I’m pretty much The Total Package. Yeah, and speaking
of package, I should probably admit to being well-hung. The face
and body may catch a woman’s interest, but the ten inches pressed
against the zipper of my jeans is what lost me my virginity at the
ripe young age of fourteen. Courtesy of my friend Jon’s big sister,
Candi. The first time she saw my cock she almost changed her mind.
“Oh. My. God. It will never fit,”
she told me. Luckily, she
was intrigued enough that she talked herself into it. That first
time she touched me, I didn’t last any longer than the first three
strokes of her two fists, curled tightly around the girth of my
dick, gliding from root to tip. With the energy and enthusiasm of
your typical, hormonal teen, I was hard and ready to go ten minutes
later.
Abso-fuckin’-lutely, the best feeling in the world
was slowly pressing my cock into my first wet, hot pussy. And it
was agonizingly slow; Candi insisted on being on top to control the
penetration (yeah, she was only sixteen, but she knew what she was
doing). I remember curling my fingers into the blankets of her bed
to keep myself from grabbing her and pulling her down hard on my
aching dick. I couldn’t help the thrust of my hips as I tried to
feed her more of me, faster than she wanted to take me. I was
young, but still pretty goal oriented: cock buried balls-deep. It
was a simple goal, but a worthy one.
I lucked out with Candi as my first lover. In the six
months we snuck around, she taught me to appreciate the nuances of
sex. The sounds: talking dirty; asking your lover for what you want
in very explicit language; letting those sex noises out so your
lover can appreciate them, whether they’re moans, screams, or tiny
hitches of your breath. I learned the taste and scent of sex found
in sweat, lubricants and lotions, or a weeping pussy. The feel of
sex: hard or soft, fast or slow; running hands and fingertips over
skin to give and receive pleasure. Most important, to me anyway,
the visual stimulation of sex: the heavy, half-mast eyes that close
tightly just before orgasm; the mouth that strains then slackens as
she builds to, then reaches climax; watching the wet, glistening
slide of my cock rocking in and out of a woman - her pussy or her
mouth. Fucking. I learned to love it all. To appreciate everything
little thing about it. Those lessons carried over into every
one-night stand, two-week date-a-thon, and month-long infatuation
I’ve had since then.
Two words: Statutory rape. Damn.
So I promptly re-upped the Navy and asked for an
assignment out of the country, and got my ass shipped overseas.
What in Hell’s fuckin’ name was I thinking, mooning after a girl
eight years younger than me? I was sent to the Middle East for a
little over two years. Not much opportunity for meeting women or
dating over there.
By the time I got back in the States, Teresa was
eighteen and I planned to look her up and finally do something
about the hard-on I'd been carting around for three years. I
imagined her five-foot-ten body stretched out on my bed. Her ripe
tits cupped in my palms. The taste of her juices in my mouth. Her
scent in my nose. Her lips on my cock… either set of lips, I wasn’t
going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I mentally took her in
every way I could think of. Once again, I had a goal; it was
simple, but worthy.
I finally made it back home at three in the morning.
Too early for a reunion with the folks, so I just crept in the back
door of my parents’ house and crashed on the living room couch; it
was just too much trouble to make up the bed in my room, and I
didn’t want to wake the family by moving around. As much as I
needed sleep, I was awake and restless a few hours later, so I
dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, deciding to take a run to burn off
some excess energy. I bumped into Sherry Dangerfield while I was on
my way back to the house. She and I had dated years before, so when
she expressed an interest in, well let's just call it what it was,
a quick fuck, I thought it was a way to take the edge off until I
could wine and dine Teresa properly.
