Where it happened: My apartment
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 5
Category: Straight
It was 1963. I was not quite 21. (Imagine. Such an advanced age to have finally had a woman. Regardless, my first sexual union was an intense luscious sensual step-by-step journey into the previously unknown world of intimate relations.
Of course, once we began, the denouement was foreordained. And though I was inexperienced and a bit nervous, I was also intensely eager, very ready and more-than willing. Above all, definitely able to lustily throw off the cloak of carnal innocence.
The time was early fall. It was afternoon. (An excellent time of day during which to make love, I’ve subsequently concluded.) The location was my apartment, a ground floor furnished series of rooms in a private house in Providence, R.I.
Our encounter started innocently, likely picking up wherever my girlfriend and I had left off the last time we’d been together. Sweet words, perhaps an even sweeter glance surely led to deep wet kisses. Then cuddling on the lumpy couch. Which fast progressed, far less virtuously, to my hand under her sweater caressing the bra-less unfettered more-than-a-handful soft breasts and rapidly hardening nipples.
As if we did this all the time, my right hand found its way under her skirt. And I realized t was okay to go further under the elastic of her white cotton panties. It was even permissible for my middle finger to bury itself deep in what was definitely her hot slipperiness. Of course I couldn’t get enough of the fevered “feel me up” petting that ensued. (It was an experience I’d only had once before and under entirely different circumstances with another girl.) Maggie, for her part, used her hands to first loosen my trousers, then to gently take on my swiftly risen cock and give it a gentle assault.
These few moments of foreplay were all-too-brief. Because gloriously in breathless rapid succession I heard the four most provocative prompts every eager would-be lover awaits. “Is the door locked? Close the curtains. Turn off the lights.” And most definitively: “Let’s go where it’s more comfortable.”
We moved the few feet to my small bedroom where Maggie utterly wantonly, carnally, yet with unfeigned naturalness performed a not-so-innocent striptease just for me. I watched with widening eyes as she disrobed among the dust motes dancing in the beams of the waning afternoon sun. Article after article of feminine apparel was shed, put aside in a neat pile.
The penultimate item was those now-damp panties. The last was a skimpy white cotton T-shirt I subsequently learned was called a camisole and which Maggie wore in lieu of a bra. Punctuating the fabric were her nipples’ proud points. Unobstructed below was her mass of curly dark pubic hair. Hidden below were the secrets it foreshadowed. Slipping the camisole off – and except for narrow tortoise shell glasses perched on her nose – Maggie was naked; flaunting her femininity.
And when all her clothing fell away that afternoon, I discovered Maggie had a lusciously curvaceous figure. She was about 5’ 9” tall. Her complexion was slightly darker than fair and her hair was long, dark brown and naturally curly. It was a curl many girls would die for but which for her was only a source of annoyance. Her face was open and guileless with a pleasing smile and friendly voice. (In 2007 terms it might be described as a kind of Meryl Streep, Andie McDowell or Cher-like look.) Her eyes were hazel and a cute nose held up her glasses.
Continuing my gaze downward, Maggie always expressed the view she was somewhat flat-chested. But at that time, having personally viewed no other women than in centerfolds, I thought her bosom just right. Her breasts seemed perkily pendulous, topped with rosy nipples and slightly darker aureoles.
Maggie’s legs were long and proportionate. Rear-ward the view of her was delightful. From the front, where her near-flawless thighs joined, her hips were wide and her waist slender. Even more exquisite was that plump love mound with its muff of thick, dark tight wiry curls leading down to those hidden lips. Lips, which, in turn, sheltered an entrance that when we made love was almost always damply wet, sweetly fragrant, soft-as-clouds tender, and eager to embrace and enfold me.
I enjoyed with wide-eyed wonder her titillating striptease. And, of course, hastily shed my own clothes – albeit with nowhere near as much panache. Nor did I give a second thought to my own 165-pound six-foot-tall skinny physique. What Maggie saw was short cropped hair, eager brown eyes, happy smile, almost bare chest, and most prominently, a very erect penis nestled in a thick thatch of brown hair; hotly waiting, some seven inches long and on rigid burgundy display. (What a pleasant discovery for me, by the way. What I heretofore thought rather modest personal equipment turned out – rising to the occasion – to be far less humble than I had perceived.)
Standing by the bedstead, I ogled – I am sure with a silly grin – as Maggie put her glasses on the nightstand, pulled back the covers and got onto the bed. On her back, she positioned her bareness suggestively; spread her thighs widely and at the same time flexed her knees. Her tantalizingly love mound and curly-haired wet lower lips now lasciviously unobstructed. “Would you like me?” the hot honeypot wordless and hungrily seemed to ask. Definitely “YES, MAM!”
