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“Nude” and “naked” are too casually interchanged in common usage.
‘NUDE’ seems to mean artistically undraped: ‘NAKED’ more nearly implies sexually undraped. Quite an important, and not-too-subtle difference! (Yes, I know there is overlap!) I most certainly like being naked, especially with an equally-naked man (a very particular man!) lying delightfully atop me. Or vice-versa. Naked in the sexual sense. (Yes, of course I know there can be artistry in sex!).
And despite my “tender age”, there was for we two nothing out of the ordinary in the situation – it was an integral part of our being together. In the back of his old station wagon, parked in a special hidden site, in heavy brush near the river.
Back then, which was not too long ago, I had a problem with this relationship – actually, multiple problems. If not problems, then at least “concerns”. We can begin with relative ages. The man – Philip – was well over twenty, my next-door neighbor, still living at home while going to the local university. A gorgeous, bright man. I was barely eighteen.
The other problem was sex: the whether to, and if so then exactly what, and how much of it, and on what schedule events would unfold. The eternal “With whom to begin?” was no longer an issue, for I was absolutely drowning in a mixture of late-onset puberty, first-ever love, and incandescent lust. Aimed at Philip. And I had precious little guidance.
There are, in fact, more problems than one might first imagine – but problems can be solved. Humans are very, very good indeed at solving problems! Part of the solution came, in the most unexpected and oblique way, from my parents, who are extremely strong, hyper-conservative Mexican Catholics, about as near fundamentalist-Christian religiosity as you can get without being totally pagan.
All they wanted was first to have the largest possible family, and second, to see the same thing happen with their kids. Fortunately, they’d not been particularly fertile – they managed to produce just my older sister Juanita, and me. Shortly after me, Mom had a hysterectomy (not MY fault, either!) – end of production run!
Then at age 16 Juanita had announced she was a lesbian – with zero interest in men, marriage or babies. The folks were devastated, fought it for a while (mucho wailing and breast-beating and sending-to-priests), but ultimately they gave up, and pinned all their hopes on me – now the designated (eventual) baby-maker for the next generation.
All potential problems aside, Philip and I got a long well – he loved teaching, helped me study and tutored me in biology. In my totally gob-smacked crush, I’d sit there across a table from him, totally distracted by the drizzling slipperiness of my throbbing pussy while trying to pay attention.
Philip was (dammit!) a complete gentleman – gave not a hint of any reflected interest in ME. I was devastated. Regardless, my half-developed boobs would get hard as tennis balls and simply ache.
In short, it was agony being in his presence – and much worse NOT being there!
One afternoon, not having ready a good answer for some question of mine, he invited me to come with him to the university library – to get the answer and then study alongside him until the 9 PM closing. I was stoked by the invite: my pits suddenly went remarkably swampy at the thought of being “alone” with him for hours and hours! And if technically not ‘alone’, then together in semi-public where nobody who mattered would bump into us. Not to mention him paying so much attention to me all of a sudden. It could almost be a date, couldn’t’t it?
My folks gave the idea their ‘okay’ – which may seem odd, helping set up a ‘situation’ as they called it, but they really liked Philip. Frankly, I’m sure they considered him absolutely top-notch son-in-law material, even if he was without a trace of Mexican, Spanish or any sort of “Latino” blood. He spoke passable Spanish, and was totally at ease in my parents’ cultural world, having lived for a couple of years in Mexico.
He was also helpful to my parents and had proven trustworthy (he always took care of the house and cats for us when we went somewhere). And he was headed for a PhD in biology.
Now, you must remember, as far as the folks were concerned, their duty was to their religion and not particularly to me – they meant to get me married ASAP so I could start popping our babies for the greater glory of god or some such nonsense. Had it worked, I suppose it might have helped make up for their own failure to over-reproduce. Not that they wanted me married at fourteen (sixteen, however, might have been considered!), but I should certainly NOT overlook (nor be allowed to overlook!!) such a promising prospect, no matter my own age.
Plus (and this is important), my folks were not really concerned about me misbehaving. After all, via the Church, they had spent my entire lifetime to date instilling in me certain Holy Terrors. Pounding them deep into my psyche. For my own good, to protect me from the evils of the world, all of which seemed to have to do with sex, not things bahis firmaları like semi-trailers in traffic, or financial con-artists.
