A quick story about first time jitters. My recollection of the jitters is real enough but the details are fictitious. I hope I captured the sweetness of memory. All the characters are over the age of 18.
Enjoy. Helpful feedback is always welcome, so please comment.
Thank you to LarryInSeattle for his assistance with this story.
“Don’t you like me?”
The words fell as softly as snow on a quiet morning but they crushed me. I liked her. I liked her a lot.
“No,” I stuttered, scrambling to dream up some way of salvaging the situation.
Her lip trembled. “No?”
“Huh? What? NO! I mean ‘no’ to your question, not no I don’t like you. Of course I like you. I like you a lot.”
We had slid down the couch to a mostly horizontal position. I sat up so I could look at her. She looked sad and teary and my heart clenched in my chest.
“Then why won’t you do more than kiss me? Why won’t you touch me? Do you hate my body that much?”
The question baffled me such that I had been unable to think clearly. At the time, longer ago than I care to admit, my nineteen year-old self had never considered that other people might be as insecure as I was. When the circuits clear and I was able to speak, my astonishment was evident.
“Hate your body? Are you nuts? Why would I hate your body?”
“Because,” she sniffled and a single tear detached from the corner of her eye and dashed toward her ear. “My boobs are small and my hips are big and my hair is always a mess and I can’t see without my damn glasses.” She sniffled again. “Should I go on?”
“No,” I gaped at her, stunned. “No, it all makes sense now. You’re nuts. Bouncing off rubber walls, bat-shit, looney tunes crazy.” I shook my head in disbelief. “There’s nothing wrong with your body Jill. Don’t be a dope.”
“Then what’s wrong? We’ve been dating since we got back from Christmas break. The year’s almost over. I’ll be back in Nebraska, you’ll be here, too busy to write more than a couple of letters, and all we’ve done is kiss. Don’t you want to do more?” She paused, giving me a chance to answer but I was silent. “Is it a religious thing? You never go to church or talk about religion but is that it?”
Her face was a mask of confusion and sincerity and so completely vulnerable and adorable I knew I had to reach down deep and be honest. I had to make it work.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, my eyes dropping to stare at my own knees. “I’ve never done anything more than kiss a girl. I’m afraid I’ll screw it all up and end up looking like a total spaz.”
When I forced myself to look at her, she didn’t look as if she was about to laugh. She looked puzzled.
“What do you mean you don’t know what to do? Just touch me silly. It’s pretty hard to screw up touching someone.” Her eyes, dark eyes, almost black, lingered on my face. “You’ve really never done more than kiss before?”
I shook my head.
“But you do want to touch me? Do more than just kiss?”
“Uh, yeah,” I snorted, trying not to sound derisive. I prayed she’d understand the contempt in my voice was aimed backward, at me, not at her.
“Come here,” she whispered, moving over so I could lie between her and the back of the couch. I miss that, being able to fit together on a couch.
I laid down beside her and she rolled to face me.
“Give me your hand,” she whispered. I did as she asked and she pulled it toward her and put it on top of her breast. She covered my hand with hers and smiled.
“Now, how hard was that?” she whispered.
Her hand blazed against the back of mine. Under my fingers, the cotton of her shirt was warm but not as warm as her hand. My fingertips rested along the top of her bra. The soft mound of her breast fit perfectly in my palm.
“Not hard,” I whispered, my eyes fixed to the hand resting atop her breast, “soft”.
She moved her hand and rested it against my chest. When she moved her head forward, I met her, already missing the feel of her lips on mine, of her tongue dancing inside my mouth. I knew how to kiss. I wasn’t afraid of that.
Her fingers began to knead my chest, very softly. She pulled away from my kiss. “I’ll show you what to do.” Her fingers closed a little tighter on my chest. “Do that to me,” she whispered into my mouth. I found her lips first and then did as she instructed, slowly. What she was doing to me felt fantastic but I didn’t have boobs. I didn’t want to hurt her.
Sensing the hesitation in my tentative touch, Jill whispered against my cheek, “It’s okay. You can do it a little harder. You won’t hurt me.”
