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If you skipped Part I, the only tidbit of truth in this tale is I once went camping with a girlfriend and her sister. There is no sister-sister incest or FMF action in either part.
In Part 1, after an intense summer of firsts Claire breaks up with our hero over Christmas break.
LarryInSeattle took a first stab at editing. I changed a few sections after he returned it. Any remaining errors are mine alone.
As always comments are welcome, even negative ones if they are constructive.
Everyone depicted in the story is over 18.
At first I fell back into my be-a-nice-understanding-supportive-guy mode. Underneath that was the more truthful she-was-never-going-to-pick-you insecurity mode.
A went back to school seriously depressed for the first time in my life. Then one night I got pissed. Fuck this. My roommate had gone out with bunch to one of the local watering holes. I shoved everything off my desk, scrounged through my desk for my stash of laundry quarters (I washed my stuff in the bathroom sink the rest of the month) and stomped down to one of the pay phones.
There was a door on the phone booth but there was no way for it to contain my ravings. I had never raised my voice to Claire. I made up for it that night. I told her that just because I didn’t mope around writing hackneyed poems or sending her cassette tapes of myself moaning some bullshit love song to her, it didn’t mean I didn’t love her and if she couldn’t figure that out without needing space “to grow” she wasn’t as smart as I had thought. She was crying by the end and I almost felt bad. I shouted good-bye and hung up.
I went back to my room, stripped off my clothes, and dropped them in a heap by my bed. I flopped on my back and started pounding my dick so hard it hurt my balls. It most have really hurt because I never got hard, never came close to cumming. Instead, I rolled over pressed my face against the wall and fell asleep telling myself I was a total and complete fucking pussy if I cried.
I feel asleep on top of the covers and woke to my roommate asking me what the fuck was going on. A rational person would have understood his confusion. I, a guy who took his underwear off under a wrapped towel before heading to the shower, was lying naked on top of the bed. On top of that, my books, papers, and pens were strewn across the floor. A rational person would have understood his confusion. I on the other hand simply yelled at the top of my lungs.
“What the fuck do you want?? Forget your fucking toothbrush again??”
I had convinced myself, in the time it took me to wake up, that if he hadn’t interrupted us after the Christmas party, Claire wouldn’t have broken up with me. It was a stupid idea. He had no clue what the fuck I was screaming about and simply watched slack jawed as I jerked on my pants and tee shirt and stomped out bare footed. I didn’t get very far. January in Illinois is not bare foot weather. I ended up in the main dorm lounge. I planned to watch TV and sleep out there but all that was on were old horror films. I found myself obsessing over remembering what stupid movie was playing on the TV that night in Claire’s basement. How could I claim to love her if I couldn’t remember what movie was on TV? If it was real love, wouldn’t I remember every single thing about that night?
I turned the TV off but still couldn’t sleep. It was freezing and I didn’t have a blanket.
My roommate, left the door propped open for me. He must have known I didn’t have my key. He didn’t say a word when I skulked back into our room. I climbed under the covers, fully clothed this time, and though I had not expected to, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
The next day, Saturday, I picked up my shit and put it back on my desk. My roommate never asked a single question. Of course, he didn’t need to. By noon, two different guys had trooped down to our room to tell me Claire was on the phone. Both times I told them to tell her I wasn’t in. He didn’t needed to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what was up.
By Sunday I had calmed down enough to write her. I still didn’t want to talk to her. I apologized for yelling and making her cry but not for what I had said. What I had said was the truth, at least as I saw it.
I still have her letters. And my replies. Claire sent to them to me a few years later. If we had dated today the letters would have been text messages. Claire replied to my letter and off we went. It is probably too late for brevity but the Twitter version would look something like this:
Claire to me — “I never wanted to hurt you but I am surprised at your outburst. I’ve never been sure if you really meant the things you said to me. You seemed so self-contained, almost aloof, as if it didn’t matter if I was there or not. It was hard for me to believe you were really be in love with me. I was scared.”
Me to Claire — “You’re scared? Welcome to the fucking world. If you need a badly rhymed poem in order to believe me when I say I love you, you are shit out of Anadolu Yakası Escort luck.”
Claire to, oh fuck it you get the idea, – “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh? Then what did you mean?”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because you dumped me. Think that might have something to do with it?”