There was the one, central, Grand Holy Terror, plus an entire host of Lesser Holy Terrors. The Grand HT was the utter certainty of going straight to hell if you prematurely lost your virginity (or even worse -God forbid!- surrendered it enthusiastically and voluntarily!). In short, I was to reach the altar both ASAP and as virgo intacta.
The Lesser HTs included things like never letting a man even begin to undress you. Much less being actually naked with a man (at least, not before marriage – during marriage, I suspect, was marginally acceptable but nonetheless problematic). Also, not letting any male see you or touch you when you’re naked. And suchlike ad nauseum.
Philip drove us to the library: I was afraid my bottom might stick to the seat, I was so wet. It didn’t’t take us half an hour to find all the information we’d set out for. Then, sitting side by side in a quiet corner, he asked if I would like to leave early and go for a drive with him. Into the countryside. To a special, hidden private place. Alone. In the dark. In his car – a station wagon with fold-down rear seats. He would be sure to get me home by the witching hour.
I could hardly even stammer my ‘yes’ – but he got the message.
We parked – I was shaking inside, but tried to be cool outside. Good luck on THAT deception, girl! I had never even been seriously kissed – but by God I was infinitely ready to start. He asked permission, then laid one on me – my first ever – that hit my libido like a bucket of gasoline. In very short order he was asking permission to touch me, to unbutton my blouse, to reach into my shorts.
I so intensely wanted (needed!) to say YES. Right then, right there. And likewise ‘yes’ to whatever else he might suggest. But there were the HTs to contend with. When, as commanded by the Terrors, I said NO, he stopped, the perfect damn gentleman. Which was officially a good thing, but DAMNIT! He was the MAN, the MALE, by definition the sexual aggressor, no? He was supposed to push and argue and wheedle and beg, but NO!
Shit! Instead of pushing on despite my “NO” (and believe me, I was ready to yield to even a tiny puff of argument or persuasion), well, we then had a discussion – about the Holy Terrors.
He wasn’t dumb – oh, no way dumb… he knew what he was doing. He began with the definition of rape, namely “Penetration however slight is sufficient to complete the offense”. Which he proceeded to stand on its head.
The Church, you see, has a problem – it teaches intelligent people to think in particularly interesting ways. As I identified and explained the HTs one by one, we parsed our (really MY) situation, and our possible actions, with near-Jesuitical finesse. If one of the Lesser Terrors said I was not to let a man undress me, then what if I were to undress myself? Logically that avoided the problem quite neatly (thank you Fra Ignatius Loyola, or whoever!). And ‘naked’ clearly meant without either clothing or ornament – wear nothing whatever, else NOT naked! Hence even earrings, or a finger-ring, would suffice to perfectly prevent the offense of being naked with a man.
Turning the rape definition around, inverting it, was a master-stroke of eminently Catholic logic. No sooner was I shown than I ran with it.
Most readers will intuit what was coming. I was exceedingly ready, panting, gaspingly ready, to have help in analyzing the situation and finding work-arounds that I could rationalize. As I explained the HTs, he argued or accommodated, not denying or pooh-poohing, never making fun of my so-called beliefs. Rather he constructed logical bypasses and overpasses that allowed us to stay on the road.
He had a rolled up futon in the back: after perhaps thirty minutes of logic-chopping discussions, it took only seconds to fold down the seats, unroll the mattress, and climb under a blanket into our own private bed. Teacher and a very eager -if somewhat self-constrained- pupil.
On behalf of both of us, I quickly – and quite gleefully – removed my clothing with my own hands, down to one sock (just to be sure of not transgressing – we made a joke of that). Plus my earrings stayed put. (a) NOT NAKED, and (b) No man undressing me. Check-A. Check-B. HT commandments have been fully complied with, Mister Jesus Christ or GodAlmightyHimself, Sir!
Philip kept pace with me as I stripped. It was fun – I would remove something, then he would have me remove its parallel from HIM. He wound up fully naked (the HTs didn’t apply to him, after all!).
We began with intensive, extensive necking and petting, proceeding rapidly through all the preliminary explorations. I loved his body and its reactions to me. I learnt fast, you better believe it.
Soon we were at a point where he asked about virginity, and I explained the Grand Terror.
