Claire: Prologue

Note: This story isn't as graphic as most, but it has the added element of being a true story. No, not a fake true story – a real true story. As you get into it, you can probably see that it's true. It has a little humor (I can't help it), but I know that's not why you read these stories. Actually, it has quite a bit of sexiness to it for a true story, but it's not wall to wall sexual description. If your horniness meter is flagging a bit, try it and see what you think. I might write another one, if somebody likes this one.

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Claire

I was a senior in college, and one of the girls on my coed softball team invited me to a party. "Just come on over about 8:00 or so," she said. "And things should be going pretty good by then."

The thought of going to one of Bobbi's parties didn't excite me greatly. I knew she always stacked the deck: more guys than girls. However, I had nothing else to do that Friday night, so I decided to drop by. Bobbi didn't disappoint me. About 25 guys crowded around the apartment and only three girls. Everybody was drinking and a lot of people were smoking. It was not a scenario that appealed to me, so after a cursory glance around, I eased back out the door before my teammate saw me.

I didn't want to alienate Bobbi because, although she was slightly chunky and not particularly feminine, she was a good friend and fun to be around – and she was a redhead with enormous tits. From my perspective, a redhead's tits are great, but enormous redhead tits are as good as it gets. On occasion, when we were both bored, and nobody else was around, she let me play with her tits. I like tits a lot; I like redhead tits even more, and enormous redhead tits are irresistible. We had never gotten around to fucking, but I liked to think that we were keeping our options open on that count.

So, I unobtrusively sneaked out the door before she saw me and headed home. It looked like one of those boring Friday nights that single guys have to endure more than they should. But as I walked down the stairs of Bobbi's apartment and strode across the courtyard, next to the swimming pool, a cute little blonde I had never seen before intersected my route. She hooked her hand into the crook of my elbow and dragged me back toward Bobbi's place. "C'mon," she said. "There's a party upstairs. Let's go have some fun."

I pulled my arm loose and said, "No thanks. Too many men and not enough women. Go ahead: it should be fun for you."

"Oh c'mon," she repeated. "It will be fun." And with that, she gave me a curious little smile . . . but I was not in one of my more perceptive modes at the time, and I was homeward bound – not to be deterred.

"Naw, I'm going home," I insisted. "Go on up. You'll like it. The odds are in your favor."

She gave me one more exasperated look, as if to say, "Come off it, you fucking idiot. I'm making you an offer. Get your stupid ass moving, and come on up to the party with me." But she didn't say it. Instead, she shrugged and walked away. My eyes lingered on her as she walked away. I concluded that was just a bit overweight, but not bad. I'd definitely fuck her if I had the chance. But I wouldn't have the chance tonight. I was heading home.

When I got back to the house I shared with three of my college football teammates, I lay down on my bed and began to stew. I thought about the curious smile the girl had given me, and the imminently fuckable body that I had watched walk away and regretted my lamentable decision to walk away.

"Go on back you fucking idiot," I groused to myself. "There was a potential piece of ass, and you walked away from it. She's probably in Bobbi's bedroom, right now, getting nailed by some nerdy sonofabitch who really doesn't deserve it."

I struggled with my thoughts for a few more minutes, then muttered to myself, "Oh, what the Hell? Get up and go on back. She may still be there. By now, you need a piece of ass for relief?" So I got up and pedaled my bicycle back up the street to the party.

When I walked in, she was still there! She was sitting on the kitchen countertop, sipping a drink and talking to three guys, but she hadn't left, and she was not getting bounced in the back room – yet. I still had a shot. So I sauntered over in her direction, and as she saw me approach, she smiled and said, "Welcome back. Couldn't resist me, eh? Here, have a drink. And she proffered me a can of beer.

I took the beer, as I always did at parties, then babied it for the rest of the night. I didn't like alcohol, but I could avoid getting pestered all night by well-meaning friends, simply by holding the beer in my hand and taking an occasional imaginary swig. My vice wasn't drinking. It was getting my dick into as many girls as I could. And at that moment, my dick was aimed directly at the girl sitting on the countertop.

