Thursday, December 18, 2008


Written by Blue Train (January 2001)

When I came inside her, it felt way beyond the pure pleasure and the feeling of seminal release; it felt as if I was flying.

Before I continue, I want to warn you that this isn't a quick masturbatory fix; look elsewhere for that. There're plenty of good, quickie stories on this site. Also, I want to establish that this is a true story. No names have been changed, no locations switched, no details added or deleted or enhanced. It's a story of me losing my virginity to a wonderful, caring, thoughtful, and more-than-slightly schizophrenic English girl. It's a story that gradually unfolds into a series of climaxes, most of them mine, then ends with a trip to Egypt. It's a story of two cultures meeting and experiencing….

Okay, enough of that bullshit, let's move on. Apologies for the coitus interruptus there, but before I resume orgasm, a little background is necessary.

I was nineteen and had decided to escape to England for a year to go to school, check out the culture, get away from American culture, and to date English chicks. Why the English chick fetish? I don't know. But it had been something that had been with me since I was a kid. You know, reading all those British novels and hearing the accents and all that. I guess I was being pretty ignorant in assuming English girls were the standard of romantic success, but I really didn't care. I wanted to explore them and find amazing differences between them and the American girls I was used to.

Not as if I was really used to a lot of American girls. I was nineteen. I was a virgin. It's a status that fits more American guys than care to admit it. It wasn't as if I couldn't have gotten laid. I can count no less than seven girls, starting from when I was fourteen, who offered themselves to me in one way or another. Did I take them up? No. Not even for a hand job. Pretty beat, I know. I thought I was being chivalrous and understanding and a "good friend." You know — that guy who always has a lot of female friends who feel as if they can "talk" with him and that he'll understand their feelings and give them good advice. I was that 80's emasculated male, the "gentle friend" with a "touch of grace" that Neil Peart writes about. I erroneously thought that this personality would lead to girls falling in love with my soul and bedding me. It didn't. Except for the seven aforementioned, girls saw me, as one put it, "a chick with a penis."

Great. Happy reputation. So high school went by with only a few bouts of petting, and college rolled in and offered nothing at all. Did I mention my awkward shyness, lack of social glibness, and a habit of being friends with guys who usually overshadowed me when it came to women? Anyway, I banked on my non-existent exotic American allure and enrolled at Loughborough University in the English Midlands.

Over the course of that year, at least three more women wanted to sleep with me. I was either,

too shy and afraid to take them up on it
too awkward to take the next step, or
too dumb to realize what they were doing.
So May rolled around and I was getting ready to head off to Egypt for a job there. It was my last night in England and I packed up my stuff in my flat and headed out with a few Irish and Greek friends (great combo, by the way, when it comes to drinking) to the Swan in the Rushes pub for a last drink.

And that's where I saw Lisa.

But not for the first time that year. You see, Lisa was part of the drama department and so I actually saw her quite often, since the English and drama departments worked together a bit. So I had passed her in the halls and on the small campus and once, for a blessed few hours, had sat near her on a motor coach that was taking us down to Stratford. "Near" being some four or five rows back, but it was close enough. I was in love with this girl. She was intelligent, witty, and, of course, beautiful in a classically English way. Medium height, slim; long, flowing blond hair, like Princess Buttercup in The Princess Bride, deep, blue eyes. Her voice was light and airy and when she laughed it was aural radiance. I was head over heels and had been for months.

"Lisa, I think you're what I've been dreaming about for years. Can I buy you a drink?" I didn't say as my friends and I grabbed a table next to where she and a few other drama department members were sitting. Instead, I nursed my Guinesses and spent the next hour or so getting pissed and toasting my friends and attempting to throw darts and not hit the paneling or bartender. I kept my eye on Lisa and as people shifted around and seats changed, I ended up sitting next to her. I tried to get noticed. It didn't work. Finally I had to play my trump card. "It's my last night in England," I said to her during a break in the conversation. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She peered at me over her glass of lime-water (important detail: when she later slept with me, she wasn't drunk!). "Shouldn't I buy you one if it's your last night?" she said.

