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In the words of one one of the 21st century’s most average poets, Chris Martin, let’s go back to the begin.

I was a gangly 19 year old school kid out on my own in the world for the very first time, nearly six and a half feet tall with the create of a broom handle. I know, right; really appealing stuff. To make things worse on myself, I’d also grown up in the strictest of households so, despite my newfound worldly freedom, I’d internalized my parents’ carefully curated work ethic in a way that made talking to women entirely beyond me; college was life, and work would replace it when the time came. I was almost entirely insular, shy, and unable (or unwilling) to do much about it.

I went to class, work, and the occasional party nearly unnoticed by anyone I didn’t already know for the first two years of university. I didn’t mind it all that much, being a quiet person on the whole, but the isolation did get to me from time to time. I’d had a girlfriend in high college, so I wasn’t entirely without experience, but was certain that enough time had passed to nullify any credible claim to familiarity with a woman’s body.

I did enjoy looking though. Oh did I ever enjoy looking. In some methods, I still think daydreaming about the possibility of someone’s touch is nearly as thrilling as the reality of it. The tension you conjure up on your own, the big ‘what if’ of the thing…it’s all so electric. And, as we all know well, a school campus is the ripest environment for an overactive imagination.

I knew that my imagination would have to do though. At least I wondered it would; there were papers to write and scholarships to maintain, and not enough time in the day for more than that. Still, there was one girl in particular who refused to quit haunting me.

Of an average height, with light brown skin, wide and generous smile, shimmering black hair cut in a bob, and perky…well perky everything else, the woman who sat opposite me during my Wednesday evening class was more than I dared to tempt myself with the wondered of. She was, quite honestly, too hot. She was confident in all the methods I wasn’t, commanded the room when she spoke up in class, made friends with anyone who crossed her path, and just really, honestly, authentically could not have been prettier in any way. She was unreasonable.

And I was me. Interminably shy, resolutely quiet, and sure that a skeletal giraffe man was the exact opposite of what might tempt anybody, I never even flirted with the idea of making eye contact with her, let alone working up the gall to sit next to her.

So she made the decision for me. You don’t need to believe it; lord knows it wouldn’t hurt my feelings badly if you were as incredulous now as I had been then. Even so, about halfway through that term, this absolute angel took it upon herself to knock me over the head, plunking down next to me before class, sticking out her hand to take mine, introduced herself by name, and stuffed a Starbucks napkin into my hand with a pen, demanding I write my phone number on it.

And that, dear reader, was how that went. I guess everyone has a type and hers just happened to be shy nerds with no personality. Go figure. All I know is that her outgoing nature is the only thing that carried us along in that next week or so; she texted first most mornings, last most nights, and pitched out first date for that weekend; I think we went to a movie or something. Real glamourous stuff.

You’re not here for the deep lore though. You’re here to see whether or not I’d embarrass myself entirely, aren’t you? You want to read on to discover that popped after 15 seconds and cried while I confessed my love to her. You sick fuck. You should be ashamed of yourself, like I was, almost at all times.

The movie was fine, the dinner was forgettable, and the ride up the elevator to her rented apartment was the most nerve wracking thing I’d ever done. She’d worn a thin black cardigan, top button screaming in suicidal protest at the effort to keep her bra from sight but failing miserably to do so, by design on her part; the white lacy trim adorning the cushioned pink cups peaked over the top *just so*. It was 2013, and that was just how you wore things. Her skirt was shockingly short, but she wore it with the practiced confidence of someone who knew how to avoid giving the entire world a show, and her black tights completed the picture of what, I decided then, my dream girl must have looked like all along.

She made me a drink, sensing my obvious nervousness, and made things worse by holding onto the glass longer than she needed to, boring holes straight through me with her amused glance. She wanted to show me something, she said, and I was to wait right there. Her insistence on finding me amusing started to have some effect on my sense of self; I told her I’d be waiting patiently. She disappeared into the back hall, rustling around in her bedroom, while I gulped back the courage to make good on what was surely gonna reemerge.

My god, what an entrance. She turned the corner back into the living room in nothing but that same pink bra that had teased me all night long, a matching pair of lace pink panties that lacked any substance to be worth the name, and a short nightgown made of something wholly see-through. She placed her hand on the wall, striking a subtle pose with the barest twist of her hip; she’d done this before, and I so did not care.

She asked what I wondered, and I told her the truth; she was stunning. She wanted to know if that was all I had to say for myself, and it was all I could do to retort that I wanted her, badly. She laughed; she knew that already, and held a hand out to lead me to her room.

