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Everyone here was 18+ at the time 🙂

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I know you’ve been here; hands busy, brain on autopilot, mouth left unattended to make whatever noises it feels like. Attend then, and witness the tragic case of one such disaster, so that you might avoid a similar, painful fate for yourself.

I’ve written a pair of accounts now, which you can discover pinned in a post on my user account, about my first school girlfriend, and all the trouble we got up to together. She was a riot, at the time anyway, and we spent most of that year fucking, partying, and fucking while partying. It wasn’t a sustainable lifestyle to say the least, and the unimaginably immature relationship dynamics that we mistook for stability were obviously hurdling us towards disaster.

She had a lively social calendar when we met and, as far as her friends were concerned, I was a solid supporting character in the ever-unfolding dramas of their little clique. I got along with all their boyfriends, kept up at the bar when called upon, and maintained a finely curated alternative grunge aesthetic that balanced the cast of jocks and nerds that they all dragged in tow whenever we went out. Everything about this was fairly new to me, but I was happy to ride the high of it all for as long as I could.

Tonight was a going out sort of night, as confirmed by my girlfriend’s upstairs neighbor and good friend, Emily. I was in the kitchen, listening to them rhyme off the local spots we’d be hitting up in the living room, doing my best to act like washing dishes was something I did a lot of when she wasn’t around. Occasionally, one of them would call out for some input on a bar or when I wondered we should call cabs, and I’d absently offer my Sounds Goods and Yeah For Sures. I couldn’t have cared much less, honestly; my girlfriend had just bought a new dildo and every minute spent at the bars was precious time wasted on not watching her use it.

I heard Emily call out to confirm that she’d see us later, followed by the closing front door. I kept washing dishes.

My girlfriend padded up behind me softly, wrapping her arms around my waist, lying politely about what a great job I was doing. I muttered something non-committal; there was a large steak knife that refused to come clean of whatever biological impossibility had adhered to it. She started talking into my back while I scrubbed, carefully. The fucker was sharp. She said something about Emily. Mhm, yes, for sure. Oh really, wow. I had a deep playbook of generic utterances.

“…and I just think it might be really fun to try sometime”.

Again, whatever it was sounded great. Yeah, definitely.

“Really?! Well who should we ask?”.

The dishrag wasn’t doing a thing, maybe a sponge would work better. Was the water hot enough? Needing to produce the name of a person, I chose Emily. Why not? She lives upstairs and we do everything with her anyway, plus she was just here like two minutes ago.

The hug ended abruptly. Emily was not the answer to whatever the question had been, apparently. I was invited to explain myself, angrily; why should Emily be the one to have a threeway with us?

I dropped the knife. I confessed to having spent very little effort in listening up to then, which calmed her somewhat, but did little satisfy the answer to her question. She hadn’t been thinking of another girl anyway. Why did it have to be a girl? Did I want to fuck other women? Had I already started? I did come up with Emily’s name awfully fast.

This went on for a while.

This went on while she got ready to go out.

This went on while we waited for the cab.

This went on for a bit while we were in the cab.

This went on at the bar, until I decided to leave it.

An insistent knock at my apartment door, well after midnight, had me sure that this was due to go on until it had run its course.

She barged through, though she seemed far calmer than I expected upon letting her in. She didn’t come to my place often; it was a bit of a disaster. I waited impatiently for her fresh salvo, though it refused to come. She just…stood there. She looked apologetic, almost, though obviously too proud to speak first. I was annoyed; I was annoyed about a night wasted, I was annoyed at my rapidly resolving drunkenness, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of picking up a dead argument about something stupid, and I was growing exceptionally frustrated that I had let myself be put on the backfoot about the whole problem in the first place. What did she mean “why does it have to be a girl?”. Why did it have to be a dude? It was late, I was tired, and I just wanted this over with. I asked what she wanted now.

And she burst out crying. Big tears, crocodile in a thunderstorm tears. It wasn’t great.

She stood there, bawling desperately, apologizing profusely, insisting she hadn’t meant anything by it, that I shouldn’t be upset, that it was all her fault, that it was a dumb idea in the first place, that th…

She looked really cute. Not because of the crying or because I was flush with self-righteousness at her apology or anything so mundane; she was just really beautiful. Her hair had grown long in the last few months, and fell about her shoulders lightly, framing a pretty face that refused to be made less so by the running mascara. Her dark red lipstick paired brilliantly with the light brown of her skin. Her tight black dress, outright scandalously short, hugged a body that was unfairly lovely for the relative lack of effort she needed to put into working for it. I did absolutely love her hips.

