Teenage fantasy girl found later in life [MF]

This story is a bit pedestrian, a cathartic story I’m writing to help me through some stuff. I had to create an account and sit on it for a day just to post this… (It was deleted automatically the first time… oops.)

TLDR/spoiler: I met a girl I had had a fantasy crush on through my adolescent years as a nerd – many years later, as an adult. Hit it off, fuck.

(This is, perhaps, “part 1”. Scroll down to ‘fuckery’ if that’s what you’re after.)

I now live in a town where I would often visit, as a child, during the summer with family for vacations during my teen years. We would come for a week, stay at a family church camp, and participate in area events – both on our own or with the other families in attendance.

Being a young pubescent guy, I looked forward to seeing the girls my age who came to the camp. There were a couple families with daughters my age, but the real excitement was when the local girls from the area churches would come – ranging from high school through college. To a kid who had little female interaction and lived in a small town where most of the girls dressed like they were ready for farm chores, it was intoxicating to have them come for the evening services in their short summer skirts, wearing perfume and makeup.

There was one particular girl who I fantasized about every year: I thought she was probably a couple years older than me, had a thin waist but with curves, a slight olive complexion, smooth clear skin, brown hair, and deep cat-like green eyes. Imagine someone who looks quite a bit like a younger Olivia Munn, but with a slightly longer face. (Or, if you can do an unsafe image search, Lorena Garcia is a much closer match all around – especially in eyes and physique). At a lithe 5’3″, she bled sensuality.

I remember being heavily drawn to her shapely hourglass figure. She was fit yet curvy, and had a tight butt. I still have the image of her walking down a hill with a group of others cemented in my mind. She wore those short rise jeans which were popular at the time and sandals – but she might as well have been wearing heels for all the sway in her hips. She was basically everything a teenage sexpot was supposed to be, and at the time, that was allowed.

But, my nerdy ways and a strong indoctrination bias against sexuality of any kind lead to me never even saying ‘hi’ that I can remember.

Flash forward 15 years.

I’m divorced after a decade of marriage to my ‘high school sweetheart’. My ex was the first woman I had intimate carnal knowledge of, and, until I was divorced, the only woman I’d ever slept with. I was 30, working odd hours, and had 3 children to care for. I’d never dated really before getting married, and had absolutely no idea how to navigate those waters now as a divorced adult with kids.

I’m told that I’m considered an attractive man. I’ve got a slim, athletic build, I’m 6’3″ with a strong jaw and bald. Maybe a little bit of dad paunch now, but after constantly fighting to keep on weight when I was younger, it’s a welcome change. I considered my assets in this regard and thought the bar scene might be something to try, tried various local community events to meet people – but anyone I’d be interested in was already paired off.

I turned to the only medium I knew well – the Internet. Tinder existed, but hadn’t really taken off locally from what I could tell – I was in a smaller city, so casual hookups were not that straight forward. I signed up for all the free online dating sites, and – eventually, when I was only getting harassed by the typical obese cat lady – one of the prominent for-money online dating sites.

I finally found someone on there who I thought I might be able to date or, at least, would find physically attractive. She only had a single small picture, one with a stern expression short cropped pixie hair. The haircut looked good on her, but she didn’t look like a particularly pleasant person. But the pickings were really slim, and as any guy who’s ever tried online dating knows, your ratio of contacts to responses is going to be obscenely high: when they do respond, you want to at least meet them to see how you hit it off, because you never know.

We talked a bit on the dating site, and she eventually gave me her number. We texted back and forth – but she didn’t want to try a call. Her name was Michelle. She was trying really, really hard to scare me away: she had a young kid who was her world, she was still technically married to someone – a missionary pastor – and he wasn’t the father of her kid. She wasn’t going to have sex again until she was married again. Little things like that.

I finally convinced her to meet up for a date. I truthfully told her that sex wasn’t something I was after myself at the time, because I felt building a friendship first would be more important. That resonated with her, so we met up for breakfast on a Saturday we both had free. I told her I’d have a surprise activity afterwards, and to wear hiking shoes and comfortable but conservative clothes.

The breakfast was uneventful. A little casual conversation occurred, and while she was curious what we’d be doing after breakfast, it didn’t break the ice with her. She was still quite standoffish. She was playing things coy and close to the chest.

For the activity, I offered to take her shooting. I had brought the guns thinking we’d probably end up just going for a hike, drive separately, and I’d shoot afterwards. But, I figured: what the hell, let’s see if she’s actually interested. To my surprise, she was, and she wanted to drive together.

This being Colorado, we went out to national forest and down a fire trail. I had a nibbling voice in the back of my mind telling me: you’re going to end up being eaten by coyotes after she shoots you with your own gun.

She’d never shot before, or pretended she had not at least. Either way, this earned her closer physical contact: I instructed her on what to do, showed her how to do it, and then stood closely behind her, hands on hips or shoulders, helping her get the body mechanics right. It was all contact to help with the shooting, but it was definitely building physical tension between us. I’ll admit that my hands linkered on her slender, 110lb frame longer than necessary more than once. The aphrodisiac of firearms likely helped stoke the flame.

