The 19-year-old Virgin Ch. 08

The next four months were, as the saying goes, close enough to heaven for me. Our schedules kept us apart most of the day but the evenings were ours. We were both good students and, if you don't know, that meant we considered going to school our full-time job. I tended to be an early riser. I think athletes tend to get into the habit of rising early to make practice.

Anyway, that meant that I could schedule 9:00 a.m. classes, I wasn't crazy enough to do 8:00, and my eight-hour day ended at 5:00. At 5:01 I could turn out my desk lamp, close my books, grab a beer, light up a joint, and grab Carla. Her schedule was lighter in terms of classes taken, but heavier since she was writing her dissertation, a book in this case on the obscure topic of Homoerotic Aspects of Pre-Hellenic Grecian Urns or some such. I didn't pay a lot of attention to that. I'm not very artsy.

The week following my introduction to ΘΘΘ she took me on a Thursday night.

And I saw what she meant.

Thursday at ΘΘΘ is Gentleman's Night. Kind of their answer to Ladies' Night. Men got half-price drinks and, with a student ID, they were 75 percent off. It was almost a caricature of a classic singles meat market.

The women tended to dress for seduction and the men tended to dress a slight level higher than their normal student wear. And the women outnumbered the men significantly.

And, Oh my God, who would have imagined there could be that much cleavage on display in one room, or that many round-faced women?

You could tell the men who were there for cheap drinks. They tended to be in clusters and pretty much ignore the women who approached them.

But for the men who obviously enjoyed big women, a taste I was quickly coming to share, this was heaven. You could see them, mostly singles, no wingman needed, paying attention as a plus-size woman approached them.

I watched the little play as a plus size cougar, well, a super size cougar, made her moves on a slender young man that I guessed even younger than me. The woman, on the other hand, was either pressing hard on 50 or already had the half-century mark in her rearview mirror. She was big in that buxom, almost hourglass was of some big women with enormous breasts, I guessed her bra at 42 or maybe 44 FF at least, maybe GG or even HH. A wide belt and I suspected serious foundation garments, cinched her down to a relative wasp waist - relative because I figured her waist was still something on the order of 34 or maybe 36 - and then flaring to hips that matched her breasts.

Carla punched me.

"Eyes back in your head, buster," she said.

I laughed and said, "you wanted me to see this. Did you not want me to like it?"

She giggled and said, "Go ahead, dance, but remember who's taking you home tonight."

I started to say something back to that but a guy, older than me but not much, came up to the table and said, "dance, Carla?" Obviously, he knew her.

She smiled at me, stood, accepted his offered hand, and went to the dance floor.

So I sat, looking around, fascinated and captivated by the women I was seeing. Interested, as well, in seeing the men who were attracted to these big women. They tended to run to types, being either young and kind of skinny like me, or being more mature and, well, more substantial.

The women ranged from plus size to supersize and from about my age to a couple I suspected had their Medicare cards.

And the thing is, there was not one of them I did not find attractive.

I watched her approach, one of those women who deposited fat cells from the waist down. From the waist up she was what I would consider "average" size and buxom. I imagined her bra would be a 38D and her waist around 30 inches. But her hips, well, you've heard of "shelf hips" that you could put a six-pack on? Hell, you could put a case on these.

"Come on handsome," she said, offering her hand, "I see Carla let you loose for a while."

That's when it hit me, that this was a pretty tightly knit group where everyone knew everyone, and I wondered if I would ever really fit in.

But I took her offered hand, stood, and led her to the dance floor.

She was light on her feet and handled a basic box step well and then a passable jive.

"Give me your phone," she said so I handed it to her.

She punched in a number and handed it back to me.

"There," she said, "you have my number."

"But I don't have your name," I said.

She giggled, as we headed back to the table, "I'm Ashley," she said, "but most call me Assley," and she slapped her big hip with a loud slapping sound.

And she was gone into the group.

I danced with Carla a couple of times, with a lovely matron named Madge, a tiny round cherub named Gracie, and a frikkin' giantess named Laura before we called it a night.

"Wellllllllll," she asked as I started out of the parking lot, "think you'll survive after I leave."

I couldn't help but grin.

"Thank you," I said, smiling, "and yes."

"Now take me home," she said, "I have an urge I'm pretty sure you'll like."

I laughed then and said, "You haven't had any ideas I haven't liked."

At home, we barely cleared the door when she had me in her arms.

"I was jealous, watching you," she said.

"And I was jealous watching you," I said back.

We stood like that, in the living room, kissing like two teenagers, both a little drunk.

Finally, she broke the kiss and led me into the bedroom.

It was almost like our first time. My fingers were trembling a little as I fumbled with buttons and zippers and hers were too. But we managed and soon enough we stood at the foot of the bed, hugging and kissing and hands exploring.

Finally, she broke the kiss, pushed me away, and went into the bathroom. I kissed her as she sat on the toilet and then went to the sink to brush my teeth. She joined me soon and then I went to the toilet, peed, and then washed my hands.

By that time she was in the bed, laying on her back, her knees together, and her hands holding those big pillow boobs together making about a square foot of cleavage on display.

"Put it here, David," she said, giving her tits a shake. I watched as little ripples of softness went through them. Her nipples, I noticed, were hard cones.

She shook them again.

"Titty fuck me," she said, her grin spreading, "you know you want to."

My own grin spread as I crawled up the bed, straddled her, and settled back on her belly enjoying that soft, warm cushion.

"Ask me nicely," I said.

Her eyes got big for an instant and then she licked her lips, her tongue a pink thing making the slow circuit, and she smiled.

"Please, baby," she said, and there was one of those words you see written but never seem to have the need to use in real life, simpering.

She gave her boobs a little jiggle making her nipples dance to a separate tune, and said, "Please, baby," again.

