Four Erotic Tales (2 page)

I shook my head.

“Well,” Dana laughed, “this
is
a classroom. And there’s no better way to learn than by doing!”

Tentatively, I returned her favor and knelt before her. Her legs circled my shoulders and pulled me toward her. I gave an uncertain lick at the slick pink lips in front of me. My friends had spent a lot of time talking about the unpleasant taste of pussy. I wondered now what the hell they were talking about. The flavor was just fine, thank you very much, and the reaction I was eliciting? Emboldened, I ran the blade of my tongue up the length of her lips, and elicited a sigh of pleasure. This definitely encouraged me to continue, lapping at her spreading labia.

Breathlessly, Dana suggested that I circle the little nub of flesh at the top of her cunt. I obliged and was gratified when she let out a high-pitched “Shit!” She leaned back on her arms, and asked me to play with her tits. I reached up with both hands and rolled her nipples between my fingers.

Soon, she was bucking her cunt against my mouth; after about five minutes, she let out another squeal, and I felt her pussy pulsing around my busy tongue. She began hissing, “Shhh, shhh.” Then she pulled me up and licked her juice from my face. We kissed — her nails were pulling at my back. She leaned into my neck and laughed, “So much for me teaching you.”

Her hand snaked down between my legs, where my cock was hard again — how could it not be? Grinning, she put on a southern drawl and quoted Blanche DuBois: “Young man, young, young,
young
man…”

We both started to laugh and kiss. Then she ran her fingers through my hair. “I want to fuck you,” she said, intent and breathless. “Do you want me on top? It might last a little longer.”

I nodded furiously, and we both laughed again. Then she shoved her grade books and papers off the top of her desk, pulled me up next to her, and pushed me on my back. She straddled my stomach and ran a finger along my nose. “Is this your first time, Ken?” I nodded again, trying not to look as terrified as I felt, and she smiled, more gentle now than ferocious. “I’m glad.”

Then she reached back, stood my prick up, and backed her pussy down onto it.

Now it was my turn to yell, “Shit!” Without even thinking, I started to thrust into her.

“Shhh,” she said, again, “let me do the work. You just keep breathing and enjoy.” Then she let her weight push her sweet cunt down over my dick. The ripple of her pussy walls over my head as she went down brought me almost to the edge again, and I began literally to weep. She stopped, let me catch my breath, and then began gently to rock on me, her hands pressing down on my chest.

The feeling… I don’t know how to describe the feeling. The sensations were so new, so raw that I lay there, staring up at her, in a kind of tingling shock. It felt as if the whole world had changed, but also as if everything was as it had always been — both at the same time.

All the while, Dana rode me, the rocking of her hips creating sensations that seemed to spark from my toes up to my eyebrows.

The vision of her above me, hair wild, bright eyes half-lidded, mouth in an open
oooo
of pleasure, breasts bouncing as she moved — that is what stays with me most, to this day.

I can’t tell you how long I lasted — a minute, five, ten. It felt like eternity and an instant, both at the same time. I came with another shout, pushing her up as I arched back.

She rode me like Deborah Winger on that mechanical bull until I finally collapsed. Then she pressed her body to mine and gave me a sweet, slow kiss.

“Oh God, thank you,” I kept saying, as she lay there on my chest. I ran my hands down her back to her ass, calmly now, no frenzy, just enjoying the sensual sensuousness of her skin.

After a few minutes of lying there, feeling her pulse, my cock began to twitch; it was getting hard again inside of her. “Goodness, Ken, I can see I’m going to enjoy teaching you!” Dana said. Her head still on my chest, she began to contract and release her pussy, coaxing me once more to full erection.

When I was once again truly hard, I began to move in and out of her. This time she didn’t stop me. She sat back against my raised knees, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face, as we began to fuck again.

I thought of my fantasy from earlier that day. Timidly, I gazed up at her and circled her nipples with my thumbs. “Can I fuck you bending over the desk?” I asked.

She laughed, a low laugh that squeezed my dick tight in her pussy. “Is
that
what you’ve been thinking of, sitting there in the back row?” I smiled a bit sheepishly and she laughed again. “I’d love that,” she said.

With a
plop
, she lifted herself off of me and slid off of the desk. I moved behind her, and kissed her neck. She pressed back against me, reaching back with her arms as I nibbled at her ear and cupped her breasts in my hands. Then she leaned forward and rested her head on her hands, looking back at me over her shoulder, her white ass raised high. She gave it a seductive wiggle.