But I insisted, and bought her another lime- water (and a round for the table as well — earlier that evening I had discovered several twenty pound notes I had stashed away in my drawer back at the beginning of the year) and when she took a drink I said, "You have the smallest hands." It was true; she had tiny hands, like a child's. No, this isn't some Freudian pedophilic fetish of mine. It was just something I noticed and, not being the Rico Suave of conversation, I tried it as an opening gambit.

It worked. Somehow we ended up in conversation, talking about mutual friends, shared enemies, the departments, and other forgettable things, and I kept pinching myself (figuratively) because I was talking with her, actually talking with her, and she seemed to be enjoying it. When she told me she was half-Welsh, I was in higher heaven. I mean, I had grown up with "Rhiannon" and all that, and here was this Welsh goddess, even dressed in diaphanous black gauzy things.

(A side note: anyone who grew up playing Dungeons and Dragons or who's read Tolkien to any extent will know what I'm talking about when I say that if you outfitted Lisa in chain mail and leather boots, and gave her, say, a crossbow or a short dagger, and some sort of amulet thingie hanging around her neck, then she could have stepped out of the symbolic darkness of some elfin forest, a fantasy-realm wet dream. She even had these slightly pointy elf ears.)

So we talked and she laughed at my cheesy jokes and drank more lime water and I finished what seemed like my twentieth pint and all too soon the bartender bellowed out last call and I found myself out on the sidewalk with my friends and Lisa and a few of her gang. "Would you like to come by my place to talk some more?" she asked. Wait! Hadn't I heard this before? When a girl asked you to come by her place — late at night — to talk some, didn't it mean that she wanted to do more than talk? I hoped.

She gave me directions, then vanished into the squalid Loughborough night and I walked my friends back to their flats and had a last few drinks and then staggered my way to Lisa's flat. "Come in through the backdoor," she had told me, "because my flatmates will probably be asleep." Jim Morrison was intoning "Backdoor Man" in my mind as I knocked softly on the heavy wooden door, and I wasn't to learn until later that she wanted me to come in through the back door because she didn't want her flatmates to tell her fiancé that another guy was seeing her late at night. How odd.

She let me in and we crept through the dark hallway to the lambent glow of her room, lit with candles and a luminous moon on the ceiling. She had Bob Dylan playing on her stereo, but I felt as if I could ignore him for the time being. She offered tea and went off to the kitchen to make it and I sat on the rug on the floor and looked through her books. I'd like to say that I wanted to get to know her better — and I did — but I also knew I was probably getting laid tonight and you can't really blame me for not wholly paying attention to her reading material. Instead, I leaned back and when she arrived with two cups of tea (for some reason I could never find English Breakfast tea in England…), I concentrated on making good, forward conversation.

Okay. I know what you're thinking. Typical Bluetrain bore. Two pages have gone by and there isn't even any sex yet. I know. I tried starting with something like, "I had been drooling over this British chick the whole time I was in England, and when she told me to come to her place, I knew it was my lucky day. After a few bottles of wine, we started kissing. Then before I knew it, she had her hand on my throbbing meat stick and my hand was sliding down her stomach and unbuttoning her pants, searching for that golden honey pot. Tossing her wine glass away, she unzipped me, pulled my 14 inch ramrod free, and started licking my railroad engine-size shaft." But I wasn't happy with it. I mean, events like that did happen, but I had to set things up first. Things start happening soon. Trust me.

We finished our tea and Lisa produced a bottle of red wine from a drawer and we started drinking that, classily using our teacups so that stray flakes of tea lea swirled in red oceans. I drank; she demurely sipped hers. "I've liked you all year," I boldly told her, my heart burning.

"And I, you," she replied. She said it just like that: "And I, you," like something out of Ivanhoe. She put her cup down and hesitantly said, "I want to touch you." This was it; I couldn't turn back, nor could I pop off some smart-ass remark to defuse the situation. I had to carry on, to sally forth into my dream. I took her hand and she drew me close and we kissed. What should I do with my other hand? Did she really want to touch me? Or simply to touch me?

