Emily Wang was an inordinately horny 20-year-old virgin woman.

She hadn't been kissed once.

What she had was a pantheon of secret crushes attended by legions of auxiliary cuties who occupied her daydreams every day.

She masturbated in bed before sleeping, and she'd wake up from a sex dream to masturbate at dawn.

She had fingered herself so much that she had become a bit superstitious; someone could tell just by looking at her or seeing her hands too closely, so she would sometimes hide them in her lap or long sleeves.

She had eyed and handled countless phallic-shaped objects for their potential to penetrate herself with, and made use of a few. She kept a ribbed, gel-handle hairbrush with its 4.5 inches of insertable length in her desk drawer like a precious possession. It had sent her to heaven dozens of times.

She would stand naked in her full-length closet sliding door mirror and take selfies from all angles she could contort herself into. Sometimes she was amazed at how beautiful she perceived herself to be, and other times the total opposite; she tearfully hated the ugliness she found in her physical form. "Why-why-why am I built like that and what is up with my face... oh my Gooood!"

She would scroll social media, in the dark, scanning the hot models and celebrities. When female, she noted what the men in the comments said, learning what they liked and didn't like about what they saw. When enjoying the male singers, actors, athletes, and influencers... she'd inevitably finger herself... or bust out the hairbrush.

Walking her college campus, having coffee in the cafes there about, and sitting in her classes behind and beside the occasional list-worthy boy, she mentally photo-captured the handsome students and professors. List-worthy? Is it so strange that she had a note in her phone that listed their names and accompanying details, not in a creepy way, but because she wanted to remember and think about them later. Just reading the name "Econ Prof Estevez" or "Baseball jock Kevin P." was enough to summon them in her imagination and make them enact her fantasies; getting taken in his office during a one-on-one study session or shyly entering the team shower to find the promising pitcher wet, soapy, ripped and erect.

And yet, incredibly, Emily remained a virgin. She could only imagine that baseball boy's dick at all because she had a search engine, and she had never seen one not-on-a-screen. She was terrified of her academic-worshiping mother and father finding out she had a boyfriend, and as a result she had no boyfriend. She felt with a burn that this was dysfunctional, unnatural, irrational, and fucked up, but she didn't dare say it. And while she had been hit on and asked out by boys, with what little social life she had, she never found them attractive enough to be receptive and risk it.

It often occurred to her she'd not been intimately touched by a human male. She had been raised in a Western society that regarded adult female virgins as unicorns, yet here she was. And it saddened her. She felt pathetic when she caught herself relishing the one time a cute guy's hand landed on her. She was turning the corner in a rush to her class when she collided with a TA she barely knew. He caught her to keep her from falling flat on her face, placing his hand on her abdomen and his opposite wrist under her armpit, in an instant, apologized, asked if she was OK, and proceeded on. In that second she felt the breadth of his hand across her belly, a fortuitous fingertip enter her navel, and his hairy wrist pressed against her side-boob. She churned the memory of that sensation in her head, replaying it, the warmth of his body, the sound and resonance of his voice, how it was like being embraced by a man, and she wished painfully he had taken her right there, clothes torn away and all. The yearning was enough to make her squeal and mess her hair, beating her fist into her backpack or pillow or her own chest.

Then out of the blue a guy happened. Out of the blue? Maybe not exactly. She had enough, really. Or rather, he happened because she stopped waiting for it to happen and actually did something for once.

He wasn't on her list.

He didn't ask her out or flirt with her.

Emily encountered a young man she'd never seen before. She spotted him eating by himself at the food hall. He looked at her, she looked at him, and somehow she didn't break her gaze. And then Emily made the move.

What moved her to make her move, in that interaction, was three-part.

He looked so good.

She woke up hornier than usual, and she woke up too late to spend time taking care of that herself.

She had seen one too many happy girls with their boyfriends on the train, in the library, in the restaurant, and in her face everywhere she turned that day.

