Thanks again to LarryInSeattle for cleaning up my grammatical messes.
I'd love to hear helpful feedback regarding what worked and what didn't.
All of the incidents related occurred to characters who were older than 18.
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The heat woke me. I am burning up. A trickle of sweat slithers down the back of my neck. Gary's face is buried in my neck. He's lying nestled against my side, holding me close, one leg draped over my legs. My left boob rests in the crook of his elbow. My right is cupped in his hand.
His erection is pressing against my hip. Random memories of last night flit through my mind. I try to feel shame. I want to feel ashamed. Shame seems the only sensible emotional response to what we have done. I try to feel ashamed but I fail. All I feel is hot, sleepy, well fucked and already getting turned on by the feel of my big brother's cock pressing against me.
I manage to move Gary's arm from my chest and let it rest between us. Terry is missing. I raise my head and look behind Gary, wondering if the heat has driven Terry to a less densely populated portion of the bed. Nope. He has gone.
I have no idea what time it is. I am not sleepy but I am tired. Right now wiggling from under Gary's leg would require more effort than I am willing to expend. If great sex always leaves me this drained I might have to give it up. I won't have the energy for anything else. Last night was unbelievable but I am not ready to contemplate a life as my brothers' kept woman.
I've had two other lovers in my twenty-two years. I had set a goal, a silly one but a goal nonetheless, to lose my cherry as a freshman in college. I was almost nineteen at the time. I had let a couple guys play with my pussy, during my senior year in hight school, but that was it. I had turned eighteen the summer before my senior year and I was desperate to do more than kiss. The first guy was a neighbor home from college. He was nineteen. He claimed to be experienced but all his experiences must have sucked. He was a terrible kisser and he scratched me with his fingernail. Good-bye.
The other I known all my life. We had been classmates since kindergarten. We even shared birth dates and as kids our parents held combined parties. We both hated that. I'd turned eighteen with a quite dinner with mom. He turned eighteen with a kegger at the lake and was nearly arrested. His parents begged and the charges were dropped, and he was allowed to finish his senior year.
We had been friends, why not boy friend and girlfriend? The petting and pawing had gotten pretty heavy. He unzipped his jeans and I gave him a hand job. After he came I eyed the whitish fluid that ran over my fingers and the back of my hand. I don't recall thinking about it. I simply raised the hand to my mouth and started to lick the cum off my fingers. I think I was more curious than anything else. My more experienced girlfriends had made such a big deal about how nasty cum tasted, swearing that no matter how much they were into a guy they'd never let him shoot in their mouth.
I sort of liked it. Not the taste so much. I thought it had a metallic taste and afterward my mouth felt numb. I was pretty sure there was no oak in a guy's balls but it reminded me of the way my mouth felt after drinking a wine with a lot of tannin. Weird huh?
My just-satisfied beaux's face was twisted in disgust. I asked him what was wrong and he explained that eating cum was gross and, well, slutty. I asked him how the fuck that made any sense, especially since it had been a blowjob not a hand job he'd been begging for.
I had been terrified he'd tell everyone I was a slut if we stopped dating. I ignored that fear that was our last date. His was the first cock I'd seen other than in a porno. He was pretty much a total D bag but he had nice cock.
I only took a few days before my girlfriends, who felt just awful about having to tell me, informed me that Mr. Eating Cum is Gross was, in fact, telling everyone that I was a slut. They felt just awful but for my sake they summoned the courage to make sure I knew about it. I had less than a month left of high school so I told myself I really didn't care. Even if I didn't care I refused to fall in the habit of letting anyone walk all over me.
I went to a private school and mom was one of their favorite donors. I could have stunned him with a Taser and cut his dick off and gotten no more than an in-school suspension. I decided to wait until after graduation anyway and avoid potential hassles. It was easy enough to find him at one of the zillion or so impromptu grad parties around the lake. He looked nervous. I ignored him. I sipped on the same beer for a couple hours while he downed one after another.
The longer I ignored him and more beer he chugged, the more I saw him look at me, say something to his friends and then crack up. My own stalwart companions hovered nearby totally unhinged and trapped. They couldn't ignore me. Despite the D bag's stories, I was cute, smart, popular – and rich. At the same time they couldn't risk getting pulled under if the Titanic actually did sink. Pathetic.
I waited, mostly to be a bitch, mostly to watch my girlfriends squirm. D bag had become almost an afterthought. As I waited, I stoked my anger, not so much at D bag but my friends. D bag was a hormonal sack of jizz and would remain so for at least another decade. It wasn't entirely his fault he was a D bag, I mean he'd been born with a genetic defect, a Y chromosome. My friends were another story. They were simply shallow superficial twats.
For what it is worth I felt bad almost immediately. He was pretty wasted when I finally got angry enough and bored enough to walk over to him. I truly, honestly meant to do no more than tell him he was an asshole. Honest.