I think part of the reason I hadn't gotten laid before was because I analyzed shit too much

I sought and found her tongue and tasted the dark red wine, tasted her own taste. And as we kissed, we clumsily undressed each other, searching for and finding buttons, zippers, clasps. Peeling away sweaters, shirts, pants. The problem with sex in England is that it's cold most of the time. Accordingly, one wears layers of clothing, which, in this case, added slapstick to what should have been romantic and dramatic. We didn't talk, not then. Maybe some smiles, some giggles as a piece of clothing proved particularly perverse in being removed, but the dance was completed in warm and accepting silence and then we were both naked, and still on the carpet. And Dylan was still warbling away. It didn't matter; I had a hard-on the size of Florida and it was finally going to be put to use.

"I'm not really experienced in this," I said as she took my hand and drew me to the bed. I could tell she didn't believe me, but she didn't offer any help, and simply lay there, uncoiled like a cat, arms outstretched above her, legs slightly parted. Her blond pubic hair was light and I could see the delicate pinkness of her lips in the shadow of her thighs. (that sounds like a porn-mystery: "The Shadow of her Thighs"; I might pursue that later.) Her breasts were small, but firm; her hips wide, but not child-birthing, Russian-peasant wide, and her skin was a flawless creamy beige. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to run my tongue up and down that skin, tasting every taste, engulfing every scent of her malleable body. I could literally feel my cock pulse in anticipation of what was, pun fully intended, to come.

Starting at her knees, I ran my tongue up first her right leg, then her left. I paused behind each knee and nibbled and sucked there; I had heard that these were erogenous zones for some women. They were for Lisa. My credibility as a virgin must have quickly deteriorated in her mind as she stretched and arched her back and sighed, if not in pleasure, then in contentment. I felt studly; here I was causing a girl physical pleasure and probably emotional release, and I had only begun what was to be a long night.

Speaking of long knights, my cock was aching for first release, but I couldn't yield to it yet. You see, every story I'd read, every Penthouse forum, every girl I'd talked with, has somehow hinted or overtly stated that a man had to last as long as possible, and that the worst experiences usually consisted of the man quickly shooting everywhere, then farting and rolling over to sleep. I didn't want to be that man; I wanted Lisa to remember this night, to remember me and what she and I were doing. Was it selfish? Maybe? But show me a prick that isn't.

I moved slowly up her thighs, relishing their silky smooth feel against my tongue, her pussy was inches away and I finally realized this when I saw her soft labia, her delicate, slightly damp, fluttering pussy, like a miniature Georgia O'Keefe painting, anticipating my approach; curly blond pubic hair framing that sensual portal. It was like a beacon drawing me closer and I wanted to taste it like nothing else in my life. So I positioned myself between her thighs and ran my tongue up them until it was dancing around her nest, rasping against her hairs, sliding along her lips. Was that her clit? That small pink button peeking out from beneath its hood, a coral pink, nectar-rich snapdragon? I playfully tapped it with my tongue and Lisa gasped and her hands entwined themselves in my hair.

She tasted, well, like a woman. I know, that's somewhat of a cliché, but it seems accurate. It was my first taste and it wasn't unpleasant, wasn't repelling. It was a gentle, yet powerful taste, like a strong, lazy ocean swell. It was a new, yet familiar taste. It was intoxicating, musky, slightly sweaty, enervating. It was raw, natural, primal. It made me savage, lusty, and I wanted more of it. I surrounded her clit with my lips and let my tongue massage it, al the while breathing in her evermore powerful scent. Her hands twirled and rubbed across and through my hair and she drew me inward; I followed, slowly moving my tongue down from her clit and nibbling along first one fluted pussy lip, then the other, then back again.

