A Trip Down Virginity Lane

Edited by Moonflower

*

Anne woke with a jolt. Blinded by bright sunlight, she was momentarily disorientated. She took a deep breath and tried to remember where she was, as she wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes adjusted to reveal a brilliant blue sky. “Ah..Tuscany!” With a grateful sigh, Anne slumped back in her deck chair. She felt a bit silly, but a quick glance confirmed that she was all alone by the pool.

Beyond the clear blue water lay the stereotypical rolling golden hills, dotted with trees, sunflowers and sturdy villas. Usually, Anne was more adventurous in her choice of holiday destination, but after the horrid roller-coaster ride that had been 2010, she felt she needed some proper R&R. Spring in Tuscany turned out to be an inspired choice. Not only was her agriturismo accommodation surprisingly comfortable, but the rustic villa was totally deserted apart from her elderly hosts.

Anne’s holiday routine was:

1. Sleep in

2. Breakfast on the patio (scrambled eggs & home-baked bread)

3. A long shower

4. Sunbathe by the pool

5. Lunch (fresh veggies, pasta, loads of olive oil)

6. A relaxed stroll around the farm

7. An afternoon nap

8. Chianti and olives by the pool

9. Dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Del Siena

10. Too much Chianti

11. Masturbate

12. Sleep

13. Repeat

Day 11:

Anne had exhausted her supply of airport novels and was starting to feel restless. She had not booked her return flight yet and the Del Siena’s next booking was still weeks away. She tried to picture herself back in London and felt no rush to return to her empty apartment. She resolved to rent a car, no make that a convertible, and go in search of some more light reading.

Thinking of home made her miss Katie. If only she could have gotten some time off work, this would have been a totally different holiday experience. Katie had a way of turning the mundane into the magnificent. Wherever she went adventure was guaranteed, so perhaps Katie dropping out was a blessing in disguise.

Impulsively Anne decided to bend her own rules. She fished her iPhone out of her holdall, and resolved to limit herself to a quick peek at her in-box. Quickly scanning past reams of spam and newsletters, Katie’s name jumped out at her. With a grin Anne read the first message, a blow-by-blow account of Katie’s latest “fuckathon” (her word). Her happy-go-lucky attitude never failed to cheer Anne up. Anne clicked on a link to Facebook to check out Katie’s newest shoes (impractical and flamboyant, just like their owner).

Force of habit made Anne click on “Home” and her heart sank. Someone had posted a video on her wall. The picture showed a close-up of a penis disappearing into a sodden bush of pubic hair. The sender’s profile was named “Anne is a Fucking Whore”. She immediately deleted the entry from her homepage, but dozens of new messages confirmed that the damage had been done.

The messages fell into two broad categories: The vast majority expressed sympathy or anger, the rest… well the rest will be “unfriended” shortly. She navigated to “Anne is a Fucking Whore”, where she discovered a kind of anti-shrine dedicated to her. Pictures, videos, dirty limericks, it was all there. Anne got chills when she saw her private e-mail, her home address and her mobile number prominently displayed, along with an open invitation to stalkers and rapists.

She felt physically sick. It also dampened her faith in humanity to find that “Anne is a Fucking Whore” had more friends than plain old regular Anne.

With a super-human effort she put down her phone, closed her eyes, took a deep breath… and exhaled. Just like Dr Singh taught her, she counted only her inhalations, up to ten and back to one. She felt her anger melt away. She opened her eyes and saw a flock of birds soaring overhead. Free, just like her. He had followed through on his threats and Anne’s overwhelming emotion was relief.

Serenely Anne clicked on “Report to moderator”, and forwarded the page to her legal counsel (AKA Katie) with the subject-line: “Go get him Tiger!”

2010 was the year that she finally managed to finalise her divorced from Michele. Though she left him a long time ago, the controlling little bastard still managed to exert his influence on her. She had no idea how much he spent on lawyers, but it must have been a small fortune. On his behalf they delayed, appealed, opposed, sued and counter-sued until every last option was exhausted. Last year the proceedings finally came to a head and the bloody French judge had no other choice than to set her free.

Divorced at 31. Not exactly the stuff that dreams are made of, but it felt damned good nonetheless.

She browsed the galleries posted on “Anne is a Whore” with calm detachment. Once she got over her initial shock, she found herself enjoying the trip down memory lane.

When she eloped with Michele, aged 21, she could never have dreamt how bitterly it all would end. With a rue smile she remembered how her mother had warned her. Such a cliché, but she really should have listened. On the other hand, Anne was so madly in love with Michele, her mother could have presented her with ironclad proof that he was the Devil incarnate, and she would still have run away with him. She was an awkward middleclass English virgin and he an insanely cool Parisian film maker. How could she not?