With a smile, I put my hands onto her lithe waist, knelt down, and gave her pussy, dripping wet with her juices and mine, a good-luck kiss, which made her hiss and brought out goose pimples all over her ass. Then I stood, aimed my purple-headed dick against her opening, and pressed in. We both sucked in air.

This time, I wasn’t going to come any time soon. With a sense of pleasure and power I’d never experienced, I slowly began to slide into her, then out, until just the tip of my head parted her lips. Each time I pressed back into her, she gave a quiet groan.

Soon I was banging away, and Dana was howling beneath me. Her hands grasped spastically at the top of the desk.

My orgasm wasn’t as cosmic or as intimate as the previous one. But when I let loose, I felt a greater sense of accomplishment than any track meet or English paper had ever given me, that’s for sure.

Breathless, we both fell onto the desk. My dick finally began to return to normal, and I withdrew from her with a slurp. She grabbed her skirt from where it had fluttered, urged me up next to her on her desktop, and pulled it over us as we snuggled there, listening to each other’s heartbeats and the driving spring rain.

Dana continued to give me
private lessons
for the rest of my senior year — indeed, we continued to get together when I was back from college, and occasionally as I visited the hometown in the years after. Though we never quite matched the frenzy of that first day, our loving always was a glorious mix of passion and gentleness, and I didn’t find a woman to match her for many years.

The last time I saw Dana was fifteen years ago. Then, last week, my mom — who used to tease me about having a crush on Ms. N, but who had no idea how far that crush had gone — sent me a newspaper clipping that announced Dana’s retirement. Due to a fiscal crisis in the district she’d retired early, just shy of 60.

In the picture, her hair was mostly silver, but her face was still elfin and she still had that mischievous glint in her eye that I remembered so well.

I wrote her a letter, congratulating her, telling her that my own teaching was going well — I’d been teaching English and theater for the previous decade and a half. And telling her that, just the previous spring, I had passed along her book of Keats as an eighteenth birthday present to a shy, beautiful senior named Allison, and I thought she would approve.

Dear Allison,

I’m glad that you enjoyed my story about that first time with Dana. You won’t be surprised to hear that, since I gave that book of Keats poems to you, I’ve been thinking a lot about that day that Dana initiated me into the mysteries of love, and the days after it.

I’ve been thinking too about our days together. I find myself hoping that I gave Dana anywhere nearly as much joy and pleasure as you have given me.

I told you that Dana and I continued to be lovers on and off throughout my years in college, and afterward. But from the beginning, she told me what I’ve told you — to explore, and learn, and love.

It took me a while to take her advice; after all, having an experienced, willing lover, even if I only saw her on break, took a certain amount of the panic out of the whole college dating scene. But there were some wonderful young women at my school and so, eventually, as I immersed myself in college life, and as I made more and more women friends, I began to notice that some of them seemed to be attracted to me, God knows why — and that I was attracted to them too.

Spring of my freshman year, after Dana had pumped me about my love life over spring break, I decided that it was time to act. I started dating Bridget, who was the assistant director on an evening of one-acts that I was in.

This is another first-time story — sort of. And I don’t know how satisfying it will be to read, though I hope that it will give you a bit more of an idea of how I got from where I started to where I am.

Maybe it will also give you some idea of what was going through my mind — not to mention various other parts of me — when you offered me
your
virginity, decades later.

Love,

Ken

Bridget couldn’t have been more different from Dana: Bridget was a sophomore — still older than me, but only by a year — was tall, curvy, and had short, flaming red hair. She was also a virgin. The first night she brought me back to her dorm room, we’d been seeing each other for a few weeks, making out after rehearsals, in her car, in the library stacks. I was trying very hard not to push her, because she seemed so overwhelmed whenever we actually got to anything more intense than kissing.

That night, as rehearsal let out, Bridget made a point of saying that her roommate Kathy had traveled back home for a family wedding and asking if I’d like to walk back with her to her dorm. I was pretty sure that she was inviting me back up to her room. To what purpose, I honestly had no idea. We were playing a game to which I truly didn’t know the rules. Mostly I was happy that Kathy wasn’t around. Kathy didn’t like me, though I couldn’t for the life of me understand why.

My one girlfriend before Dana took me into her bed and under her wing had been Kelli, an African-American girl I knew from the track team. Kelli had been extremely clear about what had and hadn’t been okay with her: touching above the waist was fine, so long as I actually concentrated on making her breasts feel good, rather than blissing out on the miracle that I had breasts in my hands at all — and quite nice breasts at that. Touching anywhere below the waist was
verboten
.