It was five twenty-nine on a Sunday morning when we
entered the kitchen from the back door; by five thirty four, I had
Sherry stripped and spread out on the island counter, and my face
buried between her thighs. God, I missed the smell of pussy and the
salty, honeyed taste of it. Five minutes later, she was wet and
ready from her first orgasm with three of my fingers stabbing in
and out of her cunt. She was a fairly quiet lover, shy and breathy,
given to little catches of her breath before exhaling in an almost
silent moan when she found her pleasure. My groan was a bit louder
when she dragged her nails up my back, forcing my shirt higher in
an attempt to remove the offending fabric. Ever helpful, I pulled
the tee off and swiftly unbuckled my belt. Her hands were eager at
my zipper, slipping into the opening to cup the length of my
erection. I was stone hard from enforced celibacy over the last few
months and the tip of my dick was dripping cum, making my
boxer-briefs damp. I barely got my shorts over my ass when she
grabbed my cock and growled, “Now.”
Heaven. And hell. That slow, hard push of the fat
crown of my dick, pressing into a hot, slick pussy. Sherry’s body
bowed high off the counter, as she strained away from the intrusion
and at the same time begged me to go deeper. Her eyes were squeezed
tightly closed and she held her breath as I buried in the next
couple of inches.
I speared my fingers into her hair, pinning her head
down to the counter and arching her throat up, as I pushed in
another inch. Damn, it was a snug fit and I wasn’t even half-way
seated in her depths. It was difficult to force myself to continue
a slow penetration, when all I wanted to do was plunge forward-
hard and deep. Her lips parted and her mouth lifted, offering a
kiss. I considered it briefly, but as much as Sherry superficially
resembled Teresa, with her dark hair and eyes, she wasn’t the woman
I had been craving for three long years. I just didn’t want to kiss
her. My fingers curled against her scalp, pulling her hair a
little, but her moan told me it was a pleasurable pain. I leaned
over her body and bit into the cord of her neck as two more inches
pushed inward. The walls of her pussy clamped down on me, and I
could feel little ripples that signaled an orgasm. I held still,
not willing to tip her over until I was embedded inside her. I was
half-dozen strokes from cumming.
“No,” she moaned, her breath hot against my ear.
“Don’t stop, Bas. Fuck me.” For the first time, since I breached
her, she curved her legs over my hips and used her heels to drive
me deeper as she thrust her hips upward. My balls pressed to the
crease of her ass, and she held me tightly to her body, absorbing
the shock of having my cock completely buried inside her.
Holy. Effing. Shit!
I loosened my grip on her hair and slid my hand down
to cup her jaw. “Are you alright?” I asked. It felt great to me,
sliding into that hot tightness, but I have to think that must have
hurt her. We weren’t using any lubricant, only what was naturally
occurring. It had been my experience that no matter how tight the
woman, I would fit, girth-wise. Women were real accommodating that
way. But I was long as well as thick, so I was used to exercising
strict control of depth and speed. Some women were so sensitive to
pressure against their cervix, that I’d had a handful that weren’t
able to take all of me. There were ways around that, usually
keeping a hand fisted around my cock to control depth, but I still
tried to go slow enough to gauge their comfort.
Sherry’s legs slid from my hips and fell bonelessly
to the counter; my body was now framed by her splayed thighs. “God,
yes. I’m fine Bas. But move, I’m so fucking close and you’re
dickin’ around. Fuck me. Been here, done you; I can take it. All of
it.”
Alrighty then. So much for showing a little concern
or consideration. I could feel the little contractions as her pussy
milked me. It would be close as to which one of us came first. My
cock twitched and let me know that it would prefer some friction. I
leaned forward as I maneuvered my other hand under her ass to angle
her hips, and I realized she smelled like the same shampoo Teresa
used.
One minute I had my face in her hair to breathe in
something fruity and sweet, like oranges and mint; the next minute,
I heard a gasp, and looked up. Damn, I had no idea she was even in
the house, but there she stood: Teresa March. Wearing this
transparent little top trimmed with tiny pink bows and thin, pink
ribbon straps, sliding half-off her shoulders. Her nipples were
stiff and prominent against the soft fabric. A matching pair of
white panties spanned high across her hips. I couldn’t see a dark
shadow of pubic hair and my mind went ballistic, imagining her
shaved bare, and my cock twitched in delight at that image. Her
long brown hair was messy around her shoulders and her eyes were
heavy as if she’d just woken up. And that mouth... All I saw were
those lips, soft and parted in surprise. Shock? I envisioned
that
mouth, and those lips, sucking my dick. In that moment,
staring across the room into Teresa’s eyes, I imagined the body
under me was the girl that stood in the doorway. Sherry’s vaginal
walls clamped down, and my hips flexed. I was too far gone in four
months of celibacy and the wet heat of the woman wrapped around my
cock to stop. My traitorous hips started an involuntary push and
pull, drawing my cock almost completely away from the slickness of
the pussy fisting it, and thrusting deeply until my balls slapped
her ass.
