by West, K. D.
But I knew that doing that — pressing my body inside of hers — would mean something very different to her than it did to me. The problem was, I wasn’t sure what the hell that difference was. And I couldn’t tell whether she wanted me in there or not.
I probably don’t need to tell you that Bridget’s upbringing was Irish Catholic. I probably also don’t need to tell you that mine absolutely was not. Between my liberal, secular parents and the loose mores of the time — this was the early 1980s, before AIDS had cast its pall — I’d grown up believing that sex was good, that love was better, and that the two, while related, weren’t the same. And so what Bridget was struggling with was as complete a mystery to me as sexual feelings seemed to be to her.
I think too that it was more than a bit disconcerting to me to find myself suddenly the sexually experienced one.
The next night, throughout rehearsal, I was a bit surprised to find that Bridget was acting exactly the same as always. I could almost have convinced myself that the previous night’s experience was all in my head — that I had never had those freckled fingers wrapped around my cock, that I’d never felt her cunt pulsing through her jeans while she screamed obscenities. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and made embarrassing comments about my looks to Tony, which amused him enormously and me not at all.
It was a Friday, and company tradition demanded that the cast go out for beer afterward. We went to one of the old local college bars, shared pitchers of cold beer and nachos. I found myself seated between Bridget and Tony. Bridget’s best friend, the costumer Marya, was sitting on her other side. The two women were giggling about something; in the loud barroom, I couldn’t hear, so I turned to Tony.
“So, Ken. What is going on between you and my AD?” Tony was a short, bearded cherub, very Jewish and very gay.
“You jealous, Tony? I didn’t think she was your type.”
“Neither are you, Ken. You’re not straight enough.”
“Uh. Thanks?”
“You’re welcome. I like them so straight they don’t even know they’re straight, because they don’t know there’s anything else to be. Also, you look old enough to go to college. So no, not my type.” He looked at me over his glasses. “And you didn’t answer my question. What’s going on with you and Bridget?”
“Nothing,” I muttered.
“Nothing?” Tony smirked at me. “When Sweet Polly Purebred there starts making racy comments about what you have between your legs, something is going on.”
“She…?” I glanced over my shoulder; on Bridget’s far side, Marya was looking at me appraisingly. Not sure I wanted to know why she was staring at me, I turned back to Tony, ready to repeat that nothing was happening between Bridget and me, but instead I found myself pouring out all of it: what had been happening between me and Bridget, what had and hadn’t happened the night before, and just how utterly bewildered I was by all of it.
Tony listened, an expression of patient amusement on his round face. When I had finished saying, for the fourth time, that I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what she wanted, didn’t know what I wanted, I finally ran out of gas and looked at him.
“This is what I meant,” he said, smiling. “Not straight enough. Look, my neighborhood growing up, it was mostly Italian, okay? So most of the boys I first started… playing around with, they were good Catholics.” When I started to say something, he held up a pudgy finger to silence me. “The point for someone like Little Miss Bridget is that, basically, anything worth doing in life, one way or another, it’s a sin, and if you go ahead and enjoy yourself, you’re going to burn forever in eternal damnation. But that sure as hell doesn’t stop them from wanting to.”
Frowning, I shrugged.
“So she wants you, Ken. Believe me — even I can see that.”
“Great,” I grumbled. “Then why can’t she just — ?”
“I told you, Ken: if she makes a move, if she says a word, then it’s an express ride down into Dante’s Inferno. But she wants you, so she can’t just say no.”
“So what the heck am I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to ravish her, you idiot.”
“You mean…?” I resisted the urge to shake Tony, then turn around and shake Bridget. “You mean I’m supposed to, you know, force her to do something she wants to do? That… that’s fucked up.”
Tony laughed. “See? Not straight enough.”
I was about to tell him just how straight I was when I felt a small hand grab my crotch firmly, rendering me speechless. For a brief moment I thought the hand might be Tony’s, but then Bridget leaned up behind me and whispered moistly in my ear, “Take me home, Ken.” And then she fondled me again, squeezing any qualms or questions entirely out of me.
As I sprang up from the table, Tony smirked at me. Bastard.
By the time we tumbled back into Bridget’s dorm room, it was almost impossible for me not to do exactly what Tony had suggested she wanted me to do.
Almost.
We were sprawled on her bed, madly smooching, each rubbing away at the crotch of the other’s jeans, when I realized something: I had absolutely no interest in taking what wasn’t freely given. Giving Bridget’s still-clothed crotch a quick caress and kissing a still-covered breast, I stammered, “I… I have… have to go to the gents’. Can we…? I’ll be right back.”
Eyes wide, she gave me a quick nod, her expression equal parts naked hunger and bewildered child. Giving her another quick kiss, I stumbled out of the room.
It took a while for my hard-on to calm down enough for me to pee, and the beer from earlier that evening ensured that that process took a while as well. My head more or less clear, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror and tried to look at what was going on.
