Nostalgic Ramblings Ch. 02

After ten or fifteen minutes of holding - not stroking but merely holding - her body in my arms, Mary moved her hand onto my cock, which hardened slightly at her touch. She started jerking me off, but it was no use. All her strength was gone. This was, however, an indication to me that she wanted more sex for herself, and I accommodated her. I licked her open mouth as my fingers explored the depths of her vagina. She rode my hand and came, then ebbed, then came again. It was the start of another two hours of continuous orgasms for Mary, in the deliciously dank backseat of my car. Not once did she apologize for not being able to pleasure me more; it was unnecessary to explain to one another that the night belonged not only to her physical pleasure but to mine as I watched her experience it. We took our time, communicating predominantly through touch.

You already know everything that happened in that last two hours, because it repeats the cycle of all that came before. There was, however, one additional memory I have to add after this point, and that was when my index finger found Mary's anus. At first I was embarrassed to have aimed for the wrong hole, but when I pulled the finger away, she grabbed me by the wrist and commanded that I move the tip back to that hole, without saying a word. I rubbed her asshole gently, making her come twice. Then she propped her feet up on the backs of the seats, front and back, took my fingertip in her hand and rested the tip against her hole. I felt her muscles relax in her bottom as she shoved my fingertip gently into her anus. I got the idea right away. She breathed hard and moaned her high-pitched moan as my digit worked its way deeper into her furnace-hot rectum, its texture slimy in a dangerous, forbidden way. Once I had my finger fully inserted into her ass, I leaned down and licked her hard clitoris with my tongue and lips. She probably came seven or eight times before she pulled herself off of my finger at the end of one particularly violent orgasm.

Five hours after I crawled into Mary's passenger seat, she was too dehydrated to withstand another moment of pleasure. She opened the car door and stepped outside, exposed to the night air and the city lights across the river. I followed her, and we kissed naked with our feet in the dirt, swaying to an inaudible rhythm, deliriously happy to feel the early morning wind cool our wet forms. If no one had caught us up to this point, we intuited rather than reasoned, then we certainly had nothing to fear at 4:30 a.m.

The conversation following our sex was wonderfully easy-going and free of embarrassment. We got dressed, and thanked one another for a wonderful night, as though we'd helped each other study for a test instead of mutually violating each other for almost a full quarter of a day. I drove to a convenience store, got out and bought us both huge cups of water with ice, then took her to the bachelor pad and walked her to the door.

We both had a sense at that point of leaving a fantasy world and coming back to the real one, where her friends wouldn't allow her to date me and I still had a girlfriend. But that didn't keep us from kissing passionately on the doorstep of the apartment. Mary said goodnight and went inside, using the key she'd been given. I learned the next day that the place was empty when she got there, so no one knew what hour she got home.

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The rest is a chore for me to tell, so here are the highlights. First, Mary and I went out again the next night. We ate dinner at the same burger joint, ate quickly and then drove straight to the same spot, We undressed each other, fucked hard and vocally, then spent six hours bringing Mary to orgasm. At a point three hours into the experience, Mary told me she was so dehydrated that she needed something to drink right away. I drove back to that convenience store, left her naked in the backseat and got out to buy her water. The windows were so fogged that I almost didn't make it down the five miles of backroads to the store, but that's also a good thing because no one looking into my car could see the naked Chinese woman panting in the backseat. I gave her the water and sped back to the spot. As she drank and I drove, I reached back and inserted my finger into Mary's pussy. She came twice riding my hand like that before we returned to our spot, where I stripped and fucked her hard.

Also a chore to recall is what happened after that second night. Mary and I hung out with the two bachelors for another week, and we never really found another opportunity to sneak off and screw, not even for a quicky. Mary eventually returned to her out-of-town life. We had phone sex a few times, and it went great, but after she found roommates to help pay the rent, that wasn't so easy to do, either.

