Their First Time

Their First Time

The Dance of Young Love

It was a most fateful of nights.

**

How did they find each other initially? Perhaps it was in English class, youth orchestra, or in the evening Bible study group. No matter. Their church-affiliated school system, in their mid-sized Midwestern town, required every student complete a year-long apprenticeship as a missionary before their 3rd year in high school, so when they got together as juniors they both had seen their 18th birthdays.

They were shy as forest fawns, but, finding they shared interests and activities, they gravitated to one another. It certainly wasn't love at first sight, but there was attraction... He eventually asked her to a movie. She accepted. During the movie he screwed up his courage and held her hand. She held his back and they were a couple.

They began the dance, the dance of discovery that all young couples do. He led. Often she'd follow. After he'd held her hand once, it became the norm. They tacitly accepted that holding hands was good. A given.

Once he'd kissed her good night -- first just a peck -- when she pecked back, that became the norm. Soon, after each Friday night movie, he'd drive to the back of their church. It was dark, private. Safe. Once parked she slid across the seat next to him. They kissed. A new norm.

But what of his hands? At first he confined them to her head, cheeks, neck, and shoulders. She kept kissing him, signaling that it was okay, so the dance continued. A roaming hand landed on her breast. She let it stay. He caressed it. Then the other one. A new norm.

The first time he attempted to undo her top button she stopped him. But he tried again and on the second, or maybe the third attempt she allowed it. After a few more dates, all her buttons were undone.

He explored inside her blouse, stroking velvety skin. All over. His fingers kneaded her lovely, small soft breasts through their flimsy, unnecessary support, then inexorably worked their way to her back. At some point she leaned forward, helping. So he could unhook her bra.

Though unspoken, they understood what that meant. She wanted his hands, his fingers, then his lips, tongue and mouth, on her bare breasts. On her nipples. She got them. Her pink, pert buds hardened smartly to his touches, his kisses. His sucking. She instinctively arched her back, pushed her breasts to him and pulled his head to her, making it easier. They both loved him nursing on her. 

He improvised a new step in their dance. As he was sucking a tit, his hands, which always kept roaming, focused on her inner thighs. When, at his gentle prodding, she obligingly parted them, they knew the import. She granted him better access to her privates. After she first let him rub the seam where her pants legs joined, it was a given. He could pet her pussy during each session. 

The temperature was rising. As his caresses were making her kitty purr, his hand inevitably moved to her belt and began to undo it. That first time she started, shaken out of her erotic stupor. She stopped him -- this was a serious new initiative -- and he went back to just kissing and stroking her.

But his role was to lead. He persisted and, eventually, when she, too, tired of the sameness that mired them in stasis, she let him. When her jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped that first time he just reached in and stroked her smooth, white, silky panties, feeling her bush beneath.

When that norm was well established, he tried to pull her jeans down. She resisted. It was too much, too soon. Of course, after many attempts over several dates, she allowed it, and raised her hips, making it easier.

The first time he worked her pants down he left her panties. This was a slow, ritualized dance they were learning and the choreography dictated just one new step at a time. He contented himself with feeling all around her panties, enjoying the silkiness. How they were damp between her tight-clamped thighs.

Then he finally dared to slip a finger inside the waist. Of course, she quickly pulled his hand away. But when he went back, for maybe for the third, perhaps the fourth time, she let him. Soon his whole hand was inside her panties, combing her bush, kneading her mons, sliding a finger up and down her slit, eventually boldly pushing into her pussy. Only just inside, though, and instantly retreating to preclude her stopping him. Making as if it had been accidental. Of course, that pesky finger went back, sank in deeper, and stayed longer.

He next tried to pull her panties down to join her jeans. That first time she said no and stopped him cold. But he was onto her pattern now and persisted, and either later in that session, or on the next date, she let it happen. She let him have what he so obviously wanted. When she raised her hips as he slid her panties down, was she just acceding to his wishes, or did she want it, too?

Regardless, his access was considerably improved and he learned much about the intricacies of a vulva. On later dates, when it was time for him to pull her jeans down, he'd save time and just take her panties with them as she raised herself.  