The problem, I decided, was that I liked Bridget, and I found her attractive, and I would happily fuck her silly — if that were what she wanted. But I wasn’t in love with her. I wasn’t looking to promise anything. And if what I was getting from Bridget and what Tony had said were right, then fucking her would be making some kind of promise.
Well. The right thing to do, then, instead of dropping all of my clothes on the bathroom floor, slipping on the condom I’d tucked into my pocket just in case, and streaking past the damned RA and back to Bridget’s room to fuck her silly, was to take a deep breath, walk back to her room, and tell her that we should probably cool it for the night — and that we needed to have a real conversation. In the morning. Somewhere public.
Relieved and depressed to have come to a decision — a decision that wasn’t going to do a thing about my throbbing hard-on — I took a deep breath, nodded at myself in the mirror, and stumbled back down the hall to Bridget’s room.
The door was open a crack, though I was sure I’d closed it. Not thinking much of it, I pushed in, ready to give Bridget a quick kiss on the cheek and say goodnight — but I never got that far.
Bridget — shy, modest, good-Catholic-girl Bridget — stood at the far side of the room. Naked. Nude.
Her clothing was piled, neatly folded on the desk behind her.
Pale and freckled from head to toe, gaze downcast, Bridget was standing with her hands behind her as if she didn’t know what to do with them, as if she were trying to stop herself from covering her body with them, and all I could think was that she looked like the Venus de Milo, and despite my intentions I began lurching toward her. “Uh. Bridget. Wow.”
She gave me a wary, fierce smile and stood straighter, her breasts lifting to meet my searching hands. We both hissed as my fingers closed around them, and then groaned as my fingers brought her wide pink nipples to attention.
We kissed, and I reached around with one hand to pull her close, caressing down her smooth back onto the round, downy bum, even as the other continued to tease a nipple. Her breath caught. Her trembling hand ran timidly up the front of my jeans.
Taking in the sight of her nearly gave me a heart attack. Dana was fair-skinned, but Bridget was so pale that her skin seemed to glow, her freckles seeming to stand out in bas-relief. Her breasts, however, were pink where I had caressed them; I imagined her ass that same rosy color and any resolve I might have had was forgotten completely. I kissed her, running fingertips lightly from her ear to her breast, then down her ribs and across her belly, riffling her pubic hair, and — with my fingers barely touching her — stroking first down the length of her labia, and then back up. I felt her begin to flower open, and she gave a deep groan, pushing her pelvis up into my hand.
Stroking her tenderly, I leaned up and gazed at her. Bridget’s eyes were closed, and her lips were chapped from kissing. As I ran my fingers up and down the length of her and felt her moisten beneath my hand, I leaned down close to her ear and whispered, “I want to eat you, Bridget. I want to make you come with my mouth.”
She groaned again, even deeper this time, the sound rumbling against my hand. I circled her small, hard clit with my thumb, and goose pimples broke out all over her body.
I took that for a yes.
I kissed my way down her neck, working from freckle to freckle, along her collarbone and down onto her breast. When I licked at her areola, Bridget gasped. When I sucked her nipple into my mouth, she let out low, deep “Ken!” and squeezed her thighs around my searching fingers.
I worked my way, grinning, over to the other nipple, not wanting to leave it feeling jealous. While Bridget’s reaction was not as extreme, it was just as gratifying.
Trying to keep myself moving slowly — trying to keep myself breathing and her breathless — I resumed my pilgrimage from freckle to freckle down the full curve of her breast, onto her ribs. I dipped my tongue into her navel and she squealed, arching up to meet me.
Pulling at her pubes gently — a bit sad that my crotch was now past her foot, and so I was no longer sliding down her leg — I glanced back up her body. I’d always laughed about my mom’s romance novels and the heaving bosoms they featured, but there it was: a heaving bosom. “Bridget?”
She pushed up onto her elbows and her eyes squeezed themselves open — barely. “Huh?”
“You’ve… had someone touch you down here before. Right?”
Now her eyes opened fully. “Uh. Sure. Yeah.”
Shit, I thought. Is this too much?
“Ken,” she pleaded, her legs looping up over my shoulders and pulling me close, apparently of their own volition.
Smiling, I kissed a silent apology against her pubic patch. Well, I thought, the first two blowjobs I ever got, I lasted a grand total of thirty seconds if you added them together, and I survived. I’m sure I won’t kill her. And so I scooted down the last few inches and kissed the inside first of her left thigh, and then her right. Her calves crossed behind my neck and she arched up toward my mouth. Give the lady what she wants, I decided, and kissed those open, glistening cunt lips.
I felt her gasp and stiffen. “Fuck!”
Worried that perhaps she’d come already, surprised, I stopped and looked up, but she made her desires clear by pulling my face back down against her cunt — hard.
I like eating women’s pussies. I really do. I like giving pleasure. I like having all of my senses involved as my tongue dances against a woman’s lips, her clit: hearing her groans, feeling the building tension with my fingers, my tongue, watching her thrash, smelling her excitement and tasting it — oh, yes, tasting it perhaps most of all. It’s an incredibly intimate way to bring a woman off.
