Heather and Michael Part One

During my first sexual experience, I was not touched, even kissed.

I found them on Craigslist. My friends and I would browse the Casual Encounters Personals–and the even more amusing Missed Connections–for entertainment, and I kept the pastime when away from my friends.

Under “mw4w”, I found them, seeking a young girl to watch us. Teen but legal or young looking up to 21. I was sixteen, and wanted to know about sex. I wanted to fill the gaps in the sexual education I should have received from my pious parents and their parochial surrogates at school but had instead received from my rebellious older sisters. This, it seemed, was the most dangerous way to go about it, and real, palpable, with the flaws, the scuffle, the messiness and imperfections I was certain were missing from the pornographic films ubiquitous on the internet.

I wanted not only to see how it worked, but to explore within me the timid and curious excitement I felt at the idea of being seen naked, being watched while satisfying myself. I responded to the advertisement that I was eighteen years old, experienced and curious about the scenario–that it would turn me on. They responded that they wished to know what I looked like and would I send a photograph. I described myself to them: fit and athletic, with medium-length light auburn hair, brown eyes, freckles, medium height for a girl. They were unsatisfied and pressed for a photograph and, the physical description being no exaggeration–except that I was perhaps in possession of a body more easy and sloping than athletic–, I sent them a shy self-portrait.

We arranged to meet during weekday hours, when I felt safer and was not expected in the dormitories. By phone, I arranged with my parents to be excused from classes for an appointment and traveled by bus to the coffee shop by their apartment at which we’d planned to meet. I told Heather that I’d be wearing a red scarf, while she planned to wear a grey jacket. As I stepped into the cafe, it occurred to me that I should perhaps have insisted as well on a photograph, but was relieved by the striking couple looking my way from the far end of the cafe. They were younger than I expected, in their late twenties, which both intrigued and troubled me: They would be more lovely to watch, but I would have felt safer with a more mature couple.

Once I was by their table, Michael said Delia? Heather had green eyes and dark hair that crowned her jaw in a broad curl, but was otherwise plain. She nodded to me after Michael introduced himself, then her. Michael was lithe, also dark of hair, and possessed of a warm handsomeness, with a gentle mouth and wide, deep eyes. He was small, slender, and he wore a t-shirt taut to his chest and shoulders. He smiled well.

When Michael left the table to order the coffee they insisted on buying me, Heather said have you ever done this before? “No,” I said. “Don’t worry,” she said and then both of us said nothing, waiting for the other to talk, for Michael to return, for the little marble table to sing or dance. “My husband’s idea,” she said. “I mentioned it once; you know: a mood hits you, a little dumb daydream, a fantasy. All he needed.” We gave the silence its chance to talk again. “Well,” I said, “I’ve had that ‘daydream.’” “Have you now?” she said. “Well.” I giggled, my brow in my fingertips. “Do you have a boyfriend, Delia?” “Not really,” I hedged. “Boy you fool around with?” I looked around the cafe: the conversations and music and milk being steamed made our conversation as private as it could be. “Maybe,” I lied. “So cavalier.” “Is this a job interview?” “‘Job interview,’” she spit. “I like you. You don’t give a fuck.” “Thank you,” I said as Michael returned with my coffee. “She’s hired,” said Heather. “Great!” said Michael, “so we’re all set?” “Keep it in your pants,” said Heather, “she’s got a coffee to drink.” “Oh, of course,” said Michael. “Then she can come home,” said Heather, “and watch us fuck.”

In their apartment, which smelled of paint, Michael offered me a drink and I asked for water. He swung the refrigerator door facing me and I studied the art there under magnets. Mommy, the heavy, dimpled page said, with a figure and a signature: Lily. “This is the bedroom,” said Heather, moving toward a door. Michael and I followed.