But how far down did those pants and panties go? At first, being ever cautious, he'd leave them just below her ass, and his penis would throb as he feasted his eyes on her secret place. But her thighs were still constricted, constrained tightly in place. So the next time he pulled them lower, stopping just above her knees. However, that still bound her legs together. For him to really have the access he wanted, maybe they both wanted, he had to get them lower still, to her ankles, so he could push her knees apart. Open her up. 

As with every other new step, there was initial resistance, but because she also found it exciting, secretly wanted it, and he carefully planned each foray to be just incrementally beyond what she'd allowed previously, sliding her jeans and panties down to her ankles became the norm.    

Somewhat earlier in their waltz of sexual discovery, while they were making out he'd put her hand on his penis. She didn't pull it away even the very first time, but didn't move it. Until encouraged. Soon it was their norm that, as his hands began to roam on her, she would start stroking his cock. 

On a later date, at his urging she undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and then pulled them and his briefs out away from his body. And down. His erect cock sprang free, and a new world opened up. She could stroke his bare penis as he caressed her exposed vulva.

By the time they were seniors, they had a new, very exciting norm: he'd get her pants and panties down to her ankles and feel her all over. She'd get his jeans open and down to his knees, then caress his hard, dripping, eager cock. 

Of course, because he was young and so horny, without either of them intending it the first time, she jacked him off. Her usual stroking just pulled the cum right out of him. They both watched, fascinated as the semen spewed forth. Over and over.

Though she said nothing, he could tell she liked it. Liked being able to make him twitch and moan, liked seeing his cum shoot out. Liked the feel of it on her hand. Liked the power. How it now seemed he'd do anything she asked just so she'd do it again.

Their norm became pleasuring each other after their long kissing and undressing routine. Because of the chemicals that altered his brain after ejaculation, he'd do her first, using his finger. Sometimes two. She'd use her hand on him, adding Kleenex at the crucial moment. They learned to take time, to delay their release, to savor the build-up. It was nice, so much better than just making out had been. Much more satisfying.

But not ultimately. Their dance was not over. They had one more step to learn.

That fateful night they'd completed their ritual dos-à-dos and were ready. His cock was out, stiff and dripping. Throbbing to her caresses. Her pants were way down, her knees wide apart, his fingers playing inside her wet, lubricious vulva. They were building toward their mutual orgasms.

But -- Did he plan this? Did she? -- as he was kissing her, feeling her, he leaned on her and she slid down on her back on the seat of the car. As he'd spread her knees wide beforehand, he ended up between her legs. Their parts were bared and they both held their breath, knowing they were in position. Fucking position. He began to ease forward, and they both gasped when his penis prodded her pussy. He rotated his hips and...

Suddenly the inside of the car was ablaze with bright light. The cops had stealthily coasted up beside them and shone a spotlight into the car. Bummer. Fortunately, he still had his shirt on, looked respectable when he sat up, and was a white guy, so they just told them to move along.

It totally killed the mood, though. For a long time. Their "safe" place was no longer safe and they were always wary. Intimidated. Hesitant to do too much. To get too exposed.

They didn't fuck that night, or for the rest of their high school careers. It didn't happen until over a year later, in the summer when they reconnected after going off to different colleges. After they'd both lost their virginity with someone else.

Oh well.

Fate? Perhaps.

But what if the police hadn't come?

Shazam! We're back at that pivotal moment, the cops don't come, and the action resumes.

After he lies down on her, between her legs, he continues kissing her, her lips, face, cheeks and neck. Smothering her with kisses and telling her how wonderful, beautiful and sexy she it. Distracting her as he wedges himself deeper between her wide-spread thighs. They both catch their breath when his cock touches her bush, nudges her pussy.

It's unbelievably exciting. The burning ache within him is overwhelming. His trembling cock has never been as hard, never as rigid. It throbs as it quivers, its tip lodged in her forest. Her pussy tingles and pulses with each pounding heartbeat. Her body is hot, edgy, nervous. So aroused. But she's anxious and concerned. This is further than they've ever gone. Should she stop it?

