Memories of anticipation

by Ella

Man, Dylan never gets off my back!  I posted yesterday, but now not only is he still winning, but he’s clamoring for me to bring back the smut.  Well, okay.

I lost my virginity when I was nineteen years old, a little over two years ago.  I was a sophomore in college, and Dylan used to come visit me at my dorm.  He and I met and had begun dating the summer before, after I had already made my living arrangements for the year.  Luckily, I had managed to snag a coveted single room (as a result of having a job in the dorm), and I had acquired a double bed from a graduate student I knew.  The freshmen on my hall used to teasingly refer to my room as my shag pad, and Dylan had every intention (as soon as I was ready, of course) of making that nickname accurate.

Dylan has said before that I like to plan things, and he’s right.  My first sexual experience was no exception.  We had decided to do it the first time he visited me at school, so that we would be out of our parents’ houses and I would be in my own space rather than his, which was more comfortable for me.  We even chose the day — it would be a Saturday, the first full day of his visit.  He had been teasing me all day,  preparing me for the evening, but before we went to bed we went out into the courtyard of my dorm with many of my housemates to watch a movie (A Funny Thing Happend on the Way to the Forum) projected on the wall of the building.  It was a chilly night in late September, so we dragged my quilt outside and snuggled under it together on a bench.  We sat there quietly for a while, but reader, my hands are wont to roam.  I got restless (I have very little patience for slapstick comedy) and before long I was rubbing his stiffening cock firmly through his pants as he squirmed in startled delight.  (There are not many things I enjoy more than feeling a dick grow under my hand or in my mouth.  It makes me feel tremendously powerful, not to mention being extremely hot.)  After a few minutes of that, I undid his belt and opened his pants to give myself access to his naked cock, now completely enlarged and throbbing.  I stroked it gently, teasingly, enjoying his tense pleasure and stifled gasps as he attempted to hide my illicit contact from the eyes of my classmates.  I have no idea how long I rubbed and teased my anxious boy (it was two years ago, as I said), but I remember with a thrill how he seized my wrist jerkily to halt my motion and prevent me from driving him over the edge and making him cum all over my blanket in a courtyard full of people — knowing, I suppose, that he would be unable to contain his moans of pleasure through such a strong and public orgasm.  I reluctantly withdrew my hand, damp with sweat and precum, and allowed him to refasten his clothes and recover.  As his panting slowed he leaned over and breathed in my eager ear, “Don’t you worry.  You’ll get it later tonight.”

As it happened, I did not get it later that night.  It turns out, reader, that I am terrible at losing my virginity.  The evening ended in pain and tears and soothing words, and all thoughts of a long-contained orgasm were quickly forgotten.  (Do not despair, gentle reader!  My sexual anxiety was remarkably short-lived — as I recall it, and Dylan may correct me if I am mistaken, we had sex four times the next day.  Naturally, our sex has improved immeasurably since then, but I believe that day still holds the dubious distinction of being our record number of fucks in one twenty-four hour period.)

The upshot of all of this is that my first sexual experience is hardly the stuff of fantasy.  The evening was not a complete bust, however, because the memory of that furtive handjob in the courtyard remains some of my most treasured masturbatory fodder.  It was my first cautious but enthusiastic foray into public sex, and to this day it might still be the most daring.  (We have not become particularly less courageous, but the circumstances of that night were ideal.  Situations like that do not often present themselves.)  I love the power that public handjobs give me over my lover’s body.  I relish how his nails dig into my knee and the way his face twitches as he tries desperately to maintain composure and public decency.  I especially love his pleading, vicelike grip on my arm indicating that he is dangerously close to cumming — and the fact that if I don’t want to stop pumping his cock, I don’t have to.  While we share a fantasy of blatant exhibitionism, I feel (and I believe he agrees) that there is a powerful appeal to covert sexual play with the danger of revelation.

Often times in my apartment (I no longer live in a dorm), my baby and I sit in my shared living room and watch TV.  Our close proximity on the couch usually spurs some swift, casual caresses — he’ll squeeze my breast quickly, I’ll run a finger or two over his nipples with one hand as I rub his cock with the other, but only for a second.  At commercials we’ll kiss, and our lips and tongues will play cautiously, questioningly — because with these caresses we are probing each other, testing the waters for the possibility of more later.  Often, though, I don’t really want to wait for later.  I suspect that if I suggested we go into the bedroom he’d be up in a heartbeat, but what I really want is to slip my hand inside his pants right there and feel him stiffen under my fingers.  Many nights I lie in bed alone and slide a finger across my clit, thinking about smiling at him as I pump his cock under the blanket’s scanty protection.  In my fantasy, I duck my head under the blanket to take him in my mouth, sliding my lips over the head of his dick and greedily licking up all the precum before slowly lowering my nose to his belly.  I would love to suck him in my living room and feel him twist his fingers tightly into my hair under the blanket, guiding my motion but also struggling not to cry out.  I give a mean blowjob, and in my fantasy I do some of my best work, knowing that at any moment one of my roommates could enter the room, forcing me to sit up quickly and hope they won’t notice.  Perhaps I hope they do.  But while we are alone I can suck him slowly and deliberately, running my tongue along the underside of his cock and over the head, swirling it between my lips as he throbs and pulses in my mouth.  I always get off incredibly hard when I imagine his grip tightening on the back of my head as I take him all the way down my throat, sucking him harder and faster until I have drained every drop of cum out of him.  In my fantasy, I always swallow.

Of course, sometimes it goes further.  Sometimes I imagine that as I suck him he slips a finger into me while he rubs my clit with his thumb.  I climb onto his lap and grind against his cock — but that’s another story for another day.

~ by Ella on November 4, 2008.