The Education of Lana Owens

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A virgin at 25, Lana wakens to complex sexual wants & needs.
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JBEdwards
JBEdwards
2,401 Followers

This is my entry to the Winter Holidays Contest, 2020. Please vote, via stars. Also, if you'd like to leave a comment, I would love that!

A virgin at age 25, Lana wakens to a sex life of complex wants and needs

Warning: This story is a first time story, where Lana not only finally experiences the joys of sex, but realizes she's bisexual. There is group sex in the story.

**

Gloom. The weather fit my mood. I kind of liked it. I liked watching the rain fall, knowing I was warm, safe, and dry, indoors at my parents' home, with every convenience known to modern man, even if I was a classic representative of the modern American woman. I'd been furloughed, of course, then got 'the virus,' and was now recuperating, back at the ancestral home in Indiana, with my mother waiting on me hand and foot. I was no longer contagious, and no longer even sick, but tell that to Mom.

The rain kept changing just enough to keep my attention. Sometimes I would watch 'Lake Owens,' as I called the low point in my parents' driveway. The lake would form during a serious rain, and then gradually evaporate when the storm blew over. There was a similar low point on my parent's lawn, but Dad had planted a weeping willow tree there, and such trees are always thirsty; they can never have enough water. It was a good solution, since it worked perfectly. He couldn't plant one in the middle of the driveway, however, whence Lake Owens.

The rain made Lake Owens turbulent, and I remembered how, years ago, my little brother used to go out in the rain, to Mom's consternation, and play with his toy boat in the lake, imagining the Revolutionary War battles of the Great Lakes. This storm had a lot of wind with it; so much wind, in fact, I could hear it howling, and occasionally even rattling the windows. Consequently, the rain would fall straight down, then slant to the right, and once even it slanted backwards, away from the house.

Next, I'd watch the little rivulets of water flowing into Lake Owens, and the rain overflowing our roof gutters because Dad was tardy in cleaning the fallen leaves out of them. There'd be waterfalls from the roofline down to the plants alongside our home. Everything was wet. Everything was soaking wet. The grass had turned that beautiful shade of green that everyone -- especially me -- loves, and I knew it would stay that color green for at least a good, long day after the storm ended.

It was romantic. There's something about the gloom of a rainy day that fosters thoughts of romance in a girl, and if I am anything, anything at all, I'm a girl. I know several boys, right here in our Indiana small town where I grew up, who could swear in a court of law that I'm a girl, having verified that actual fact in the back seats of various cars. None of them, however, had yet succeeded to make me a woman. I kind of doubted any of them would, either, not that I wasn't ready. I was ready. Hell, I was already 25 years old! I was Eveready, you know, like the battery? Not the Energizer Bunny, just the battery. Reliable, and full of power: That was me. Nobody had taken the plastic off my positively charged end, and I seriously doubted any of the boys I currently knew would be given the chance.

As I was daydreaming about how they might try, and how I would outwit them as I always did, and watching the rain fall onto Lake Owens, growing it the way rainfall grows lakes, my romantic, introspective mood, was shattered as the shrill voice of my mother penetrated the comforting, dulling, drone of falling rain, as well as my carefully curated gloom, as she called out, "Lana! Where are you my dear?"

Where else would I be, but in the guest room, watching the rain, watching the millions of raindrops splash onto Lake Owens, piercing through the gloom with my baby blue eyes, thinking of romance? I stayed silent.

"There you are!" came the shrill voice of Mom, as she opened the door of the guest room, turning on the light in the process, destroying the gloom I had been enjoying. I knew my time of delightful, gloomy, romantic self-absorption was over. What would it be? Another cup of herbal tea? Some cookies she had just baked? I could smell the cookies; the wonderful smell of freshly baked cookies washed into the room right along with Mom. Nothing ruins gloom better than freshly baked cookies; even the smell of them dispelled that wonderful, ethereal feeling of gloom, so perfectly designed for self-pity. *sigh* To top it all, Mom makes a good cookie. A very good cookie. From flour, butter, sugar and a little baking powder, she creates a wonderful gustatory delight in the heaven of delicious reassurance.

"I just got off the phone with Martha Silvers. You know, the nice lady from temple? You'll never believe what she proposed!" Mom said.

A bake-off for an oneg shabat? A long walk in the rain? Buying seats on the next Elon Musk trip to outer space? An engine swap for the men between our car and theirs? Visiting a strip club? A husband swap? Muay Thai? Learning sorcery together? I couldn't guess.