“I didn’t dump you. I told you I need time to clear my head.”
“Try Vick’s Vapor Rub, works for me.”
“Why are you being so mean?”
“Because I’m pissed. PS let me save you a stamp. I’m pissed because you dumped me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What do you call ‘I don’t see us having a future together’ then?”
“I said I couldn’t see us having a future together right then, not forever.”
“Way to parse a sentence. I thought you were going to nursing school not law school. Do you have a time frame for how often I should check to see where our future stands? Did you tell Mr. Poetry the same thing? Are you seeing him?”
“No I am not seeing him! Not that that is any of your business. Jerk.”
“Really? Not my business? I tell you I love you, you say it back, you do remember that part don’t you? Then you say you need time to decide if Mr. Poetry is out of your life and that is not any of my business?”
By that point we had corresponded our way through most of February.
“Can you give me a ride home for spring break?”
“Not if you’re still seeing Mr. Poetry. What would be the point Claire?”
“I want to talk to you in person.”
“Let me reiterate, what would be the point Claire? Nothing’s changed.”
“Yes it has. Mike is out of the picture.”
“Mike is out of the picture how? If he’s dumped you I’m not interested in being your conciliation prize.”
“Oh my God you are such a jerk. Forget it. For the record he did not ‘dump’ me. I told him I didn’t love him like I use to and that we could only be friends.”
In the end I couldn’t give her a ride home anyway. I still had finals. Her last weekend of spring break was my first weekend. We had one Saturday before she had to head back to school.
We agreed to meet. We met at her house, hardly neutral ground. It was tense but we managed a couple of laughs despite my anger. We didn’t kiss. When I had to leave the hug was awkward. It was worse than hugging a smelly cheek pinching great aunt.
When she closed the door I did not expect to see her again.
Claire was not as short of funds as I was in those days but she was hardly riding high. She called me at my mom’s three times the week after she got back to school. For those of you born after the payphone era, that is a lot of quarters. I offered to call her instead but she refused.
I scrounged a little extra gas money and was able to detour by Claire’s college on my way back to school. We splurged on a couple of burgers and shakes. We both skipped the onions. We found a quiet spot near the river. It was warm enough for us to lay in the grass and talk. For the first time since Christmas, our words were free of recrimination or accusation.
She was still an unbelievably good kisser. That was all we did. We were starting over. I didn’t try to touch her breasts or between her legs. We kissed, both content to see what happened next.
Reams of paper and several drained Bic roller ball pens is what happened next. I changed my summer plans. I had intended to stay and work on campus, take classes, see if I could finish up in three years. I couldn’t get out of the first session but by the Fourth of July I was home, busy burger flipping, floor moping and spending as much time with Claire as I could.
For some reason we spent less time in Claire’s basement and more time at my house. Claire and my mom settled into reasonably stable orbits around each other. My house was too small for fooling around in unless mom was out, which was rare.
I lived in the sticks. The town had three bars, four churches and a Post Office. That was it. A quarter or mile or so down a gravel road past my house an abandoned farmhouse became our make out spot. The floors were too dusty and dirty to sit on, much less lie down on, but we were young. We could make out standing up. There was something hot about pressing my body into Claire as she leaned against a wall.
I discovered that if I wiggled one leg between hers, Claire would take considerable pleasure in grinding her crotch against my knee. She had her first orgasm that way; I guess I should say she had her first orgasm with me that way. She was comfortable letting me caress her breasts again. She would loosen her bra but, as before, her shirt stayed down.
She wasn’t leaning against the wall that day. I was. My right knee was between her legs, and my foot was braced against the wall. I pulled her toward me with a hand on the small of her back. The other massage her breast underneath her unfastened bra. We were kissing of course, tongues dueling with each other like a couple of Kung Fu masters. She was rubbing herself in circles against my knee as I pressed it up against Bostancı Escort her.
I lightened the pressure of my hand on her breast, grazing her nipple instead of pressing against it. She moaned around my tongue. I stroked the hard nub of her nipple then pushed it into the soft mound of her breast and was rewarded with another moan.
