tagFirst TimeTouch It, Emily

Touch It, Emily


These characters don't suffer repercussions, because their story ends. They can have casual sex without using condoms. You aren't as lucky.


"And that is so not going to happen!" finished Tori.

They were lying by the poolside, and as it often did, the topic had come around to boys and girls.

Emily made a sound of acknowledgment, not looking at her friend. Tori was a 22-year-old natural blonde. She was lying on her belly, stretched out on a towel, sweating in the hot sun. Her tanned, bare skin bore only a calf tattoo and a cheerful red bikini.

And it wasn't a big one. The scarlet triangle decorating her butt was more of a patch.

Emily reclined on the beach chair next to her. Her pine-green bikini, more modest, was the only one she'd ever owned. This was the third time she'd ever worn it.

Emily was twenty-one, with straight dark brown hair. People who looked into her huge dark eyes thought of a waif, or an owl. When her hair fell across her face, when she looked at you up through her lashes: mischievous. Perhaps a sensuous, thick-lipped Gypsy had snuck into her dull British family line. But most of the time, she told her reflection, her features were just plain. A plain, simple girl.

She wore sunscreen. A lot of it. Emily didn't tan. Her pale skin pinked or burned. Sometimes a smattering of freckles would kiss her cheeks for a few days, if she'd been lucky and caught just the right heat of the sun. She didn't really do poolsides. She was here because Tori was her friend and this was a typical Tori afternoon.

Tori had just given her the update on the crazy boy who last week had spotted her across the bar and just wouldn't stop trying to buy her drinks. One drink was nice. In the telling, it had earned him a smile, and that, Tori explained, was her first mistake.

The rest was a grueling story of rolled eyes, texts, friends and ex-girlfriends that Emily couldn't relate to. Boys didn't buy Emily drinks. That was largely because Emily didn't go to bars. But if she did, she told herself, boys wouldn't buy her drinks.

Sometime around when he'd sent his friend over to Tori's table, which was right around the time that Emily's polite interest was growing into unhappy irritation, her attention had wandered. She'd watched the gardener.

The gardener was a large, quiet fellow, tanned and bulky. He was pushing a wheelbarrow back and forth from house to yard. Buckets of tools, then bags of something, and then he was working the earth.

While Tori talked, Emily had watched him, the tall golem of a man, stabbing the dirt with his shovel, over and over, wrestling his tool out and stamping it back in. This fascinated her, for some reason. He'd lifted the rosebush from the ground into his wheelbarrow, resting it gently on its side, babying the flowers, uncaring of the thorns.

In Tori's story, she'd just given the cold shoulder to the boy's friends as the gardener slapped the dirt off his gloves. In the story, she walked out of the bar as the wheelbarrow toted its rosebush behind the corner of the house.

A metaphor? thought Emily. She was an English major. Where did the roses go? Out of sight. Out of mind.

Tori stretched, adjusted her straps, and started a new story. Emily closed her eyes for some peace, but she still saw the sun in dazzling dark reds, while she heard her friend's very different life unfold. How long do I have out here before I burn, she wondered.

The gardener was Nick. Groundskeeper, as he said. Nick was the groundskeeper.

Nick left his muddy shoes in the garage. He stripped off his sweaty socks and his overalls. He'd been working hard on the garden since the morning, and had earned his shower and his break.

His little brother Jack had taken his wife out of the country for most of the summer. Their daughter Tori, Nick's niece, chose to stay home her first college summer.

Jack had hired his older brother to keep the place up.

Nick didn't mind. He wasn't really close with any of them, but he liked the three of them well enough. Jack and everyone else in Nick's family had had big dreams. But strangely, Nick, the first-born, had always known the unassuming life that was right for him. At 45, he was content. He didn't live in a fancy house like this one, no. When he wanted, he had a little room downstairs, but most nights he spent in his trailer.

Last night, he'd stayed out late with the guys, a good bunch of guys, and now he was out in the sun, plotting yard arrangements. It was relaxing. It paid the bills.

The hot shower left him tired. He'd just had the energy to pull on a bathrobe and collapse on his bed in his quiet downstairs room. The door hadn't been pulled all the way closed.

Emily and Tori had agreed they'd break out the beers when the sun started to go down. But that was some hours away and, Emily had explained, she burned too easily to stay out.