(Yes, I know: it was a self-centered, insensitive, and infantile approach to life, but at that time, for better or worse, that's where my mind was. As you will see in subsequent stories – if I do, indeed, write further stories-- my attitude would come back to bite me in the ass a few times).

Much to my surprise – and pleasure -- the little blonde kind of deflected her attention from the other guys and toward me. I still don't know why. Yes, I was literally the star running back on the football team, and in most paradigms, that counts for something. But in our small, academically-oriented university, it usually didn't help a bit. In fact, it tended to be somewhat of a stigma because we were generally regarded as "Those big, dumb, football players, who inexplicably run around banging into each other, sustaining unnecessary and sometimes life-long injuries." But football did keep me in pretty good shape, so that might have been part of the attraction.

"What's your name?" was my clever, brilliant, and smooth opening line.

She let my clumsiness slide and said, "I'm Claire. I'm not looking to get married."

"Whooh!" I said. "That's usually my opening line, but you beat me to it. I think I like you already."

"I mean it," she said. "I'm nowhere near thinking about getting married. I have a lot of playing to do first. I mean it. I want to be far-removed from being a virgin when I get married. And I have a little work to do along those lines yet." She gave a curt nod of the head to reaffirm her stance.

Was this really happening to me? No, couldn't be. This type of thing only happened to other guys. Not me. Still, it looked good, so I followed up. "Are you inviting me to fuck you?" I asked.

She cocked her head and gave me a bemused look. "Do me a favor," she said. "Please don't exacerbate the negative feelings that everybody already has about you intellectually challenged football players. Or to put it another way: don't be a stupid asshole. I just want you to know, up front, where I'm coming from."

She sipped at her margarita. "What I'm saying," she said. "is that I'm not inviting you to fuck me, but I always keep an open mind. So, who knows: you might get lucky somewhere down the road, if you play your cards right. Just don't get too serious, or you will get hurt."

So, she did know I was a football player, and she was inviting me to fuck her – and if there was one thing she definitely didn't have to worry about, it was that I would fall for her and get too serious. I wanted a piece of ass. It was that simple. But I would take her advice and try to play it right.

"OK," I said. "I'll try to keep my emotions in check and not fall for you too hard and too quickly."

"Good," she said. "Now we can move on from here. What's your name . . . Xavier?" She smiled again. "Of course I know your name. Who on campus wouldn't know the star running back on the football team, who is a Native American with a name like Xavier, who also has, I might add, a long string of mercy fucks and broken hearts trailing behind him?

She gave me an intense and self-confident look. "Don't worry: with me, there won't be any broken heart, nor a mercy fuck. If anything, it will be the other way around.

I looked at her, but I didn't verbalize my thoughts. Those weren't mercy fucks, I thought. They were just fucks. And if there were any broken hearts, well, at least I warned them. They made their own choices. And as for you sweet Claire. I'm not too proud to accept a mercy fuck, if you want to make the offer.

"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Xavier- Native-American-Football-Star: there won't be any mercy fucks tonight, one way or the other, and maybe never. But, we'll see. I'll keep my options open."

(She was right, but we would both be surprised at the way things would turn out this night).

We chatted for a few minutes, and when the other three guys gave up and walked away, I asked, "It's not so noisy and smoky at my place. Do you want to come over and play some ping pong?"

We didn't have a TV, but our ping pong table stood prominently in the middle of our living room. It may seem like a ping pong table was a tactical error for four guys whose main mission in life was to nail as many girls as we could during the relatively short time span of our college careers, but it worked just fine. Asking a girl to come over to play ping pong was a lot less threatening than asking them to watch a porn flick on TV, and once we got them to our house, lots of options remained for us. For example, after we impressed them with our considerable skills at table tennis, we could offer them a nice cold pop while we rested – and got to know each other better.

So, Claire responded in a fairly predictable manner. "Ping pong?" she exclaimed. "I love ping pong! Sure, let's go play some ping pong. So she followed me back to our house: me on my bike and her in her Pontiac Firebird. When we arrived, the place was deserted, not an unusual occurrence for a fairly early Friday night. I picked up my custom foam padded paddle and gave her a standard paddle with a sandpaper finish. "You'll like that paddle, " I said. "The sandpaper really grips the ball and makes it bounce in crazy ways."