Teresa turned and ran. Three thrusts later, Sherry
and I hit orgasm, simultaneously.
God, I was such an idiot.
I looked for her. I shooed Sherry out the door with
excuses that my parents would be getting up early for church.
Teresa was nowhere to be found. I accidentally woke Janey up when I
was checking bedrooms, and her screeches, sorry, her excited
squeals of delight, woke the folks. During my two weeks of leave
before reporting for my next assignment (aboard ship this time), I
never even caught a glimpse of Teresa again. In fact, she managed
to avoid me for the next twelve years.
Janey, unknowingly, fed my fixation of all things
Teresa by keeping me supplied with pictures of the pair of them.
Those two girls did everything together, and Janey was insane with
taking pictures of anything and everything. Never one to just take
a picture of a waterfall, Janey stopped perfect strangers to snap
pictures of the two of them in front of the waterfall. As much time
as the two of them spent together, it was even more amazing that
Teresa always managed to become invisible when I was in town. Once,
I thought I caught a glimpse of her. Idiot that I am, I traversed
the whole damned department store looking for her. No luck.
I shared all my letters and pictures with my best
friend David. He’d spend hours flipping through them, absorbing my
stories about my sister and Teresa. I was hoping to set him up with
Janey when we retired. We decided we were going into business
together and I thought he’d be a stabilizing influence on my
free-spirited sister. Janey’s not stupid, don’t get me wrong. Shit,
David has one of those genius IQ’s and wouldn’t be able to put up
with an idiot. Janey was just restless. David, with his focus and
intensity, would be a good influence on her.
Then, eight months ago, on Halloween day, the
pictures changed. I could barely recognize the woman I loved in the
pictures Janey emailed to me of Teresa in the hospital. Oh my god.
Her beautiful face. Ruined. I’m not so superficial as to think she
had suddenly become, I don’t know, less than worthy? Sure, people
see me and make the stereotypical assumption; blonde, Ken-doll
looks - equals empty-headed, right? Doesn’t matter to me if I’m
underestimated, that comes in quite handy in my line of work. Her
looks don’t matter to me, Teresa’s perfection stems from inside
her, the wrapper just means I noticed her sooner. Her outer
packaging caught my eye, but the exquisiteness of her soul held my
interest and captured my heart.
It was a fucking freak accident. Lightning struck a
tree for fuck’s sake. Blew the damn thing up and it exploded like
shrapnel, embedding into anything in its path. Teresa’s back had
been to the tree, but, at the last moment, she turned around to
look over her shoulder and a branch took her in the face. The scars
were bad, but the real tragedy is Teresa is now blind. Janey tells
me she almost lost her right eye, and hell knows, from the photos,
I can believe that. There’s no visible damage to the left eye, but
she lost sight in that one too. I almost flew back to the States
from ‘the undisclosed location’ I was assigned to, but Janey
convinced me that Teresa didn’t want or need anyone around her. I
had to watch her recovery via photos and videos Janey recorded on
her cell phone.
There was a physical ache in my gut every time I
pulled out one of the hospital pictures. The deep scars, the raw
wound that bisected her eye, leaving a jagged, angry line. How many
times did I pull up one of the pics and just trace my fingers over
the path of puckered skin? I couldn’t tell you. I loved her. I
wanted to take this burden away and carry it myself. Here I was, in
and out of war zones for the last twenty years or so, without a
scratch to show for all those close calls - and there were many
close calls. Danger and threat of injury were anticipated and
accepted with the execution of each mission. And my girl gets
shrapneled by a fuckin’ tree? It was wrong on so many levels.