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This is my first time, please be gentle.
I am weak. Mentally and physically weak. I wish I had the capability to will myself to leave, to tell him what I really think of him, what I know he thinks of me, and leave with my dignity.

I'm usually stronger than this.

Far stronger.

I can't fight it, not with the hold he has on me sexually.

My entire body is limp, rising and falling with the thrust of his two fingers inside me.

He kisses me, with the strongest passion, as if his lips were to melt with mine.

He moves his lips down my neck, along my collarbone, to my breasts, my navel, and gently forms his lips around my clit, sucking relentlessly, letting it build up again.

I cum around his fingers for the third time.

It's like he gets off by watching me fall apart in his hands, waits for me to cum until I beg for him to enter me, to fill the void, because fingers can only do so much.

His do enough as it is.

"Please." I mewl.

"What?" He asks sarcastically, looking up at me and digging a third finger deeper inside. "I couldn't hear you. I'm swimming in the Pacific right now." He sucks on my clit again. "It's soaking wet out here."


He moves his mouth to my neck and probes his other head at my entrance, I guide my hips up, knowing it won't make a difference, he'll take his time, whether it be an hour or a minute from now, he'll wait to give me what I want, so that he can hear me beg. He slowly guides himself into me, and slowly begins to thrust.

I won't lie to make it all the more sensual; he's not exceptionally large. Nonetheless, I cry out as if I've been impaled by at least 10 inches. The way my walls stretched to accommodate him felt different every time.

He always keeps me waiting so long.

"Better?" His blue eyes smoldering into mine.

I dig my nails into his buttocks, urging him to go faster, but he grabs my hands, placing them above my head and rolling his hips so I can feel all of him. His entire body is hard; his abs and pectorals grind against me, his thighs forcing mine further apart.

I kiss him, and bite his lip.

He speeds up.

"Why don't you ever tell me what you want? You're usually so talkative," he says as he moves one hand down to massage my clit and the other to hold both of my hands.

"You never listen to me anyway." I pant, feeling it all build up, the familiar tower of pleasure.

"I'm sorry baby, I'll do better." He rolls his hips again, and it all tumbles down.

I kiss him as hard as I can in my trembling state. He smiles against my mouth and keeps
going. For 17, he really knows what he's doing. He makes me feel like I know what I'm doing, like I'm more than a inexperienced high school girl with more than just masturbating to compare this to.

"I believe you." I sigh, and kiss his neck.

I feel his warmth fill the condom between us; sometimes I wish it wasn't there. just to know what it would feel like to be that connected.

I'll never tell him that.


It's 2:56 in the afternoon, and my art teacher is droning on about the magical capability a line has to create anything.

It's interesting, really.

The bell rings, the herd files out, and I'm wandering the hallway with my friends in a sea of highly perfumed teenagers.

I see him, in his football jersey, with a few cheerleaders and other people I know.

We merely brush, neither giving the other a sideways glance.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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