It was small, with a desk and bed taking up most of the floor space, but she’d lit a candle and an iPod docked by her nightstand quietly played something I hadn’t heard before. I was, frankly, flattered by the effort. I think she might have had a crush on me.

She kissed me, cupping my face in her hands before shrugging the little robe off and inviting me to touch her; I put my hands around her waist and ran them up and down, relishing the impossible softness of her dark skin. She asked if I really wondered she looked good, as though there was any chance on earth that she didn’t, but I offered reassurances just the same. The matching set was beautiful on her; it was sale rack at Victoria’s Secret material, but she was wearing the absolute hell out of it, and it almost pained me to hear her telling me to take it off her.

I reached around and started fumbling for the clasp, gripped with terror at my embarrassing display of skill. She took the opportunity to kiss at my neck, just below my ear, in a way that instantly sent shivers down my spine. She whispered softly “it hooks in the front, silly”, and I died a little inside.

Embarrassment melted in the instant the bra fell away to join her robe on the floor; her boobs were, somehow, much nicer than I had expected. I think I might have whimpered. I could touch them, she told me, and I did so eagerly; a giant though I might be, they still filled each hand amply. She bit her lip while I massaged with abandon, staring me straight in the eye. I bent to kiss one, the right, then planted my lips firmly over the nipple of the other, enjoying the way they hardened at my tongue’s touch.

I was told to lay down, and did so, accepting her light teasing at having done so with my pants on; I fought contentiously with my ignorant belt, wiggling like an idiot on her single bed to get out of them while she watched on in amusement, putting her hair up in a pony tail. Jeans off, she knelt before me before I could work the briefs off too; she brushed my hands away and looked somewhat rapturously at the mound under the fabric. Again staring me right in the eyes, she tugged the hem apart and reached in with her other hand, her lips parting slightly along with mine as she wrapped her fingers firmly around my cock, wrestling it out entirely and looking straight down at it.

“What the fuck”. She said that, quite literally, in a tone of confusion that I’ll never forget. See, being relatively inexperienced and having spent too much time watching porn (as many young people will do), I had been led to believe that I was average at best; I had no idea that I was on the larger side of large, or that some people really don’t know what to do when confronted with what she would later describe as “just a really, really big dick”.

She did know what to do though, and widened her kneeling stance at the end of the bed, dropping her chest down low and slipping her warm lips around my head without so much as a warning. The sight of her ass in the air, adorably decorated by the ornately backed panties she still wore, and the lips I’d been dying to kiss for months bobbing up and down wetly upon me, drove me up the wall. I found my voice then, finally, and told her just how much I had wanted her for so long, how perfect she looked right then, how her lips felt just incredible, how much I loved the eagerness that she had shown in making me feel like the desired half of this equation, and how lucky I was to be there with her right then. She cooed and hummed happily, enjoying the praise and tenderly loving on me like it was all she’d ever wanted in return. Eventually she decided I’d had enough, and crawled up to straddle my hips, imploring me to get rid of my shirt so she could touch everything in reach. She was so affectionate with me; her gentle caresses bordered on the romantic. With a cute little shimmy of her shoulders and a coy look, she told me that it was my turn.

We swapped places, peppering each other with small kisses as we traded spots. The candlelight dancing on her stunning form, laid there before me, and the way she stretched her hands up over her head to rest on the mountain of pillows was an absolute vision. I kneeled, as she had done, between her legs and slowly peeled her underwear off her. I remember the little landing strip of curly black hair atop her puffy mound so well, and the way it begged to tickle my tongue. It did tickle too; I licked and kissed at her for all I was worth, gently sucking her pronounced clit between my lips and playing my tongue back and forth across it feverishly, desperately wanting to make her feel at least half as good as she’d done for me. An insistent hand tangled itself in my hair, pushing me down hard, telling me all I needed to know as I gladly walked her over the finish line in a rapturous eruption that had her announcing her orgasm to the upstairs neighbors loudly and proudly.

She laughed through the last dying waves of trembling happiness, offering high praise for the treatment I’d given her, and I told her without a shred of irony that I would need to be doing that again, and often at that. She told me that as long as I agreed to be her boyfriend, I could kiss her there any time I wanted to.

Slightly blueballed by her insistence that we hold off on anything more until later, I walked home at 2am with a grin that refused to leave my face for days, cemented in place by a text upon arriving home which read:

“Oh hello there boyfriend of mine. Where the hell were you hiding that giant cock anyway?”.

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Everyone here was an adult at the time, and over the age of 18.

NSFW: yes

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