She slid open the downstairs patio door and padded inside. Her bare feet were cold on the stone floor, her eyes wide in the gloomy dark. Her heated flesh felt like it was steaming in the cool air.

She nosed around the downstairs bar, more out of curiosity than actual interest. She thought she might make a phone call.

Then a shape in the other room caught her eye. She laid a pink-nailed hand on the door and quietly pushed it open.

Nick lay on the bed, sound asleep. The bathrobe, untied, lay parted at his sides. He was completely naked.

His knees were at the bed's edge, his feet on the floor. His knees, comfortably apart, framed the college girl who was staring from the doorway.

Some part of Emily's mind thought fast: Tori would stay out for hours; she could hear this guy's faint snoring; she could always say she was just looking for a bottle of booze.

Her gaze held steady on Nick's soft, uncircumcised penis.

It lay to its side, across his hip. His long, hairy ball sack -- all of him was pretty hairy, it seemed -- hung low in the dark between his thighs.

Emily had seen pornography, of course. She'd led a sheltered life in her private high school, but in college, like any normal girl, she'd called up a website or two in the privacy of her bedroom.

She knew what a penis was, and how it worked. She'd never seen a real one. She'd never even seen a video of a soft one. Weren't they supposed to be smaller when they were soft? This one seemed pretty big.

She breathed open-mouthed, silently, watching. She could hear the faint sound of the distant highway, and the smooth hum of the central A/C, and Nick's open-throated hoarse breathing that could barely be called a snore.

How had she decided to step inside and push the door back ajar? Yet there she was, standing flat-footed, door behind her, hands clasped chastely in front of her bikini bottom, staring at the cock and balls of a freshly-washed man.

Genitals, came the word unbidden to her mind. But her face was reddening, she knew, not from the sun, and the giddy twists in her insides weren't because she was in science class. That was a cock.

"Touch it, Emily," she thought to herself.

Where had that come from? That didn't sound like her.

There were poets and poetesses who met like this, she thought. She was sure of it. What's-his-name, they got married. There was debauchery of some kind, she knew. The writers she admired lived life to the fullest. Surely she should do the same.

She found herself taking a step and crouching down between the grown man's legs. Her eyes were adjusting now. The drapes were closed, the light was off, but the room was actually not dark at all, it had just looked that way. Just dim.

His legs were like tree trunks. His hands seemed huge. The gardener was a big, strong guy.

The dark hair on his legs grew thicker between his thighs, and it drew a line up his belly. "Like a satyr," came to her in an inane flash. She could see, now, his ball sack dangling down, wrinkled and reddish-brown with a smattering of wiry hairs. "Gross," she thought, but there was another thought too.

Her hand hovered over his sleeping penis -- cock -- resting so innocently on its side.

Then her warm hand rested carefully on the warm penis. It was so soft. So tender and harmless. It felt like a newborn puppy.

She looked up for a moment. Nick hadn't moved. When she realized she was touching her first penis, something adjusted inside her. And when it occurred to her that she was a college girl holding on to a grown man's dick -- Tori's uncle ("old enough to be..." came to her) -- well that made her feel something too.

It wasn't a bad feeling.

Some gentle squeezes. The thing's skin was loose. The flesh was soft and pliable. So this was what they were like.

Could she make it hard? she wondered. She wrapped her whole hand over it in a loose fist and slowly, like she'd seen in videos, she pulled up and down.

Nothing -- no change, though she gently squeezed as she stroked -- still soft as a kitten, warm as a cat, innocent as -- oh.

Suddenly, without any movement from Nick, his cock grew. She held on for a moment, then, eyes wide, released it and watched.

She'd felt it start to swell just a bit. Now it grew on its own. First it expanded just a bit. Then, resting sideways across his thigh, it stretched. It wobbled as it extended. The skin became taut, then tight. As the swelling head struggled to burst free, Nick's cock lifted and swung up.

It kept growing longer. Nick sighed softly in his sleep. It was so big now, bobbing up at an angle, crawling up his belly. It bent in a curve, trying to straighten itself. Long seconds passed. Emily held her breath. It didn't seem done. It shook gently, like it was struggling.

Then, just as she reached out her hand again, it gave one quiet stretch, and it grew, and it was a proud, hard cock, standing straight, stretching from hairy groin to hairy bellybutton. It was the angry weapon of a sleeping stranger, emerged from its cocoon.