"I can't guess, Mom. Want to tell me?" I asked.

"Her nephew is coming to town this weekend, and she proposed that you show him around. Entertain him, you know? He's apparently awkward with girls, and she thinks you're just the ticket to bring him out of his shell, you know? I must say, if anyone can, it's you. After all, you have hot and cold boys coming after you constantly," Mom said.

"Mostly hot boys," I mumbled, in reply. Give me some credit.

"What?" came the shrill voice of Mom. Mom's a little hard of hearing. I longingly looked out the window at Lake Owens, but the mood I had conjured, cultivated, and cajoled into a lovely existence was now gone, not to be regained. Damn.

"Nothing," I said. "Is he a nephew on Martha's side, or her husband's side?" I couldn't imagine anyone related to Martha Silvers having sex. Ever.

"Martha's not married, honey," Mom said. Oh. Well, that makes sense.

"You and the Silvers woman want me to go on a blind date? What century are you living in? Wait; don't answer that. I'm sorry, Mom, but I can't. I'm busy," I said.

"What are you doing this entire weekend that prevents you from entertaining this nice man for an evening, or a few hours in the afternoon?" Mom asked, rather accusingly, you might say.

You know, maybe I could, after all, recover the gloom I so desperately crave? "Have you seen the state of my toenails, and my feet in general, Mom? I need a pedicure so badly, it's not funny. I need my eyebrows done, too; and my hair? My hair is a train wreck. A good leg waxing and a bikini wax are long overdue. Sorry, but there's just no time to fit in the Slivers nephew, too. Why don't you ask Helen Howe?"

Everyone knows Helen is a slut, and she is doing her own survey of the sizes and shapes of men's erect penises, and how they feel inside her, in all three holes. Everyone knows that. If anyone could wake up a shy, impotent relative of that strange, sexless woman, Martha Silvers, it would have to be Helen. He'd have to meet her standards, though: He'd have to be male, heterosexual, and breathing. Well, come to think of it, he wouldn't have to be male. Helen is pan sexual. Mostly, she's just sexual.

"Helen is a good idea, she's such a nice girl, but Martha asked me to ask you, and personally. I would like you to go out with him; as a favor to me," Mom said. "Also, she wants a girl within the faith, and Helen is not."

"Why me, though, Mom? Blind dates are so twentieth century!" I said. "I would be mortified to be on a blind date. My toenails are not going to paint themselves, you know."

"Wear closed shoes," Mom said.

"What happens when he gets me naked in the back of his rented, gas guzzling, monster of a car, spreads my legs, and sees my toenails? The horror! The horror!" I said, trying not to giggle when I saw Mom's face. "He'll retreat so far back into his shell, even Helen's talented tongue and mouth wouldn't be able to coax him out."

"Where on God's Green Earth did you learn to speak like that?" Uh-oh; Mom was angry. Humor is not her thing. "Go brush your teeth. No cookies for you, who talks to your own mother like that!" I didn't remind her that I'm twenty-five years old, and was only 'at home,' due to Dad's ill health, and then my ill health, all due to the pandemic.

**

I was allowed to devour the cookies (boy-oh-boy does Mom bake great cookies!), and in return I got more or less forced, well, pressured, or maybe cajoled, or entreated, or maybe all of that, into going on the first -- and I'm sure the last -- blind date of my life. Where, oh where, is my self-respect? Why-oh-why-oh-why-oh; Why did I ever leave Ohio? I had been happy in Cincinnati, with a decent apartment on Mount Adams, commanding a wonderful view of downtown and the river. It had just been this bleeping virus that had forced me to come home. First, I helped to take care of Dad, who had a bad case, and then as my reward, I got a worse case! I had barely avoided going to the hospital.

I called Helen for advice. I know Helen is a slut, but we've been best friends forever since second grade, and no amount of depraved sexual activity on Helen's part with men, or with women either for that matter, if that's what she wants, and on occasion it is, is going to change the fact that we love each other, and we will forever.

Helen gave me good, loving advice. She told me what to wear, what perfume to use, what color to paint my toenails, and whether or not to shave "down there." In case you're curious: Luckily, trimming is acceptable these days.

"Are you still a virgin?" Helen asked.

"I was one when you asked me last week, and I haven't seen a male member of the species, other than Dad and my brother Carl, since then," I said.

"Maybe you'll like him? What's his name?"

"Maybe I'll have another vision of the Virgin Mary?" I replied. It seemed just as likely.

