She’s young. Too young for me, by a far sight.
She learned to suffer through awkward, invasive, sexualized leers in elementary school, when her breasts first budded, reaching D cups before her first day of 6th grade.
Today, her caramel-colored DDD cup breasts draw less attention, I imagine, than her radiant smile, her bright white teeth. Or her kinky, curly, long hair.
It was less than half an hour after our first laying eyes on one another that I was her first experience of period sex. We stained the sheets with her blood. My mouth ran with it. My fingers dripped with it.
I don’t know if she came. I couldn’t tell, and for some reason, didn’t ask. (I often am shy about asking the first time I’m with someone. Something to ponder….) I know her thighs quivered, her torso twisted, her cunt contracted around three of my fingers as a thumb plumbed her ass, as my hand pressed hard on her pubis, my tongue pressing on her clit.
I know that, as she rode me, my hands propelling her back and forth first by her hips and then by her throat, she bucked and moaned as if close to orgasm. But I don’t know if she came.
I do know, however, that I did, filling a condom with my cum after uncharacteristically fucking a woman on our first date.
There’s another (set of) question(s) for me. What moved me to fuck her on our first date? What moves me, generally, to delay indefinitely, even to the point of avoiding entirely, the act of fucking?
Who knows? Questions for another day. Today, I gleefully fucked Maid Marian.