Michele looked like a pint-sized pirate, a cross between Johnny Depp and Lenny Kravitz, covered in tattoos, and topped with lashings of worldly charm. Her 5’2″ made him look big. He forbade her to wear heels. She forgave him because he took her to Cannes. Despite her mother’s misgivings, he was patient with her and her shyness. He never pressed her to have sex, and never took advantage of her, not even when she was totally wasted.

When she told him that she wanted to wait until she got married, he disappeared for hours and came back with a ring. They got hitched, barefoot on a beach somewhere along the Riviera, cheered on by his motley entourage. Even with the bitterness that came after, Anne still remembered that day as one of the happiest of her life. She found herself wishing he’d posted their wedding video.

It was the eve of their honeymoon when she had first allowed him to film her in the nude. She was scared to death, but she wanted him to ravish her like all the heroes did in her trashy romance novels. With trembling hands she undid the buttons on her summer dress, the camera whirring in the background. She stepped out of her dress and into various awkward poses. She wore too much make-up and expensive new lingerie, but she was far too nervous to feel sexy. As she hesitantly undid her padded A-cup bra, she looked to Michele for approval, but his eyes were hidden behind the view finder. She did her best though: Squeezing, cupping, pinching and pulling as Michele dedicated roll after roll of 16mm film to capturing every detail of her body.

The camera panned from her small hard nipples down her smooth flat belly and stopped pointing right at her new panties. Her gaze following the lens, Anne noticed a few strands of dark pubic hair curling out from under the thin material and wondered if she should have shaved. On Michele’s command, Anne hooked her fingers under the elastic and slowly slid her panties to reveal her virginal pussy. She let him direct her as he captured every inch of her body with his lens.

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Initially Anne found the next phase of the shoot very difficult. She had never touched herself with someone watching, and most certainly not on camera. Nervously she chugged glass after glass of Burgundy, and chain-smoked Gauloises Blondes. Slowly she relaxed, then she giggled, finally she really got into it. By the time he placed the camera on a tripod and started stripping, she was slowly stroking her pussy, yearning to be fucked.

That was where the video started, the one he posted on her Facebook wall. Curiosity got the better of her and she clicked on “Play”.

The video buffered and instantly she was transported back to his loft. She could almost smell the café downstairs and the beats rising from the club across were clearly audible on the soundtrack. Anne was ashamed to hear herself slurring: “C’mon Michele, put down the camera and get over here.” Her face was slightly out of focus, framed between her pale thighs. The foreground was dominated by her shiny wet pussy. Anne felt a wave of Calvinistic shame wash over her, as she saw herself stretching open her glistening folds with both hands. Her soon-to-be popped cherry was clearly visible and she was rocking her hips invitingly. Peeking over her little pointed tits, she licked her lips lasciviously and purred “I know you want this…” Anne felt sorry for her younger self, trying to act cool and failing horribly.

Michele set up the camera and his familiar figure came into view. Seeing him for the first time in years had an hypnotic effect on Anne. He stood at the foot of the bed and admired his young bride, who could clearly remember how exposed she felt. He was literally looking into her. She was always a bit scared of him, before she ever saw him losing his temper. Perhaps that was why she never stopped taking the pill. He took off his funky hat and shook out his long dreadlocks, his signature move. Green eyes twinkling, he slowly took off his t-shirt, clearly enjoying her undivided attention. On his back a phoenix rose from inked flames and spilled over into a tribal design covering his shoulders. His powerful chest was decorated with stylised flowers and indecipherable words, the lines rising and falling over the dark canvas of his hairless skin. Anne felt her gaze drawn downwards, from his toned abs past the colourful border of his boxer shorts and down to the intimidating bulge in his baggy jeans. He caught her staring and grinned.

His friends called him “Trépied” (Tripod) but still Michele’s penis was bigger than Anne had expected. When he dropped his boxers, it hung down halfway to his knees. The dark shaft, sprouting from the base of his six-pack, looked almost as thick as one of her wrists (or his for that matter). Criss-crossed with superficial veins, his circumcised shaft was topped with a shiny purple head, the size of a small apple. Cocksure, Michele gyrated his hips, proudly swinging his dick.