Her fingers clutched at my chest and mine echoed the movement.
“Um, that’s right. That’s perfect. Keep doing that,” she murmured against the side of my neck, causing goose bumps to blossom on my arms.
I arched my back and began to kiss along the side of her neck as my fingers grew bolder. I kissed the hollow of her neck and she pushed the side of her leg against my erection. I kissed the cotton fabric where it stretched across her cleavage. I moved my hand and pressed my lips where I imagined her nipple to be, hidden beneath her shirt and bra.
I searched her eyes, looking for guidance. Her stare was easily as bold as my hand or my lips. I balanced on one elbow and tugged at the bottom of her tee shirt, pulling it from under the waistband of her jeans. I leaned over and resumed kissing her, while my hand reached around her waist to free the back of the tee shirt. Without taking my lips from hers, I slipped my hand under her tee shirt. The skin on her tummy was cool. I brushed my fingertips across her skin and she shivered. Her hip pressed against me again.
She had wondered if I wanted more. I wondered if she knew how much more I wanted. Surely, she must, I remember thinking. She did not push my hand away. She did not tug her shirt down. She did not mutter “no” into my mouth.
I moved my hand higher and re-discovered her boob. The bra was a thin cotton bra, no padding. I wanted to look, wanted to see the nipple my palm was feeling. I drew my hand back slightly and brought my fingers together to stroke around the skin I could feel beneath the bra. Her tongue darted more aggressively in my mouth. Her fingers clenched on my chest. I trailed my fingers upward and let them rest on the warm skin above her bra cup. Whatever worries or cautions had held me back in the past melted away. I hooked my fingers under the top of the bra and pulled it down, freeing her breast. Now, I did free myself from her mouth in order to gaze at her.
She did have small boobs but I didn’t care. They looked perfect to me. She rolled, slightly, on her right hip. Her unrestrained breast sloped toward the middle of her chest. The nipple pointed directly at my face. Her nipple was hard and stood out from her boob, surrounded by a pink areola. A triangle of lighter skin outlined the size of her swimming suit top. Her tee shirt was bunched under her chin.
I pressed my hand over her breast and began to move it in circles. Jill moaned softly, low in her throat. I pulled my fingers up, exactly as I had before, but this time there was no bra between us. My fingertips surrounded her nipple. Her back arched and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, they glowed. She pushed away, sitting up. I tried to hide my disappointment. I started to tell her how great that was, to thank her, when she began to pull at my shirt. She pulled it over my head and off my right arm. I was leaning on my left. She used both hands to pull it from under my left elbow before tossing it to the floor. I remember having a hard time processing the sight of her hands tugging her own tee shirt over her head. But the vision of her reaching to unclasp her bra and drop it on the floor has never left me.
She sat there for a moment, looking embarrassed, looking as if she wanted to cover herself with her hands, but she didn’t. Thank God. Her breasts sat high and firm on her chest, as only a young women’s can. I watched the newly freed right nipple grow taut under my gaze and the cool kiss of the air conditioned air. She rolled to lie flat on her back. She pulled her right leg to her chest, passing it in front my chest and face and pushed it between my body and the back of the couch. Now, she had me between her legs. Her breasts slipped slightly off to each side, looking so white against the deep tan of her skin, a gift of her Italian forefathers and the sun.
I moved toward the middle of the couch, kneeling now between her legs. She opened her arms. A second invitation was not required. I lowered myself on my hands, and then rested on my elbows. My forearms slid beneath her arms and my hands cradled her head. When I leaned forward to kiss her, I made no effort to keep my erection from pressing into her crotch. I lowered myself a bit more and felt her nipples kiss my bare skin.
I moved my body back and forth, dragging my chest atop her nipples, and earned my second throaty moan of the afternoon. As we resumed kissing, her crotch ground into my erection. Her nails began to dance across my shoulders and down my back. She drew them upward, over my sides and it was my turn to shiver and moan.
