My First Valentine
by Lubrican
Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Chapter
Six
She
put her heels back on to go up the walk to her front door. The shawl was firmly
wrapped around her, covering her front. It was cold and she tried to hurry. The
heels clacked loudly on the cement.
I
went with her, of course. I wasn't about to miss the chance of another kiss
before the coach turned back into a pumpkin, and Cinderella turned back into my
best pal, who might only want to climb trees together again. I actually thought
about taking one of her shoes with me when I went home. That's how bad I had
it.
I
probably could have gotten a shoe too, because she took them off once she was
on the porch. I expected her to turn and give me that kiss, but she fumbled in
her clutch and pulled out her key first. When she got the door open, she didn't
turn to give me a kiss, but just went inside. I stood on the porch, feeling
sorry for myself.
"Get
in here!" she hissed from the dark.
I
got. I felt better. Maybe I might get more than one kiss, out of the cold.
But
she didn't kiss me then either. Instead, she told me to take my shoes off. Then
she took my hand and tiptoed, pulling me, until I realized we were going to her
room.
Maybe
I am, in fact, a pervert. All I could think about as we negotiated the hallway,
going past her parents' room, and then the bathroom, was that soon I'd be in
the room where her bed was. Not that I'd never been in there before. I'd been
in there hundreds of times. I'd been on that bed hundreds of times.
But
not since I found out she lay out on it, naked, with her hand busy between
spread legs, thinking about me jacking off ... probably while I was jacking
off.
And,
of course, by the time we got there, my boner was back. I was glad she left the
light off, and couldn't see my problem. And I knew her room well enough that I
could negotiate in the soft glow of the light from the street lamp in the alley
behind their house.
Again,
a book was created, with page after page of images, only a few of which I can
describe. I wasn't ready to be an author. Or co-author, as it were. But things
happened, whether I was ready for them or not.
It
started when she whispered, "We have to be quiet," which seemed
obvious to me. While we'd been in her bedroom countless times before, and her
parents hadn't paid any attention to it, I somehow knew that things had
changed. I suddenly remembered her father asking me what I expected to get away
with. I felt a bit of hysteria threaten to make sounds come from my mouth and
clamped down on that.
Then,
with no fanfare, and no warning of any kind, Valerie simply shrugged those
straps off her shoulders again, and then pushed her dress downwards, leaving it
in a dark puddle on the floor. The question as to panties was answered. They
were white, but that was all I could tell, before they, too, were pushed down
and kicked off of one foot.
She
stood, gloriously naked in front of me, clothed only in shadows.
She
didn't say anything.
I couldn't
say anything.
Finally,
she stepped silently towards me, coming up to me and pushing at the shoulders
of my suit jacket.
"I
want to be your valentine," she whispered.
She
pushed the coat off my arms, and it thumped softly to the floor. My shirt
followed. It was like she'd practiced. Her motions were fluid and efficient.
There was a little bit of fumbling when it came to my belt and zipper, but then
my pants were falling.
She
knelt. I felt fingers at the waistband of my jockey shorts. My erection angled
downwards as she pulled, and it got caught up in the cloth. I felt a warm hand
reach in and, almost gently, assist my penis in escaping, only to be abandoned
as her hands went back to removing the only garment I had on other than socks.
The
reality of what was happening ... the enormity of it ... finally dispelled my
paralysis.
"What
are we doing?" I whispered.
She
stood back up, grasping my penis along the way. Her hand felt both strange and
elating.
"Being
valentines," she said, reaching up with her lips to kiss me.
"We
can't do this," I rasped.
"We're
not going to do everything," she said, her voice smooth and reassuring.
"We have to save that for later. But we can be together, like I've wished
we could be together for a long time."
"Together?"
I panted.
"Just
touching ... kissing."
I
was sold. If we weren't doing everything, then the pressure was off. To be
honest, I wasn't so worried about the morality of what was going on. Granted,
her parents (and mine) would be furious if we were discovered like this, but my
real concern was that the only thing I knew how to do was kiss. And I did not
want to make a fool of myself trying to do things I wasn't prepared to do.
But
touching and kissing? I could do that.
She
chose to do this touching and kissing on her bed, which only made my dick
stiffer.
Then
we made out some more. Only it was much better than it had been in the
back of the Impala.
It
helped that she never let go of my penis. She didn't jack on it so much as she
just played with it. Occasionally her fingers would explore my balls, which were
full and tight. I knew the skin there would feel thick and pebbly, and that the
hairs sprouting from that skin would be relatively stiff. When my ball sack
softens up and hangs, everything seems to soften.
My
hands found her breasts, of course. That was probably the first thing I did
once we were on the bed. She didn't object. We made out like that for what
could have been an hour, before I got the urge to kiss her elsewhere than on
her lips. I'd found one nipple with my fingertips, and played with it until it
stood firm and turgid off her breast flesh. Her breasts were both firm and soft
at the same time, and that nipple under my fingers demanded to be kissed. I
kissed down over her cheek and jaw, into the hollow of her neck, as she arched,
giving me room and murmuring in a way that told me she liked what I was doing.