He was extremely considerate, not pushy, and made it clear that while he’d love to fuck, and was sure I’d enjoy myself if we did, and although he had several contraceptive kaçak iddaa methods available in the car, he understood and would respect my insistent “NO!” Being male, he was deaf to my underlying willingness, nay eagerness even, to be talked out of that “NO”. Damn! (Ah, yes – contraception. Yet another HUGE Holy Terror, that one! The unfriendly, evil condom [or any ‘device’ whatever!] as the ultimate go-directly-to-hell boogey-man.)
He and I constructed work-arounds to problems as they arose. Truly and completely naked (him) and officially NOT naked (me) we lay together, kissing and fondling and whole-body rubbing, all whilst parsing the silly “no sex” proposition as carefully as ever did a Southern Baptist Fundamentalist – sex was meant for procreation, hence anything that did not closely approximate a valid attempt to procreate simply could NOT be sex! Could it, Fra Loyola? Made perfect sense to me, you betcha!
At that age I had masturbated a lot (a particular sin for which the LT is absolutely unenforceable upon either gender!). I loved my orgasms! For a year already I had routinely masturbated to inchoate imaginings about Philip and me together. I told him all about the fantasies: he took it as quite a compliment, and to my amazement informed me that he’d been doing the same while thinking about ME! Symmetry is SO NICE!
Somewhere along the line, during the first half hour, I lost every trace of embarrassment: when he suggested going down on me with the goal of providing me with orgasms, I agreed with eagerness, enthusiasm, trepidation – but no embarrassment whatever. After all, that was (a) a central fantasy of mine and (b) most definitely NOT sex! He was (IS!) an artist with his mouth. He planted his face between my upper thighs, inhaled my clit, slipped one or two fingers into both my pussy and bottom, and went to town.
God, how obviously he enjoyed what he was doing! In rapid-fire succession he produced the two most intense, most prolonged orgasms of my life. When I recovered, he showed me how to do the same for him, also twice. Once by hand, once by mouth. Paper towels were available to clean up the hand-work, but I refused to relinquish the mouthful I got from the second event. That pleased him inordinately. We cuddled under the blanket for quite some time, then he did me again. And yet again, insisting all the while that he was enjoying himself mightily, that I was not to worry about him, that his remaining personal needs could be taken care of later. Which of course they were.
I was incredibly deep in my love/lust morass, and almost entirely satisfied. A niggling little disappointment about not actually fucking, but otherwise quite content. We cleaned up to head home. Even before we started the car, he fixed one worry of mine, namely about encores – he asked me if I could set up another “library” trip next evening, and I (duh!) agreed to try.
The whole return drive was spent with our hands in one another’s crotches. We got me home just before nine – which made my folks happy, them perceiving us being “early” (by a whole two minutes!) as highly responsible behavior on both our parts. His having escorted me into their presence, presenting them with a perfectly safe, apparently intact daughter, didn’t hurt a bit. Later, after I gave them a monumentally carefully edited account of the evening, they readily agreed to whatever studying I might want to do with Philip – I was, however, not to even THINK about actually dating him until I turned eighteen. Or some such appropriate age. After which it would be just fine.
Thank God for knowing, caring, protective and attentive parents! I agreed, no hesitation.
Thereafter almost-nightly “studies in the library” – plus some very considerate covering help from Juanita – became our routine. For our second “study-session” he actually made for me, by his very own hands, a set of small silver earrings – which I thought just incredibly romantic. Even today, my folks have never seen them – Philip brings them whenever we go out, and puts them on me (first thing, every time), but I remove them when we arrive back at home (last thing, every time).
Within two weeks we’d spent eight or ten long, orgiastic “not-naked” “not-doing-sex” evenings in the station wagon. I quickly came to really trust Philip… to the point where we would simulate fucking face to face, with the head of his cock pressed half-way into the opening of my pussy, or with him using the head, or the entire length of the shaft, to massage my clit all the way to orgasm.
And although I was always completely open and vulnerable, and he was only a quarter-second push from entry, he never did. After the first few times I trusted him utterly – I could let myself go completely and KNOW he wasn’t going to drive me into the arms of the Grand HT’s vindictive demons. No penetration = no offense! Virginity triumphant.
We were remarkably compatible and getting along very well indeed. My folks’ trust in him grew, they approved of our going to the library almost nightly, and their jobs kept them out late most nights, so the level of kaçak bahis inquisition about our activities was surprisingly low despite the considerable time we spent together.