My heart skipped a beat. With faux modesty Maggie had primly drawn the sheet and light blanket up to her chin. But her eyes twinkled and beckoned and a `come-hither’
smile lit her face. As I yanked the covers off, prurient thoughts raced. This was it. We were actually going to DO IT. (I knew the vernacular word for sex. Everyone did. But until about ten minutes later it didn’t have a physical reality for me.)
God, how would it feel? The dreamily wet slishy space at the fork of her thighs. I’d just been deep inside with my fingers. What would be the fit when my cock slipped in? Lusty thrusting! Hot climax spurts! Fast-forwarding mental imagining stretched my erection, reddened it even darker, angled it even steeper.
At the remove of the present day, it would be nice to say I approached my first lover concentrating solely on the upcoming experience’s sensual and emotional sides. Focused on the curve of her breasts, the softness of her kisses, the warmth of her breath, the heat of her inner thighs, the sweetness of her words and of course, the delicious wetness and perfume of her inmost secret place.
But that was not the case. The physical side – having her, fucking her, making love to her – was all I cared about. Far faster than I have told this and with no further ado, I pulled back the sheet and blanket and framed myself on elbows and knees directly above her in the famed “Missionary Position.” It was easy to quickly get comfortable and as I hovered ever-so-briefly, our lips joined, tongues dancing softly. My hardened length positioned itself just in front of those soft damp labia, and the lovely – and for my virgin cock, unexplored – opening between her hot, widely spread loins.
Maggie and I were far too eager for further foreplay. I gently crushed her full breasts and simultaneously lowered my hips. Without asking – and probably so there should be no first-time miscue – her gentle fingers encircled, aimed, and guided my cock into ultra-well-lubricated slippery inner folds. And as easily as that I was virgin no more. Maggie’s sleek velvety-ness easily yielded; instantly and simultaneously tickled, teased and sucked me in. Wordlessly she begged: “Skewer me lover! Have me! Relentlessly!”
How wonderfully easy to comply. I settled deep into the inner warmth. Plunged gently then strongly, discovered nothing easier than letting my hands gently crunch her shoulders as my hips drove far into an oh-so-ready wetness. There was the white heat of that first stab. Then the electricity of probing further the responsive softness of her yielding intimate flesh. Followed by the erotic silky friction of slithering back… back…back… but not quite out.
Wow! So that’s what making love is all about. No wonder it is such a popular indoor sport. And that quickly I mastered the basics of the physical skill that’s as easy to learn as falling off a bike. Lickety-split, of course, Maggie’s eager gyrations more than matched mine. Or was it vice-versa?
For how long did we go? Did I contain my first orgasm through long delicious minutes? Give me a break. No way! Being 20, making love the very first time. What can be expected? So, suddenly, there it was. Hot ejaculate: pulsing, pumping, jetting out of me, filling her. Yet, wonderfully, I discovered I was still – I suppose potent is the right word. Three, four, five, perhaps even six more energetic thrusts – each matched by Maggie’s robust responses – brought even more spurts of warm wetness spilling.
Eventually I had to stop. Shriveling limpness made continuing impossible. So I just paused for the longest moment. What a wet wonderful sensation it was; coming inside a wanting woman. Then, finally, gently, as I became totally flaccid, I withdrew, slid alongside, probably whispering a few sweet words, savoring the sensations.
What did we do next? What did we say? I’ve no recollection. I am sure eventually we got re-dressed and went out for something to eat. As is usually the case after anything but late-night sex, after being ravished you’re generally famished.
Regarding my lover’s virginity (or lack thereof,) I ultimately concluded it was long gone by the time I arrived on the scene. She was older than I. There were her birth control pills. Was she really taking them in anticipation of just this moment? Not likely. Maggie was quiet, reserved and not forthcoming about aspects of her personal life; particularly those aspects. And I never asked.
Further, if Maggie were a virgin, where was the storied maidenhead every horny boy dreams so avidly of deflowering? Surely it hadn’t disappeared from the asparagus-thin tampons she used every month. Wasn’t there supposed to be something there?
More to the point, shouldn’t it have taken a bit of an effort to part it? And wasn’t there supposed to be a maiden’s modest hesitation? (All of which avidly-read romances knowledgeably opined upon.) Not if this wasn’t the first time for the lady in question. When we’d made love it had been so easy. Maggie had been so eager, energetic and relaxed and upon reflection, so seemingly well-practiced. Why, she even knew when – and how – to lusciously guide me into her.
No, I wasn’t her first lover. But it was okay. So someone else had, at one – or many – times(s) been inside her lovely body’s special place, loved her, taught her love’s physical language. Love’s experience was her gain and now her opportunity to share and teach me.
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