I know that a lot of men don’t feel that way. Their loss.
(I will admit that, at the age, it also gave me a chance to get my own libido under control so that I didn’t explode against the girl’s thigh before I’d even gotten inside.)
Bridget’s was only the second pussy I ever tasted, and I was surprised and intrigued by how different it was from Dana’s: like the rest of her, it was just bigger, and the taste was a bit less tart and a bit more musky. Not at all unpleasant — just different.
My hearing and sight, though — As I sucked and licked at her, good-girl Bridget began to scream a string of obscenity that I was pretty sure the whole campus heard, let alone her dorm, and those bosoms stopped heaving and started convulsing. It looked hot as hell, and it was also very gratifying.
I slipped one hand up under my chin, ready to slide it into her, as Dana always seemed to enjoy so much, when I discovered one other major difference: while Bridget’s labia were open wide, there was still a barrier a little way in blocking entrance — not completely, but narrowing the opening to her actual vagina to a very small, lens-shaped hole.
Oh. Right.
Now, at this long remove, I know that I should have asked first, but honestly, I was barely managing to keep my jeans on, and so, as I continued to suck on Bridget’s clit, I simply pressed the tip of my index finger through the opening of her hymen.
As loud and unrestrained as her reaction to my tongue had been, her response to that intrusion was just as dramatic, but in the opposite direction: her legs clamped around my head, her fingers grasped rather painfully at my hair, and she stopped breathing. She was rigid, her ass lifted off of the bed.
Terrified that I’d hurt her, I began to withdraw my finger — I hadn’t even gotten the first knuckle in — but now Bridget began to whimper, and to press her pelvis up, as if trying to catch the retreating finger.
Maybe this will kill her. I stayed still, not sure what to do until she grunted between clenched teeth, “In!” Taking a clear direction like any good actor, I went back to lapping at her and carefully pressing my finger into her. Trying to. Still rigid, she was clamped tight around my fingertip.
Remembering what Dana had whispered when we first made love, I murmured, “Breathe.”
“What?”
“Breathe, Bridget,” I said, mouth still against her cunt. “Relax. This is going to feel good, I promise.”
“Oh, Jesus, Ken,” she sobbed, but she did take a deep breath, her thighs releasing their death-lock on my head, her butt lowering to the bed once more.
I sucked her clit into my mouth, and the profanity began to leak from mouth again — muttered this time, however, not screamed, as she tried to follow my suggestion and breathe. Relax.
I licked, nibbled, and sucked, trying not to surprise her again. Feeling her belly rise and fall in something like a steady rhythm, I pushed my finger a bit further in. This elicited a high-pitched gasp, but no leg-lock, so I pressed in a bit more, continuing to flick her clit with my tongue. I felt quite smooth at the time, though for all that Dana had managed to teach me, I was still just a year removed from my own virginity.
Still, I must have been doing well enough; her nipples rose (I reached up and caressed and pinched at them with my free hand), her groans grew deeper, and her whole lower body seemed to be turning bright red as the blood flowed into her pelvis. She began to rock against my mouth — subtly, so as not to dislodge my finger, I guessed — and I knew based on the previous night’s exploits that she was getting close.
I tried pressing further in to her cunt, making slow headway. How the hell am I going to get my cock in here?
Suddenly, Bridget resumed her drunken-sailor impression, spewing four-letter words and thrashing — but continuing, thankfully, to breathe. She let loose a high-pitched note and shuddered
; her cunt pulsed around my invading finger and, as the muscles alternately squeezed and relaxed, my finger finally slid all of the way in to her. “Oh. Ken. Oh. Fucking shit.”
My free hand began to yank open my belt and fly. Gingerly, I removed my finger. When she whimpered, I kissed her clit again, and the whimper became a deep, incredibly sexy moan.
My cock sprang free and I looked at the sticky, open cunt before me. Fuck. I wanted to. How could I not? But…?
Pulling the condom from my pocket and pushing my jeans down around my thighs, I kissed my way back up her body — not quite as languidly this time, but making sure to take a nip at each nipple and a long lick up her sweaty neck. As I kissed my way up her chin, my steel-stiff cock slid up along the length of her open vulva. Didn’t plan it, but as I kissed Bridget, my head grazed by her clit, and so the eyes that beheld me when I pushed back were sultry and bedroom-y in the extreme. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she answered, sounding incredibly relaxed.
“Feel good?”
“Fuck yes.”
I couldn’t keep from grinning. “Glad. Finger didn’t hurt, did it?”
“Nope.” She grinned back at me.
“Bridget?”
“Uh-huh.”
I rocked my hips so that my cock slid back down the length of her labia, then slowly back up. “Can you help me feel good too?”
Her eyes opened all of the way, and some of the old fear flashed back, but there was a determined look of trust as well. She nodded.
I continued to grind my erection against her. “Coming in your hand felt so good.”
She smiled almost shyly.
“But Bridget?”
The smile froze, but the trust remained.
“I would really love to come inside of you.”
“Oh.”