So Emily overcame any reservations and asked him straight and clear, "Hi. My name is Emily. I think you saw me checking you out, right? I'd like to link with you. What's your name?"

He cleared his mouth of chewed ham sandwich, introduced himself, agreed, and for some days they chatted over the app they linked with, until he had a night off and took her out. He told Emily that he was graduating soon but wouldn't return to his hometown. He told Emily that he and his girlfriend were on a break, which was increasingly clear to him was her way of breaking up but keeping him on standby in case she wanted him back. And he told Emily that he found her interesting, attractive, and impressive given she was the first time a girl asked him out.

Emily told him she didn't know what to tell him, that she was a virgin who hadn't been on a date before. That got a big laugh from him, to which she assured him she wasn't joking. He asked if she was looking to "get laid ASAP", and turning deep red, she nodded.

They went back to his apartment. She looked around his place, then sat at the foot of his bed. He sat beside her, as she remained facing forward, hands on her lap, hiding her fingers.

From behind, he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently laid her down. She could smell him in his sheets, and moving her hair from her face, he leaned over and kissed her.

She felt her body light up. Her heart kicked hard. Her mouth fell open, and she didn't blink.

She thought to use her hands, but she was unsure how. She thought to spread her legs and dry hump him, but she wondered if that would be wrong. Instead she lay still and stiff, so much that her limbs and face tingled like they were going numb.

His hands joined together under her head, scooping it up like a plant from soil, and he pressed his tongue between her teeth. The bed began to spin, the ceiling and its smoke detector ascended as the floor sank. Was she going to pass out, she worried, like was she going to lose consciousness? She willed herself to move, and did the only physically intimate thing she knew how to do. She hugged him, arms around his back, and pulled him tight against her breasts. He was able to wriggle and rock around in undressing her, and she was relieved to think if she held him like this she could be naked without him getting full sight of her exposed body. Eye-to-eye was better for now.

His two fingers entered her with such ease, and he hooked them against her G-spot. Self-consciously, she wished to ask him if he liked the touch of her private parts, if it was to his liking, but how awkward that would sound. Instead, but for her breathing, she was quiet and allowed herself to simply feel the reception of his probing, stroking fingers inside below.

And then the moment she both starved for and feared came. With his thick arm between them and taking hold of himself, he nudged and pressed the head of his cock into her entrance. And there it was, she thought; it was finally happening. Right now she was being penetrated by a man, his penis, his manhood, sliding into her... and so he slid all the way, on the second stroke pushing himself until their soft, hairy pubic pads met and she knew the fullness, the depth, the stretch. Wonderful.

With that, she no longer second-guessed her movements; she grabbed and caressed him at will. A man's body, she thought, had so many places to explore. As he flexed and plowed atop her, she hooked her ankles around his, she ran her fingers up and down his back, wide shoulders to working ass mounds, and then she buried her face in his hair, inhaling deep, the aroma of him, his sweat, his everything.

And then he tightened, grunted, and pressed his groin so forcefully against hers that it was almost funny. His face scrunched up, reddened, and he mumbled: "I love you, I love.. urmmmmm-mmm- aaah!"

He pulled from her, and she felt the cool air of the room meet all the sticky wetness that had been spread and smeared between her labia, thighs, and under-cheeks.

"Did you finish?" she asked, vocally disappointed it was over just as it had begun.

"Yeah. Yeah." His eyes rolled back in the after-pleasure of his ejaculation.

She sat up on her elbows and eyed herself; she expected to see semen and saw none. Was it all... inside her? Yes.

"Did you, um, did you finish-finish?" She was unsure how to ask exactly what she meant.

He lay beside her and began twirling her hair in his fingers. She put her arm across his chest, and he kissed her hand, first the back and then her palm. His stubble prickled between her fingers. Putting her lips to his ear, she asked, "Can we do it again?"

He laughed a moment, pulled her onto himself so that now it was she atop him, cowgirl. "We can. Do you want to do it again?"

"I have to. I really have to."