"Anything's possible. Wait a minute, aren't you Jewish?" Helen asked.

"Yep. Just like the Virgin Mary was. There are differences, though: I live in a house, not a barn, and I'm 25 and have never been pregnant, and in particular I didn't give birth at the age of 13," I said.

"Maybe you'll like him? You never know. All I'm saying -- and this is the voice of experience speaking, as you well know -- bring some condoms along, just in case," Helen said.

"How many?" I asked. I was suppressing a giggle. Like it was going to happen that I'd need condoms, on a first date, let alone on a blind date. Get a grip, Helen.

"Two three packs are what I bring," she said.

"Six condoms?? Do you think he might be Adonis or something?" I asked. I knew she was teasing.

"Want me to drop some off? You probably don't have any," she said, but she meant it kindly.

"I have one I bought three years ago, you know, just in case?" I replied. I realized I sounded pathetic.

"I'll drop some by. Toss the old one. When's your date?" she asked.

"In three hours."

"I'll be there in 30 minutes. Remember, always start with a blowjob. It sets the mood. You have given guys blowjobs, right?" Helen asked. She knew I had; she was just being mean, or maybe forgetful; perhaps she had better things to do than to monitor my non-existent sex life.

"Bring your brother Dylan over, and I can practice on him. You know, to get me in the mood?" I deadpanned. I do a great deadpan, if I do say so myself. Helen's brother is two years older and a hunk. I do mean a hunk, too. I had had a crush on him since I was 14. I wouldn't mind blowing him, actually. "You can kibitz, while I blow him, if you want. Should I be naked for him, too? You know, to help him get hard?"

"Kibitz? What does that mean? Never mind; Hank's not home. He's in the Army, remember?" Helen replied. He asked for a weekend leave near Christmas, though. Of course, I remembered Hank was in the military. Helen just doesn't understand my humor. She never had. Come to think of it, nobody understands my humor. Well, maybe my blind date, George, will get it? I'd stand a better chance with the Virgin Mary.

**

Mom answered the door. I heard her shrill voice carry all the way up the stairs, where Helen and I were huddling, me in dread, and Helen in total amusement. It's nice that my misfortune can supply such pleasure to my best friend forever, right? No.

I finished applying the rouge and mascara and I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as I went downstairs, seeing George Rosen, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up my short skirt as I descended. He may be a blind date, but least he's not blind, after all. George's reverie at seeing a girl in a short skirt and dark gray holdup stockings, with right red lace, bikini cut panties, was no doubt broken with the shrill exclamation of dear old Mom, who announced how nice it was of George to give me such a pretty bouquet of long-stemmed red roses.

"Yes, it is. Thank you, George. Mom, will you be a dear and put them in water for me?" I couldn't wait to get out of the house. Helen came rushing downstairs; I knew she wanted to get a gander at how much I'd have to suffer on my blind date. To our joint surprise, George Rosen was a hunk! He was a handsome devil of a man, age 31, I had learned from dear old Mom, courtesy of the yenta Martha Silvers. Six years older? I could live with that.

Helen pretended to faint from the shock of seeing Adonis himself in front of her. I'm sure she was thinking it's a good thing I had six condoms in my purse! Helen herself had told me, however, that the most condoms she had ever needed on a single evening date (unless it was an overnight) was three. Six seemed a highly optimistic overkill. "Better safe than sorry," Helen had said.

"The average number of condoms I've needed during my extensive dating over the last five years is zero, Helen," I had replied, and sadly, that's not because I'm reckless.

"Things are about to change, honey," she replied.

"Why?"

"You had a vision of the Virgin Mary, right?" she asked.

"That was in a dream, Helen. It was not a real vision," I replied.

"Oh, are you an expert on visions, now?" Helen asked.

"Stands to reason, is all," I replied. "Besides, why should having a vision of a virgin, even one named Mary, change my luck with men?"

Helen just smiled. I hate when she does that.

Anyway, back to the gorgeous hunk of masculinity who was my blind date, as I floated down the stairs, glad that I had worn my pretty, red lace panties (since George had enjoyed looking at them already, I'm sure), he stood smiling, waiting for me. I reached the bottom of the stairs and he seemingly most naturally took me into his arms and kissed me, right on the lips! We hadn't even yet exchanged names, pleasantries, or anything! Mom was in the kitchen so she didn't see it happen, but Helen sure did!