I kissed my way down her neck again. This time when I kissed between her breasts there was no fabric between my lips and her skin. I discovered the pleasure of erotic teasing that day. I kissed underneath her left breast, around to her side, and repeated the sequence under her right breast. I kissed across the top of her breasts, my lips and tongue trying to erase her tan line. She pressed her crotch against me. She arched her back. Her hands clutched at my shoulders and then pulled and pushed at my head, but I ignore her nipples. I ignored them and I when I kissed my way back to her lips, she growled in frustration. I settled for a quick peck on the lips, arched my back, dropped my head, and sucked her right nipple into my mouth.
She hissed in surprise, not pain. I flicked her nipple with my tongue, doing to it the things my tongue normally did to her tongue. When I pulled away, I plucked softly with my lips and she hissed again. I pressed my hand against her left breast, trapping her nipple in the space between my splayed thumb and index finger. I licked around her areola. I swirled my tongue around her nipple as if it was the world’s smallest ice cream cone. I laved her nipple with my tongue and when it was slick, I plucked at it with my fingers and her body nearly bucked me off the couch.
I licked my way to her belly button. I pushed the tip of my tongue in it. I sucked the rim of it between my lips. All the while, my hands massaged her breasts, played with her nipples. She saved me the trouble of wondering how much further I should push by reaching between us and unbuckling her belt and unbuttoning her jeans. I sat back on my heels and hooked my fingers in the top of her jeans. She raised her butt and I slipped them over her hips. Her panties came with them. She pulled her legs up and held them straight in front of my chest. I leaned my head to the side of her upraised legs and gazed at her pussy as I helped her pull the jeans off.
She dropped them atop the pile of clothes by the side of the couch and lowered her legs. If she retained any of the embarrassment she felt when I gazed at her breasts, it wasn’t apparent. Her hair was dark brown and grew in a thick, perfect triangle above her pussy. The hair was not as thick over the lips. I could see her slit. It was wet and shiny. Her clitoris was perched above her slit, a leopardess guarding the entrance of her most precious place.
I stared, fascinated, heedless of the passing time. Jill’s fingers crept across her belly and her fingertips began to draw circles over her clit.
“Don’t you want to take your pants off too?” she whispered.
I did, of course, and badly. I pulled my eyes away from the sight of her playing with herself, to look at her.
“I don’t have any rubbers,” I replied.
“You don’t need them,” she whispered. “I’m on the pill.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from her face. “Do you want to?” she whispered a moment later.
I climbed from between her legs and stepped toward her head. She reached up and open my jeans, I wasn’t wearing a belt. I wore 501s back then and no underwear. She undid the buttons one at a time. My dick was trapped down the left leg of my pants. She let her fingers dabble in the dark thatch of my pubic hair. When her fingertips touched the base of my dick, the only part accessible at that time, I nearly shot off in my pants. I moaned when she worked her fingers around my dick. She pulled it free and it rested in the V of my opened fly. Her fingers wrapped around it and squeezed. I moaned again. Her hand started to stroke me and I stepped away.
“If you’re want me to do more, please don’t. You’ll make me cum.”
She nodded. “Take off your pants,” she encouraged.
I did and climbed back on the couch to kneel between her knees. She did a half crunch, took hold of my dick and urged me forward.
“Have you, uh,” I stammered.
“Yes, not often, but yes. That’s all I’m telling you about that right now,” she whispered, her eyes scanned my face.
“Okay. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” she sighed. “You won’t.” Then she gave a single giggle. “I don’t think you will anyway.” She smirked at me. “You’re a lot bigger than I’m used to.”
I stared at my dick, resting inside her fist. Was she teasing me? I was pretty average, at least based on occasional locker room glimpses at other guys.
She pulled me forward and rubbed the head of my dick up and down her slit. I had to concentrate hard, and clench muscles I never knew I had, deep inside my body to keep for cumming right then.
“We need to go slow. It’s been almost a year and I’ve only done it a few times,” she murmured, her hand still moving my dick up and down her sex. My eyes left her face and took in the sight of my dick, my dick, Jesus, rubbing against a girl’s pussy. Her hand gripped me harder and I looked at her. “And, you are a lot bigger than my ex-boyfriend,” she insisted sharply. I told myself not to play poker with her, not the way she already seemed to be able to read me as easily as a large print Reader’s Digest.
