First Time 1983

I felt sick to my stomach. No, lower—a burning twisted through me, making me squirm on the bed. This was it, then? This was what men fought wars over, what women left home for? This was The Big Thing? The forbidden-to-me-until-now s-e-x?

There was nothing fun about it. I felt like I was about to have diarrhea.

Brendan smiled slyly at me. I bet he couldn't believe his luck. He leaned in, mouth partly open, spit glistening on fat lips—I couldn't help it. I leaned away.

"Where are you going?" He was still smiling. He wasn't quite as handsome up close.

"Er—sorry." He put his hand on my knee and ran it up my thigh. Back and forth. Back and forth. I stopped myself just before I flinched. No one had ever touched me there. It was foreign.

"Okay, how about this?" he said. "Take off your pants and lay down." I raised my eyebrows at him but he laughed. He looked better when he was laughing.

"I want to make you feel good."

I stood robotically and pushed my jeans around my ankles. This was hella weird, but I was determined. I was pushing 19 and a sophomore in college. I wasn't leaving this room a virgin. I sat down and laid on my back, knees a few inches apart. My head sunk down through the pillow. I could feel the firm mattress beneath. Brendan gently pushed my right leg off the mattress. I wrapped my toes around the wooden bedframe. Cautioning me with his eyes, he moved my panties aside with two fingers.

God, I wondered what he saw there. I didn't want to look. I felt hot and tense. It wasn't pleasant. He exhaled quietly.

"I'm gonna eat you out, okay?" I couldn't speak, so I just nodded. I closed my eyes against the view of the hotel ceiling.

I felt his breath blow against me, hot as a heater. He kissed the hinge of my inner thigh. One side, then the other. I tried not to picture what he was seeing—or worse, what he was smelling. Pillow-soft lips pressed against my vulva, mushing unromantically against the fleshy folds. It didn't feel like much of anything, and I wondered if there was something wrong with me. All my girlfriends said they loved oral.

A tongue emerged, powerfully muscled and slick, tip poking insistently at my clitoris like it was trying to wake it from a nap.

"Ouch," I said. The slug—his tongue, what I pictured to be a slug—pulled back at the sound. It brought its flat surface up against me, licking gently, slowly, from entrance to bud. And several times. I ached painfully as blood rushed to the site of contact.

I guess it could have been worse.

"Better," I mumbled. I heard a muffled chuckle.

Brendan pulled carefully at my folds, displaying my clitoris to the open air: vulnerable, splayed open like a frog's heart on the dissection table, sweating beneath a heat lamp. My muscles knotted.

Two cushiony lips enclosed 8,000 nerve endings and began to suck.

"Oh, wow!"

I sounded surprised to my own ears. This was nice—like a massage. He suckled me this way for a few minutes, and honestly, I just lied there like a dumb star fish. Feeling my heart beat. Feeling tickles of actual pleasure.

He spread my legs further apart with the flat of his hand, and my knees curled up to the sides of my chest without protest. I wasn't tense anymore.

And he licked it. Just licked it; nothing fancy. He could have been eating an ice cream cone. His tongue softened, molding to the counters of my body. It slid easily over me, sometimes slipping unexpectedly out of place. I was too wet for him to gain traction, but I didn't feel embarrassed. There was no room for embarrassment. For all I knew, he found my hotness hot.

"That's really nice," I sighed. My breath caught on the last word.

Brendan shifted suddenly. He slid his forearms beneath my thighs and pulled them to his shoulders, pushing his face determinedly between my legs. His tongue slipped inside me, and my first thought—I swear to God—was that he was a very brave man. He moved in quick thrusting motions, flicking past nerve endings I didn't know existed. I sucked in a great breath.

"Fuck, that's good!" My voice was loud. It didn't sound like me. But I didn't feel like me anymore. I wasn't watching myself—I was fully centered in my body, completely unself-conscious.

Brendan came up for air with a gasp. I throbbed in his split second of absence, but then he dived back in once more, lapping at my clitoris with renewed vigor. He pulled back his arm and reached toward me.

I made a sound somewhere between a gulp and a groan. His middle finger snaked its way inside me, jerking quickly in and out, pressing up against a spongy something deep within.

I wanted to grab his arm and yank it up my vagina.

