Where it happened: His house
Langauge: English
Sex: Female
Rating: 7
Category: Straight
It was August, and he had just come home from California, where he’d been performing in a play all summer long. We had talked about it, long talks where we’d discussed everything from birth control to how we’d feel about each other afterwards. We’d almost done it once before, but I’d gotten nervous and chickened out. I promised myself that tonight I wouldn’t do that, but I was scared shitless.
We went to his house — his parents were away, as they usually were in the summer. He asked me if I was sure I was ready, b/c he only wanted to do this if I did. I knew he was scared, too, but he tried not to show it. I told him I was ready, that I was sure. I loved him with all my heart, and scared as I was, I knew it was right, and I was ready. I kissed him, a kiss that lasted for what seemed like ever, as we didn’t break it until much much later in the night. I took off his shirt, conveniently a button down like my own, brushing my fingertips over his soft skin. G-d, how I’d missed him while he’d been gone. He slipped my shirt from my shoulders as well, pausing for less than a second before moving to the clasp on my bra, unhooking it quickly and letting the fabric fall away from my skin. His fingertips circled my breasts, and my nipples hardened instantly.
The bed was warm, the blinds slanted downwards to let in the setting sun. He pushed me slowly back onto the bed, and I felt the muscles in his arms flex as he held himself over me. Just as he’d done countless times before, he unbuttoned my jeans — the loosest I could find, b/c I knew I’d be sore the next time I put them on. I raised my hips and the fabric slipped easily away, along with my underwear. Though it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d seen me naked, our eyes remained closed, our lips still locked together.
I tugged at his pants, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down over his hips. For the moment I allowed him to keep his boxers on; they were black silk with bright red lips printed on them, a gag gift I’d gotten him for Valentine’s Day.
His hand, which had been circling my nipple, slid down to touch the curly hair between my legs. He parted it, and I let my legs slip apart to accommodate his hand. His fingers traced my clit and my inner lips, parting them, and suddenly every nerve in my body tingled. Little by little, I began to forget how scared I was. The nervousness dissolved away and I was left with nothing but yearning for the feelings of pleasure racing through me. The more he touched, the stronger the feelings grew. Finally, sensing that he could easily penetrate me, he slipped two fingers inside me, moving in and out the way he always did, his fingers beckoning in a “come here” motion. His thumb massaged my clit.
He stopped before I reached my climax and withdrew his fingers. I knew he was hard, his erection evident through his boxers shorts, straining at the fabric. I tugged at his boxers and they slipped off. For the fist time since we’d locked our lips together, he allowed them to part, moving his head down to kiss my breasts, then my stomach, and up again. He took my nipples in his mouth, one at a time, and rolled them with his tongue as I ran my fingers through his hair.
I reached for the condom I knew was on the nightstand — we had no intention of taking a risk. He brought his head up, surprise in his eyes. His look said plainly, “Now? This soon?” But he said nothing, just watched my hands as I pulled it from the wrapper and slipped it onto him, easily, as he was already wet with precum. His eyes questioned me, and when he asked, “Are you sure?” I did my best not to allow my quivering to show as I nodded.
I had forgotten that everything I’d ever read on this subject said that you ought to be well-lubricated your first time, and that it was important to be relaxed and aroused. I settled my hand between my legs to guide him inside me. The swollen tip of him was an inch, maybe less, from my opening. A moment later I felt him press against my soft tissue. There was no wetness there to lubricate the condom, not one drop of any moisture to allude to my state (or lack thereof) of arousal. I said simply, “Wait.” He immediately sat back, his erection covered by the latex of the condom. I looked at it, thinking. I knew he was larger than average (although not by all that much); I always had. I’d been prepared for the pain. But this wasn’t how I’d pictured this moment. I wasn’t even aroused. I could only think of one solution, one that had always helped me forget about my worries in the past. I asked softly, my eyes peering up at his, “Will you eat me out first?” He smiled, his eyes softening as some of the worry disappeared. He nodded, answering, “Of course.” I felt his lips on me a moment later. He’d always been good at this. His tongue was guided quickly and almost expertly in and out of me. He sucked gently on my clit, flicked his tongue over it lightly. He let me come more than once, two or three orgasms blending together within minutes. Each sensation trembled on the verge of agony, so wonderfully gratifying that I was able to lose myself in it.
Suddenly I was aware of a circular motion near my opening, along with a feeling of the slightest pressure. He slid inside me less than a quarter of an inch. It was almost nothing, just the very very tip of the head, but it was enough to bring me quickly back down to earth after my heavenly orgasms. I looked up at him, not sure of what to do. He said softly, “You’re sure?” My voice weak, possibly still because of the recovery period from such strong orgasms, but more likely b/c some of the terror was beginning to creep back into me, I answered, “Yes.” His eyes searched mine. His only comment was, “I’m in,” as if it weren’t already obvious to me. I felt the slight width separating my walls, wider than his finger, but just a tiny stub nonetheless. His eyes still searching mine, he asked, “Are you all right?” I nodded. Nothing hurt, and nothing felt stretched. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if he were pondering his options. When he opened them again, he looked straight at me, as if he were looking through me. “Can you do me a favor then?” he asked, his gaze still piercing. I only nodded again, afraid to breathe, much less move. “Take a deep breath and relax,” he instructed gently. I closed my eyes and consciously relaxed my tense muscles. As I pulled in my deep breath, he pressed in quickly.
I felt as if something had exploded inside of me. The pain was almost unbearable, a sort of knife-like searing that I’d never known could exist. Tears flowed from the corners of my eyes and down my cheeks. I was helpless to stop them. I bit down on my lip hard to keep from screaming, drawing blood from the inside of my mouth.
