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By *est-couple OP Man
over a year ago
Southwick (near Trowbridge) |
That evening, a shower and a freshen-up later, Bill tapped on my residence room door. He looked smart, smelt good, and was definitely going to have his wicked way with me that night. His erection was visibly preceding him as he entered the room to behold me in all my maidenly glory. The 1950s outfit was not what he expected (I think he had probably imagined a dress like Suzanne Sully out of the Human League, or a demure Lady Di skirt with a pie-crust top and flat shoes). He looked me up and down, from the shine of my red stilettoes (which matched my glossy belt perfectly), his gaze taking in my shapely calves, encased in cream nylon, the flared polka dot skirt and white blouse. My red hair, freshly washed, was crowned with a white Alice Band, spotted with blue polka dots – an inversion of the skirt. It was brave outfit, a sexy one – but not at all tarty. I felt every inch a sexy woman, rather than a naïve girl. In a few hours, that was going to be a physical as well as mental reality.
A bus trip into the city (skint students can’t afford taxi) took us to a restaurant, where we ate well, and where Bill kept sliding his hands up my nylon-clad calf when he thought no one was looking. I had worked out quite quickly that nylon turned him on (he was always looking at girls’ legs – and they were quite visible in those days, when the maxi-skirt had gone out of fashion and knee-length pencil skirts were ‘in’) – and I bet he didn’t suspect that I was wearing stockings. The stockings, indeed, were a revelation to me. I’d never worn them before (well, who did, when tights are so convenient), but when I put them on they felt, well, special – I mean, rolling them carefully up my freshly shaved legs, one at a time, signalled the entry (no pun intended) into a different aspect of my life, maybe even the release of a different, unknown or repressed (English literature students love Freud) self. Pulling on tights is prosaic; wearing stockings signals to the self that one is ready for sexy fun. Maybe it was different when stockings was all there was for a woman to wear – but for now, well, for me at least they are always the first gesture as I prepare to submit to a good fucking. I always wear them for sex: girls, if you don’t, try it. You might be surprised.
Anyway, back to the night of my seduction. The meal finished and some wine properly consumed, we took the bus (not very romantic, I agree) back to our student halls. We had decided to use Bill’s room – his was larger, and he had the unusual luxury of a small sofa which he’d bought cheap at the wonderfully named Secondhandland. This was draped in throws, and the room was lit with the rather crude mood lighting of those days – red and orange bulbs in second-hand table lamps. Add to this some lingering joss-stick aroma and the bottle-candle sticks which he lit on arrival. It was as good as we could get on a student grant of £150, which had to last us for 10 weeks!
On the sofa we hungrily embraced, Bill’s right arm encircling me and drawing my willing mouth to his. I yielded to his decisiveness, and my mouth opened to receive his tongue, teasing and chasing my own as our bodies began their first steps towards union. His left hand caressed my right breast firmly but pleasantly, as we kissed passionately. My right arm pulled his face closer to mine, while my left tried to encircle him. It was intimate, perfect, two lovers together, tenderly testing each other’s commitment to a physical future. I felt the inevitable march of time, the slow parade towards my impending defloration, as Bill’s hand ceased caressing my breast and carefully began to open the buttons of my blouse, one by one. With three buttons undone, his hand slipped inside the garment, caressing my yielding breast through my bra, and finding the swelling nipple that his caresses had aroused. A few more movements of his hand saw my blouse now open to my waistband, and gave him his first sight of my lace-encrusted cleavage. As my young lover gazed upon my half-concealed breasts, I stole my hand out to caress the hard protrusion beneath his trousers. He squirmed, visibly, as through the thinness of his trousers I pulled back his foreskin, effectively masturbating him through a layer of material. ‘Be careful’, was all he said – he didn’t want to come too soon. As we kissed again, and he gathered me into the safety of the circle of his right arm, his left hand began to caress the fine nylon that covered my calves. His movements were as soft and as delicate as the material, and I could tell he was enjoying this contact with my legs. I kept my knees together, to stop him progressing any further, for I wanted to at least try to preserve the image of a maidenly reluctance. Inside, of course, I was boiling hot, my womanly centre all liquid and ready, very ready, to be properly fucked for the first time. As we kissed and he stroked my lower legs, my maidenly reserve (as I saw it), dissolved, and I opened my knees, just a little. His hand went quickly to the gap beneath my skirt. I closed my knees, trapping him. He played the game perfectly, kissing me yet more deeply so that I yielded, my knees opening to allow his fingers to proceed further. Hi hand rested on my knee, and then followed the smoothness of my inner thigh. He definitely expected an expanse of nylon and the wet gusset he had no doubt fantasised about so often, so his shock when his fingers passed over the slightly thicker edge of the stocking top and on to the smooth skin of my inner thigh was palpable and delightful. He pulled away, and gazed into my eyes, lost as much in a seductive reverie as I was. ‘Darling, oh love’ was all that he could say as his hand returned to its duty of preparing my moist, maidenly passage for the invasion of his hymen-breaking member. On reaching my soaked panties, his fingers brought me quickly to a delicious creaming, possibly the best I had ever experienced. I was truly wrapped up in what I was doing. I was ready to be fucked. He was ready to fuck me. We were going to lose our mutual virginity, and because we had enjoyed our pornography, talked so much about it, experimented up to the point of full oral sex, and prepared so much by dressing up for each other, we were going to enjoy a thoughtful pleasure denied to most virgins.
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