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Erotic Stories / Short Story - That Summer
« on: April 24, 2017, 08:07:17 PM »
When I remember that summer, not so many years ago, the first thing I always think of is how he looked at my legs. He was a tall, thin man with a surfer’s tan and a shaved head. His hands were big and strong, and when he walked his butt pressed against his jeans in the most delicious way.
I considered it a personal responsibility to match him, tease for tease. And so, I made sure he always saw me in tiny shorts and skimpy tops. I have always loved sun bathing; the sky kisses my skin and I feel warm all over.
I was a slender, tanned, college freshmen reveling in all the delights of living on my own, without parents, and without rules. In the mornings, when the sun rose over the building sky line and began to bake the concrete and city streets – I would always leave the blinds in my bedroom open and the window cracked. Music played on my stereo, floating down to his apartment below, drawing him to his patio.
I’d emerge from a steamy shower, renewed, refreshed, with wet skin and my hair wrapped up in a tiny white towel. My nipples perked as my skin dried, reaching for the morning air while it was cool. I’d lotion my legs and admire myself in my mirrors, inspecting every angle – prolonging the show for him.
The only thing that feels better than stepping into warm clean clothes, is a man slipping those clothes from my hips or up over my head. I love dressing myself, hate undressing alone.
That day I wore a blue bikini top and a pair of ripped jean shorts. I left the brass button open on my shorts, but triple tied the strings of my top.
It was sometime around 11 am, just before lunch, when he knocked on my door. He had on a white shirt with the picture of a shark carrying a yellow and green surf board, his usual beautiful jeans, and a pair of cheap beach sandals.
I smiled at him coyly, and we spoke but I don’t remember what we said to each other. The usual pleasant greetings:
Hi, how are you?
What’s new in your life?
I don’t remember inviting him in. We weren’t really talking to each other with our mouths, we were talking with our eyes, and with our bodies. He used his raised arms and his eyes to tell me his thoughts. I used my shoulders and hips to tell him I was thinking the same thing.
I remember sitting on the arm rest of the couch in my front room, crossing my legs, drinking in every wonderful second of his eyes locked on my thighs. His fingers were curling and opening, flexing as though he were practicing how he’d take hold of me and grip my hips. I could practically feel his motions with every breath I took. He stood there, watching me, moving his jaw slightly side to side with that warm perfect tongue of his pressing against his teeth.
We were both certain about what was going to happen, but like water heating up to a boil, we kept on simmering for a while until finally … bubbles rose and engulfed us.
There was wonderful kissing when he stepped towards me and climb on top, sending us both flopping down on the couch with a burst of laughter. I stretched my legs high into the air on each side of him and he let out a grateful, hungry noise that was something like “ooom” as he squeezed and pulled at my thighs. His tongue tried for my mouth but I had already slide my tongue into his. I crossed my arms behind his neck, feeling that shaved head with my fingers and kept kissing him until we were both rubbing, and bumping, and wiggling for a more comfortable, more roomy position on the couch.
He stood up over me and braced my legs against his chest. He got the zipper loose on my shorts and pulled them past my cheeks, then up, and off my legs a few seconds later. I startled him when tossed the ripped shorts aside because I cursed, “Oh fuck yes.”
His hesitation evaporated as I parted my legs and revealed my sex to him. He put his mouth down on me and for a while his tongue and hands were all that existed of him. I was so delighted that he was a man with an appetite for oral sex, and I rewarded him with equal attention from my mouth after my thirst for him exceeded my own pleasure.
I sucked and stroked him as she stood before me, his right knee on my couch, his left leg straight. He jerked when I played with his balls, I don’t think a woman had ever done that to him, so I stopped and focused on taking him into my mouth to the back of my throat. He moaned and pulled at my hair, and shouted prayers to god, to me, to my tits. I took his hard cock, soaked from my mouth and rubbed it against my face before laying back on the carpet of my living room. I opened myself to him again, my legs raised like triangles and stretched my arms over my head as I arched my back.
He needed no further encouragement.
His cock entered me. Very firm.
He groaned.
I inhaled.
He thrusted.
I braced. My eyes became like butterfly wings, and I existed in that perfect passionate place that is the physical act of sex.
He fucked me. I fucked him. We fucked each other.
I gripped his back and rubbed my hands against his shaved head. I thought it was playful to rub that bald top of his.
He held me by my hips or braced himself like a push up as he carried on his motions.
I moaned and yelled in delight, and made sure my tits shook for him. Whenever he started to slow, I would tell him to “thrust me,” and he’d obey. He asked me if I wanted on top, and all I could do was nods since all my breath was for the noises I was making.
We parted long enough for him to get on his back and I to climb on him. His cock was hot from being inside my pussy when I grabbed its slick surface and as settled onto him, his pressure inside me felt wonderful. He slapped my ass for encouragement, not that I needed it. I began to rock forward and back on his lap. I tossed my hair back when ever too much of it fell across my front. He tried to hold my hands but I wanted to touch myself so I wiggled my fingers out of his grip and massaged my body. Rubbing my clit when I paused from bouncing to grind down on him, and tickling my belly button and ribs when I rock wildly forwards and back.
He cheered and howled.
At some point, he got his arms around me and squeezed me down against his chest. His hips were popping up off the carpet, smacking into me and all I could do was moan and gasp as he tried to kiss me and lick my face and lips. He announced his climax by gripping my hair at back of my head. His breath stutter and held in his ribs, his chest muscle clenched against my nipples. Then his seed was trailing down my legs, mixing with the sweat of his groin and my thighs.
We both began to giggle together the way lovers do after sex. I continued to enjoy his hands on me, and he continued to admire my legs.
That’s how I remember the first days of that summer, not so many years ago.
