by Amy Brent
“Yes…”
“Her pussy lips… are they pink and moist…”
“Yes…” I was breathing harder now. My cock felt as if it might pop right out of the water. “Her pussy is hot… pink… it tastes salty on my tongue…”
“She’s moaning now,” Carina said, breathless. “Stick your tongue in her hole... lick her sweet juices… hold her pussy lips open with your fingers… lick her… taste her…”
My tongue darted across my lips. I could taste Andrea’s pussy… I could feel her hot juices on my lips… in my mouth… swallowing…
“She’s going to cum…” Carina said, her feet expertly pumping my cock as both her hands worked her pussy and ass. We were splashing the water over the side of the tub, but neither of us cared.
“Fuck… Carina…”
“No… Andrea… I am Andrea…”
“Fuck… Andrea…”
“Cum for me my darling,” she said, the breath hitching in her throat. “Oh… fuck… cum with me… now…”
I grunted as I shot my load into the hot water. Carina squealed and mashed my cock head between her feet. She spasmed for a moment. I grabbed her feet to keep them still as I finished cumming.
When I opened my eyes, Andrea was not there, but Carina was, looking at me, smiling devilishly. She got to her knees and crawled to me, then stretched out to lay on top of me with our noses touching.
“Andrea is a lucky girl to have someone like you fantasizing about her,” she said, giving me a pick on the lips. “Why don’t you make your fantasies come true?”
“You think I should talk to her?”
She smiled. “Sammy Branniff, since when are you so shy?”
“I’m not shy,” I said, cupping her slick ass in my hands to grind her against my flaccid cock and balls. “It’s different out there than it is in here.”
“The only difference is out there you use your brain. In here you use your cock.” She kissed me again, then leaned her forehead to mine. “It’s been fun, Sammy, but I think it’s time for you to grow up.”
“I don’t want to grow up,” I said, playfully tweaking her nipples between my fingers.
She pushed herself up and gave me a sad smile.
“I know, Sammy baby, but it’s time. And I will miss you.”
Chapter 3: Andrea Nichols
If you think being a six-foot-tall red head is cool, well, you’re partly right. Yes, I love being taller than most women and some mean, and yes, I love my long, flowing fiery hair (thank you mom).
I love it when short guys look up at me from tit-level like I’m some sort of Amazon woman from space. Their mouths droop open and their eyes go wide and their tongued sort of flop out of their mouths like a Bassett Hound that’s run a mile.
They crane their necks up and down the length of my body: my long legs, flat stomach, round hips, nice firm tits, long neck, fair complexion, blue eyes, and of course, the hair.
And I know what they’re thinking.
They’re not thinking, “My, that’s a striking young woman.”
No.
They’re thinking, “Wow, I wonder what it would be to tap that ass?”
Most of them would need a foot stool for their little dicks to even reach my ass. Guys actually gawk at me when I walk by or enter a room, even at Internet Data Systems, where I’ve worked for three months now as the Assistant Director of Marketing for founder Denny Chambers, the one guy who has never made a derogatory remark about my height; at least to my face.
I hear the bastards whispering about me. I mean, I’m tall, I’m not fucking deaf, for petesake.
“Damn, look at her…”
“Wow, wish I had a stepladder so I could climb up it to fuck her…”
“Holy shit, her pussy is level with my chin…”
Fuckers. I guess I should consider their comments as compliments. I mean, most women would die for the attention that I get. I just wished the attention came for something other than my height and my hair. It would be great to be recognized for my brains, my creativity, my contributions to the team. I mean, work is great and I get tons of credit and praise for my work. I just get tired of being gawked at like Bigfoot in high heels.
It had been that way since junior high school, when I suddenly grew from a skinny girl of just five-feet-two to nearly six-feet over the summer break before ninth grade.
Puberty hit in full force that summer. I got tits and plump nipples, curly red hair between my legs and under my arms, height, muscle, and I discovered my vagina. I mean, I had always known it was there (duh), but not in the way I did after puberty when I started getting little tingles that would entice me to explore myself with my fingers in the bath. My first orgasm came at the age of fourteen while soaking in a hot tub after volleyball practice, long fingers deep inside me, other hand stroking my fat clit, biting down hard on a wet cloth to keep my mom from hearing me scream.
So, yeah, that part of becoming a woman I really liked.
Everything else, not so much.
The awkward stares of the high school boys, their snide comments, their lips hanging, drooling, openly wondering what it would be like to fuck a girl like me.
“Damn, baby, let me climb up your leg and take a nap in those red pubes!”
“Oooweee, look at you, red… Does the carpet match the drapes?”
Those assholes who would never have a chance in hell of finding out what it was like to have sex with a girl like me opted to mock and make fun rather than befriend me. I came home from school may days crying my eyes out.
Boys could be especially hateful, until they had a reason not to. Boys are like dogs; give them just a little attention and they’ll turn into puppies who’ll follow you everywhere.
But girls on the other hand…
As hateful as the boys could be, it was always the girls who were the worst bullies. The cheerleaders, the dance team, the nerds, and the sluts, they all looked at girls like me with a mixture of envy and disdain.