She fondled the paddle, looking at it closely. "Yes," she said. "A very fine paddle: no doubt far superior to that fat, ugly thing you're using."

In an attempt to move things along quickly and get off the subject of the disparity in equipment quality, I asked, "Do you want me to play left-handed." It wasn't as big a concession as it may seem, because I was well-practiced and fairly well-skilled with either hand.

"Naw," she said. "Just play normally. I'll muddle along as best I can."

I served and she returned the ball well off the table. A point for me. "Let's make this interesting?" she said. "Why don't we lay some stakes out on this game?"

"OK," I said. Trying to keep a straight face. Already another advantage of ping pong table over a porn flick was coming into play. "What kind of stakes do you want to put up?"

Without so much as a quiver on her countenance, she said, "I'll bet my bra against your boxer shorts."

Wow, this was moving along nicely. She was several steps ahead of most of the girls that came to "play ping pong." Most of them started with outer garments, such as shoes, socks, earrings, and other really boring an innocuous accessories. But she was already willing to part with her bra. It would be fun watching her remove her bra. I would make her do it standing in good light, right in front of me, without so much as a warmup hug or kiss. I tried to hide the smirk in my smile and said, "OK, your bra for my boxer shorts. Let's go."

I served again, and she quick-hopped it right past me. My roommates and I played a style in which we stood back, let the ball bounce, then slammed a forehand or backhand past our opponent. But her return was so quick that it sailed on by me before I could react. I served again, and "click-click," it was past me again. She was already ahead 2-1. She had me off-balance. I had never played anybody who short-hopped every shot. I had some adjustments to make. But she got well ahead of me, and by the time I was making the correct adjustments, she had wiped me out 21-11.

Slightly embarrassed and nursing a sore ego, I attempted: "Best two out of three?"

"I want your shorts." She put her paddle on the table and smiled sweetly.

"Uh, surely you're kidding," I stammered. "We weren't really serious about that bet. You wouldn't have just stood there and taken your bra off while I looked."

She cocked her head, as her smiled deepened. She looked down then back up and raised her eyebrows in mock sweetness as her eyes caught mine. "We'll never know that, for sure, will we?"

She reached out her hand toward me and pulled the air with her fingers. "Your shorts." She demanded politely, but insistently.

"But I'll have to take off my pants first. That's not fair."

"You didn't seem to see a problem about how I would get my bra off without taking off my blouse. I want you shorts."

This was ridiculous. A 115-pound, 5' 2" girl was taking advantage of me. I didn't even let 300-pound defensive linemen do that to me. I hesitated.

"Think of it this way," she said. "You want to fuck me, right?"

I stood there, noncommittally.

"How are you going to fuck me with your pants on? I mean, I know it can be done. But why would you, without it being a necessity for a quick piece in a linen closet somewhere? So, just keep it simple. Take off your shorts."

After another hesitation, I unbuckled my belt.

The look on Claire's face remained friendly but the smile was now gone. "This doesn't mean you're going to fuck me," she reiterated. "At the moment, we're just in an evaluation phase."

With no other dodges readily discernible, I unzipped my pants, dropped them to the floor, and stepped out of them. Claire reached out again, palm up, and motioned for my shorts. Still separated by the ping pong table, I dropped my drawers, then grabbed them and threw them at Claire.

"Well, that's more like it. Thank you, Mr. Xavier-Native-American-Football-player. Now, we shall have a look. She casually tossed the shorts over her left shoulder and moved purposefully around the table. "Move away from the table and stand out here in the good light," she insisted. My T-shirt was covering my cock, but Claire's directness was having its affect and the shirt protruded from my body about seven inches.

Yeh, I knew my dick was seven inches long. I measured it when I was 15, and it didn't appear to have grown since then. However, anybody who has done some research knows that seven inches ain't bad. The average is about an inch shorter than that, and very damned few – literotica stories notwithstanding – are bigger than that. So, I had confidence in my size -- and my experience. The past five years or so had taught me a few things about how to use it. The girls at our academically demanding college were not shy about what they wanted and certainly weren't shy about telling you what they liked. I was a willing and grateful student. Anything a girl was willing to impart to me about what felt good to her, I took to heart and stowed it in my little bag of seduction tricks. So, I had adequate dick and a continually growing knowledge of how to use it.