Looking at it now it seemed hilarious, the over-confident little man with the oversized cock, but despite glasses of Dutch courage, younger Anne looked pretty scared on-screen…

Lots of kissing, a sensual full-body massage, another bottle of wine and a fat joint later, Anne was enjoying her first 69, enthusiastically riding Michele’s face. She could not fit his dick into her mouth, but that did not stop her from licking, rubbing and stroking the monstrous thing to full erection. It became straight and hard, but thankfully not much bigger. Anne was surprised at its soft outer texture, supported by a rigid inner structure that felt like solid bone. Gripping it tightly with both hands, Anne could not imagine how it was supposed to fit inside her, but she was determined to try. Meanwhile Michele expertly teased, licked, sucked and slurped her pussy into a sopping wet mess, his face covered in her secretions.

After she had come for the second time, Anne felt ready for a nap but it was not to be. Michele rolled her over onto her back, and took position between her splayed legs. He slowly rubbed his fat cock up and down between her swollen lips, teasing her clit. Anne knew what was coming, but she was too far gone to be scared. Michele probed her entrance and she could feel her body resisting. He applied more pressure, the thin membrane stretching but holding. Anne held her breath. Again he thrust his narrow hips, his cock bending under the pressure. Anne squirmed uncomfortably. Something had to give. Michele met her gaze with a determined look, pulled back slightly and rammed his cock into her. Anne felt something tear and screamed out, but Michele kept the pressure on. She clawed at him and bucked her hips to escape, but he held her down and pushed until his tip was lodged inside her.

Her hymen torn, Michele allowed Anne to catch her breath. Every nerve-ending in her virgin slit was screaming somewhere between pleasure and pain. Anne remembered thinking that this must be what child-birth felt like, in reverse.

Michele gently resumed rocking his hips. Relentlessly he penetrated her tight canal, ever deeper. It was the weirdest feeling that Anne had ever experienced. It took her breath away as she was made aware of the depths within her own body. Deeper into her centre Michele probed, forcing her sheath to expand. Eventually he found the limits of her capacity and bottomed out against her womb, filling her completely. Anne looked down to their joined hips and could not believe her eyes: Only half of that fucking thing was inside her. Her pussy lips were pale, stretched to the limit and she could feel his sack resting heavily on her anus.

Anne hit “Pause”.

This was the very image posted on her Facebook homepage. Anne fought the rising tide of anger. He wanted to hurt her, like she hurt his pride when she left. Anne could understand that. His legal options finally exhausted, Michele struck out with the only weapon left at his disposal. Childish, but understandable. The videos showed a woman making love to her husband. No shame in that. He is the one that should be ashamed for betraying her trust. Publishing her address was going too far though, that displayed a blatant disregard for her safety. He made a big mistake, one that she felt sure Katie would make him pay dearly for.

Despite her rational objections, watching the video had left Anne restless and her panties moist. Michele always had that effect on her. Glancing around discreetly, she sat up and reached under her skirt to slide her panties down. Lying back she gently opened her lips and softly ran her fingers up and down the middle of her wet cleft, dipping into her pussy. She lengthened her strokes to spread her juices over her clit and started tracing circles around it. It felt liberating to sit out in the sun and masturbate. The circles morphed into a spiral and she had to concentrate to stop herself from moaning out loud, when her fingerprint first raked across her nerve-rich nub. She carefully pressed down and a delicious shiver passed through her body. Deciding to share an orgasm with Michele for old time’s sake, Anne put on her headphones, turned up the volume and again pressed “Play”.

“Are you OK?” Michele asked. She managed a weak smile, and he kissed her lips tenderly. “The worst part is over. It only gets better from here.” Another gentle kiss. “OK Mon Cherie, close your eyes, and take a deep breath… hold it… Now exhale and relax… Again…” Anne remembered being acutely aware of the warm foreign object filling her, but she followed his instructions, and with each deep breathe she felt herself relaxing and slowly opening up. Her aching body adjusted to the invasion and somehow it just felt right. She felt at peace, one with her lover.

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“Hold on tight” he whispered in her ear and slowly started moving again. At first almost imperceptibly alternating pressure, but slowly increasing the length of each stroke, until he was effortlessly sliding in and out of her as far as possible. Her arms and legs wrapped around his body, Anne felt his velvety glands rubbing across every ridge inside her, her walls expanding and contracting as he smoothly plumbed her inner space.

Anne was mesmerised by the screen in her hand. The stark contrast between the muscled dark-skinned man and the skinny pale girl clinging to him was really quite striking. The flickering candle-light added a measure of romance, and the camera angle was expertly chosen to flatter them both. Clearly Michele didn’t win those awards for nothing. His round buttocks rose and fell in a smooth continues motion which Anne could not help but match with her hand. Clearly Anne remembered wishing that glorious feeling would never end, it was the moment when she first understood what made sex great.