When you’re a sixteen-year-old redheaded bombshell who towered over every other girl on the volleyball team, I guess it was to be expected.
Their bullying never really bothered me, not like the boys who often made me cry. The girls just pissed me off. Honestly, I could have mopped up the cafeteria with all of the girls and most of the boys if I had wanted to. I chose to take the high road, as my mom advised. I would simply lift my chin and ignore them, then cry myself to sleep once I was in bed alone.
The one saving grace for me in high school was Coach Dennis—Allison Dennis—my 12th grade history teacher and varsity volleyball coach. Allison, as I’d come to call her, wasn’t much older than me, just in her early twenties. She was almost as tall and athletically-built as me, a former star player on the USC women’s volleyball team the year they won the Nationals.
Allison was gorgeous without makeup or fancy clothes. Naturally pretty, with dark hair she kept short and soft features and blue eyes. She looked like a pixie or an elfin goddess from Lord of the Rings.
Being a coach, she normally dressed in a baggy running suit with a white t-shirt underneath. Like me, she had long legs and a high ass and small tits. I can still remember those times when she’d peel off the running suit to reveal the tight t-shirt and volleyball shorts underneath.
Her legs were long and bronze, toned with muscle that rippled when she walked. You could hear erections popping out like turkey timers from the boys and male coaches gathered on the other side of the gym to stare at Allison before PE.
She knew they watched her and did her best to tease them on a little, bending over to tie her shoe so her ass would hang out a little in the back, lying on the floor stretching her legs far apart so they could catch a glimpse of her white cotton panties.
She loved teasing them.
I know because she told me so.
“Those boys would kill just to get a glimpse of your naked body,” she would whisper in my ear on those nights we’d be together at her apartment or after practice in her car
. I’d be crying, lamenting the teasing, and she’d cup my chin in her palm and look me in the eye.
“Make them want your body, Andrea,” she said, rubbing her thumb across my bottom lip as the tears streamed down my cheeks. “Then make them respect your mind.”
She put on a show for them every day before practice. Sitting with one leg on the floor and the other leg extended high as she pulled on the knee pads. She’d point her toe and flex her leg so the muscles flexed like steel. I watched her. I learned from her.
Allison was the one who taught me that being a six-foot-tall woman meant that I had the power. Especially over men, who would climb over each other’s dead bodies just to sniff my dirty panties.
Allison taught me a lot of things my senior year, especially during those out of town tournaments when she’d sneak into my room and crawl naked into bed with me.
I never considered myself a lesbian back then or now.
Then, I liked boys, even though most were too afraid to even approach me. Allison was my teacher, my comfort, my friend. I never thought of her as my lover.
Now, a decade later, I still loved men, even though most of them looked at me like I was Godzilla stomping through Tokyo.
The big difference between then and now is that I have the confidence to call them out for being morons.
“Damn, you’re tall,” they say when I walk into a room.
“No shit, dickweed, and you’re a fucking idiot.”
That one always leaves them with their mouths hanging open like the morons that they are. The women in the room look at me with admiration and the men look at me with awe. And lust. Now, I wouldn’t trade being tall for anything in the world. Allison was right. I had the power…
Back to my nights with Alison… I’m as straight as they come (no pun intended), but I never tried to stop Allison’s long fingers from exploring the red curls and moist flesh between my legs. I never pushed her away as she pressed her lips to mine before sliding her tongue down to circle my nipples. I never resisted. I only whimpered when her fingers slid slowly, gently, inside me, or when she used her tongue on my clit to drive me over the moon.
Again, Allison was my comfort. My friend. My teacher. When I see her today, we hug and smile, but never mention that time. She’s married to a great guy and they have three kids. Our time together will always be our treasured secret.
Allison was my only foray into sex in high school. I never went on dates, didn’t go to any dances, never hung out at the mall like the rest of the kids. I played volleyball and studied my ass off. My parents weren’t rich. I knew if I had a prayer of going to college, it was up to me to make it happen.
Then, my life changed with the full-ride athletic scholarship to USC. It was as if the world opened up to me. The world became a bigger more understanding place where everyone did not look at me in judgment or with disdain. I was a star athlete. Eventually, the captain of the volleyball team and an Olympic contender. My star rose high in the sky and my power kicked into overdrive. College was fucking great, and yes, I do mean that exactly as it sounds.
I discovered that the silly high school boys had grown into silly young men whose sole purpose of being in college was chasing coed pussy. Sorry, but that’s as plain as I can make it because it’s the truth.
The boys were there to get drunk and fucked and sucked, and if they got a degree along the way, that was great. So were most of the girls. Hard partiers, horny bitches, competing for the most cock. And that included me, although it took me until my sophomore year to do what the others had been doing for months.
My first guy, the one to officially pop my cherry, set the bar really high for the guys to later come (another pun). His name was Pete Hamilton. He was a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound lineman from Iowa. A big dumb, gorgeous farm kid with beautiful blue eyes and sandy blond hair and more muscles than The Rock and a smile to match. Everyone called him “The Mountain” because he was so damn big and nearly impossible to move. I took one look at him and felt myself literally melting into my panties.
