[FM] An Ode to Dry Humping

Another lifetime ago, I had my first boyfriend. How we got together is a long and sweet story, the kind of thing I almost try not to remember but probably always will. What I want to talk about now though, is something I don’t think about quite as often.

It’s one of those nights where I’m home and alone and still a bit drunk. I am not an extremely sexual person nor do I have a particularly interesting sexual history, but as it happens I found myself thinking about sex, and the most sensual or erotic things that I’ve experienced. It may sound strange, but I would have to say that without a doubt one of my best was being with that boy; touching, kissing, rubbing, but not necessarily having sex.

I was younger, but I was the one who started it. I was the one who kissed him first too. He was always a gentleman if not too cautious, never wanted to push any issue like that, not directly anyway. Indirectly, there was his thigh moving between my legs that time when we were in his bed kissing. I knew he did it on purpose, but I didn’t care. He was athletic, and I remember blushing because I could feel the strength taut in his leg as he pressed it against me. I wasn’t at all used to being touched anywhere; I didn’t even touch myself. Do you remember those first times, how strange and amazing it felt? Was I cumming or just wet? How could this not be what cumming is like?! Those new feelings, that strange and unknown heat that flushed my chest and fluttered my stomach. Everything was on fire. He was kneeling just a bit, not quite lying on me as we kissed, and so I made the uncharacteristically bold move of grabbing his bulge. It only seemed fair.

I remember that delightful moan-gasp that he breathed into me, our mouths barely apart. I couldn’t help but peek and see the surprise on his face before he went back to kissing me. I ran my palm down his shaft, hefted his balls through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs. I smiled inwardly at every little pant and quiet heavy breath that my touch would elicit.

I miss the way that we kissed as teenagers. Nowadays it’s hard to imagine wanting to make out with somebody for half an hour straight; it seems downright absurd. Back then it came so naturally. It was some product of knowing that there were these limits, knowing that you can’t quite get what every cell in your body is craving. You devour each other, trying to satiate this hunger that only becomes more intense and desperate. Contemplating all the while about throwing away reservation and fear, contemplating that maybe, just maybe this time will be the time. I know he would have had me right then and there –he was a boy, that should be obvious—but I wasn’t ready yet. I was afraid of the experience itself, and of change, and that maybe I was moving too fast. I wasn’t afraid of him, though.

Thus began many quiet afternoons of inching forward. More and more of our clothes began to come off, until finally we were regularly both down to our underwear bottoms. Sometimes he would be on top, in something like missionary, nothing but a thin layer of fabric restraining our aching lust. As our lips and tongues explored one another he would slowly grind the soft-hard curve of his bulge against me, as if he were making love, and my legs would wrap tight around his waist in turn. Other times I would straddle him, rubbing myself against him, moving my clitoris up and down his whole straining, pulsating length. My panties would inevitably soak through and I, still too self-conscious to moan, would bite my lip and breathe, bite his lip and lick and suck. I was addicted to him. Even as the heat of our friction became almost unbearable I could not stop tasting of his mouth and writhing with his body.

Finally there came a brave day where, tangled with each other and thinly sheened with sweat, I decided to pull those boxers down. I knew before ever seeing it that he had a thick tusk of a cock. It curved up slightly, like a flexing muscle, corded with vein. It was a strong, rough, straining knot of a thing. Straining for me, I thought. I wasn’t sure exactly how, but I knew that I needed to release his tension, that in some way it would relieve mine. I stroked him hard; maybe a little too hard in my excitement, and he slowed me down. He showed me how I should hold it. I began to milk it slowly, feeling out each throb, forcing the occasional drop to leak out and slide down warm over my hand. His cock was flush from our long session, and it practically stunk from all the pre-cum. A kind of animalistic feeling passed through me as I finally got the right rhythm and grip and felt him get close. I watched in awe as it knotted up more, thickened, until finally one of his testes constricted and he came. It felt strong, pulsing with each rope of his load. I had been building him up for so long that day with no relief. It was probably still the most cum that I’ve ever seen. The fever-hot seed flowed down my hand, down his balls. Still fascinated and soaking wet, I kept stroking until he gently stopped my arm. Kissing his ear, I savored each little gasp as I squeezed near his head and the last lingering drops came out.

Deep breaths. Gazing, smiling now, stupid. For some reason we laugh just a little; we’re happy. How I wish I could dream myself back there: warm, in my room, in the summer afternoon sunlight of some weekend long ago.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/82af1b/fm_an_ode_to_dry_humping