Suddenly Michele stopped, postured up and pulled back until she could feel his swollen glands between her labia, at the point of popping out. Disappointed, Anne looked down between them and her face showed her alarm at the harsh sight of his bloodied cock protruding from her loins. As she watched, he slammed it back up her cunt, right to the hilt. Anne felt her pliable flesh stretch to accommodate him. The thrust was punctuated by a sharp clap as their flesh met, his balls slapping against her arse-hole. Michele’s pelvis ground down on Anne’s clit, sending a shock wave through her body. Anne’s eyes rolled back and her mouth opened, but no sound came out. As he pulled out again, she frowned like she wanted to protest, but he thumped his cock right back into her, and all that came out was a low groan. Each hard thrust shook her to the core, and the bed rattled in sympathy. Faster and faster he pounded into her until he hit top speed, pistoning in and out of her in a sweaty blur, dreadlocks whipping her face. Her pussy started making obscene sloshing noises and milky juices soaked her crotch and gushed down her thighs. Soon Anne could no longer distinguish individual thrusts, her mind and body numbed by the overwhelming blaze of sensations.

Sitting by the pool in Tuscany, Anne was furiously finger-fucking herself while roughly rubbing her clit, matching Michele’s demonic pace. Then, right on cue, a new feeling surfaced, just like the one she remembered so vividly.

From small beginnings in the pit of her stomach and the back of her knees, the feeling spread and grew until it pushed everything else aside. Pain, fear, guilt and shame melted away until there was only lust. Filthy, low down, scandalous, animal lust. Anne saw something change in her younger self: She grimaced and began thrusting back at Michele, meeting him and angling her hips to allow him to enter even deeper into her flooded centre. She gyrated her hips in the instinctual mating dance, willing him on. “FUCK ME!!! Oooooooh… HARDER!! Right there, YES!!! HARDER!!! Oh, YES! FUCK ME! YES! YES!” she chanted in time to his movements. Her hips were moving automatically, in perfect time with Michele’s. Anne felt as if she was outside her body, looking down.

Anne’s phone dropped on the rough flagstones, but she couldn’t care less. In her ears Michele and young Anne were belting out the duet of love, stoking her passion.

Suddenly the feeling flared up, exploding out of proportion. It enveloped her. She lost her rhythm. Her pelvis tightened and her muscles locked up. Michele was unaffected and kept on ploughing her cunt like a man possessed, each unbearable thump on her clit making her cramp tighter. She could feel her pussy gripping his cock. Hard. Michele’s breathing became ragged and his thrusting irregular. He slowed to a jerky pace. One. Two. Three. Four. Anne counted his thrusts until he too went rigid, his cock jammed up inside her. His body trembled, and he uttered a curse. He squeezed her tits painfully hard and Anne felt the sensation arc to her clenched pussy. His cock swelled… It felt as if time stood still… Looking into his eyes, Anne saw Michele’s pupils dilate… His cock twitched inside her and his whole body shuddered… Again his cock spasmed, blasting a jet of hot seed against her womb. Each spasm brought another thick jet of sperm, filling her with primal satisfaction. The tension in her crotch eased, allowing her to breathe. It came out as a long moan. Spasm after the spasm rocked her world with a flood of dopamine, an explosion of blinding colour, shaking her whole body. Gradually the waves subsided and an overwhelming rush of emotions brought tears to her eyes. Michele collapsed on top of her, gasping for air.
For a couple of minutes they just lay there, holding each other tight. Michele lifted himself up and slowly pulled his wilting penis out of her, his bravado gone. Anne rolled onto her side and hugged her legs, feeling empty and sore. Michele lit two cigarettes and they smoked in silence.

She should have left him the first time he beat her, but he apologized profusely, promising it would never happen again. They had more good times than bad, attending crazy celebrity parties, and he always introduced her as his muse. They shared their tender moments too, but those were few and always recorded on film. She was never 100% sure if he was really sincere or simply playing to the camera.

Michele believed in the whole Cinéma Vérité deal and so did she. At first it was just him filming her and their friends, but as soon as his fame began to grow, he got a string of students to record their every move. She never got used to the dispassionate waifs following them around with jealous red lights. When she drew the line at them joining Michele and her in bed, she knew it was only a matter of time. When she finally caught him in the act she felt relieved and booked a ticket on the first flight home.

When all was said and done, they were together for 5 years, officially married for 10. Thinking of how she might have done things differently was a waste of time. She had followed her heart and paid the price, but she had no regrets. She had moved on, hopefully he’d do the same. Sitting by the pool in Tuscany, Anne quietly smiled to herself. She had a feeling this year was going to be good.

Updated: April 16, 2018 — 3:28 AM

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