By this time, Lisa was lost in her own physical rapture. Her moans and breathing were quick and steady, and she started to thrust up against my face with her hips. I knew what she wanted, what we both wanted, and I thrust my tongue as deep as it could go and held it there for a brief while before plunging it in and out of her now thoroughly wet cunt. Then she was pulling me up on top of her and our crotches meshed, her hair tantalizingly chaffing my aching cock, her arms around my neck, her blue eyes gazing up at me with half lust, half sadness, and half wonder (yes, I know there aren't three halves, but screw it). Shit! She wanted me to screw her. "I…I don't know quite how to do…" I stammered, then her hand was reaching down between our naked, sweaty bodies and guiding me into her, all the way into her, and instinct took over. I know that sounds clichéd, but it was true. I instinctively thrust my hips forward and up and buried myself to the hilt in her welcoming and wet cunt. She closed her eyes, let her arms lay above her head on the dimly lit pillow, and moved with me as I thrust into her.

It was an incredible feeling. I drew back until only my cockhead was still within her, then thrust forward until my balls brushed her ass. The warmth, the wetness, the feeling of flesh parting, then enveloping me, tugging me, luring me inside. I had sudden images of mossy, dark, moist caverns; tunnels with pink trains flashing into them. The friction of our stomachs was warm and oily and I braced myself on my elbows and kissed Lisa deeply, my tongue entwining with hers as I buried myself again inside her.

Ever analytical and self-conscious, I wondered at how long I had lasted without coming. I mean, for a first time, I was lasting pretty long; Dylan had just finished "A Hard Rains A'gonna Fall," and I knew that song went on for an egregious amount of time. But I didn't feel like I was holding back; the novelty was too powerful — until Lisa raised her legs from alongside me and tightly wrapped them around my waist.

That did it. The image of her crotch wide open to my thrustings, my wet balls openly banging back and forth against her damp ass, my thickening cock buried like some primeval tree root in her cavern, seeking its deepest entry; the thought of her wanting more penetration, more of me (yes, this is self-absorbed, but deal with it), more pleasure from me; and the feel of her hands now brushing madly across my back and through my hair, all combined to set me loose. I felt that familiar tightening in my balls as my sperm gathered. She could sense it, too.

"I'm coming…"

"Give it to me…"

"Oh, Jesus…"


I was flying through the air, just like Freud wrote about. My cock buried as far as it could go in her, her legs like a vise around me, our lips locked together and eyes pouring our temporary souls into each other, I squirted what felt like my biggest load ever as deep into her womb as possible. In four or five great spurts I emptied myself, coating her walls with seed, each thrust and spurt delivered as deeply as I could. And of course, it was a completely different pleasure than masturbation could offer; it was complete, encompassing, whole. I felt awash in sperm, her juice, and sweat, and I was loathe to leave her even as we lay there, my weight on her frail body, our breaths coming quickly, our skin shiny in candlelight.

And, damnit, Dylan was still yodeling away; the tape player must have been set on continuous loop.

She reached up and wiped a trickle of sweat from my nose. "You lied to me," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"You said you had never done this before."

Was my ego out to there or what? Actually, it wasn't; I wasn't thinking of that as a compliment, only of reassuring her that she had helped me become a good lover, at least, for that night. So I rolled off her and we lay there, side by side, and I don't remember what exactly we said, only that eventually we dozed off. But not for long. I awoke perhaps a half-hour later to find her curled up on her side, gazing at me, and I was suddenly hard again, rock hard, and the only thing to do was to tongue a salty trail down her body.

Her breasts were islands in a salty sea, and I lingered at them, mouthing each one, taking the nipple in, gently biting it, then journeying in ever-widening circles around it to the base, traversing the narrow strait to the other breast and repeating my journey there. I had never tasted a woman's breasts before and I was drawn to them, found them comforting like every man must in an ancient and undeniably instinctive way.

Again, her hands were lightly stroking my hair as I moved my way down to her flat and taught stomach, where I could lay my head and gaze up at her eyes and breasts and hear her blood moving. Her crotch was damp and her hair matted with our juices and I could smell us: earthy, full, opalescent odors of sperm and excited pussy, of woman and man in heat, and when I touched her thighs, she opened them in ready invitation and there again was her beautiful cunt, wet and flushed crimson except for a trickle of my own sperm leaking out and running down her curved ass and onto the dimly rumpled sheet.