Without
warning her, I moved my lips to that nipple and kissed it. Where it came from,
I don't know, but I had the urge to suck, like a baby, and I did that then. She
groaned, and her hands came to the back of my head, pulling me against her. She
let me move to the other nipple, and I marveled at the texture. How could
something so firm and delicious in my mouth, be associated with something so
warm and soft against my nose and cheek?
One
of her hands left my head and fumbled for my right hand. She dragged it
downwards, across her abdomen. My heart thudded as I realized I was being
encouraged to do something else I'd only dreamed of. I felt a mixture of
apprehension, which was immediately replaced by amazement, because the hair I
expected my fingers to find wasn't there. Instead, I found smooth, slippery ...
wet skin!
I
could see her face, and most of one breast. I would love to have seen the bald
skin my fingers had discovered. But that part of her was in the shadows, and I
didn't want to stop what I was doing.
I
felt like a blind man, who understood the Braille of the body. I could
distinctly feel the lips there that I'd seen countless pictures of before. But
they felt completely different than I expected. They were soft and pliable,
rubbery. They were fun to massage!
Her
hips arched, and I remembered other things I'd seen in pictures. Hesitantly, my
middle finger split those lips and I dragged it upwards, searching for a bump.
I
found it.
I
diddled it.
Her
other hand left my head and slapped hard over her mouth as her whole body
arched. I felt frantic activity above my head, and abandoned the nipple I'd
been sucking on, lifting my head to see that she had grabbed a pillow and
pressed it over her face. She was groaning out loud. The hand on the pillow
flailed, found my head and pushed my face back down, her meaning obvious.
I
sucked again, and kept diddling. That hand appeared, fumbling for mine, on top
of mine, and somehow she pushed in a way that made my middle finger slide
downwards.
And
then inwards.
Into
wet heat like a furnace.
She
groaned.
I
had thought I knew nothing other than kissing. But I was finding out
differently now. It turned out that all that online porn had taught me a thing
or two after all. I at least knew the theory of what she wanted. All I had to
do was get good at it quickly.
That
was interesting on a number of levels. First, as I inserted my finger deeper
into her, her pelvic thrusts became stronger, and I had to use the heel of my
hand to push downwards, just to keep from being dislodged. I didn't know it
then, but that crushed that little bump, and when, just for exploratory
purposes, I curved my finger, feeling around a new environment for the first
time, I massaged something else too.
The
reaction was astonishing. Her hand flashed back to the pillow and slapped down
on it hard. Her hips bucked up off the bed and her whole body went rigid. The
noise from under the pillow was worrying, both because it was loud, and because
it sounded like she was in pain. But strangest of all was that, suddenly, that
hot, wet place clamped down on my finger so hard that I had to straighten it.
Tentatively, I gave it a tug. I could tell it would be possible to pull it out,
but the resistance was amazing. Then it let up, and clamped down again. Her
hips came down and bounced off the bed, going back up, at which point the whole
squeeze and release thing happened again. Only this time, with her hips still
up in the air, her insides fluttered! That's the only word I can think of to
describe it. Things loosened and tightened, like they had before, except it was
rapid fire.
Finally,
her hips fell back to the bed, and her whole body relaxed. The hand that had
been on her pillow flopped down beside her, leaving the pillow in place, but
not pressed tightly against her face any more. Then it came back up, briefly,
to drag the pillow away. She was panting like she'd run a mile.
Her
insides finally released my finger and I started to pull it out. She hissed,
and her hand came to slam down on top of mine. I thought I'd hurt her somehow,
and froze.
"I'm
sensitive," she whispered, still panting. Her hand assisted me in very
slowly removing my finger. As soon as it was out, she exploded, rolling to land
half on top of me, her panting lips searching for mine.
"I
love you," she whispered, as she kissed me.
I'd
have told her I loved her too, but my lips were too busy.
She
eventually caught her breath, and reached for my cock again.
"Can
I do something for you?" she asked, softly.
"I
don't know," I said.
"Can
I try?"
"Please
do," I said, almost formally, as that string in my balls twanged again.
She
did try. I'll give her that. And it felt good. But a penis requires very
detailed attention, which involves shifting techniques, and she (thankfully!)
had no way of knowing that. I could have tried to teach her what was necessary,
but it was too much fun to just let her play, instead of disrupting things with
a tutorial.
"Isn't
it supposed to spurt?" she asked, at one point.
"It's
complicated," I said.
"Aren't
I doing it right?"
"You're
doing fine," I said. "Maybe at some future date we can discuss the
technicalities of how that all works with me."
"Okay,
but what about now?"
"I'm
actually about as happy as I've ever been in my whole life," I said. I
meant it, too.