I broke our kiss and pulled my hand from under her shirt. Claire’s eyes snapped open I saw disappointment in her eyes. Seeing that made me feel good. I put my fingers in my mouth and wet them. I didn’t pull her shirt up, not exactly, but I had to move it out of the way. My wet fingers began to caress her nipple. That time her moan was more of a groan.
She leaned in, seeking my mouth but I didn’t kiss her. I wanted to watch her face.
She opened her eyes, questioning me without speaking.
“Uh-uh baby. I love your mouth but I want to watch you. I want to watch your face while I play with your nipple.” I gave her nipple the gentlest of pinches. It slipped between my moist fingers.
“You like that Claire?” She nodded but didn’t speak. “Should I do it again?” Another silent nod. I rolled her nipple very softly between my fingers. Her body twitched.
“More?” I whispered. She nodded.
I touched my lips to hers briefly. “Say it then. Get it out of your head, make it real. It’s okay. Tell me what you like.”
She was quiet. I resigned myself to having pushed a little too hard. I rested the flat of my hand over her breast.
“No,” she whispered. “Play with my breast like you were doing. Please.”
I re-wet my fingers and plucked at her nipple. “You mean like this? Baby, that’s not your breast, that’s your nipple. You’re nipple is almost as hard as my dick. Is that what you want? You want me to play with your nipple?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
I kissed the side of her mouth. “Okay.” My fingers rolled and pulled at her, a little harder than before. “Tell me if it is too much.” She nodded in answer.
As my fingers worked at her nipple, she began to press harder and harder against my knee. She pressed a final time and then grew very still, only her hips twitched. One hand flew to her mouth and she bit the side of her hand. I closed my fingers on her nipple and tugged, not hard but harder than I before.
“Let it go. I want to feel you cum on my leg. Let it go,” I offered in encouragement. She didn’t need it.
Her other hand flew to press against mine. A long muffled, panted groan hissed past her teeth.
She fell into my arms so suddenly I almost let her fall. She clung to me, panting and shaking. I couldn’t help pressing my hardon against her leg. I wanted to jerk my pants open and stroke myself until I joined her but I was afraid I’d pushed enough today.
Her chest began to shake and I was afraid she was crying. I heard her chuckle and relaxed.
“You okay?” I whispered into her hair.
“Oh, yeah, I’m definitely okay. Holy cats.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Now you know how I felt it the basement that time, except my orgasm was even better since you did it for me.”
She tilted her head to look at me from under her bangs. “You did that to me, it was your hand on my back, your lips on mine, your fingers on my nipple and your words in my ears. You did that to me every bit as much as I did it to you.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. I bundled her up in my arms, squeezing as close to my body as I could.
“I love you.”
She squeezed me back. “I know,” she whispered and her breath tickled the hair on my chest. I was glad that was settled but in the back of my mind I wished she would have said it back.
My cock gave an involuntary twitch against her leg.
She pulled away, looked down and began to giggle. When I looked down a huge wet spot, just to the left of my fly, greeted me.
“I told you that you should wear underwear,” she giggled. “Explain that to your mom.”
I shook my head. “Underwear wouldn’t have helped. You turn me on too much.”
“I like that,” she whispered and kissed my cheek before stepping away and standing on my left side. “Show me,” she murmured against my shoulder. “I want to watch you cum again.”
I turned to face her. “Unbutton my pants then,” I whispered as I stood away from the wall.
The feel of her fingers against the skin of my belly nearly made me cum. She undid the buttons and without being asked, pushed my jeans down off my hips. I moved my legs up and down and they collapsed into a blue puddle around my ankles.
My cock was nearly vertical. She wrapped both hands around it and stroked me. It felt wonderful but I wanted to jerk off for her. I was getting very turned on by the idea of her watching me.
I leaned back against the wall and rubbed my hand over the head. Most of the lubrication I needed had soaked into my jeans. I brought my hand to my mouth and licked along the inside of my thumb and first finger, then wrapped my hand around my dick and started to jerk off. As I did more precum was Ümraniye Escort milked from my cock, I swirled my hand over the head, keeping my cock slick enough to allow for fast hard jerks of my hand. I encircled the base of my cock and balls with my left hand and squeezed. I had had several months to expand my jerk off repertoire. I liked the deep ache that resulted. I pushed my balls forward so that my stroking right hand could bounce into them, turning the ache into a crescendo of aching excitement.