And so when Kelli had kissed her way down my chest there in the front seat of my parents’ station wagon, had opened my zipper, and had slipped her sensual lips around my cock, part of reason I came so precipitously was the fact that I was just seventeen and that particular part of me hadn’t ever been touched by another person — certainly not another person’s mouth. And part of it was that I’d never expected Kelli to do any such thing. Dreamed, maybe. But certainly never expected.

When I think about that moment abstractly, a part of me appreciates just how beautiful the sight of Kelli’s dark-chocolate skin was, splattered with my milky seed. Mostly, though, what I remember is the look of disappointed disgust in her eyes.

Dana too had been quite clear: I could touch anything, do anything. If she wanted me to stop, she’d ask, and trust that I would.

She’d never asked.

Bridget and I walked back across campus hand in hand, talking about rehearsal. About the rest of the cast. About Tony, the junior who was the director, and did I think he was gay? (I didn’t
think
it — I
knew
he was gay. He flirted with all of the boys involved in the show — except me.) Bridget started asking about the girls in the cast: did I think any of them were cute? (I did — but I wasn’t stupid enough to say so.) Her eyes were bright. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight; she was in high spirits — whatever the hell those were.

When we reached her dorm, I’d convinced myself that I was going to spare myself the frustration of a long make-out session, and cut to the chase: a quick smooch, then home before my roomies got back from studying at the library to jerk off as I had so many nights before. I started to lean in for a peck, but suddenly found that my shy girlfriend had wrapped herself around me like an anaconda. Her tongue searched my mouth, her hands searched my body, and her body writhed against mine in very, very distracting and insistent ways.

After a couple of minutes of this, I was a gibbering mess, and so when she backed away from me, her eyes keen with some unasked question, and she walked into the dorm, looking over her shoulder at me, I couldn’t have done anything but follow.

I stumbled after Bridget to her women-only floor. I felt the eyes of the RA following me as I quickstepped behind Bridget. Amused? Suspicious? No idea.

When we fell into Bridget’s room, she pushed the door shut and leaned against it. She seemed, again, to be on the edge of asking something, but couldn’t seem to make her mouth form the words. I approached her, truly wanting to ask what she wanted, what had gotten into her. Once again, however, she did her impression of a constrictor, pulling me against her, wrapping herself around me. As I gave in to the kiss, trying to retain some clarity, she did one thing that she’d absolutely never done: she took my hand in her trembling fingers and placed it against her round, soft breast.

Against the side, mind, not the front — but still: Her breast.

Incapable of any further semblance of resistance, I gave in and kissed her back, as if attempting to erase the barriers between us by sheer will and spit. Not even thinking about it, I picked her up and carried her over to the closest bed; when she began to shake her head, I realized this must be Kathy the roommate’s and walked us across the short space to the other bed, knelt down on it.

Bridget unwrapped herself from me, that same questioning expression leavened only by the high color mottling her cheeks and the subtle lift of her nipples through her padded bra.

Lying beside her, my eyes locked on hers, I ran my fingers up her thigh, and instead of moving my hand as she had on previous occasions, Bridget spread her knees apart. Taking this as a cue, I stroked the seam at her crotch, and when that elicited a quivering sigh, I began to rub her through her jeans. Her eyes were closed tight, and her fingers were knotted in my hair as she began to moan, and then to scream, rocking her crotch against my fingers.

Dana had taken great pleasure in showing me how to get her off with just my fingers. I preferred pleasing her with my cock or tongue, but was happy that evening to be able to put some of what she’d taught me to use in a non-classroom setting. Bridget certainly seemed to find my work more than acceptable.

All at once, her thighs clamped around my hand, and I could feel the muscles spasming, and moisture seeping through the denim. “Fuck, Ken,
FUCK!
” screamed Bridget, from whose mouth I’d never heard a profanity — and then she began to cry.

I had no idea what had caused the tears. Still, I felt terrible and started to apologize, but she stopped my babble with her mouth. Figuring that this was as good a way as any of saying what I was trying to say, I pulled Bridget close. As her breathing began to return to normal I felt the hand on my shoulder drift to my ribs, and then my stomach, and then, tentatively, down below my belt. To my shock and delight, Bridget started to return the favor, sliding her palm up and down the bowed front of my Levis.

“Can I touch it?” she whispered, her voice quivering.