She looked so sad. It broke my heart a little. It was fine, I told her. It wasn’t a big deal.

She quit sobbing abruptly and reached out to me, seeking comfort, which I was happy to give her, hugging her close. She kissed me, hard; I wasn’t entirely over my wounded pride yet, but reciprocated the kiss. I did care for her, a lot. I asked if she wanted to stay the night, adding that the sleep would do us both some good.

Would I fuck her, she asked.

I hesitated, emotionally drained and looking forward to getting some rest and putting this all behind us, but not wanting to offer any cause for further hurt by denying her either. Still, I waited long enough for her to notice.

“Please? Please fuck me?”. She seemed earnest in asking. I wondered the offer had been an act of pity, or an olive branch, but the please was a little too insistent. She started kissing at my neck, which has at all times been my kryptonite.

“Please come fuck me hard” she repeated quietly in my ear. She grabbed at me, confirming that her neck kisses were working. They were. Any residual frustration I’d been clinging to resolved itself in the moment. I demanded that she lose the dress.

She turned away from me, still in the front hall of my bachelor apartment, and swept her hair over her shoulder, clearly waiting for a hand with the zipper of her sparkly black dress. I obliged her as she looked back at me, demure as ever, fake lashes beating open and closed slowly. I drew the zipper down the length of her body slowly, languidly exposing the long expanse of her dark form in the low light of the hallway. One hand on her hip, I tugged the last few inches of the zipper down and watched, enraptured, as she shrugged her shoulders out and shimmied the rest of the thin fabric off her body, coyly stepping out of it and moving off toward the bed that served as my living room furniture. I could only watch in amazement as the sight her wonderous figure thrilled me for the hundredth time. I thought, fleetingly, whether the see-thru backed panties and ornately strappy bra had been under the dress all night, or if she’d gone home to get them on. At any rate, the effect was the same; I needed to take her. I tore my shirt over my head, shed my pants, and followed her on, entirely naked.

She was on her knees at the side of my bed by the time I caught up to her. No ponytail this time, her straightened hair all still lay over one shoulder. Her hands rested on her bare thighs, bum pressed against her bare feet behind her. Her eyes sought mine out, following me across the room, but her chin stayed low enough to effect a more deferential look than I was used to from her. She said not a word.

I stood squarely in front of her, feet planted on either side of her knees. I was still entirely turned on from the gentle lips against my neck, and she leaned in to kiss the tip of my cock affectionally. I didn’t think it was efficient to kiss a cock lovingly, but she proved me wrong in the most decisive way she could, lavishing me with the gentlest, most pillowy attention she’d ever offered. She followed the head obediently as it bobbed back and forth away from her chasing lips, opting to keep her hands where they were on her thighs the entire time. A dozen wet kisses and budding pearls of dripping precum mixed on her lips, glazing them in a soft sheen and producing crimson smears of lipstick along my length. Eventually, she reach a single hand upwards, slowly clasping her fingers around the base of me, manicured nails glinting in the night, before taking an exaggerated and torturously slow mouthful of my tip, puffing her lips around to form a perfect seal. She held tight with her hand, looked straight up and into my eyes, and bobbed her head, just the once. It was divine. I moaned, loudly. She did it again, never breaking eye contact. A pause of 3 or 4 second, and she did it again. Nearly a dozen times she worshiped me like this, the all-consuming agony increasing as she added a slight twist of her head with each bob. If wishing for a moment to last forever was a crime, then I was as guilty as they come, and she was here as judge and jury.

Eventually she settled into a more rhythmic pace, never parting her lips from my cock. She removed the hand from around my base and clasped both behind her back while she bobbed and gulped for aching minutes; I played with her hair while she worked, and told her what a good job she was doing. It was too good, and I wasn’t in a hurry to fill her mouth up without ever getting her out of her underwear. I told her to get on the bed.

I preferred her on her back most often, but she didn’t seem to think that was fitting for the submission that she was committed to offering tonight; she told me that I needed to fuck her hard, so it would need to be from behind. She rose to her feet before me, demanding that I take her bra off while she maintained my erection with a firm stroking hand; I obliged, now much more practiced at doing so. She let go of my cock, tugging at the hem of her panties and wiggling her hips playfully as she worked them off, bending and snapping expertly as she dropped them. She crawled onto the bed, chest to the mattress, back arched faultlessly, round ass proffered heavenward, banded stretchmarks across her waist begging to be kissed and held fast, knees spread wide. Open blinds and the streetlight outside offered the only light in the room, but she was visibly wet. She really had wanted this. Badly.