We finish up shooting and decided to go for that hike after all. It’s still only mid morning, and we’ve got a couple hours until lunch. We get to talking as we walk through the woods, sometimes beside each other, sometimes one in front of the other. She’s a local, has two brothers, her kid.

I enjoy walking behind her, helping her up a steep incline – quite the esquisite view from behind! And that’s when it hit me: she was the same girl I’d seriously crushed on as a teen, the girl who drove my summer fantasies like a herd of stallions over a cliff.

I nearly lost my shit. I was both blown away, and extremely excited. The similarity between 16 year old Michelle and 30 year old Michelle should’ve been immediately apparent to me, but the short bob hair and 15 years of life flowing by under the bridge had largely broken any possibility of association. She’d aged extremely well, and could’ve honestly passed for early 20s, with nary a wrinkle and a smooth complexion.

I told her my recollection, still somewhat freaking out about it and screaming in my head. She confirmed that, yes: that was her in my memories. But she was pretty messed up then, and was mostly hanging with older guys, and had no recollection of me. (And that’s OK, I was a bit of a dweeb.) I came out right and said it: I’d had a massive crush on her when we were kids.

We then start walking hand in hand. The sexual tension was palpable at this point, but lunch time was approaching and we had miles to walk. My conscious mind was drawn to the soft sensation of her hand in mine, her fingers intermittently intertwining themselves with mine. She would occasionally draw my hand up and hold it with the two of hers.

She was into me now, smiling and flighting slightly. We arrived back at my truck and I offer her a hug before we get in. She accepts, leaning into my chest. I lean forward and down, nuzzling my face against the side of her neck, feeling the divine softness of her skin, feeling the texture of the tendons underneath.

I brush my fingers gently along the nape of her neck and she pulls her upper body away, her hips still pressed into me, and looks me in the eye. My hand moves up to the back of her head, gently fondling her scalp, and pull her in for a kiss – a brief, passionate, slow kiss. Her lips were full and most, her tongue pressing into my mouth hungrily.

I break the kiss, quite aroused but truly quite gunshy about getting too physically involved too quickly. I’d had several months directly following my divorce where I resorted to quick and easy whoring, and it didn’t do good things for me emotionally. While I didn’t have ND or ED issues, I hadn’t even ejaculated yet since the divorce. It was something inside me that was shut off due to a lack of connection. I didn’t want to ruin this possibility of a relationship with a casual fling.

We drove back into the city and stopped for lunch. I don’t remember where, but that detail is unimportant. While we were eating, she said that she had nothing else planned for the day. I invited her back to my place to watch a movie or two on Netflix and take it casual – the afternoon was getting warm, and we’d already been exerting ourselves for 4 hours at this point.

She agreed that my justification had merit. We finished lunch and went back to my place to watch movies. This was before “Netflix and Chill” became a thing – or, at least, before my awareness of it. If Michelle had ulterior motives at this point, I was oblivious to it.

As we arrived at my place, my housemate Jane was just leaving. I’d told my housemate about her, the conversations we’d had and showed her the small thumbnail picture I had. Jane wanted to talk to me for a second, so I told Michelle to go in and make herself at home. Standing on the porch, Jane raised her eyebrows quizzically. “She’s a lot prettier than I thought she would be! I’ll hang out with my girls until tonight, let me know if I need to find somewhere to be later.” I told her that wouldn’t be necessary, and she said as she left with a smirk, “Sure, keep telling yourself that. You’re out of your league.”

*fuckery starts here*
I have no idea what we’d watched. A show, a movie? It didn’t matter. I guess that’s where “Netflix and Chill” came from, back when their content was not very good: we don’t care what we watch, as long as we get fucked.

We sat for maybe 20 minutes watching whatever it was, my hand on her inner thigh, her hand on mine. She started to lean in, putting one leg across mine, and nuzzled into me. God, she smelled fantastic.

I turn to her, her eyes looking up at me, and I kiss her. Again, it was deep, slow, and passionate. We continue kissing like this for another good long while, like awkward teenagers, until she sits up and straddles me on the couch. We continue to make out, fully clothed. My hands sat initially on her hips, pulling her gently yet firmly into me. They started to roam over her stomach, sides, and back – on the outside of her clothes.

I could feel her warmth through our pants, her pelvis pressing hard against my quite erect penis. I’ve always ‘excited’ quickly, somewhere close in size to the classic Snickers King Size, and I’m a grower not a shower – so I’m sure she noticed.

I was extremely nervous that I’d kill a good thing by trying too push to hard, too fast. I really wanted her, I wanted to have more than a disconnected hookup. I needed the emotional connection. But, I also really wanted to respect her strongly adamant insistence that sex wasn’t going to happen. (Unlike most women who say that, I actually believed her at the time. I mean, she was married to a missionary, for the sake of fuck.)

But I couldn’t help myself.