"Hey hey Donna," he slurred more than sang, as beer sloshed out of his cup and down the front of his shirt. Fucking up a perfectly catchy Ritchie Valens tune was bad enough but he didn't stop there.
"How you doin'? You hungry for some more c...?" I think it is safe to assume he was going to say "cum" but my left knee smashed into his balls before he finished.
His face went white then purple as he dropped his cup and went to his knees, both hands cradling his nuts. When he looked up at me I intended to take the cheap shot and see if I could break his nose. My brothers may have adored the baby me but they were still older brothers. When I got older, of necessity, I learned how to punch.
I didn't hit him. More than pain, I saw sadness in his eyes. He knew he was a dick. He felt he had to be a dick for his friends. Instead of hitting him I simply looked at him, told him that he of all people should know I wasn't a slut and he should be ashamed of himself.
I left. My girlfriends crowded around, tossing off "oh my God" and "awesome" and worse still, one even offered a "you go girl". I ignored them. As I walked away I knew I'd never hang out with any of them again and I haven't.
I did see the D bag a few years later. I was a senior in college. Mom, off somewhere in Asia, begged me to run some stuff to one of her old friends in Waco. He came in to pick up his lunch as I was enjoying a burger from my all-time favorite diner. He'd done a couple years at a tech school and opened an auto body shop. He had not ballooned out like so many of his HS football teammates. He was in remarkably dirty shop overalls, his name embroidered above his heart. We chatted. He was engaged. I apologized for kneeing him. He said he deserved it, offered that he didn't drink anymore. We hugged. We wished each other well and meant it. I finished my business in Waco and headed back to Fort Worth with a little piece of guilt off my shoulders. I really shouldn't have kneed him in the nuts when he was too drunk to do anything about it.
I should have kick his sober ass so he couldn't claim he'd only been bested by a chick because he was drunk.
I had made far too big a deal out of losing my cherry. It would require almost zero effort. Freshmen orientation week was a weeklong fuckfest. The following week most of the freshmen guys wandered aimlessly, clueless as to the location of their classes but probably with a better understanding of how to find a girl's clit. If true, orientation week would not have been a total waste of time.
I decided, however that I didn't want a freshman. I wanted a man of experience. Now, with a little more perspective of my own, I know how ridiculous that idea was and how lucky I was to stumble upon a guy with a little experience but a lot of heart. With freshman guys removed from the equation, my options were limited. The only upperclassmen on campus were frat dudes, on campus early for rush.
Two tits and two eyes got you into any frat party at the beginning of the year and an exemption to the two eyes rule would not have been hard to obtain. I have both my eyes and, if I say so myself, a nice rack.
My tits are big enough to get noticed but not so large to sag half way to my bellybutton if I don't have a bra on. I love my boobs but bras are a pain. Most B cups are too tight and some of the C cups are little big. It's easier to not wear a bra, so unless I'm at work or it is a formal setting I tend not to.
I love my nipples. Like my boobs, my nipples are middle of the road, they are big enough to play with easily but not so long as to threaten to poke a lover's eye out.
I think I could make myself cum just playing with my nipples. I've gotten close but in the end I always forget my promise and hurry the process along by detouring one hand to my pussy.
As far as looks were concerned I applied what I still call my boob philosophy, namely stay toward the middle of the road. I don't mean to sound like a bitch but I wasn't into a dumpy guy with poor hygiene. He could be a nerd, just not an overweight greasy haired one. But a pretty boy was not an option either.
Why are girls attracted to someone who is quite clearly more interested in their own looks and bodies than their girlfriend's? How could someone who devotes hours a week perfecting their six-pack have time to spare for you? The idea of losing my virginity to some pretty boy narcissist who thinks he is doing me a favor by deigning to fuck me left me feeling queasy.
Nope, give me a guy who was trim but not necessarily ripped. Nice looking but not Brad Pitt. (Although if Brad is reading this; Brad, I'd so totally let you fuck my socks off.)
I got to the Sig Ep frat party on the early side. I hoped to snare my target before the pretty boys made their fashionable 'we are now among you worship us' entrance. The guy who greeted me at the door would have been perfect but appeared to be the social chairman or something. He'd have no time to spare for the quick de-flowering of an innocent.
The actives were easy to spot. They had lapel pins, dorky lapel pins in my opinion. As I mentioned, I had already written off the freshman. There were already a few girls milling about looking like hungry barracudas trying to hide their sharp teeth before savaging their prey. Fucking bitches. Unbeknownst to me, my future BFF was one of the schooling bitches.
I spotted my target. I didn't realize it at the time but he bore a superficial resemblance to my brothers. He was not quite as tall, not quite as cute and he had black hair, not their light brown. He had a four or five-day growth of a heavy beard. It looked good on him. I decided to see if he wanted my cherry.
I stopped at the keg and got two cups of beer and then made my way purposefully toward him. He was chatting up a couple of prospective pledges. I waited politely for a lull and mentioned he didn't have a beer. Would he like one? Sure.
