[MF] “I’m glad I made myself say something.”

So this story takes place (yikes) almost a decade ago.

I knew this woman in undergrad who was, well…boyish. Not *tom*boyish, just small (~4’11”) and a little scrawny and thin and sharp-featured and flat-chested and deep-voiced, and definitely got teased about all of it. Same haircut as my whitebread, generic midwestern ass. She had the sort of personality that was constantly trying to hide behind itself as a result. She was always smart as a whip though—she’s a particle physicist somewhere in Texas now, researching something I can’t even begin to comprehend. We found each other in freshman year because we were both in advanced placement French classes with juniors and seniors, and both shy sort of dweebs. Somehow we managed to negotiate our mutual social anxiety and become friends, mostly by procrastinating on our French homework by watching Futurama.

We’ll call her Nat, although the truth was that she has a very androgynous name and got hell for that, too.

We were very much just friends back then. Nat had a long-term (from high school) boyfriend who went to a different state university about an hour and a half away, so they’d often visit each other one way or the other. Now, if this is putting up red flags for some of you, you’re on the ball in a way I wasn’t at the time. I was still a dumb kid, and more than a little socially incompetent, so it didn’t occur to me to understand how much power this guy wielded over her. In retrospect it should have been obvious that she was desperate to stay with him to “prove” she was a woman, and desirable, and all that—she often did his chores and homework, even when I was just hanging out with her during the week. When I met him, the guy was incredibly cold to me in what I now recognize is the vicious jealousy of an abuser, but really hurt my feelings at the time because I thought I could make another friend and got harshly rejected.

It will probably not please, but not surprise, anyone that it took about his fourth time cheating and a fairly violent sexual encounter when he was drunk for her friends from high school to intervene. At this point we’d been friends for a year or so but I was a “university friend” and thus, to them, part of the problem. She transferred out of the public school we attended and went to a private, traditionally (but no longer) women’s-only school nearby. I was pretty upset; I didn’t have many friends, and being accused of helping this guy abuse her broke my heart.

Thus I was happy to get an email from her, shortly after I graduated. She’d bothered looking me up in the alumni register, which made me feel like a million bucks in those lonely days in my parent’s basement after undergrad. She seemed to be doing much better, and even encouraged me to consider grad school and other things. She’d connected with other survivors of abuse and gotten in touch with a more affirmative feminism, which made her feel stronger in herself than before, and she also began identifying as a lesbian.

Now, Nat and I shared a perspective on sex that I think is common amongst shy, lonely, intelligent people—because we weren’t the ones awkwardly fumbling in the backseat of our parent’s cars in high school, it had a sort of mystery to which we applied our analytical minds. We were always very frank with one another, even if we weren’t sexually involved, not even in a “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” way. By the time she reached out to me again, we’d both found some partners, and we fell easily into comparing notes now and then over the years. She explored her preferred “role” in sex and relationships while dealing with ever more invasive PCOS surgeries, and I was opening up to being bisexual in circumstances that were, to put it lightly, not ideal. Totally above board, supportive, thoughtful analysis, helping each other understand very different experiences. The point being that we were very comfortable with and knowledgeable about one another.

So, to get to the point, one day while I was in grad school Nat had an opportunity to visit.

It was a very pleasant day, for all that we were still awkward dorks. Got good food, talked about all sorts of things, went to the *really* nice upscale sex shop where she spent *way* too much money…

I really didn’t expect it, or feel a vibe; but maybe this story shows how dense I can be:

“It’s a bit of a shame that we’ve never…you know.”

She forced herself to say it. I remember how starkly apparent it was that she’d clearly been working up to it.

I’m so dumb, honestly. I tried to play it off, gave into my nervousness. I made a lot of noise about respecting her sexuality, and about how I’m not one of those guys who only talks to women about sex to get in their pants (which is only somewhat true, of course). But frankly all of that was not at all the sort of thing she was in the mood to hear.

“Look, I just thought—whatever, I’m offering,” she said. “And I wouldn’t offer, unless…”

She said this as we were pressed together in the too-small entryway at my apartment building, which might have been necessary for her to work up the nerve. She gave me a look that said even to my battleship-thick skull, *”Come on man, this is hard enough already, just say yes or no, gimme a break!”*

In the end I don’t think I said anything, just took her hand and went upstairs. The only sound as we walked up the stairwell was our footsteps. Her hand was very cold, I remember, even though it had been a sunny April day.

Here’s something unusual but probably not surprising about it—she asked to strip me, first. I let her pull off my sweatshirt and my tshirt before trying to kiss her, which she gently pushed away. She ran her hands over my chest and shoulders and stomach, seeming fascinated by the hair. She kissed my shoulders, then up my neck, then finally my lips. I think my beard was what made her hesitate, but she didn’t flinch when I pulled her in closer. Her hands started awkwardly fussing with my belt, so I pulled it open and let her purposefully open my slacks—she was determined, forcing herself. Just so as she took my penis into her hand, forcing the reality that I was a man.

