuff on me," I said, rolling over onto my stomach like a little girl at the doctor's office waiting to get a suppository.

I couldn't help giggling as he spread that cold, wet substance all around my anus—and I squealed when he actually stuck a few fingers inside that cavity. Gee, even I hadn't ever done that! But I guess you need to coat the inside also, otherwise the lube won't work so well.

I didn't know if he wanted me to get on my hands and knees—that's how this act is usually done, isn't it? But he just draped his body all over mine as I remained prone. Then, taking the greatest of care not to hurt me, he stuck his thing into me.

What I felt most of all was the sheer

strangeness

of the sensation. The mere thought of having something get stuffed into that orifice is peculiar enough; to actually have it happen is almost mind-numbing. I did feel as if my mind was turned off. I lapsed into a kind of bleary-eyed daze as he forged deeper and deeper into me, until he finally met an obstacle and couldn't go in any farther. Even so, he seemed to have gone in so far that I had the weird feeling that something was tunneling all the way through my body.