Kneeling, she grasped it carefully, and watched as she carefully pulled down the roll of skin ringing its tip. The tip slipped out. It was purple-red. It looked like an alien.

She wasn't sure what she was thinking, as she gave the hard cock a dreamy stroking, sliding her fist up and down. She was twenty-one. It really didn't occur to her where this was heading. She stared at the thick ridge that ran from tip to balls. She was pretty sure that was where the sperm went. It felt like nothing she'd felt before.

Nick swam slowly up from an amazing instantly-lost dream and lifted his eyes. He saw Emily. After what seemed a long while, it occurred to him that the girl wasn't part of the dream. "Oh," he thought, "wow. That's good."

Waking, he watched for a while, silently, the dark-haired girl with the cute nose shyly stroking his cock.

"What's your name?" he asked, finally.

She stopped. "Emily," she said. She looked him in the eye.

"Keep going," he said.

She did.

He breathed deeper, and propped himself up on his elbows, watching the girl half his age lick her lips, focused on the new toy.

"You can go faster," he said, and she did.

He took a deep breath and he pushed his palms into the sheets. It had only been a few minutes since she'd first touched him. But the forgotten dream had seemed like endless hours of raging-hot erotic torture. It confused him, how sensitive his dick was, how close he already was to cumming.

He stared at Emily, entranced. He thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her hair, dark and straight, made her look like an old-time movie star. Her pale shoulders swayed and shook as she worked his cock, and he spotted on them a faint smattering of freckles running up her neck to her girlish cheeks. When she looked at him, her eyes were so deep and dark that ... well, to be honest, they made him want to fuck her brains out.

A low, throaty voice was all he could manage. "Put your mouth on it."

Never in a million years would Emily have pictured herself, kneeling between an older man's legs, leaning forward to cautiously, carefully, slip his puffy red cock-head between her lips.

"Ahhhhhh," Nick breathed. His body tensed.

Emily tasted salt, and then noticed a bit of something slimy in her mouth. What was it? She thought maybe her pussy moistened. She didn't think the gardener had cum, but she didn't know what else it was. She stopped to look at him.

Denied, Nick groaned through his teeth, sat up, took hold of Emily's head with both hands, and lowered her mouth back onto his stiff cock. She took it willingly, sliding her lips and tongue delicately over the slippery bulb.

The dainty licks, unsatisfying, inflamed his need. His balls drew up, growing firm. He grunted, clutched her head tighter, and with a few up-and-down lifts and thrusts, he showed Emily how it feels when a man's cock pumps in and out of a girl's mouth.

She sucked in his rhythm, bobbing her head and jacking her fist, and he let go and fell back on the bed. Her other hand rested shyly on his thigh for balance.

Her victim, twice her size, struggled for breath as her small mouth rocketed him forward. She'd grasped him at his core and was dragging him over a cliff. He didn't -- it was -- she was -- she was so pretty --

Nick stiffened and his fingers curled as his cock erupted into the wet mouth of a willing college girl.

Emily's mouth was suddenly full of hot cum. Surprised, she sat up and let go. Whether and how to swallow? -- but Nick had already grabbed her hand and head, and forced them back onto his spasming penis.

A squirt of cum splashed on his chest -- and then his prick was jammed back in her mouth, impaled deep this time. With her hand she felt the next pulse of semen a moment before the salty warmth gushed into her again.

It was a glorious mess to her, an explosion of emotion in fluid. She felt rather than heard the frightening, masculine sounds she'd pulled from him. His great body gave a spastic dance under her mouth as he came.

She tried to swallow and gagged. Her mouth opened, forced wide by the cruel incursion, and his cum squished out, flooding over her hand. She did her best. She licked and sucked as Nick grunted and gasped, pushing himself up into her.

As the last jets shot out of him, awareness returned. For a long while, as his sensitive cock twitched in her hand, he looked down at Emily, still suckling at it, licking the spent but still stiff flesh, because he hadn't told her to stop.

He sat up and told her to stop.

She laughed first, a little, and then he laughed, a lot. And then they were both standing. He was brushing back her hair with a sun-browned, thick-skinned hand, touching her neck, telling her how lovely she was, and what a lucky man he was.