Okay, I admit it, I was in shock, but what did I do? I kissed him right back and even opened my mouth! It's my fucking submissive nature rearing its dangerous head, once again. Our tongues became acquainted and we only broke the kiss when Helen whispered into my ear that my Mom was returning from the kitchen, no doubt to show us how lovely the roses looked in her crystal vase. George heard Helen's whisper too, and he removed his hands from cupping my ass, which they had been doing so delightfully.

I've always wondered how Mom can have crystal vases and not keep shattering them with her voice? Oh yeah: they're lead crystal. The lead must absorb the shock of Mom's voice.

"I'm Lana. Lana Owens. This is my friend Helen Howe. You're George?" I said, wiping the saliva from my lips before Mom could see it. Given how he looked I fully expected him to reply, "No, Bond. James Bond." It was not to be.

"George. George Rosen. I'm delighted to meet you, and thank you for agreeing to go out with me tonight, sight unseen," my date the hunk said.

"My pleasure. Sight unseen is my best view, I'm told," I joked.

"Someone's lying to you," George the Masher said. Meanwhile, my Mom was frantically gesturing to me in maternal sign language that I had forgotten to apply lipstick. I hadn't forgotten, of course, but it was lost inside the beautiful kisses of George the Masher. He really knew how to introduce himself to a girl! I excused myself and re-applied my lipstick, and George whisked me off.

**

"Your car is beautiful. I've never seen one like it," I said, as George drove down the driveway and negotiated Lake Owens. It was still raining cats and dogs, but somehow, nevertheless, I had lost my melancholy. Before you ask, no, it's never rained men in my small town; only small domestic animals. I do, though, love the song about raining men. Now I was wondering what it was about George that made Martha Silvers claim he was in a shell, and had "trouble with girls?" So far, at least, he seemed to be batting a thousand with me.

"It's a Tesla. All electric. Good for the environment," George replied.

"Nice," I said. I was impressed.

We fell into a pleasant silence until I broke it when I became alarmed. "Where are we going, George? I thought we were going to dinner? You're heading out of town."

"I'm in the mood for a great steak. You do like steak, don't you? Oh no, are you a vegetarian or something? A lot of women are. I should have thought to ask," George said. He seemed nervous.

"Steak is fine with me, George, no worries, but we're heading into open country. Are you planning to shoot a cow or something?" I asked. This was deep Indiana, after all.

"We're going to Joe's Bar and Grill, out of town a piece, along Route 79. Do you know it?"

"I've never been there, and it is in fact reputed to have great steaks, but what do you know about it? How did you hear of it?" I nervously asked.

"My Aunt Martha recommended it. Best steaks in the county, she said."

"Your Aunt Martha recommended it? To bring me there? Has she been to it, herself?" I asked, sure that she had not.

"No, she's going by reputation. I checked it on Trip Advisor, too. High marks," George said.

"Uh...I'm not sure it's a good choice for a first date, George," I said.

"No steak on a first date?" George seemed genuinely puzzled.

"No, the food is supposed to be great, and I like steak, I do, it's just that..."

"Well, it's settled then. Anyway, I'm sure we'll just enjoy getting to know each other," he said.

"Yes, but you know, my friend from high school, Debbie Williams, is a waitress there, and..."

"Oh, my! I hope you're not embarrassed to be seen with me? Is this Debbie judgmental?" George said. He looked upset.

"No, no, it's not that, not at all. It's just the outfits the waitresses wear, or don't wear," I said.

"I don't care how the wait staff is dressed," he said.

"Well, you might in this case. Debbie has lovely breasts, I'm sure, but really George this may not be a good..."

"I'm sure you have lovely breasts too, Lana. You're not in competition with anyone, you know," he said.

"The waitresses are topless, George!" I said, finally spitting it out. "Sometimes they sit on your lap and feed your steak to you, while rubbing their boobs on your chest. Or so I hear." There. I managed to get it out.

"Well that sounds horrible, intervening in our meal like that. I eat my own steak, thank you very much. I'll just decline that service. I imagine you will, too. We'll simply tell them to leave us alone. The customer is always right, after all. The important thing is the food," George said.

I was stunned. Maybe he didn't hear the part about the waitresses being topless? Or it just didn't register with him? I'd also heard that Joe's Bar and Grill charges double the going rates for their food, presumably because (1) it's higher quality, and (2) it's served via pretty, topless waitresses. Before I could marshal up another volley to talk George out of going to Joe's, we were there, running in the pouring rain to the canopy over the entry. The doorman ushered us in.

JBEdwards
JBEdwards
2,401 Followers