I offered to stop. I offered to stop every time something seemed hard. I think the third time she actually punched my chest.

I remember her words very clearly, spoken in a nervous hush. “I’m not scared of you.” Just enough emphasis on the *you* to remind me that this was not *just* play.

She began to get to her knees, but I’m not one for blowjobs, so I gently held her up and laid her down on the futon as she pulled my underwear down and began gently and awkwardly stroking my hardening cock. Not in a nice full-hand-around-the-shaft way but in a desperate rub, which probably works better on vulvas and clits. I didn’t care; her fingers were welcome to take me in. She laughed as she played with my foreskin and gasped as I pushed my hips forward to fully unsheathe.

“I’ve never seen that before,” she giggled, and then asked to watch me do it two or three times, because…for all that we were having sex, it was still the two of us. (Further evidence was that only *after* absently noting that my fully-erect cock was smaller than most of her toys did she blush and apologize.)

It was her turn to strip then, and again, she was clearly forcing herself to be proud, to be unashamed, being stared at by a man. She’d gained some weight since the last time I’d seen her, and wasn’t as bony and frail as that poor ghost of a woman had been, but she was still a stick and remains so to this day. She’d gone all the way up to an AA (and apologized for it, which, just…) and there were the hint of curves on her hips, but blink and you’d miss ’em. Her body, poor soul, had scars here and there from surgeries and injuries, including a very nasty one on her neck that forces her to wear turtlenecks a lot. She’d stopped plastering herself with makeup to cover the acne scars on her face and shoulders, and she was as hairy-pitted and hairy-legged as I am. But if there was need for any evidence that this had been planned, it was in the fact that her public hair had been trimmed neatly despite her semi-frequent rants about how it was unreasonable for society to ask that of anyone as a routine and so on and so on; she called it “putting out the welcome rug for special guests” once, which, again, *huge* dork.

It’s nice to be wanted, is the point. And in that moment, that very slight touch on top of all her nervous bluster made me want her even more than I already did.

She hissed a breath as I embraced her, mumbled surprised approval as my hard cock pressed against her stomach. When I lowered my mouth onto her little tits she whined and begged to be bitten. As I got to my knees in front of her she ran those thin, cold fingers through my hair and muttered encouragement.

She’d gotten an aggressively lesbian tattoo on her hip, which made me pressing my face into her somewhat absurd. But I knew what she wanted, because we’d spent so much time speculating on the psychological root of it. Nat grabbed my hair, ground herself into me, growled as my beard and her pubic hair scratched together. (It had scared her, at first, to discover how much she craved a little pain with her pleasure—just a bit, just enough spice to give it some zest, not full-on BDSM.)

“Yes. Eat me. Eat my cunt. Fuck.”

Nat loves that word, “cunt”. There’s a lot of erotic power in it for her. When she’s discussing women’s sanitary needs or suchlike, it’s very definitely ‘vulvas’ and ‘vaginas’ and so on; but in her sexuality, it’s her cunt. Her cunt is something she uses to fuck, and her cunt is something that makes her cum. She loves her cunt.

Most significantly, she loves fucking people’s faces with it, so I let her. (I sprained my neck, as I discovered the next morning.) She has a nice, big, thick clit that is easy to wrap your tongue around and let her thrust away with, making her grunt and talk filthy. And every time she moaned about how she didn’t realize how good a beard would feel I gave her a good swat on the ass, because you should reward people when they pay you compliments.

This was as aggressive as the sex got, mind. We both knew she had to work her way up to the rest, and we both knew that, to her surprise, she liked being a bit rough with people between her legs despite generally being a bit of a softie. She’s an easy cummer, so I twice had to help keep her upright as her little body tensed and surged and she growled her delight. After the second time she used my shoulders to lower herself down and gently kiss me, which turned into the two of us cleaning my beard and sharing her flavor. I could feel her winding down in my arms, getting herself ready.

She didn’t say anything. She just nodded gently into a kiss.

We didn’t have to use a condom; we both knew ourselves to be clean and she’d had her ovaries removed because of PCOS.

She shifted around, got on her hands and knees, spread herself. I embraced her from behind, quietly told her I’d stop the very second she said, and pushed my cock into her messy, ready wetness.

I suspect it was easier for her to not look at the sex at first, and just enjoy it. She bit back a whine as she spread around my head, but when I stopped moving, she reached back and grabbed my ass to encourage me. I’m not a big guy, but I’m at least a full foot taller than she is and she is tiny even for her height, so my body sort of engulfed hers as we pushed in. (She sends me gifs of the beginning of Star Wars, when the Star Destroyer looms over the rebel ship as our little private joke about this.) But it really did feel…unique, having someone that small totally eclipsed by me. I remember lifting a hand to gently massage her clit and she had to reach back herself and stop me from overshooting entirely, chuckling.

I took her rather quickly, actually, and filled her to the hilt. She mumbled about how warm I was and began gently pressing that bony ass of hers directly into me. She wanted it deep, and wanted to grind that big clit against me, and grunt and hiss in a surprisingly animalistic way.