We were at a frat party. I was with my Amazon Bitches (that’s the name my BFF Suzy Orson gave to our little clique of statuesque volleyball players). We were huddled together watching the cheerleaders make fools of themselves. Giddy, silly little bitches with big tits and round asses and loose morals and low standards. They’d fuck any boy in the room, so long as he played sports for USC. And it didn’t matter which sport. They fucked the football team, the baseball team, the basketball team, the rugby team, and on down the line. They’d even fuck guys on the badminton team if there were no real men around. They’d fuck them, they just wouldn’t brag about it to their friends.
We Amazon Bitches were far pickier and lived by a set of rules that would have shut the slutty cheerleaders down in a heartbeat. We had very strict standards and refused to deviate from them, no matter how horny we were or how drunk we got.
They were like our commandments, and to break a commandment —and get caught— subjected you to no small amount of shit from the rest of the team.
We would not fuck a guy who was shorter than us. The same height was fine, long as we stood eye to eye in bare feet, but even an inch shorter and the answer was no.
We would not fuck guys who made comments about how tall we were. If a guy looked at us and said, “Damn, girl, you’re tall!” he was immediately eliminated from the potential fuck list, no matter how hot he was. That one was hard to tick to because most guys made innocent comments like that, even when they were taller. It’s just what guys did. They led with their mouths and their dicks and just hoped that someday their brain might catch up.
We—okay this one was mostly me—would not fuck a guy unless we had feelings for him. Maybe that was why, at age twenty, the only thing I’d ever had in my cunt were my own fingers, and Allison’s fingers and tongue. And the dildo Suzy gave me as a Dirty Santa gag gift the Christmas before sophomore year. It was molded from rubber, foot-long, black, veiny, with a head the size of a golf ball and the USC logo on the side. Suzy called it Big Black.
I loved Big Black.
Sometimes, I still do.
Oh, back to Pete…
Frat party at the Delta Chi house, sophomore year…
I was sipping warm beer from a red plastic cup when Suzy grabbed my arm and whispered urgently in my ear. “Oh, Andrea, there he is. That’s the guy I told you about. The transfer from Iowa State. That’s Pete Hamilton.”
I licked spilt beer off my fingers and rolled my eyes at her, then looked in the direction she was pointing. Coming through the door was a giant. He was six inches taller than me, with broad shoulders and muscles that pushed against the tight black t-shirt that he wore.
My mouth was hanging open. My tongue was hanging out. My eyes drifted down his body in slow motion. The lower half of him was as freakin’ hot as the top.
His broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. He was wearing a pair of jeans that fit him like a glove. I nearly choked on my beer when I saw the size of the bulge protruding down the left side of his crotch. He either had the biggest cock I had ever seen (okay, granted, I had only seen cocks in porno movies at that time) or he had been shopping for large cucumbers and was carrying one in his pants. Either way, I was suddenly dying to see it for myself.
When our eyes met across the crowded room, just like in the movies, he smiled at me and I smiled back at him. When he started working his way through the crowd, coming my way, I took a deep breath and wondered what the hell I should do next.
“He’s a leftie,” Suzy sighed, bumping me with a sharp elbow, pushing me toward him. She was referring to the fact that his cock was stuffed to the left of his zipper. “Think you can handle that trouser snake all by yourself or will you need help? Maybe we can do a little ménage to welcome him to USC.”
I drained my beer and handed her the empty cup. “I think I can handle it. I’ll text if I need help.”
“You do that,” she said with a smile. “And send me pic
tures!”
She would tell me later that she had set it all up. Pete had asked about me because he had seen me at practice and needed a big woman to handle his… well… you know…
Since I was the tallest girl on the team, and Suzy knew that I was always complaining about the lack of sex I was having, she decided to put us together. I was thankful to her my entire senior year because I spent most of it with Pete’s monster cock somehow invading my body.
“Hi, I’m Pete,” he said, sticking out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.
“I’m Andrea,” I said, trying not to gush—literally.
We tried to make small talk for a bit, but the party was raging in full force around us. We could barely hear each other speak. He had to lean down to yell in my ear. “You wanna grab a six pack and go somewhere a little quieter?”
It was completely out of character for me, but I did not hesitate to answer. I looked up into his blue eyes and sighed. “Yes, I think I’d really like that.”
Fifteen minutes later we were lying beneath the stars in the back of his pickup truck, which he had driven all the way from Iowa. Thank God, he didn’t drive a Toyota Corolla or something. There was no way we could have both gotten into that back seat to have sex without breaking something.
I learned two very important things that night as I willingly lost my virginity to Pete. One, just because I was tall did not mean that my pussy was “big and floppy” (Pete’s words, not mine, LOL). To the contrary, given the size of Pete’s cock, which rivalled my beloved Big Black, I must say, it was a very tight squeeze at first, then my juices started to flow and things got lubed up and with one good push, he burst through my hymen, causing me to scream out loud.