Claire pressed against my side. My left arm was nestled in her cleavage. She rested her head on my chest and watched me pound away at my cock.
The ache in my guts threatened to turn to pain as the pressure built. I held back as long as I could. When my hips began to buck I exaggerated the movement. I was immature enough to imagine Claire might be impressed at the distance I could achieve.
Maybe she wasn’t impressed but I was. The first eruption landed an easy six feet away. The second flew nearly as far. Ejaculation appears to follow a logarithmic decay. The last gasp dribbled over my hand.
I let my ass fall back against the wall. I didn’t want to get cum on my jeans. I milked the last few gobs from the head of my cock. My brain wasn’t fully engaged yet and I raised my hand to my mouth and began to lick it clean, forgetting to worry how Claire would respond. I had gotten into the habit of doing that, cleaning my hand. I usually wiped most of the mess off my chest and belly with a towel or shirt, but my hand I licked clean. On occasion, no dirty shirt at hand, I might wipe my chest and belly off with my hand and eat my load, but usually it was just a quick swirl of the tongue around my thumb and fingers.
Claire’s stare made me aware of what I was doing. Nonchalance seemed the best defense. I met her eyes and continued with what I was doing.
“Do you always do that?” I heard curiosity rather than disgust in her voice.
“Most of the time,” I admitted. “Does it bother you?”
She tilted her head considering before answering, “No,” and left it at that.
She reached for my softening cock with her left hand and squeezed one more drop onto her finger. She licked it off with the same contemplative look on her face. She dropped her hand and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m pretty sure I don’t like the taste but I don’t think I hate it either.”
I let the usual post-orgasmic haze settle over my body and mind. If I was in my own bed I would have rolled over and taken a snooze but not here; the floor was filthy. It crossed my mind to sneak an old mattress down here somehow. Getting it past the house without mom seeing it would be the only hard part.
“Do you like thinking about me doing that?” Claire whispered.
Had I missed something? “I’m not following. Doing what?”
“Putting my mouth on you,” she whispered, taking me by surprise. When she spoke again it was louder, her voice firm. “You know, giving you a BJ, sucking your dick, blow you, smoke your pole. You know,” her smile widened as I gaped in surprise, “fellate you, you big dork.”
I grabbed her and pulled her around to lie on top of me as she squealed. She had to straddle my legs; my feet were still bound at the ankles by my jeans. I pushed my confused cock against her crotch. My poor dick didn’t know whether it should take a knee or gear up for another play.
I locked my lips over hers and drove my tongue into her mouth. Her giggling subsided abruptly as she sucked eagerly at my tongue. Her hands reached up to grab my face.
When she pulled away, she was panting.
Holding her eyes with mine, I spoke softly but clearly. “I think about you doing that all the time, except when I’m thinking about making love to you and except when I’m thinking about going down on you, eating at the Y, muff diving, eating you out, eating your pussy.” It was my turn to grin. “You know, thinking about performing cunnilingus on you.”
Claire was flushed and no longer smiling. “You think about that? You want to do that to me, put your mouth on me?”
I wasn’t sure she liked the idea but it was too late to back out now. “Yes, I do. I think about it a lot. I think about it every time I beat off. I don’t want to just put my mouth on you. I want to stick my tongue in you. Does that freak you out? Turn you off?”
“No,” she admitted with a shake of her head. “It doesn’t freak me out. It surprises me I guess. Why would you want to do that?”
“I want to do it because it would be with you. I want to do it because I think you’ll like it. Because I hope you would love it. I want to do it in order to make you crazy with pleasure.”
I sank to my knees, forcing her to take a step back. I grabbed her ass with both hands and held her still as I pressed my face into the crotch of her jeans and sighed.
“Let me do it now.” I pleaded. “You can’t get pregnant from my mouth. Oh Claire, I can smell you through your jeans.” I ran my hand up between her legs. The crotch of her jeans was damp. “Baby, you’re wet. Please. I want to make you cum again.”
She wiggled her way out of my hands. Her face was twisted in surprise or fear or both. I let my hands drop atop my bare legs. My dick, which had made nearly a full recovery, began to beat a hasty retreat. I sighed, stood and pulled my pants up.
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