So I moved forward, my erection pushing between her boobs.

And I damn near came, right then. The sensation was so different, so perfect. Her breasts were soft and warm and, unlike her pussy, it was completely dry. The way she held them together gave just the perfect amount of pressure.

Her smile told me she knew just how much she was getting to me.

"The next time," she said, her smile getting even broader, "I think you'll be the one doing the asking, won't you."

I just grinned and said, "once again, my teacher, you know me too well."

She grinned again and said, "now hold still, tonight I do the work."

For some measurable fraction of forever, she masturbated me with those wonderful boobs of hers. She would sort of jiggle them for a while and then press them together and slow her rhythm and then stop moving altogether. I watched her face and it was clear she was enjoying it at least as much as I was.

Her lips were parted, her teeth showing white in a strange little smile. And she was starting to breathe a little heavily. I suppose moving that much boob was hard work.

Her eyes opened suddenly.

"Oh, damn," she said softly.

"What?" I asked.

She started squeezing her boobs then, hard and groaning softly.

"I'm going to cum," she said.

I felt a smile spread across my face.

"Can I help?" I asked, partly wondering, partly teasing.

"Play with my nipples," she said, her voice very breathy right then.

So I grinned and rolled them, taking her breath.

I twisted then, harder, one of those purple nurples that boys shared in locker rooms in, like, junior high.

And she came.

Her mouth opened in that silent scream of pleasure, a high pitched, "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" sound making me expect dogs to start barking, her face a rictus of that special agony/ecstasy of sexual release.

I thought she looked beautiful, beyond just pretty or cute, she was lovely, she was stunning, she was gorgeous, I even dipped into a course in literature taken as a freshman, and it flashed through my mind that she was pulchritudinous. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes were closed so tightly her forehead wrinkled, and her face was turning red. She would breathe out, that sort of "EEEEEeeeeeee" sound until she ran out of air, hold absolutely still for a few seconds, and then whoop in a breath before starting that sound again.

Okay, I was pretty much out of control at that point. I was pinching and twisting her nipples and I didn't want to stop. Hell, I'm not sure I could have stopped.

She suddenly started bucking under me. Her hips were making me bounce up and down and she released her breasts, grabbed a pillow, covered her face, and just screamed.

The womanscent of her arousal was, as they say, thick in the air.

Time stopped.

I have no idea how long her, well, her ultimate orgasm went on. I kept twisting and pinching her nipples and she kept screaming into the pillow.

Finally, she sort of jerked, maybe "convulsed" is a better word, her whole body seemed to go rigid and a joke I had overheard once in a locker room while others were discussing their sexual conquests ran through my mind. "The only things touching the bed were her heels and the back of her head," the wag had said.

Then she threw the pillow to the side and grabbed my wrists.

"Enough," she said in a thick, breathy voice, "please, David, enough."

Okay, I had probably been clinically nuts at that instant. I literally shook my head, bringing myself back to the world, bringing myself back from wherever it was she had taken me. Well, we had taken each other.

Her hands were back at her breasts, moving them fast, squeezing them together hard.

"Your turn, David," she said, tears running down her cheeks and her nose was running freely by then.

Then thing is, as hard as I was, and as long as I had been hard, the pressure in my belly was still a pretty small thing.

"Please, baby," she said, still panting, her hands moving faster.

She was starting to sweat and that helped lubricate what she was doing.

"Please, baby, please," she said again, "give me the gift only a man can give."

The pressure was building now and I knew I couldn't last, but I managed to say, "say please."

"Please, baby, please, baby, please, baby," she was repeating, almost singing the words.

When I reached the point of no return she suddenly took her hands away from her tits, allowing them to fall away to the side, and took me in her hand.

She bent her head to look right at my erection as she stroked me to the finish.

My ejaculation was pretty spectacular if I do say so myself. She was holding, guiding, hell, all right, aiming what happened. The first hard muscular contraction sent a jet of semen, thick and white, right to her forehead.

She stroked and a second jet left a white line from above her right eye to the left side of her mouth.

I realized that low-pitched "aaaaauuuuugggghhhhhhhhh" sound wasn't Charlie Brown after the football was pulled away again. It was me.

A third squirt closed her right eye with the white cream, and a final pump sort of hung from my cock before dropping between her tits.

She held me in her hand, making no attempt to wipe her face, as I softened.

She took a long, shuddering breath, coughed, opened her left eye, and asked, "will you still kiss me now?"

I didn't hesitate. I kissed her. I found the slickness of semen and the scent, something I had never really smelled before, to be, well.............

Searching for the word here.

To be a very special intimacy.

It was a good kiss, I thought.

Finally, she pushed me away, almost bench-pressing me since I was still pretty limp.

"You know," she said, and she was obviously back under control. She had that impish smile that told me something, well, something "interesting" was going to happen.

She coughed again, and damn but if I didn't find that little ladylike cough to be sexy.

"You know," she started again, "it's good skin conditioner."

Okay, I know, I'm not the brightest light in the chandelier sometimes. I just stared down and managed, "huh?"

She giggled then and rolled her open eye.

She reached up and touched where my semen was thick on her forehead and said, "this, David."

"Oh," I said, stupidly. To my credit, I followed that with, "ohhhhhhhhhhhhh," and began using my fingertips to spread my semen and then work it gently into her skin.

I was reminded of using my mother's expensive lotion, something called Albion, as she fought wrinkles, but at least that experience had taught me how to do it.

As I did it, working the emollient into her skin and making it kind of a facial massage as I did it, she relaxed.

She was snoring softly as I worked those last few drops into the skin between her breasts.

I moved around to lay beside her, tugged the pillow down so my mouth was touching her nipple, darkly swollen now, latched on, heard her moan softly in her sleep, and relaxed.