My God, was that a turn on! Here was my sperm leaking out from inside the girl I had lusted after for who knows how long, and she had willingly and eagerly drawn it there. I had read how the thought of tasting their own semen turned many guys off but, innocent that I was, I was under no such inhibition. I gently nuzzled her awaiting labia, cleaning them off and tasting our union: her musky, earthen flavor, and my tangy and slightly bitter essence, like dandelion milk.

Lisa was apparently as turned on as I was, for I had only been licking up and down her damp thighs teasingly nibbling her clit when I felt her pussy spasming beneath my tongue — like it was thrusting out and expanding and contracting. She gave a soft, high pitched cry and I felt and saw her stomach muscles tense up, and then her hands were pulling my head into the welcoming sexual darkness of her crotch and she was coming, thrusting her cunt into my face and sucking my tongue up her crack until my lips were kissing her own. She shook and moaned and cried out, oblivious to her flat mates, and pressed me tightly and I wanted to drown there, in that bittersweet liquid release, and I lingered between her thighs long after her tremors subsided, before mounting her once again.

I was nineteen, in the midst of my first sexual experience, and with a willing and eager and simply beautiful woman. Damn right I was rock-hard again! I know it's a cliché: guys blows wad; is miraculously hard within five minutes — repeat as often as needed. But it was true this time and we fucked again, my cock spearing and parting her cunt, her hips thrusting up against mine, meeting every stroke and holding it there until we once again engaged in a mirrored rhythm of sexual movement. Then, in the midst of a deep, probing kiss, Lisa, still firmly impaled on my shiny shaft, suddenly rolled me over onto my back and, placing her hands on my chest, rode me like a living allusion to Lady Godiva.

"Jesus, that feels good," I gasped. It did, too. Her weight and angle made her that much tighter and I found I could reach behind her and cup her ass in both hands and control her movements that way. I could also feel the wet, living union of our sexes, and the piston-like movement of my cock pumping in and out of her hairy and lubricated crotch. It was bliss. It was pure sexual ecstasy. It was free-form passion - -her lips on mine, her cunt enveloping my cock, her breasts brushing my chest as she bent over to kiss me, her long, blond hair cascading and rippling onto and around my face like a shimmering, living waterfall of scent and silk. It was only a matter of time before all these feelings combined to bring me over the edge once again.

For the second time I thrust as deep into her as I could, pressing her down on my cock as it buried itself in her. My balls tightened, contracted, raised, and emptied. My semen coursed through my cock from root to tip and exploded out in great white, viscous sprays, coating her walls again. My cock spasmed, contracted, and spasmed again, emptying its load in a staccato symphony of release and sensation. I felt as if my spine and soul were being jerked out through my cock, to be shot deep in Lisa's welcoming womb. The pleasure was intense, like camping, and only increased when Lisa suddenly tightened in my arms. Her nails raked through my hair and she buried her face in my neck, muffling her cries of passion and pleasure as she came on and with me. For a few seconds, we were one sexual creature. Melded and molded, in tune with each other as only two lovers in synchronous passion can be.

We subsided, sweated, panted, weakly kissed. After a length of time immeasurable, my cock softened enough so that she could remove herself from me without too much pleasure/pain. My cock was red, pulsing, and coated with a mixture of sperm and her juices. As she moved over me to once again cuddle at my side, sperm dripped from her swollen pussy, landing on my legs, thighs, chest. She silently licked up each drop, her tongue suddenly rough and cool against my damp skin. We lay akimbo, rumpled sheets, Dylan thankfully having exhausted himself some time before, limbs entwined. We dozed. The room was a little brighter; like another cliché, we had made love ‘til the break of dawn.

We even made love again, but this time without completion. My pump was working, but the well was dry, and she and I laughed. And then it was time to leave, to quietly walk out the back door, and back to my flat and then onto a train to catch my ferry to Dublin and from there to Cairo, whence I would return four months later to find Lisa shacked up with her fiancée and understandably, yet depressingly, cool towards me and my immature plans of us traveling the Lake District.

And so I returned to the States, back to what would become a staid college life bereft, for the most part, of the exotic and fey encounters like Lisa. Until I met my wife.

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