I was so close. I knew I had to do something or I would humiliate myself by busting a nut all over her pussy like a total spastic. I pushed but the head of my dick was between her inner and outer lips. Instead of entering her, my dick skittered up her pussy. On the plus side, the head slide over her clit. I was shocked at how hard it was.
She pushed my dick down and held it. I pushed again. There was some resistance. I hesitated.
“It’s okay,” Jill panted, eyes closed. “You aren’t hurting me.”
I pushed hard, something relaxed and I was inside her. She gasped. Before I could draw a breath to ask, she told me she was okay. She put her hands on my hips, as if she was afraid I’d pull away, or maybe to keep me from pushing too fast. Now, the head of my dick inside her, the sense of urgency faded. I lowered myself gradually, lost in the feeling of Jill’s pussy flowing around my dick, swallowing me, drawing deeper inside her body.
When my pubic bone touched hers I let myself lie atop her, supporting my weight on my knees and elbows. I kissed her softly.
“I had no idea you would feel this unbelievably incredible,” I confessed to the side of her neck.
“Mmm, feels good to me too, you know,” she replied as her hands stroked my back.
I began to move my hips, keeping my body pressed tightly to hers. Her softly grunted “uh-huhs” tickled the hair beside my ear. She pulled her legs up and locked her heels behind my thighs, hard up against the bottom of my ass. Her own hips began to move in time to mine.
I discovered I could pull all the way out and then dive back in, my dick no longer lost or baffled by finding the entrance to her body. I moved faster.
Believe me, I’ve reached an age when silly boasting does nothing for me. It isn’t that I was such a prodigy. No, later Jill explained that she had not been masturbating, why she couldn’t say beyond that she had some notice that she wanted to wait for me. I, on the other hand, had decided I was doomed to a life of nothing but masturbation. I was a mass of hormones and frustration. I was probably jerking off two or three times a day at that point. So, I was just as fast as any about to become a non-virgin male. My advantage was Jill had even more of a hair-trigger than I had.
She began to buck her hips against mine, falling into and easy, natural rhythm. Her “uh-huhs” became more breathy, interspersed with periods of holding her breath and a smattering of “mmms”. As I recall, the only sound I made was breathing hard.
Her legs and arms clenched around my body. I could barely breathe, much less move. She let out a long shuddering moan against the side of my neck and then melted back into the bed. Her arms and legs remained wrapped around me but I was able to move again. I pulled out.
As I pushed back inside her, my body grew rigid, clenched from the inside. Everything seemed to stop, my lungs, my heart, my brain, everything. The only sensation was this tremendous surge that began deep in my body, near the base of my spine. As the surge moved forward, I feared I might burst. There was no way my balls, my cock, could channel such raw power. For a second, it felt as if my fears would come true. Every sensation I was feeling became trapped in the head of my dick. I could feel it swell and press against the velvety warmth of my lover’s, my first lover’s, pussy. I groaned, mostly in frustration, then in relief as the dam gave way and I emptied myself.
I collapsed atop Jill’s body, too overcome to even try and speak. At nineteen, I could lie atop her and she could still breathe. Her hands stroked my shoulders and she kissed the side of my neck. All I could do was lie there. I began to replay the past few minutes over and over in my head. I wanted to remember every second of it. I failed at that of course but I remember the important parts. I remember she wore a much washed rugby shirt with broad white and almost white faded yellow strips. Her panties were cotton. I don’t recall the brand but I can see them caught and bunched in her jeans as they slid off her legs. I think I recall noticing the crotch was wet but that may be a memory lie I’ve added over the years. I do know they were not bikini briefs but they were low cut in the waist and high cut over the thigh and they had green polka dots, nearly as faded as the yellow stripes on the rugby shirt.
I remember all of that. But what I remember most is lying with face buried in her hair and not feeling afraid any longer, at least for a short time.