I slid my hands under her shirt, slowly sliding them up the length of her lithe spine, and then gently down her sides, only my fingers touching. She didn’t protest, or give much of an indication one way or the other, but she was clearly already enjoying herself, so I kept going. I started using more pressure, grabbing at her, and then rested one hand at the clasp of her bra. I hesitated, unsure if I should continue. This felt like high school again, my first time. I started to, slowly, tease and fumble with the clasp.

She pulled out of our kissing embrace, leaning back, looking me coyly in the eye. This was it, and I’d blown it – too much, too fast.

But she didn’t remove my hands. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around my head. “What’re you waiting for?” she whispered, giggling slightly as her full lips brushed my ear.

In the moment, I couldn’t have been sure if her shirt or her bra came off first. It was kind of a two-for-one. She sat in my lap for a moment as I touched and admired her breasts. They were the nicest pair I’d felt up until that point: firm, symmetrical, small B cups with proportionate nipples, and the softest skin I’ve ever touched. She’d clearly not been outdoors much in the past while, as her entire frontside was extremely fair with no tan lines in sight. Not a blemish or mole marred her skin except a small dove tattoo above her right hip; not a sign of childbirth scars or stretch marks to be seen.

I worshiped her breasts for some minutes, fondling, kissing, slurping, fondling her neck and sides with my hands as I did so. It was July and even in the warm air of the room I could feel the goosebumps on her sides, complementing the slightly salty taste of her impeccably smooth cleavage.

I could feel not only her warmth through both our clothes, but I could feel her moistness soaking through as she grinded against my cock. Her breathing became unsteady and I could smell the dry mouth excitement of a person driven to animal instinct with lust as she kissed me.

It’d been most of a year since I’d had a willing sexual partner who I was also interested in more than superficially. The possibility of a real connection, of a meaningful relationship with a women who was, physically, a legitimate 10, blew my mind. But perhaps I was getting ahead of myself with this rebound.

Through her moans and purrs she eventually said, breathlessly in a half whisper, “Fuck me.” We were still fully clothed from the waist down, and I ignored her. A little louder, she said again, “Fuck me”. I just stopped what I was doing and looked at her for a moment. “You’re going to have to speak up.” Her green eyes stared at me with pleading. “Please, I need you to fuck me.”

I picked her up and set her down in front of me, pulling her pants off in a swift move. I tried standing but she pushed me back into the couch, climbed on top, and fought with my belt and buckle as she leaned in to kiss me passionately. I held her hands aside as I helped her, finally working myself free.

She stopped, briefly, and looked at my cock. She held it gently, waited a beat, and looked up into my eyes. Then she did something I’ve never experienced otherwise. While still straddling my legs on the couch, she backed up slightly and, in a single movement went from sitting upright to burying her face in my crotch, my dick entirely inside of her. If I wasn’t so shocked I’d have not lasted long at all like that; her eyes were watering as they looked up at me, and her throat spasmed as she fought her gag reflex.

I had to pull her off or it’d have been over, bringing her face back up to my lips. She reached down and positioned me before she, somewhat forcefully, started pushing me into her. She was soaking wet and was dripping all over the couch and, I’d later find, the floor, but I could still tell it’d been a while since she’d been fucked – she was tight, and I could feel the opening of her pussy slide over the glands of my dick.

I felt her body soften as she melted into me, tilting her hips forward to sink as much of my dick into her. She pressed her still clothed chest into me, her arms wrapped around my head, as she slowly and forcefully humped me.

I picked her up and spun her around, setting her down on her back on the couch, her legs spread eagle in the air. As I pulled her shirt off, stripping her like a banana, I realized that she wasn’t just wet. She’d soaked all the way through her clothes, leaving a wet spot on me the size of my hand. No wonder I could smell her moistness as we had necked. The fantasies of my youth fueled my lust and I could feel my cock throbbing in my pants.

I dropped my pants and leaned over her, her legs hungrily wrapping themselves around me. Between how wet she was and how hard I was, we skipped any more foreplay and I plunged into her – and a plunge it was, suction and all. Despite how quickly I entered her, she was incredibly tight and her pussy gripped me like a squirrel grips a birdfeeder in a winter wind storm.

The rest of the day is a blur. We fucked for hours, and she came numerous times – that much I remember. But I was pretty shut down emotionally from the divorce and, while I’d always had stamina and never had a problem with staying hard, I’d had a new problem since the divorce: I couldn’t come while having sex. Even with several hook ups and “well reciprocated” evenings, I was left wanting.

I had some strong feelings for her, first date or no, and I could’ve sworn I heard her muttering sentiments of affection as I thrust into her until our pelvises pressed against each other forcefully. She wasn’t particularly verbal, but she was affectionate.

But I don’t remember much of the specifics from my point of view while actually making love. I was still pretty shut down and, ultimately, didn’t come that first time.

The day was entering dusk as she left. I hated watching her walk to her car. I remember watching her walk from my porch to her car, a definite additional sway to her hips which said, “I’ve just been nicely fucked”.

Let me know if it’s worth writing up part 2.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/a2ku39/teenage_fantasy_girl_found_later_in_life_mf