I considered it a personal responsibility to match him, tease for tease. And so, I made sure he always saw me in tiny shorts and skimpy tops. I have always loved sun bathing; the sky kisses my skin and I feel warm all over.
I was a slender, tanned, college freshmen reveling in all the delights of living on my own, without parents, and without rules. In the mornings, when the sun rose over the building sky line and began to bake the concrete and city streets – I would always leave the blinds in my bedroom open and the window cracked. Music played on my stereo, floating down to his apartment below, drawing him to his patio.
I’d emerge from a steamy shower, renewed, refreshed, with wet skin and my hair wrapped up in a tiny white towel. My nipples perked as my skin dried, reaching for the morning air while it was cool. I’d lotion my legs and admire myself in my mirrors, inspecting every angle – prolonging the show for him.
The only thing that feels better than stepping into warm clean clothes, is a man slipping those clothes from my hips or up over my head. I love dressing myself, hate undressing alone.
That day I wore a blue bikini top and a pair of ripped jean shorts. I left the brass button open on my shorts, but triple tied the strings of my top.
It was sometime around 11 am, just before lunch, when he knocked on my door. He had on a white shirt with the picture of a shark carrying a yellow and green surf board, his usual beautiful jeans, and a pair of cheap beach sandals.
I smiled at him coyly, and we spoke but I don’t remember what we said to each other. The usual pleasant greetings:
Hi, how are you?
What’s new in your life?
I don’t remember inviting him in. We weren’t really talking to each other with our mouths, we were talking with our eyes, and with our bodies. He used his raised arms and his eyes to tell me his thoughts. I used my shoulders and hips to tell him I was thinking the same thing.
I remember sitting on the arm rest of the couch in my front room, crossing my legs, drinking in every wonderful second of his eyes locked on my thighs. His fingers were curling and opening, flexing as though he were practicing how he’d take hold of me and grip my hips. I could practically feel his motions with every breath I took. He stood there, watching me, moving his jaw slightly side to side with that warm perfect tongue of his pressing against his teeth.
We were both certain about what was going to happen, but like water heating up to a boil, we kept on simmering for a while until finally … bubbles rose and engulfed us.
There was wonderful kissing when he stepped towards me and climb on top, sending us both flopping down on the couch with a burst of laughter. I stretched my legs high into the air on each side of him and he let out a grateful, hungry noise that was something like “ooom” as he squeezed and pulled at my thighs. His tongue tried for my mouth but I had already slide my tongue into his. I crossed my arms behind his neck, feeling that shaved head with my fingers and kept kissing him until we were both rubbing, and bumping, and wiggling for a more comfortable, more roomy position on the couch.
He stood up over me and braced my legs against his chest. He got the zipper loose on my shorts and pulled them past my cheeks, then up, and off my legs a few seconds later. I startled him when tossed the ripped shorts aside because I cursed, “Oh fuck yes.”
His hesitation evaporated as I parted my legs and revealed my sex to him. He put his mouth down on me and for a while his tongue and hands were all that existed of him. I was so delighted that he was a man with an appetite for oral sex, and I rewarded him with equal attention from my mouth after my thirst for him exceeded my own pleasure.
I sucked and stroked him as she stood before me, his right knee on my couch, his left leg straight. He jerked when I played with his balls, I don’t think a woman had ever done that to him, so I stopped and focused on taking him into my mouth to the back of my throat. He moaned and pulled at my hair, and shouted prayers to god, to me, to my tits. I took his hard cock, soaked from my mouth and rubbed it against my face before laying back on the carpet of my living room. I opened myself to him again, my legs raised like triangles and stretched my arms over my head as I arched my back.
He needed no further encouragement.
His cock entered me. Very firm.
He groaned.
I inhaled.
He thrusted.
I braced. My eyes became like butterfly wings, and I existed in that perfect passionate place that is the physical act of sex.
He fucked me. I fucked him. We fucked each other.
I gripped his back and rubbed my hands against his shaved head. I thought it was playful to rub that bald top of his.
He held me by my hips or braced himself like a push up as he carried on his motions.
I moaned and yelled in delight, and made sure my tits shook for him. Whenever he started to slow, I would tell him to “thrust me,” and he’d obey. He asked me if I wanted on top, and all I could do was nods since all my breath was for the noises I was making.
We parted long enough for him to get on his back and I to climb on him. His cock was hot from being inside my pussy when I grabbed its slick surface and as settled onto him, his pressure inside me felt wonderful. He slapped my ass for encouragement, not that I needed it. I began to rock forward and back on his lap. I tossed my hair back when ever too much of it fell across my front. He tried to hold my hands but I wanted to touch myself so I wiggled my fingers out of his grip and massaged my body. Rubbing my clit when I paused from bouncing to grind down on him, and tickling my belly button and ribs when I rock wildly forwards and back.
He cheered and howled.
At some point, he got his arms around me and squeezed me down against his chest. His hips were popping up off the carpet, smacking into me and all I could do was moan and gasp as he tried to kiss me and lick my face and lips. He announced his climax by gripping my hair at back of my head. His breath stutter and held in his ribs, his chest muscle clenched against my nipples. Then his seed was trailing down my legs, mixing with the sweat of his groin and my thighs.
We both began to giggle together the way lovers do after sex. I continued to enjoy his hands on me, and he continued to admire my legs.
That’s how I remember the first days of that summer, not so many years ago.
. Though first person is a must when I write up a memory, but I only do that for sharing with friends or my diary. As for the rest of the story, I like there to be details on actions and feelings. Too often the story will have this great flirty build up and then there are only a few lines of actual sex ... so disappointing to be reading along, thinking on this is nice and oh I can't wait to see what happens next and then ... "I fucked her good until we both came" ... yeah ... that's a rewarding story ending.
.
(I know role play is a part of this game, but I believe chatting is a part, too)
)