She was dazed that she had done this. All on her own. She knew boys liked sex. She'd felt its undertones in friendships and relationships, in a glance or a stare. But was this primitive glandular roughhousing, this orgiastic demand and surrender, so lightly hidden in all men, lying in wait barely under the surface? It had been just a few minutes since she walked in the room, and now -- she was wiping his sourness off her mouth.

She went to kiss him a few times, because that's what boys and girls are supposed to do, but he pulled back, and just smiled at her, and for some reason this aroused her. He kept caressing her and talking to her. His lips brushed her neck, her ear. His hands ran lightly up and down her side. All the while, his exhausted member tapped wetly, ignored, against her hip.

When they did kiss, he had one hand on her throat and the other gripped her ass. His lips met hers, he bent her back and devoured her. He licked inside her mouth, and she barely had time to think "Gross!" before her knees went weak.

The top he untied, and the bottom he slid off, and he sat her on the edge of the bed. It wasn't romantic. He sucked at her neck and licked her tits, and made her feel woozy inside. Her nipples were hard fleshy buds, and when he planted his wet mouth on them and sucked them hard, she grimaced and hunched over. It hurt a little. Then she started to squirm.

She was sitting with legs together, because that's what girls are supposed to do, and when he slid his big hand up between them, she was actually shocked that he pushed them apart.

Then his strong fingers nestled into her cleft. At first his hand, squeezing and massaging her, was an alien invader. He was tickling, corrupting and defiling her. After a few more strokes and squeezes, he was a man, and she a woman. A little while later, she was his woman.

She opened herself to him. He rubbed her moist pussy as she clung to his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, and her shiny, straight hair smelled like her flowery shampoo. Her curly hair was thick under his palm, and under his fingers it matted as she grew wet.

She clutched him for long minutes. He talked to her with "mmm" and "mm-hm," and she answered him back with "mmm," and they sat there, together, shifting and breathing hard, while he rubbed her pussy.

He stopped, and Emily felt lost, and didn't understand, but when he kissed her, turned her onto her back, and lifted her knees into the air, she realized what was coming. When he leaned in and breathed hot onto her virgin pussy, she jerked like she'd been spanked. And when the older man's mouth fell onto her most private place and gave her long licks, she gave little gasps, unable to speak.

Emily had made herself cum plenty of times. She had never been with a man, but she wasn't a prude. She knew where her parts were. She knew what her pussy needed and knew how to stroke it just the way she liked.

And in her fantasies she'd imagined a boy from school going down on her. A clever, dorky boy who would read her poetry on dates and then lick her exactly as her own fingers did. What she hadn't realized was that the real tongue would stroke her as it pleased.

Wet licks came to the left and right of her spread slit, those hairy, curiously sensitive nethers, and she moaned. His lips and tongue zeroed in, and nipped and pulled at the folds in her flesh, and she felt herself grow wetter. And when he gave up what her pussy needed, slipping the tip of his tongue into her little hole and working it in circles, while his nose nudged against her clit, her breath caught, and she cried out weakly.

He was determined to savor the experience. He loved the sounds she made. He loved the uncertain, jerky movement of her self-conscious body, the way her delicate hands seemed to almost want to cover her shame. He loved the look of her flushed, puffy lips swaddled in soaked curls.

He loved her smell: spicy sweat, tropical sunscreen, and the rank, dark taste of her cunt. The girl every inch a girl, and her cunt her nasty, dirty secret to plunder.

He lifted his head and gave her smooth inner thighs a lick, and smiled as her hands clamped onto his head and pulled him back in. She arched her back and twisted her hips, and her legs swayed from side to side as he licked, cradling his face until he pushed her knees back harder, opening her wider to his hungry mouth.

He was pretty sure by now that she was a virgin, or at least had never done before what she was doing now. He slid a finger around and around, and carefully pushed inside her. She tensed, and he pushed further. Slippery but tight as hell. Taking his time, watching her try to relax, he eased into her, while he gave her pussy kisses.

Then he held the flat of his tongue firmly in place over her tiny nub of a clit, and slid the finger in and out, slowly, feeling her tremble, feeling her relax, feeling her body suck at him, hearing her high cries turn to grunts: "uh! mmh! uhh!"

Nick had big hands, and he took him time with his second finger, working it into her carefully. They watched each other as he did, eyes meeting across the length of her bare torso. His tongue gave her clit little pets and she felt the hot and cool of his breath over her mound.

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