I was wet still from her mouth’s delicious ministrations, and wasted not a moment in squaring up behind her. I slid in almost effortlessly, while she pressed her face into the bed; the duvet did little to muffle her agonized moan. It was feral. Each fist balled up a handful of blanket tightly, and she clamped down around me firmly. It was usually an effort to fit myself all the way inside of her; I’m nearly six and a half feet tall, and proportioned appropriately everywhere else. Not tonight though; I slipped into her greedily welcoming pussy with carefree abandon. She preferred short, bumping strokes while I was all the way in, eschewing the long slamming thrusts often represented in porn. As easily as she usually came from this method, she often complained that it made her too sore after only a few minutes. Fuck someone enough, and you get a good sense of their limits; I began to push against her in short, abrupt thrusts, knowing I could finish her two or three times like this before she tapped out.

She didn’t though. Only a minute passed before she grunted my name around clenched teeth, arching an already dangerously bent back even further and slamming back onto me in the throes of her orgasm. I maintained pace, taking her around the hips firmly and pulling her back into me for another one only minutes later; normally well mannered even in the bedroom, she cursed loudly as she announced her arrival again. The sound of longing in her voice, the evident addiction to my cock ringing plain in her demands for more, drove me mad; sweat began to cover me in a shiny slick across my brow and chest, and my breaths came in ragged gulps as much from effort as concentration. She insisted on more, and I obeyed.

I took to her with renewed dedication, knowing her poor insides could only bear so much bruising, and not wanting to reach that point before she came again. She looked back to watch me, insisting on having her ass slapped; my palm cracked sharply across her rippling ass. I hadn’t done well enough; she wanted it harder. I tried again, though I still fell short of he expectations.

“Fuck me like you own me already, come on”. She was shouting now.

I wound up and struck her shamefully hard; even buried inside her and wholly devoted to making her cum, I felt a moment’s guilt at how hard I slapped her. She laughed uproariously, a shockingly guttural noise; fucking finally, she said, that’s what she had wanted. That’s how I needed to fuck her. I was very nearly alarmed at the look on her face; lips twisted in a rictus curl, hair plastered across her sweaty forehead, wild look in her eye. Fuck it, I wondered. This was obviously what she needed.

I grabbed a fistful of her long dark hair, close to the scalp, by the roots, curling my figures hard, pulled her head back, and pounded her. I ruined her. Concern for the welting handprint I left on her ass fled me and I made ruinous work of desecrating her from behind. We were all motion and wet, slapping cracks of flesh slamming together, and her insistent chorus of Yes Yes YESs eventually gave way to a wordless howl of formless, crying shouts. The bed slammed against the wall opposite loudly, and I chased away concern at what the neighbors might think. She begged me not to stop, the desperate supplication coming in something of a pathetic squealing cry, the long “don’t stoOooOooOp” dragging out for several staccato’d seconds, undulating in pitch with my slamming thrusts.

We were both long past reason, lost entirely in the profanity of what we did there. I called her names I’d never uttered in my life, and she moaned like a desperate junkie begging for the relief of one last hit. It was inevitable, and we careened on into oblivion together; where she had entirely shredder her vocal chords before this, her orgasm stole her breath entirely now, the only noise she made sounding like a long “n” syllable that left her little else to do but bear down with every strained muscle in her ravaged body. The sight of her white knuckle grip on the sheets, the vice-like clamp on my cock, the trembling tremors wracking her shuddering thighs…it was too much for me anymore. I pulled out in the last moments of reservation I had left and began breathlessly erupting long, trailing ropes of my hot cum from the crack of her ass to the nape of her neck while she egged me on hoarsely.

I collapsed beside her. I was destroyed. She was too, just the same. She stared at me with unseeing eyes, still miles away, pupils glassed over with exhaustion. Her lips were dry, her makeup an absolute mess of streaking swirls of product and color. I kissed her shoulder. She whispered a scratchy “thank you for fucking me baby”.

I wiped her clean with a curatorial care, as though she was priceless artifact. I tipped a glass of cool water to her parched lips. I kissed her forehead, her shoulders, her neck. I brought her a clean tee to sleep in, but she insisted on feeling me against her. We drifted off to sleep together.

Two days later, I was picking up my things from her place. It couldn’t have been Emily because it needed to be a guy. Not just any guy. They’d been fucking for weeks. That whole night had been guilt on her part.

I was back to square one.

NSFW: yes

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