Claire stepped around the table, sidled up to me and stood on her tiptoes, as she purposefully put her arms around me and gave me an enthusiastic and sensual kiss. As she approached, I put my hand out and caught her left tit and squeezed it as she kissed me. There was no attempt to stop me, so I pulled back far enough to look her in the eye, then I pulled slightly away from her, took my right hand off her left tit and put it behind her back. Then, I moved my left hand to the bare flesh just under her chin and wiggled some fingers under the fabric of her blouse. Still no sign of doubt on her face. So in one quick motion, I slipped my hand down her front. She slightly hunched her shoulder and back to allow more room for my hand, and I closed my hand down over a perfectly formed breast, which was slightly more than a handful – about a "C" cup, I guessed as I massaged the soft but perky tit. I kissed her again as I explored that perfect breast.

Since I was on a roll, I gave her nipple a quick sqeeze, then pulled my hand out and slipped it down the front of her pants. She made one, quick abortive move to stop me, then put her hand back up over my shoulder and pulled in her stomach as my hand slid quickly by. I went all the way past the hair on the way to her pussy and quickly slid a finger in, as she slightly spread her legs. It was a very tight but slippery pussy: perfect. It would take a cock in easily but grip it tightly at the same time. I had had the opportunity to fuck a few other pussies like this one, but not many. Even the virgins I had fucked usually weren't this tight.

She didn't seem to mind that I didn't tarry with her clit on the way down to get her going. It was OK that I went right to penetration. I wondered if she would let me do that with my cock too. Then she surprised me again and reached under my shirt to grab my cock. She immediately started pumping.

This can't be happening, I thought. This is just too good. We're about one minute after first contact, and she's playing with my cock while I finger her pussy. After exploring her cunt for a few seconds, long enough to gain a cursory but approving evaluation, I slid my hand back up to the top of her pants and started tugging downward. Without letting go of my dick and without stopping pumping, she used her other hand to help me with her pants as she rolled over on her back, lifted her ass up to let the pants slip down, and quickly shed herself of her pants, along with her panties.

She kept pumping hard, and without opening her eyes, she said, "You can come on my pussy. It's OK. I'd like that."

So that was her game. She planned to keep my cock out of her pussy by getting me off before I could bet inside her. She spread her legs wide and pulled my cock to within an inch of her pussy and jacked even harder. I put my hand on her's and made her stop.

"I'm coming in your pussy, not on it," I said. "But not before I thoroughly check out your body."

She opened her eyes and looked at me with what seemed like a slight bout of panic. But she didn't let go of my cock. "OK," I said. "The lights are on. Let's check you out. Don't let go of my dick." She didn't. I pulled back slightly to let the light fall between her legs. "Spread your legs a little wider." She did.

I looked closely and said, "Well, a nice little patch of hair, neatly trimmed. That's nice." She continued to look at me with a noncommittal look. "A nice smooth crack with no protruding lips, smooth and clean, with more than adequate dampness. Very wet with no streams running down to your ass. Plenty of lubrication for easy penetration but not sloppy – and clean, all good smells. OK, spread 'em."

She looked surprised. "I can't spread my legs any wider. They're about as wide as they can go."

"Not your legs. Your pussy."

Her expression was still one of some anxiety, but she followed directions and spread it out between her middle finger and forefinger. Very clean and very ready, but something didn't look right. Then a troubling thought hit my mind. "Are you a virgin?" I demanded.

Then she was annoyed. "It's none of your business," she blurted. "Now, are you going to put it in or not?"

"Not," I said.

She suddenly let go of my cock and tried to wiggle out from under me, but I didn't let her.

"What do you think?" I asked. "That I'm a boy scout. Of course I'll put it in, but I have some playing to do first. I happen to be a tit man to the core, and I haven't seen your tits yet."

She stopped struggling.

"You have both hands to work with," I said. "Unbutton your blouse." She looked peevishly for a moment, then shrugged and started unbuttoning her blouse. I backed away slightly to give her more room. "Spread your legs back out. I'm not done looking at your pussy. I'm a man who likes combined pleasures."