Eventually we drifted apart. There was one phone conversation months later in which we both yelled at each other for being too inconsiderate to call and ask how things were going. It was inevitable; we'd developed such a strong emotional bond that night, a bond deep and true, that to sever it or strain it through distance was a painful act. If we'd been honest, we would have known that we were perfect together, but sometimes good matches just don't happen, sometimes because the boy has a ball-and-chain of some sort, sometimes just because you believe you got away with something once and shouldn't be greedy asking for more.

Well, I'm pretty fucking greedy, and I want more. Mary visits my fantasies every so often, and after writing this story, I'll probably be seeing a lot more of her in the weeks to come. For now, though, I feel capable of setting Mary aside and trading my thoughts of the past for a focus on the present and the tasks before me. That's the true power of literature, in my opinion; it takes the maelstrom of human thought and turns it into something not merely comprehensible but vital in its utility. The utility of this Literotica post, I suppose, it to get you horny and coming, which is what I want to watch. It's how I'm built, and unless you're a certain Chinese lover I once knew, you'll just have to take my word for it.

P.S. I said fuck editing, and I meant it. I intend to create art worth editing, not be someone who edits for a living. Don't get me wrong, editors are essential to the writing process and some are my closest friends, but I'm not one, and they aren't always welcome. I consider these posts to be diary-esque in nature, and who the fuck edits their diary for typos? I'm going to spell-check this son of a bitch and then submit it. If something doesn't make sense, please feel free to dwell on it until your head explodes or tell me about it in the comment boards. I love to make fun of that crap. Why am I so riled up about this? Pet peeves get stronger the more you pet them. That's good advice for us all. What happened between me and China Girl? That's a question a big fucking percentage of you out there want to know. So I'm going to tell you.

If you happened to click on this story because you recognized my name, then it's likely you've read "Fingers of Fury," which was the first post I ever submitted to Literotica. It's a how-to article about giving a girl not merely multiple but continuous orgasms. I refer to China Girl at several points in the article, because she's the first girl I ever performed the technique on. You could say she's the one who taught the technique to me.

I'm always fascinated by the question of who exactly posts stories on Literotica. Are they writers who simply decided to select sex as their narrative topic? Or are they, like me, compelled or even destined to dwell on their own sexual nature and history to the point that they have NO choice but to write down their ideas and share them with other people?

Fact is, I hardly go a week without thinking about China Girl and our time together, because it was the first uninhibited sexual experience I ever had, and therefore the most profound of them all. When I started reading Literotica posts and decided I had something to contribute, there was no question in my mind that my first post would be about her.

Like I said, she is constantly in my thoughts, especially when my hand is around my cock and my mind goes wandering for an idea that will keep it hard. But tonight I'm sitting at my computer trying to finish a few written works of a type vastly different from online erotica, and it's just no use. Jacking off wasn't enough to get her off my mind, nor was turning on porn, closing the shades and beating myself to death for about two hours. No, my sympathetic nymphomaniacs, the problem is entirely mental. This memory wants to be voiced, and I'm going to oblige it. Oblige it, and oblige those of you who've asked about her.

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I was 23-years-old, a college senior who had just finished my fifth year and second major, hating every second of it. You didn't ask for my opinion on college degrees, but I'll give it to you: All you need to get the job you want, other than skill and will, is a single bachelor's degree; the master's is good for more pay faster, but that's it. A doctorate? Who gives a FUCK. MD's need them, but literary professors? Give me a fucking barium enema instead.

So yes, I'm bitter that I wasted my time and money that last year, but also, I'm bitter that so many of my good college friends left a year early. The fifth year was a devastatingly lonely time, and the summer following it was even worse. A college town in the summer? Try a college town summer after a year where you didn't know anyone anyway.

And for an additional kick in the balls, my girlfriend of the previous year continued to antagonize my soul that summer, even after she'd sucked all the blood from my heart via the artery in my dick. Turns out that once she got back home from college, roughly eight-hundred-miles away, she decided she wanted to "make it work," and I, being the slavish sex addict I am, agreed to not date anyone else. At the time, I didn't know I wouldn't see her again until goddamn Thanksgiving, and that this would be our last face-to-face. It wasn't her fault I was an emotional pussy, but I do have regrets, let's just say that much.