She would occasionally try to look up at me and growl out dirty talk, which was so odd to hear on a voice that is generally very patient and reticent. “Yes. Feel me. Fuck my cunt, feel my warmth. Tell me you like being in me!”

(I knew from our chats that her lovers always whine about her having cold hands and feet. Maybe it’s a complex, because she *loved* being told how warm and wet she was, and how it felt around me. But then maybe it was a way of processing being with a guy again in a positive way.)

We worked up a good sweat pretty fast, being slightly out of shape nerds. She whined as I licked a line of it as it ran down her neck and the raised contours of her backbone. She was pushing back against me, grinding fiercely. I mostly just let her, occasionally biting her neck and pinching her proud little nipples and telling her how good she felt around me, and how I loved how she fit around me and how I could still taste her and smelled her and wanted more, which she really liked hearing. She wanted to be craved, and wanted, and desired in a really carnal way, and even my dumb ass knew it.

Anyways, I won’t pretend to have had a lot of sex but in all frankness that position is not my favorite in general, and was a bit awkward because of her size in this specific case. But even with my thick head half-destroyed by horniness, I knew that this part was about her, and letting her be used to a man again. But eventually she could feel me getting a little less hard.

She was scared that I was not enjoying sex with her, but I quickly clarified the position was just not super comfortable. Then she got very quiet for a moment, and then asked me a very selfish, needy, emotional question, the details of which are somewhat specific and uninteresting but I like to think I resolved it rather neatly, since she kissed me in response. The brief conversation that followed can be best summarized as us working around to saying, in typically awkward fashion, that I wanted to switch to missionary so I could see her, and that she had a very specific need, one she hadn’t really anticipated: she wanted to watch me cum inside her, *really* badly.

Nat rolled over, and lifted one leg onto my shoulder a little awkwardly. I gently pressed her other leg aside, spreading her wide–an act which despite her boyish build had this powerful feminine sexuality to it which I still like to remember. She smiled when she saw my expression of need. I sat upright so I wouldn’t be looming over her, and let her reach down and position me at that wonderful cunt that had so recently been fucking my face mercilessly.

I don’t remember if one of us said something, but I do remember not being able to restrain myself from just taking her, full length, right off the bat. Her eyes went wide and her breath stopped in her throat and after a couple rough strokes on her clit and a deep, hard kiss, she came around me. Hard.

“Your cock,” she managed, after a moment. She wiped tears out of her eyes. “Your cock, I haven’t…”

“I’m going to cum inside you. God, please, soon,” I growled—or something equally glib to that effect. I remember being *so* desperate; sex is no time for eloquence.

Her eyes lit up, she bit her lip, and she began massaging her clit again. That beautiful nub rising out of her fine brown hair, coated in sweat and sex.

She kept begging for me to look at her doing it. She begged me to look at all of her, touch her scars, bite her neck. Her leg fell off my shoulder and she spread herself wide so I could lean over her and she smiled into my hungry kisses. I’m probably being a little more poetic than it actually was, of course, but I remember her bright eyes and her lopsided, fuck-drunk smile, and how easy and natural it all was now that we were doing it.

When the time came, I sat up, grabbed her hips, and told her to look. She clenched my arms so hard I swear I can still feel it, and I grunted as the pain and my orgasm happened at the same time. Rather than gleeful, she seemed shocked, surprised, a little frightened as I filled her and fucked my cum as deep into her as it would go–which just drove me wild, thinking I’d done something to her she had underestimated the power of. The squelch of our sex as I finished was a foreshadowing of the ghost of laundry future, but we didn’t care.

I pulled out, flopped over, and invited her into my arms. She didn’t quite embrace me, more sidled up next to me, and began fingering herself in a thoughtful sort of way.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been cum inside, but, you know…I just *needed* it, you know? Needed…” And I remember this specifically because she stopped herself from going on, but pulled her hand out of herself and smeared some of the mix onto both our bellies with a somewhat solemn, but honest little smile.

(Less sexy but very *us*, is that we then spent a not-insignificant amount of time in the bathroom seeing how thoroughly she could expel the semen just with her vaginal muscles, because we were and remain complete morons.)

Long story short, we did a couple more “show me about your body” things that were very much less sexual, had the “no, seriously, I’m still gay”/”this was just a *thing*, y’know” chat, she ended up sleeping over next to me with no shenanigans, got a taxi in the morning and we have not seen each other in person since. She’s gone on to get married to another tiny (but chubby) woman and has even more aggressive lesbian tattoos. She has jokingly insisted I take pride in knowing that mine will be the last cock anywhere near her that isn’t made out of something synthetic. We still email from time to time but she’s a very busy person these days between her job and activism (the abortion bounty thing is a Big Deal for her, among other things.)

For my part, my big takeaway was her shy smile as we parted next to the taxi, when she took my hand and said, “I’m glad I made myself say something. I knew it would be different with you.”

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/qjxjhu/mf_im_glad_i_made_myself_say_something