On an ordinary day in her ordinary life, she walked into this man’s office. He was a professional, an expert contractor, commissioning a new night club for the city. She was seventeen, a high-school junior, and a journalist for her school’s paper. She came to the man’s office to gather facts for her piece on local construction.
Young, pretty, vivacious, she teemed with the expectations of a future yet limited. So much hope but so little experience. She carried this with her wherever she went. Mainly, it went unnoticed. To most, she was just a kid. Just a kid, who would figure it out the way we all do—in time. Few people are active participants in initiation. That is because so few people actually know whose firsts are whose firsts. Unless that information is volunteered, we tend to assume everyone has the same level of experience that we do, or more.
But some people notice innocence, notice initiation. And of these people, some derive pleasure from taking, from giving.
Looking up from his desk, he noticed her right away. He noticed her pencil, her pad of paper, her long, brown hair, her fitted t-shirt, her a-line skirt, her ballet-flats. He also noticed what was not apparent to the naked eye. He noticed a body, still unexplored, eyes, unaccustomed to longing, to lust, skin yet to be riddled with pleasurable force or caress. Amidst all of this untapped wealth, he noticed her obvious desire for knowledge. Beyond what facts he could provide for her article, she wanted to know about the deep abyss of life. But did he really want to be the one to show start the tour, to teach that lesson?
She sat in his leather office-chair and made her way through the list of questions. He complied, adding a smirk or smile, tempting flirtation on her part. She noticed herself cross her legs and twirl her hair. She leaned in when she spoke. She smiled with sincerity. This set off a small alarm in her head. She asked herself why she felt flushed, why she was, (and yes, she was,) flirting with this man who was arguably twice her age. Men like this contractor were always asexual beings that walked in and right out of her life as dentists, teachers, friend’s parents, or relatives. But not this man.
Without knowing why, she moved the conversation off her list, and asked him why he thought night clubs seemed to be a place of lowered inhibitions, outside of the obvious store of alcohol. He smiled, lighting his beautiful green eyes, and she noticed his skin and jaw-line, his facial hair, and stature. This contractor did not look a thing like the guys at her school. He was grown-up. He was a man. And she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to know.
The contractor spread his lips to answer and she couldn’t stop staring. He mentioned something about the dim lighting making people feel disguised. He talked about the energy people associate with night clubs—their expectations fuel the energy they bring to the club. As he explained, she thought his voice was so fluid and seductive. She wanted him to keep talking but she wanted the words to change.
Trying to stop herself, but failing miserably, she asked another question.
“What do you think is the best way a female in this sort of setting can signal to a guy that she wants him?”
His pupils dilated and his mind raced. He knew what she was trying to do. He wanted it. He wanted her. He wanted to be the first to run his hands over her smooth body, to kiss her supple lips, to feel her soft, wet pussy. But he also knew that he needed to be chosen. She needed to choose her initiation, her own taking.
In an effort to not assume, he side-swiped the question and answered, “she should just make herself available.”
She looked at him, disappointed in his response. Her naïve mind thought he would take advantage of any open door she sent his way. That is what boys do, don’t they? Then she reconciled those thoughts. Yes, that is what boys do. He is not a boy. She is not a safe outlet for his expression. She knew this. So she gave into the fact that if she wanted him to walk through that door, she would have to open it for him.
Mustering her bravery, she clarified, “What if she wants a guy to know, beyond a doubt, that she wants him to take her home?”
Every rational part of him wanted to skirt around the question again, thank her for the interview, and send her on her way. But it wasn’t that simple. He wanted her.
Throwing away convention, he responded, slowly, “Well, I guess, she could walk up to the guy and say, ‘thinking about you and me makes me so fucking wet. I want you to find out how wet.’”
A sick smile crossed her lips as warmth spread out to every inch of her body. Her mind let out just one thought, “FUCK.” Like a leading lady, she took her cue, stood up, brushed her skirt, and walked around the desk. Her eyes locked his eyes, and he waited, anticipating the realization of his desire.
She walked next to him, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “Thinking about you and me makes me so fucking wet. I want you to find out how wet.”
With that, she chose him. He let his better-judgment fall to the floor, and grabbed her hand. He sat her on his desk, cupped her face, and kissed her passionately. “Fuck, I want to find out.”
Reeling in this new-found power, she kissed him back, forcefully, sliding her hands around his neck and shoulders, feeling his broad body press against hers.
He could feel her nubile breasts under her t-shirt and the slopes of her body bending towards her young hips and firm ass. He had to feel more. He slid his hands under her shirt, feeling her perfect, warm skin. She moaned. She wanted him like a preposition—in her, on her, around her, with her. Sensing how tentatively he moved on her body, she removed her own shirt, giving him permission to move on. Mirroring her, he removed his shirt. She marveled at his broad chest-this perfect smattering of hair, tapering down his torso, this soft but rugged skin. She ran her hands over him. He watched her explore his body. Her eyes lit up with pleasure and want. He savored the thought that he was the first man she had ever expressed that part of herself with.