This is a very important fact to keep in mind as you read the story to follow. Most of you out there are saying, especially through the lens of adulthood which you and I share, that I was not really obligated to stay faithful to a girl who non-surgically removed my heart and then proceeded to spiritually lobotomize me from halfway across the country. But a handful of you are or were conservative Christians, and you know how your brain gets turned around when you think you've made a promise to someone and you're in danger of breaking it. The guilt is just too much! I see some of you nodding your heads and the rest just looking confused. You must trust me on this point, quickly now, so we can move ahead with the tale.

So I was lonely, but I did have two good pals, both performance majors with whom I'd spent some time on the stage. But they both had steady girlfriends and healthy sexual appetites, and I don't blame them at all for not returning my calls. Still, they did quasi-frequently invite me over for dinner and videos. Sometimes I bought the pizza. What a pathetic poser.

One such evening, I arrived at the bachelor pad to find that one of my friends had a guest visiting from out of town. Her name was Mary (or something that sounded very close to it, I'll let you choose which).

I'll never forget Mary's first reaction when she saw me. She ran up to me and hugged me, asking me how I'd been since we last saw each other. You see, I knew Mary, and I didn't know Mary. She was two years older than I was, and for a time earlier in my college career, she had been in the same performance group as I. I knew her face, as I did all sixty students in the group, but I don't think I really knew her name. For one thing, she was an older student, and most of the older kids in there tended to be uber-confident, self-righteous artistic egomaniacs, and being friends with them was like signing up for a perpetual penis-measuring contest. (The metaphor works for the girls, also.) Plus, she was EXTREMELY quiet. I tended to gravitate toward louder kids, because I made noise myself and that's who I thought I got along with best. Why try to defrost a quiet (perhaps shy but deafeningly quiet for whatever reason) girl I hardly knew?

But she saw me that night, and she was thrilled, and that's the kind of girl Mary was - she knew you to whatever degree, she lost you then found you again, and she was very happy to have you in her life again. With the emotional state I was in throughout that summer but that night in particular, it was a powerfully good feeling and a great first impression for her to make.

Mary stayed in town for about three weeks, floating between jobs and content to wander free-spirit style around her old stomping grounds. She slept on my friends' couch, and they showed her proper host courtesy by only fucking their girlfriends at an off-site location. Meanwhile, Mary and I and the two guys would hang out every night for the next four nights.

What happened next in this story is one of those moments that's just too fucking outrageous to be true, and that's why you roll your eyes when you read a fiction work and the characters do shit like this, because if you'd been sitting next to the author when he typed that, you'd have said, "Dude, that's ridiculous. Nothing like that ever happens, and it will only sound unbelievable if you leave it in." But this is my story, my memory, my nostalgic rambling, not yours, so you can believe me or go to hell or both, because I'm leaving it in the story.

On the fourth of the four nights, the two bachelors, Mary and I sat watching a movie. It was "The Long Kiss Goodnight," which is exactly the kind of movie you want to watch as you sit next to a pretty girl, because who the fuck cares why that chick lost her memory or whether she'll ever get it back, so let's fuggedaboudit and make out instead. (No, we didn't make out, but close.)

Another piece of exposition before the plot continues: The bachelor who was friends with Mary had never dated her, but he was fiercely protective of her. Let's call him Bachelor No. 1. The other guy, Bachelor No. 2 is a great guy and a closer friend, but he's not really part of the story, except for the fact that he's the one who told me the following: Bachelor No. 1 simply and deeply wanted to kill every man who had ever touched Mary, looked at Mary, fantasized about Mary, or breathed toward Mary. He never laid a hand on her himself, I know this for a fact, but that's how lackeys are with the goddesses they worship.

This fact, Bachelor No. 1's profound hatred toward anyone pursuing Mary, was the fourth reason why I never thought I'd have a chance with Mary. The third reason, as you'll remember, was that I had a "girlfriend" keeping me on a leash that was simultaneously short and long. The second reason was Mary's age; again, you adults reading this know that two years is nothing in terms of age separation, but kids figuring out the world sometimes get hung up by the tiniest social misconceptions.

