In all my stories, she is there. The Redhead girl, with her pale skin, her nose covered with freckles, her round cheeks, her heavy breasts. She is in all these fantasies of mine, as she endures my dirtiest vices, or she dominates me with the harshest strikes, as I grab my dick with frenzy, trying to squeeze out some sticky drops of despair. Those dreams are full of my wildest desires, but also full of *what if*s, those situations where I had always hoped to have gone a little bit crazy, to have *dared*… But I was too shy, too young.
I was young, and so was she; she was my first love, and in a time when I was not completely thinking about sexuality, she dragged me into it by shoving my hand into her knickers, and pushing hers down my pants, around my dick. I took her virginity as she took mine, as Sting was regretting shimmering *Fields of Gold*. She must have got bored with me, she abandoned me a couple of years later, just like she had drawn me into her bed: like the wild fire that she was.