“Please,” I answered, and when she didn’t move, unbuttoned the fly and pulled out my erection. Still she was frozen, and so I reached out and took her hand — hers were surprisingly small, given how tall she was — and wrapped her fingers around me, guiding them up and down the length of me. It felt good — though basically I was doing all of the work, as I’d been doing for myself after so many of our rendezvous — but she was still lying there, eyes closed. I leaned closer and kissed her, which broke the spell a bit. She began stroking me with more and more authority and soon I was the one moaning. I whispered to her, saying how good it felt, telling her she didn’t need to be too gentle. While she was totally focused on the handjob (which I assumed was her first), I thought I was safe letting my fingers stroke her breast — first to the side, which she’d introduced me to earlier, and then letting my thumb gently slide across her stiffening nipple. Her eyes, which had been locked on the reddening head of my cock, and on the pre-cum welling there, snapped up to mine. I started to withdraw my hand, but she shook her head with a whimper, giving my cock an involuntary squeeze that nearly sent me through the roof. Taking that for encouragement, I went back to teasing her nipple.

The feeling of her fist stroking me was lovely. The feeling of that big, wide nipple hardening on that soft breast was wonderful. But what I remember most from that moment is the look of feral determination and trust in her eyes as she gave and received pleasure. I began to thrust into her hand, gritting my teeth, trying to keep breathing as Dana had taught me to do — but reaching a point where nothing could have stopped the explosion that she was building in me. When I came, I caught Bridget by surprise, and sprayed all over her.

We lay there for a minute, and I started to caress her again, but she pushed my hands away this time. She was clearly embarrassed, speechless, sitting there on her bed in her come-splattered blouse, her jeans still showing a dark spot of moisture at the crotch. Nipples like old fifty-cent pieces stamped on her swelling chest.

I tried to say something, to thank her, but she stammered that it was late, and that she had a midterm the next morning, and she’d see me at rehearsal the next night. Bewildered at the sudden change of mood, I tucked myself away, gave her a peck on the cheek, and wished her a good night.

As I passed the RA’s room, the door was once more open; she was leaning against the door frame, a short, dark-skinned woman with her arms crossed over what looked to me — hyper-horny as I was — to be an impressive chest. “Good night,” she said, her black eyes following me once more, her eyebrow raised.

Walking back to my dorm, and all through the next day, I kept thinking about Bridget, trying to work out what the hell was going on — what she wanted, what I wanted. Did I want to fuck her? Well, sure — she was pretty, and I liked her, and the idea of planting myself in that soft, pale flesh, of kissing those large, pale breasts, of watching her brown eyes turn dark and hungry as they had for a moment that night…

But I knew that doing that — pressing my body inside of hers — would mean something very different to her than it did to me. The problem was, I wasn’t sure what the hell that difference was. And I couldn’t tell whether she wanted me in there or not.

I probably don’t need to tell you that Bridget’s upbringing was Irish Catholic. I probably also don’t need to tell you that mine absolutely was not. Between my liberal, secular parents and the loose mores of the time — this was the early 1980s, before AIDS had cast its pall — I’d grown up believing that sex was good, that love was better, and that the two, while related, weren’t the same. And so what Bridget was struggling with was as complete a mystery to me as sexual feelings seemed to be to her.

I think too that it was more than a bit disconcerting to me to find myself suddenly the sexually experienced one.

The next night, throughout rehearsal, I was a bit surprised to find that Bridget was acting exactly the same as always. I could almost have convinced myself that the previous night’s experience was all in my head — that I had never had those freckled fingers wrapped around my cock, that I’d never felt her cunt pulsing through her jeans while she screamed obscenities. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and made embarrassing comments about my looks to Tony, which amused him enormously and me not at all.

It was a Friday, and company tradition demanded that the cast go out for beer afterward. We went to one of the old local college bars, shared pitchers of cold beer and nachos. I found myself seated between Bridget and Tony. Bridget’s best friend, the costumer Marya, was sitting on her other side. The two women were giggling about something; in the loud barroom, I couldn’t hear, so I turned to Tony.

“So, Ken. What is going on between you and my AD?” Tony was a short, bearded cherub, very Jewish and very gay.

“You jealous, Tony? I didn’t think she was your type.”

“Neither are you, Ken. You’re not straight enough.”

“Uh. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. I like them so straight they don’t even
know
they’re straight, because they don’t know there’s anything else to be. Also, you look old enough to go to college. So no, not my type.” He looked at me over his glasses. “And you didn’t answer my question. What’s going on with you and Bridget?”