One particular night, Philip was extraordinarily hot, his cock bigger and harder than usual. And I was growing increasingly frustrated by an unmet and deeply felt need for real penetration – fingers were certainly nice enough, but they no longer seemed to count.
That night he brought massage oil and was working on my back, kneeling beside me. It was delightful, and blindingly erotic. Shortly he took a goodly handful of oil and cupped my crotch from the rear, using his most sensual grip – a finger on each side of my clit, middle finger in my pussy, and the whole length of his thumb in my butt. I was used to all of those stimuli by then, but had never encountered them simultaneously or with such intensity.
I came once, pretty solidly, and then he was straddling me, his cock-shaft between my buttocks, sliding in the oil. He leaned down and asked whether I would – just perhaps – be interested in doing the closest thing ever to full-gun fucking. But we would absolutely preserve my virginity. He slid his fingers in and out of my butt and made it quite clear, without words, what he meant. I was so insanely hot and needy that the suggestion seemed like manna from heaven. I told him YES, go ahead. Just go slow!
He spread my legs wide, settled his shins over the backs of my knees, which pretty much trapped me (he weighs about 165, and I about 93 or 95!). But it felt good to be held that way – there was a strong element of absolute surrender, of helplessness mingled with incredible trust. Plus a superheated geyser of lust. And the tiniest little bit of worry.
He settled his cock-head gently against my anus, and then, when I expected him to push in (and that initial entry was the worry-item), instead he stopped and said “I’m a reasonably big man, and you’re a small woman. My cock is pretty big compared to your bottom, and sometimes even a bigger woman finds her first try uncomfortable… and I absolutely don’t want that to happen with us. I want you to feel nothing but pleasure. So here’s what let’s do. I call it ‘breathing our way into your bottom’. We’re not going to be in a rush, neither of us.”
Then he pressed his cock firmly against me, not hard, just nice and snug: I could feel from the stretch that he was exactly on the opening, which was impressive because even working on myself with a zucchini or something, usually I have to sort of feel around for the spot! He set his oily hand flat on my spine between my shoulder blades, then slid it firmly, and slowly, down my spine to the split of my buttocks, down the split to where we fitted together. I could feel that he was touching both my bottom and his cock.
Then his hand went slowly back up to between my shoulder blades again. He instructed me as we went: “As I slide my hand from here down to my cock, I want you to breathe in, very slowly and deeply. Breathe out as my hand goes back up. I’ll breathe in time with you, and as we do I’ll slowly add a tiny little bit of pressure. You shouldn’t do anything except concentrate on your breath and on what it feels like where we’re coming together. Your body will relax in little increments, with each breath. It’ll take a while for me to get inside, but you’ll probably just all of a sudden realize that it’s happened – that your bottom has opened and my cock is sliding in steadily, a little bit deeper with every breath. Then, once we’re all the way in and your body is used to having me inside, THEN we’ll start the in-and-out. With loads of clit! Okay?”
It happened just that way – such a slow and careful and loving entrance! As he pressed, and as my bottom began to stretch, I concentrated on my breathing – but I also jammed two fingers into my pussy so I could feel him as he slid in. Talk about erotic! Not only was there no problem, we got him all the way in on that very first stroke, which I suspect took about five minutes – but I was so hot and ready to have him inside me that it might have been only five seconds. God knows we used enough oil to make a quick entry easy!
As he filled me up I developed a mental glow, and an intense sense of at last being properly joined with him – it was an ecstatic, wonderful feeling. Pretty soon he was simply pounding away, after checking to be sure I was ready for it (I was – and how!). His orgasm way up inside my butt gave me the most incredible emotional rush ever – much more intense and much more important than my own orgasms. Semen in one’s butt – the ultimate in “no procreation possible therefore not sex”.
Afterwards he thanked me profusely as we lay there cuddling – and he never did go soft, just stayed in my bottom until he caught his breath. Then he rolled over with me sitting on top: he wanted us to be able to see one another’s eyes, and turned on a flashlight so it reflected on us off the headliner. I figured out instantly how to use his cock in that position (which, of course, we named ‘riding our cock horse’!), and then he put his one hand on my breasts and slipped two fingers of the other into my pussy and put his thumb on my clit. He massaged everything just right. I started sliding up and down, and BLOOEY, I came like a banshee!
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