"Don't
you want to finish it off?"
"It
would feel weird to do that in front of you," I said.
"That's
silly, after what just happened."
"I
know, but it's how I feel."
"Okay.
How about making out a little more?"
"I'd
love that," I said.
So
we did. We started off on our sides, just kissing but not pressed up against
each other. That gave us room for our hands to roam, which they did with glee.
She stroked me some more, but not with any great energy. And we kissed.
These
kisses weren't so filled with passion as the ones that came before. They were
more exploratory and intentional. I know that sounds stupid, but that's what it
felt like. We tried different kinds of kisses, like on the corner of the mouth,
or on the eyes. I tried nibbling one of her ear lobes. She really loved it when
I nuzzled the hollow of her neck.
And
we talked a little bit, in almost silent whispers, about the night, the change
in our relationship, and the wonder of it all.
"Remember
when we were dancing and I pushed up against your stiffy?" she asked.
"Stiffy?"
I grinned.
"Whatever.
Do you remember it or not?"
I
nodded.
"Were
you shocked?"
I
nodded again.
"That
felt so wicked. I loved it. Am I a slut?"
"No
way you're a slut. Don't ever say that word again," I said, almost too
loudly.
"Can
I feel that again?"
"You
want to dance now?" I smiled.
"No."
She
pulled, and I realized she was pulling me on top of her.
Now
you have to understand that there are things young people don't understand ...
haven't been taught ... and that included us. I thought, for example, that if
you were going to have sexual intercourse, that involved very deliberate,
specific actions. Intentional actions. It never occurred to me to think
about the fact that an erection points upwards naturally, and how that
might match the orientation of a woman's vagina. It never occurred to us that
instinct and Nature might conspire to help two animals mate, who had never done
so before and didn't even intend to do so now. So when I started helping
Valerie feel what she wanted to feel by rubbing up and down on top of her, I
thought all that was going to happen was that my … stiffy … would rub against
her pussy lips, and maybe that bump. Or at least my balls would fall deep
enough between her thighs to rub what she wanted rubbed.
So
it was a complete surprise to us both when, on about my sixth or seventh
thrust, my rigid penis slid smoothly and effortlessly into that hot furnace my
finger had already explored.
It
was a lusty thrust, and it caused that first penetration to put me balls deep
inside my valentine. I felt the base of my penis thud against where that bump
was.
She
gasped.
I
gasped.
More
instinct flooded my body, which caused me to keep pushing, because my penis was
having a great time, surrounded by that pulsing, velvety, rippling muscle.
She
groaned, but it wasn't a groan of pain. Thankfully, she was still
ultra-lubricated, or it could have been a tragic end to a wonderful night.
Instinct
wasn't restricted only to the male of the species. It kicked in on her part
too. Both her hands slapped loudly and painfully down on my ass cheeks. Long,
lacquered, glue-on nails dug into my tender flesh so hard that I felt one pop
off. I imagined it flying to land on the floor.
And
then there was this uncoordinated, almost spastic kind of writhing that went
on, where I tried to hump (instinct) and she tried to hump back (also instinct)
and my over loaded system determined that a safety valve needed to blow.
As
it turned out, the valve that blew couldn't be classified as "safe".
But it blew like a volcano, allowing a stream of warm, soothing semen through
my penis, which released it happily into her soft, clasping vagina.
Turned
out Mr. Mulgren knew what he was talking about.
The
aftermath could still have been tragic. Valerie could have been devastated by
the risk of pregnancy. She certainly hadn't planned or intended for actual
intercourse to happen. Nor had I, but there was no way in the world I could be
sorry it had. I didn't want to get her pregnant, but I was still happy we had
made love.
And,
as it turned out, so was she. It had been on the agenda, in her mind.
Just not until after our senior prom.
That's
how far ahead Valerie thought about things.
So
did her parents. And mine, as it turned out. They'd all been convinced for
years that we'd be high school sweethearts.
True,
it didn't happen until our senior year, and I'm pretty sure it didn't happen
the way they thought it would. Then again, her dad did ask me if I was
going to put a move on her or not.
But
what they didn't know about us wouldn't hurt them. And Valerie was one who
believed in adapting.
Plus,
there are ways to be able to make love, without making a baby. Even if you
engage in that activity as often as you possibly can. We worked hard to get
better at it, so it wasn't as spastic and was a lot more intentional.
Of
course nothing short of abstinence is fool proof. And that's the one form of
birth control we did not use.
So
... what happened after that?
Well,
this is a story about Valentine's Day, and not the years that followed.
I will
tell you that I have only had one valentine in my life. One real valentine,
anyway. We went to college together, where I eventually asked her to marry me.
We did not elope, and she did not throttle her mother. We both finished
college.
Now
there are three little future valentines running around the house. I feel like
the King of the castle and my queen is still beautiful.
Is
it any wonder that Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday?
The End
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