He knows her pattern, her proclivities. In their dance of sexual exploration, she's always stopped him if he tried for a bridge too far, too much too soon. He will do anything to have this most wonderful experience of his life continue. He calculates. He pulls his penis back away from her, takes her head in his hands and kisses her. Again and again.

He can feel her body relax, but suppresses his urge to push his cock against her again. He keeps kissing her. He knows she loves it and that it soothes her, arouses her. In the midst of a particularly good kiss, when their tongues are intertwined, he rotates his hips forward. She starts when his penis touches her vulva, but he kisses her more ardently and she relaxes. His cock stays put.

His penis is so taut, so stiff, that the slightest movement of his hips slides it on her. Though it only plows through her pubic hair, it's wonderful. He keeps up the kissing as a distraction as he rubs it up and down, but stills his hips immediately when he feels her tense. Only when she again relaxes does he resume probing her pussy with his cock. Then stops. Starts and stops again. Start, stop, repeat. Over and over.

She acclimates. It's their new norm.

On one iteration of his rubbing his cock randomly around her pudendum, her labia majora do what they are designed to do, and channel his penis between them. Her body starts and he immediately withdraws and falls back to what she's accepted before. To long, wet, sensual kisses with his penis stationary against her.

However, he keenly remembers exactly where his hips were positioned, the precise angle that aligned his cock with her groove. When he senses she's ready, he puts his cock back where it was. Inside her outer lips.

When she doesn't protest, he rotates his hips, ever-so-lightly sliding his penis inside her channel. Though the feeling was marvelous before, it's nothing compared to how her soft, wet lips cling to the tip of his cock. Though it's almost impossible, he manages to overcome the intense desire welling up inside him and stops moving, leaving just the tiniest bit of his penis inside her labia. After more obfuscating kisses, he moves it again and stops. Moves and stops. Over and over.

Each time he slides it, the way her lower lips caress just the very tip of his penis is heavenly, and, wanting more, he unconsciously increases the pressure with each pass. It presses deeper between her labia and he loves how her slick, hot lips now cling to the head his cock, kissing every cell as it rubs against them.

He continues leading their dance as he always has, and after many stops and restarts, she seems content to have his cock moving in her groove. A new norm is established. The head of his penis can plow furrows in her secret valley.

She is torn. It feels marvelous and her highly aroused body wants the sensations to continue. Plus her mind finds it unbelievably exciting. But it's dangerous. Though just the result of many small steps, each going just a tiny bit beyond what she's already allowed, having his cock sliding inside her slit seems a huge deal. A new boundary being crossed.

Should she stop him? As she considers, she feels her hips, responding to their natural urge, rotate up to him, pushing her pussy to him. Perhaps she senses that her body wants have his cock inside her. To mate. Perhaps she's so wrapped up in the sensations of his penis sliding inside her groove that she's oblivious.

They both gasp when his cock finds her hole and, because of his steady pressure, sinks in. It's only an inch, but it's the best feeling of his life. Nothing compares. Alarmed that she may object, tell him no, stop what he cannot bear to have end, he immediately pulls out. He'll do anything to keep this happening.

When his penis penetrates her, the quick small pain of the sudden intrusion, stretching every cell of her entrance taut, too taut, makes their nerves fire completely, and the electric bolts coursing out from her vagina transfix her. Though horseback riding took care of her hymen and she's had his finger and tampons inside her, there's just no comparison to his cock. The stinging penetration and jolts of fire as every nerve is tripped over and over completely stun her, erasing her mind.

By the time she can collect herself, even think, he has already withdrawn and she shivers as the reverberations of sensation flood through her.

Knowing that his accidental penetration of her was way too much, he retrenches, going back to the pattern of their earlier dance. He just holds and kisses her as his cock bobs and throbs, suspended in the night air. When she seems mollified, no longer alarmed, he again lowers his hips and touches his penis to her.

He withdraws it immediately when she stiffens, but is heartened a bit when she soon relaxes, and more so when, the next time his prick prods her pussy, she simply continues kissing him.