“Sit…here,” said Michael, and I sat on a green chair, wood, facing the bed. Heather took Michael in her arms and kissed him. “I love you,” he whispered to her. “This is for you.” “Forget she’s here,” said Heather. Heather withdrew from Michael’s arms and pulled her sweater over her head and off, her eyes on Michael. He reached for her and she said stay. She opened her jeans, pulled them down and stepped out of them. Her body was a white sky behind constellations of auburn birthmarks. Her stomach bumped softly, and her panties sagged white and worn. She turned around and Michael unfastened her bra. She rolled her arms out of it revealing full breasts with tiny brick-colored nipples that were only beginning to look down. Michael reached for her again and was turned silently away again. He grinned, ran his hands through his hair. Heather put her hands along either side of her hips and pushed her underwear to her her knees where they fell to her feet and she stepped out of them. Beneath her silky belly was a small patch of dark hairs, as faint as so much shade, and then the ridge of lips. Heather laid down on the bed, turned her legs over one another. Michael put a knee on the bed but Heather rebuffed him. “Take off your clothes for our guest,” she said. With no tolerance for grace, Michael peeled of his thin black t-shirt. His torso was deceptively sculpted, and he gleamed bronze and smooth. Tight ripples moved with him in the shoulders, the stomach, the forearms as he pulled open the button on his chinos and kicked out of them. His briefs bulged away from his body, and his cock, hard and reaching high in the air, sprang out when he pulled them down. “It’s okay, hon–you can stare,” Heather said. I had never seen a cock up close before. This one was lovely as the ones I had seen pictures of: curving without effort; long; smooth of complexion; not overwrought with veins; not red like blood; black curls, some long, some short, gathered at the pubis; ample, fleshy spheres anchoring beneath; and with a full, cherry-shaped head at its end. “She thinks you have a nice cock.” She reached out to it, caressed it, pulled hard at it, kissed it. “You do have a nice cock,” she said, pulling him into the bed. They lied facing each other, kissing, a banquet of kisses: now subtly touching, now deep and breathless, little bites, little tugs, little tastes of tongue and lip, Michael moving to the creamy foothills of Heather’s neck, panting in her ears, Heather pulling her knees up, her toes turned down tight. Michael moved to Heather’s breasts, kissing around the nipples, teasing, tasting one in circles while his hand kneaded the other, then moving to the one he held in his hand, and moved the nipple along his tongue. Michael’s other hand swept along Heather’s belly to her vagina, aired over it and massaged her opening thighs. He rubbed inside her thighs, clenching, tense, as though his hands needed breath, and then closed a half-cupped hand over her open pussy and made hard circles that evoked moans and whimpers in Heather as though she were an instrument and he the rare maestro. Still manipulating her, he folded three fingers into his hand and found her wet aperture with the remaining digit, plying in and out, holding in, sliding out and up to her clit, rubbing. Heather kissed his mouth, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down her body. Michael kissed a trail to Heather’s spray of hairs and put his lips on her clitoris. Heather moaned and writhed, Michael’s cue to dive between her lips, his tongue at full mast, bobbing his head toward and away from her. Heather reached down and spread her lips open with her fingers and Michael lapped at her, urgent. “Make the sound, make the sound…” panted Heather. Michael licked at her, wet, slappy slurping sounds emerging. “Oh, fuck–” Heather whispered, “you’re eating me. You’re eating my pussy.” Michael slurped like madman, modulating to sucking sounds, strange snorting sounds here and there. “Oh, fuck,” cried Heather, “I’m gonna. I’m gonna…” before erupting in pairs of heavy groans. “Lay down,” Heather told Michael. She turned her body up and kissed his mouth, laid her hands along him as though she was smoothing a sheet, found his cock, pulsating and red, and stroked it hard and fast. “I love your cock,” she said, and, her eyes fixed on his, moved down his body, sparing no moment in taking him deep in her mouth, pulling back off of it with a tight, wet pop. She held it up, ran her tongue along its bottom, slow, then ran her tongue along its bottom, fast. “I want to come in your mouth.” “I want you to come in my mouth.” She lowered her head and Michael’s cock disappeared inside her mouth. She sucked it. She pulled off of it and explored it with her tongue and lips, then put her hand around it at its bottom, wielding it like a weapon or a lollipop and licked furiously bottom to top, bottom to top. “In your mouth, in your mouth,” Michael whispered from some other world. Heather swallowed Michael’s quivering cock and pumped her head down on it, fucking it hard with her mouth. “Yes, Heth, yes…” Michael said, eyes pinched closed, “oh God, yes.” Michael came quietly in Heather’s mouth, in spasms, his center arching stiff off the bed, for long moments. When Michael’s sweating body finally rested, Heather sucked her way off of his cock and tugged gently at it with her hand, squeezing little pearls of come to the surface and licking them off of his swollen head. She remained there at his center, gently caressing his thighs, absentmindedly kissing his retreating cock, stroking, nibbling, playing. She lapped at his balls, kissed his belly. After several minutes I thought Michael had fallen asleep, and then his cock, at Heather’s persistent urging, stretched back to life. She took it in her mouth again, sucking carefully, licking it, playing with his scrotum. “That’ll do,” she said, admiring the hard cock before her. She climbed on top of Michael, now leaning on his elbows, and delicately lowered herself onto his cock. They fixed gingerly together, like an old engine starting, Heather soon at rest all the way down Michael’s cock. “You feel good,” Michael said. “You feel good.” Heather gained some speed and bounced against Michael with fleshy slaps, leaning back, one hand on the bed for balance. “Oh, fuck me, fuck me,” said Michael. Heather pounded Michael into her, rolled her head back, then forward, her breasts jogging in place. “Fuck me from behind,” she said, dismounted, and crawled to the front of the bed on hands and knees. Michael and his pretty cock arranged behind her and Heather reached between her legs to guide him into her. Michael pulled his torso erect and clutched Heather’s trunk and drove himself into her, furious, exhausting, his body rippled, taut, nearly steaming. “Yeah, baby, fuck me hard. Fuck me,” cried Heather, “keep fucking me.” Heather’s upper body collapsed into the pillows in front of her, and Michael pulled away and turned her over. He spread her legs apart, spread her engorged lips, and, facing her, pushed his cock into her pussy for the final act. He plunged hard, still dry of come but red with need. His rhythm changed and changed again, his position changing and changing again, as his body battled weariness. “Keep going, keep going,” exhorted Heather. Michael pounded her insatiable pussy feverishly and, as he wound closer to exploding inside her, drove frantically, groaning with agony and need and in a fit and in ecstasy. “You’re fucking me so hard. She’s watching me get fucked so hard…” stammered Heather. Then, with a roar, Heather’s legs along his chest, Michael slammed them both toward the head of the bed, she nearly folded in half, and pumped his hard-earned load into her in several crashes of breath and sweat.