"God that's fucking p-perfect!" Were my eyes about to pop out of my head? I felt like they were. His shoulders shook with the speed of his turbo-charged finger. And his tongue—that glorious piece of flesh—how did I ever liken it to a slug?—that tongue darted over my clitoris with such perfect rhythm that I could almost no longer feel it. But the numbness was of no consequence; it would be temporary. We were finally getting somewhere.

I was getting somewhere.

My joy at this development nearly overthrew my focus. And it would require focus. I saw now why they called it

achieving

orgasm. The mental discipline was enormous, second only to the constancy of stimulation. If he stopped, I would have to start over. If he erred—even a centimeter—I would slide back down the mountain again.

"Keep going," I panted. "Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going."

I couldn't stop saying the words. They came out automatically, like I'd been kicked from the seat of control in my own brain, shrunk down to a sweating, red-faced, clit-sized creature. And he did keep going. He did. If I could capture the moments before my first orgasm in a metaphor, I would say it like this: I was at the acme of a roller coaster, just in those breathless few seconds before the gears began to turn, locked in high tension, unable to breathe. Waiting for the instant I'd be sent toppling over.

I knew, in my last space of real awareness, that I'd lifted myself off the bed and that I was pulling Brendan's hair, holding him hard as if both our lives depended on it. His finger was positively smashing in and out of me. He wanted this just as much as I did.

And it was this, this knowledge that he wanted to see me lose control just as desperately as I wanted to, that finally tipped me over the edge.

Cumming is like falling into the Michigan rapids. The pleasure smacked into me: I hollered, legs kicking in all directions, eyes disappearing into my skull. The bliss was so overwhelming, so absolute, it was like my mind had been wiped clean with electric light. I whimpered helplessly as the rush carried me down twists and turns, not knowing where I was, not caring. I only began to breathe again as the last licks of pleasure faded away.

I collapsed back on to the bed. I'd nearly brought myself into a sitting position.

"Mother of fuck," I panted. I looked down at Brendan. He was curled at the foot of the bed, his expression dazed.

"I don't think I've ever made a girl cum so hard," he said. He was looking at me like he couldn't believe his eyes. Like he was seeing some sort of religious figure. I laughed bashfully. Back on dry land, the embarrassment was jogging to meet me.

Movement caught my eye—he was absently rubbing his dick through his jeans. It stuck sideways out toward his pocket. I wouldn't have been surprised if it sprung suddenly past his belt.

"If I let you fuck me, can you pull out in time?" The words were out before I could consider their ramifications. Brendan blinked rapidly.

"Yeah, I've done it before."

I was on birth control for cramps, but I was nevertheless ridiculously scared of getting pregnant. Still, I wanted to thank him. A stupid decision, perhaps, but it was mine to make.

I laid back on the bed and spread my legs.

Brendan climbed on top of me and slid inside. The movement was absurdly easy—I was soaked.

"You're so excited," he moaned. I felt a thrill at his words. He was vulnerable. For the next few minutes, he was absolutely mine. And I was feeling merciful.

"I want you to please yourself," I said. "Cum as fast as you want. Do whatever makes you feel good." He looked into my eyes to see if I was telling the truth. I smirked a little.

Brendan lifted my left leg and put it on his shoulder. He began to rock his hips, but his caution lasted only for a moment; in seconds he was thrusting like a machine. The fullness of him was a pleasant feeling, as was the power that gripped me as I watched the changes in his face: serene focus interrupted by furrowed brows, lips opening and turning down, breath coming hard and fast.

"Are you gonna cum for me Brenden?" The words didn't sound like something I'd say, but I loved how they sounded.

"Oh yeah."

"I bet you want to cum in my hot, wet pussy, don't you?"

"Fuck yeah," he panted. I giggled.

"Too bad! Pull out and cum on my aching tits."

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum!" Breathing like a sprinter, Brendan quickly pulled out and began to whack furiously at his dick. "Oh fuck I'm coming hard! I'm—"

Brendan's face crumpled. He gave a wild, desperate groan, and cum jettisoned out of him, falling in thick ropes across my breasts, the base of his cock throbbing and bouncing. I listened as his moans grew small and his hand slowed. Eventually, he fell back beside me. I chuckled.

"And that was what I was afraid of?" He rolled his head toward me.

"What was that?" I smiled to myself and shook my head.

"Nothing."