He stayed where he was, not moving, not even an inch. He brushed my tears away. His eyes betrayed the mixed jumble of emotions I knew he felt: sadness, guilt, frustration, even anger. Behind it all I could still catch a glimpse of his passion. “Do you want me to pull out?” he asked gently, still without moving, as if he knew that would hurt me even more. I shook my head, pulling my self-control together. “No. It’ll fade,” I told him, voice shaking, eyes clenched shut as I tried to get used to the feeling, to will it to subside. We stayed in that position for a few minutes, but to me, it was what seemed like forever. I realized the pain wasn’t going to taper off. I forced myself simply to get used to it, finding the throbbing rhythm and anticipating it.
I put my hand down towards where we were now joined, and instead found his. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he warned gently, holding my hand firmly in his. I freed myself from his grip and moved to where I found him inside me. I felt wetness and abruptly pulled my hand up. The liquid was bright red. Blood, I thought. The very notion of it panicked me, and I immediately tensed up, my muscles contracting as I did. The searing pain deepened, and I couldn’t keep myself from crying out sharply.
He took my hands in his and again brushed away the tears on my cheeks. “Blood,” was all I could think of to say. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “But the sheets,” I protested, trying not to cry again. He brushed more tears from my cheeks. “They’re black,” he answered finally. “Let me pull out.” I shook my head. “No.” His eyes took on a distressed, troubled look. “You’re in pain. Why not?” he asked. “Because I don’t want this to be it. Go ahead. Push in,” I instructed. I dreaded the pain that would come from my foolishness, but I needed this to be more than just what it was so far. I needed for one of us to get something from it.
He eyed me skeptically, but could see that I wasn’t about to budge on the matter, and so began to inch his way in, little by little, until all of me was filled with him. He held one of my hands in his, and my fingers left it almost white. I tried to breathe deeply and concentrate on the fact that we were as close as two people could get, but the pain was all but overwhelming. I fought back new tears as he stroked my hair, and after a few minutes of getting used to the feeling of him inside me, I said simply, “Go ahead.” I looked up at him, his eyes searching mine, knowing that it hurt me deeply to do this. His eyes watered for a second, and then slowly, as gently as he could, he pulled out a little, pressed back in, pulled out. I thought fleetingly that I should be doing something, I should be able to match his rhythm, but knew that right now it was impossible for me to do anything more than get through this. The friction his movement created only made it more painful, as if more knives had joined the first. He came quickly, in about five minutes, but it was, until that point, the longest five minutes of my life. As he came he pressed in sharply, making me resist the urge to cry out again. Instead I bit down again on the sore I’d made on my lip, concentrating on the pulsing inside me as his come hit the condom. A few seconds later he went soft and slowly, without a word, pulled out.
The pressure that had contributed to the searing was gone, but the raw pain remained. I rolled away from him, onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest, determined not to let him see me like this longer than necessary. He spoke softly, though. “Are you all right?” he asked. I concentrated on my breathing, which was slow and shallow at the time. “I’ll be fine,” I forced myself to say. I knew that wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. I heard him sigh and roll the condom off. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly, his arm stroking my side as he stood.
I waited until he left the room, secretly glad for the few seconds alone to regroup. I took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. I slid a hand between my legs and pressed softly against the opening where he had been. It felt bruised, as if I had a black and blue mark there. I could still feel the warm blood trickling onto the sheets, but knew there wasn’t much. It would stop shortly. I pulled my hand away and wiped the blood onto the sheets. He was right; they were black.
When he came back into the room, he lay behind me. He’d put boxers on. “It didn’t break,” was all he said, and it took me a few moments to realize he was talking about the condom. How responsible, I thought fleetingly. He wrapped his arms around me, and I felt safe with him holding me. We lay there together for a little while, and I allowed myself to relax my tensed muscles, helping to decrease some of the pain. It still hurt, but not as badly as it had before.
A few moments later he slid his hand down my body towards my legs, and I caught it. “Not now,” I said, my voice shaking with the thought of his touching there, pleading with him not to touch. He picked his head up so that he could look at me, turning my face towards his. I was forced to meet his eyes. “Do you trust me?” he asked softly. I replied, “Of course.” “Then let me fix this,” he answered, his voice betraying his obvious guilt. I did as he said; after all, I did trust him, and I knew that after what had happened, he would never allow himself to hurt me any more than he had. I rolled onto my back and he took his place over me. He kissed me, and I returned it, but it was more a kiss of sadness than of passion. I knew that for him to see me like this must hurt him as deeply emotionally as it had hurt me physically. He took his kisses, light and open-mouthed, down my entire body. He settled his head between my legs as if the blood I knew was there were not. His tongue lapped at me slowly, avoiding the hole, focusing on the lips and clit. I began to feel almost buzzed… I finally came, incredibly strong, and he moved his mouth away, knowing it was enough for the night. There was not a drop of blood on him. I recovered slowly and whispered softly, “Thank you.” He only nodded, his face shadowed in the dying light from the blinds. “It was the least I could do.” He let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry.” I put a finger under his chin and tilted his head up to look at me. I shook my head and managed a smile. “Don’t be,” I told him. “This is not your fault.” He smiled at me sadly, then lay down next to me, his head on my chest.
This was my first time. It was horrible, and I never want to repeat it. However, I’m still with the same man now, and all I can say is that it gets better from here — much, much better. So if you’re reading these stories to see if you’re the only one who had a horrible first experience, let me assure you, you’re not. And it won’t always be like that, so don’t get discouraged and write sex off. It can be amazing.
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