He keeps kissing her as he again slides his prick up and down her slit. Her arousal keeps building, and her legs spread a little wider, opening herself further. As before, his cock finds her opening and is funneled into her. It pushes in just a bit, not as far as before, and he quickly pulls it out as if -- Whoops! How did that happen? -- his cock found her vagina accidentally and he wants to make amends. 

When she doesn't protest, he kisses her, moves his cock all around, finds her hole, and pushes in a little further. He withdraws instantly when as he hears her inhale sharply. Though he fears it was because she was preparing to speak, to stop him, he also thinks that perhaps it was good, that she was only reacting to the sensations. But he won't take any chances. He needs this to keep this happening.

Their dance has reached a very exciting stage, and he repeats this new step they're learning. Again and again, cementing their new norm. Now his cock can be, should be, inside her vagina, if only just the first inch, and only for just for a second. 

He becomes aware of, and loves, how each time, when his penis finds her entrance, she instinctively spreads herself wider, and rotates her hips to him, even pushes back at him. Her body is telling him that, despite earlier protestations, she wants his penis inside her. She likes his penis inside her. He learns to wait for her welcoming movement each time before he tries for more.

He moves his cock on her again, and when he feels her cue, he slips it in, going just a smidgen further than before. He revels in the feel of the tight walls of her virgin vagina surrounding the head of his virgin penis, holding it firmly, caressing it when it slides in or out. 

He stays in longer, retreating only when he thinks she might be about to say something. He's ecstatic. Now it's OK for his erect penis to enter her vagina, stay a little while, maybe begin to back out, then push in again before withdrawing.

He no longer needs to be coy, to move his cock all around before finding her hole and slipping it in. As if it happens by accident. He can just stick it in. He does, and dares to go faster and deeper than before. She inhales sharply at the intense electric jolt, the stab of discomfort. It doesn't really hurt, but as they are stretched further than they ever have been, the nerve cells of her vagina fire in unison when disrupted.

He lets it soak for a few seconds, kissing her forehead, her clamped-shut eyes, her cheeks, her lips. Always monitoring her, cautious lest she protest. He pulls back as if to withdraw, but then pushes back in, deeper than ever, before quickly pulling out. Hoping his quick retreat will preclude any objection.

It does.

He keeps kissing her, stroking her, murmuring in her ear how wonderful she is. How hot, sexy and beautiful. She whispers, "You can't do it inside me," and he assures her that he won't. If he starts to lose control he'll pull out immediately and shoot on her stomach as he has done before when she's jacked him off.

He really means it; there is no way he wants to get her pregnant.  

But this dance is just so exciting, so arousing, that there is also no way he is going to stop. And, he calculates, if he's careful and keeps going slowly, repeating the last thing she's allowed several times before trying for just a little bit more, she'll acquiesce.

He keeps leading their dance as he always has, constantly telling her how wonderful she is, that she can trust him, that he'll be careful. 

Though he totally believes all his assurances, he doesn't realize how his mind is becoming numb, fogged by sensation and seething desire. He can't think of anything except how glorious it will feel the next time he gets his penis into her pussy. He can't envision any endgame, just his plan: to push in a little further each time, stay a little longer, cycle it in and out one more time than before, and always listen to her breathing. Withdraw as soon as she inhales, before she can say anything. Before she can stop him. 

Their new norm is that his cock can be well inside her vagina, that it can stay a while, and that he can pump it a few times. They're nearly fucking.

He sticks it in her yet again, deeper than ever, and lets it soak for a bit while he tells her how much he loves and cares for her. He gives her an especially sweet kiss as it's deep inside her, looks in her eyes and says, "You're so sexy. You're the one, the only one for me." He does a little piston action while holding her shoulders, rocking her to him before pulling out. 

He loves her unconscious, disappointed little whimper when his cock slides out. She likes it in. Wants it back.

There are more kisses, more moaning from both of them each time he withdraws, then sighing and sharp intakes of breath as his cock barges back, deeper than ever. It's now OK for them to be joined, deeply, and for him to cycle his penis in and out. Just a few times.