And the main reason why I thought I could never ask Mary on a date: She was hot. It's so easy to explain it all in hindsight, as to why she radiated sexual energy like a leaky nuclear core, but at the time it was a complete fucking mystery. So quiet, so very quiet all the time, and yet she had this look in her eyes as though she wanted to eat every ounce of food on the nirvana buffet but couldn't because of the damn karmic diet she was on. Plus, there were little choices she made that gave her a dangerous, charged feminine air - the too-short shorts, the too-tight T-shirts, the scrunchy that kept her long black hair from blocking the view of her perfect neckline, the tastefully sparse but meticulously applied makeup.

And above all this, she had the physical attributes of a... god, I'm at a loss for words. I was about to say "Playboy model," but that's not fucking right at all. How to sum her up with a metaphor? She had a purely Chinese form, the result of immigrant parents, so her dark eyes were eternally hidden behind long-lashed slants. Every visible portion of her yellow-olive skin was absent of flaws. Several inches shorter, and so very thin. A Playboy model? No, more like a fairy from the ancient tales of a primal earth filled with magic, where nymphs and spirits crafted emotions with their hands instead of their words. Mary wasn't just sexy; she was a representation of all that sexy was meant to be. I've been with big women, tall women, pale women, and they were all beautiful in their way, but when I close my eyes and imagine the perfect woman, she looks so very much like Mary.

But back to night four. We were watching "The Long Kiss Goodnight," and I sat on the same sofa as Mary. How do you plan these things? Sometimes you don't; it's just her picking a place to sit, and you doing the same, and you both ending up beside each other on the sofa.

The next part is complicated to remember and almost impossible to describe. The main gist is this: My fingers stroked her pussy lips, and she allowed me to do it. What the fuck? I mean, one minute we're sitting there watching Samuel L. Jackson deliver some paltry soliloquy, and the next, Mary is sitting so close to me that she's on top of my hand. I'll try and piece it together... My palm was face down on the sofa. After a while, I realized she was sitting on-slash-against my hand, and I was surprised to not have noticed it before. With those shorts she wore, my hand felt nothing but the toned flesh of her thigh. With my hand falling asleep, I wiggled it. Mary verbally apologized and sat up so I could move my fingers. I said, "That's okay," then I flipped my palm upward and allowed her to sit back down on my hand.

God, how did we pull that off? A lot of subconscious shit at work here, folks, with a bit of self-denial thrown in for good measure. Anyway, the rest is pretty obvious. My fingertips started to press against the insides of her flesh, and she didn't seem to mind. I thought (or felt), "There's no way she doesn't know I'm coping this feel, so she must not mind." My fingers worked their way up her legs until they stroked her crotch along the panty line. Now, I'd paid my share of visits to that special place between a girl's legs, but this was the first time I really noticed that the female pussy radiates its own heat. Mary's crotch was literally warm and growing warmer.

Suddenly, I felt her pubic hair. Listen, listen very carefully. You know as much as I do about the nature of memory and the games our minds play; there's no such thing as a truly honest memory, only the closest approximation our minds can construct without our mental limits. But fuck, I mean, I REMEMBER exactly how it felt. Her flesh was satiny smooth and warm, except for an area of single hairs that were so widely spaced they seemed to be individual in nature, and soft to the touch. If I'd spread her knees and examined her with a microscope, I wouldn't have a better memory of what she looked like than I do from what my fingers felt in that moment. If this memory is a close approximation, then I want every memory to be that clear, the good and the bad and the ugly. My life is made up of my memories, and that means this moment is my life.

She came. I'm certain of it. At least, in retrospect. I wasn't interested in getting her off, but rather going as far toward stealing second base as I could go. But when she shifted her body to pull my hand away, I swear she was shivering and very tense, and if she wasn't trying to suppress the evidence of a minor orgasm, then she was at least very close. In any case, she didn't move very far away at all when she repositioned herself and went back to watching the movie. Indeed, the bachelors never had any clue, nor will they.