She looked back up at him, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He kissed her again and ran his hands over her bra. Deciding it needed to go, and now, he reached around her back and unclasped it. Her bra fell to the floor, exposing her perfectly swelled breasts. He kissed down her neck and down her chest. He kissed each breast, and circled his tongue around her nipples. As her nipples hardened, she could think of only one thing—his cock. She wanted to see it, to feel it, to taste it. She pushed him back, and reached for his belt buckle. He stood up, as she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, and ran his hands over his face in disbelief. Was this really happening? Should this really be happening?
His pants hit the floor and he stepped out of them. She could see how hard he was through his boxer-briefs. He grabbed her hand and placed it on his cock. She rubbed up and down, exploring every inch. He didn’t feel the way she imagined it would feel. He was harder; he was better.
She placed her hands on either side of his briefs and pushed them down, exposing his beautiful cock. She looked his body up and down, taking in every magnificent part. Noticing her enticement, he took a step back, and touched himself as she watched. He gripped his cock and stroked it up and down. She watched, fascinated. He was the best thing she had ever seen. But she had seen enough. She wanted to touch.
Stepping down from the desk, she never took her eyes off of his body as she slid to her knees. She lacked experience in oral sex, but the idea always turned her on, even though most of her friends thought it was disgusting. She liked the idea of power and control, of giving pleasure and painful torture. At a base level, she liked the notion of having a cock in her mouth. Acting on her impulse, she gripped the base of his cock with her hand. He swelled and gasped as she did. He looked down and she looked up, locking eyes as she opened her mouth and slid her tongue around his swollen head. He bit his lip and moaned. Opening her mouth wider, she took his cock all the way in her mouth and slowly pulled him out. She enjoyed being right. Sucking cock felt amazing. She smiled and took him in her mouth again, swirling her tongue, exploring the texture and taste. He watched her series of firsts; he watched her pleasure; he heard her small moans, muffled by his cock. He thought, “Holy shit. I am the stupidest man in the entire world. And the luckiest.”
After several minutes of giving him head, she stood up, unzipped her skirt, and pulled off her panties. Facing each other, her naked body reached for his, wanting to feel his hard body and cock pressed against hers. He pulled her close and kissed her deeply. He knew what he was about to teach her and she knew what she was about to learn.
She sat up on the desk and slowly spread her legs, exposing her wet, pink pussy. He smiled and ran his finger over her lips. He moved to her clitoris and she moaned. He slowly slid his finger in her wet pussy. She was so soft, so warm, so wet.
He fingered her, listening to her moan and swear. He swirled around her pussy and her clit at differing speeds and pressure. She had never felt so much pleasure. It didn’t feel quite like this when she touched herself. As she got closer to orgasm, he sunk down to his knees, moved his finger from her clit into her pussy, and went down on her. He tongued her clit, increasing the pressure, and moved his finger slowly in and out of her dripping cunt. Her moans got louder, her body tensed, her legs started to shake. He could feel her get right up to the edge, and he pushed his finger deeper and harder until he could feel her cum so hard, so slowly. She screamed and arched her back. He continued to slowly finger her spasming pussy as she came back down.
When her breathing slowed, she sat up, told him how amazing that felt, scooted to the edge of the desk, and told him she was ready. He smiled at her, acquiescing to her command. He grabbed her hips and positioned his entry. He slid his tip in first and she gasped at the sensation. Their eyes connected and she urged him on. He slowly slid in the rest of his cock. She winced in slight pain. He asked if she was ok. She told him “yes” and asked him to continue. He fucked her slowly until she got accustomed to the sensations and the girth. After several thrusts, she relaxed and started to enjoy the pleasure of this man in her tight pussy.
He rode her slow and hard, drinking in every moment, every sensation. She stared at his body, his deliberate movements. A stray thought crossed her mind: what was she doing? This was not how she imagined her first time. But, FUCK, was it hot. It was intense and animalistic. She didn’t care that she barely knew his name and might never see him again. She knew what he could offer and boy was he giving it.
As the minutes passed, his thrusts sped up. Continually hard and deliberate, he moved faster and faster until she was screaming from the pleasure. Fucking her this hard and this fast got him closer and closer. He opened his eyes once more to look down on this perfect, new body, this girl, barely a woman that captivated him so. She was so beautiful, but not so pure, not anymore. He let his disbelief fall once more, overtaken by the hot, wet need to come inside her. Letting that thought, that need, overtake his body, he looked her in the eyes. She knew what he was going to say, going to ask. She looked back and whispered, “I want you to cum in me.” He thrust again and again and came so hard, so deep. She could feel him shoot inside her and she moaned at the sensation. He fell over her, bracing himself on the desk in exasperation. She felt his body collapse and recover.
When he had gathered his breath and sanity, he pulled out, handed her his shirt and they both cleaned up in a mutually acknowledged silence. She slid on her panties and bra, zipped her a-line skirt, pulled on her t-shirt and grabbed her bag. He put on his boxer-briefs and pants. She walked back to his desk, kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’ll remember this interview for the rest of my life.” She smiled and he watched her walk out of his office. The door closed between them. Another smile crossed her face; she looked up at the sky and for the hundredth time today thought, “Fuck.” He leaned on a wall in his office, shook his head, beaming, and audibly mumbled, “Fuck.”
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