Now is the part of the story where I tell you how distractedly I sat, wet between my legs, the object of their desire, and how I undressed and folded into the vapors of their embrace. But, though I did in fact wish at that moment that Michael’s sinking, joyous body had another effort left in it, I sat there invisible and lonely. I thought only of getting somewhere private, getting my skirt up, panties aside, closing my eyes, opening my legs and imagining Michael between them, doing the things he did to Heather.

I stepped out of the room, leaving all the wrong words left unsaid, and found the door. Heather came after me. “Thank you for doing this. Delia. It meant a lot to him.” “Oh,” I said, “thank you. I think I learned something.” “I know there’s not much graceful to be said after something like this, so forget it. But keep in touch.”

I didn’t forget it, but I did forget trying to say anything about it; we did keep in touch, and we never spoke of that afternoon again. Heather called me a week later and said they were desperate for a babysitter and had I ever sat before and they would pay me for the work. So I met Lily and spent the evening looking after her. Why they would want their child in the care of a proven pervert I never reconciled, but the girl was a delight and my relationship with her so easy that I worked regularly minding her. I became a part of the family, and delighted at the experience, though only approximated, of being a big sister–of having a little sister; I was a guest at Lily’s sixth birthday party; welcomed them to the dorms on Halloween, Lily dressed as a little pirate; and observed Thanksgiving with them the day before I flew back to Kansas for the actual holiday. I knew where the spare key was hidden.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/25hynf/heather_and_michael_part_one