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This is a two-part short story about a married woman is taught the meaning of love by an exotic Indian woman. There is a rumour where I live about the garage door signal I write about in here. I don’t know if it’s true. My imagination imagines all sorts of things. Which led to this story. Enjoy.
I MARRIED OUT of college. I love my husband, but sometimes I think perhaps I married him to put my college years behind me. I think about it all the time. It effects our marriage, but I think I hide it well. I was the typical freshwoman in college. I arrived all wide-eyed and eager to learn. Within months I was sleeping with most, if not all, the women in my dormitory.
It’s something I’m actually proud of. I loved my four years in college. I loved the women I slept with. I was happy. Immensely so. They were the best years and the most formative years of my life. I went from a chaste religious virgin, to a wanton sex addict; addicted to pussy and the soft loving touch of a woman.
It was in my last year in college that my girlfriend suggested I try men. She said I owed it to myself to see if perhaps I batted for the other team. Or both. Internally I was mortified but recognised I would be returning home in six months, and my bible-belt town would never accept a lesbian. I would be ostracised. Humiliated, or worse. My girlfriend said I needed a boyfriend to hide behind. Horrible words, I admit, but I saw the logic.
It took me about a month to gather the nerve to approach the only boy I found cute in my English class. He wrote poetry and I loved his words. He was talented. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, fit, tall and wrote about love and romance. I had thought him gay for the past three years, but one of the girls I slept with in the dorm had slept with him. She said he was terrific in bed, even if his cock bent to the left. She had giggled and demonstrated what his cock looked like on the double-ended dildo we were sharing.
I had never seen a penis in real-life. I had seen plenty of pictures and my vibrators copied the shape. Mostly. I had watched videos of men ejaculating and thought it all pretty gross. The same girl told me it wasn’t and that it was powerful and amazing to watch. She said it made her feel powerful when she was able to make a man hard for her and then cum. She also said it tasted okay.
I found that repulsive.
I had my whole future in front of me, but my mom and dad expected I would settle down and raise a Christian family with Christian values. It was my only destiny for them. Every time I called home it was always filled with questions on whether I had found a boy yet. Never about my studies. I was months from a Batchelor of Arts with a major in Journalism and they asked me about boys. They ignored that the town paper had already promised to hire me. Soon, I would have a job in my field, reporting on cow patty bingo at the state fair. But it was a job in my chosen profession. I was excited about it. I imagined breaking some great story and becoming famous. Winning awards. In those dreams I never had a dutiful husband by my side. I was alone and proud and standing tall.
But apparently, I needed a husband to fulfil my future. My parents reminded me every day. My friends back home had already married straight out of high school to their high school sweethearts. Half of them already had babies sucking on their tits. They would never be smarter than their high school education and they didn’t seem to care. My parents asked me why I couldn’t be more like them. I had no positive response to that and bit my tongue.
So I approached the cute boy in my class. I had noticed him watching me over the years. Women always notice. Sex for women is an hourly event. We are surrounded by it all our lives. From the moment we mature we are soaked in sex. Men don’t understand this simple fact of life. Sure, men think about sex all the time. I’ll give them that. Their need to stick their dick in something and cum drives their lives. For women, it is looks, suggestions, a constant barrage of advances—wanted or not—to have us spread our legs and invite the male organ inside us. Commercials, advertising, movies and television all drive this home. We are sexualised. Our value only priced by how we look. So fuck you men, I am not an object. I am a person first. I am almost exactly the same as you. I would even say superior in all that matters. But I am a second-class citizen by society and its laws. So fuck you men. I don’t need or want you.
But sadly I do. I need to come home with a man holding my hand to protect me and keep me safe. This is what my parents expect. My friends expect. And future expects. I hate it.
The boy’s name is Paul Jennings. He plays baseball for the college. Third base or something. He also runs. I’ve seen him many times running along the paths I use. He would nod at me and mostly ignore me; which was perfect. He has a cute ass, for a boy. And a nice laugh. As I said, my dormitory casino siteleri had thought he was gay, my friend said otherwise from first-hand experience. I didn’t know one way or another. He meant nothing to me.
I kept this central to my thoughts as I approached him when class ended. The professor was up front talking to some students and I saw Paul back up his backpack and head up the stairs to the exit. I moved in front of him and dropped my books on the stairs. It was a Disney move. But it worked. Paul rushed to help me; the poor damsel in distress. Whatever would women do without men? Perish, most certainly.
I made a suitable squeal of dismay and Paul dropped his backpack and stooped to start picking up my books. I stood over him with my hands held up under my chin and pushing my C-cups together in a sexy way. I had practiced in front of the mirror. I put a shy look of horror mixed with embarrassment on my face. Paul rose triumphant with my books in hand and handed them to me. I saw him stare at my tits. My nipples were hard-I had made sure of that before I dropped my books-and they looked alluring. My girlfriends loved my nipples. They were huge, I admit. I had played with and sucked many nipples over the years. I loved the large ones and knew mine were the largest of all my girlfriends.
I have many girlfriends. All at the same time. Our dormitory has over ten lesbians. We sleep together routinely. Surprisingly, very little jealousy enters our lives. We share and enjoy each other. Sometimes all at once. Sleepovers are common and there can be as many as five of us together at one time. A male wet-dream I suppose. It was normal for me and I loved it. I was liberated and happy in college.
Paul tore his eyes away from my tits and I tracked them. They left my tits grudgingly and stopped at my lips before reaching my eyes. It was the first time I ever really looked at him and he was beautiful. His eyes were a bright blue, so very bright they looked unnatural. His hair was messy and brushed by hand to the side. I could see blond stubble glinting with the overhead fluorescents. He was dreamy, as the other girls would say. I admit he was not hard on the eyes. But I didn’t feel the attraction. My pussy stayed dry. My nipples started to relax despite my earlier discreet pinching.
He was cute, but he was a boy and not what I needed between my legs.
“Hi,” he said, and made a cute smile with his mouth. “That was quite the accident.”
“Yes, thanks for helping,” I said and debated whether now was a good time to bat my eyelashes.
“My pleasure. I’ve always wanted to meet you. We’ve been together in the same classes for years. Funny how we never spoke.”
I nodded in what I hoped was a cute way. My hair was blond like Paul’s and reached just below my shoulders. I had it pinned back over my ears with clips that looked like butterflies. “True. It is strange. What are you majoring in?”
“Writing. I want to be a writer.”
“Oh? What kind of writing?”
“Anything, really. I’ll write for anyone.”
“I’ve really liked your poetry. You have a gift.”
Paul surprised me by blushing. He looked away for a moment. “Yeah, well. That’s just a hobby. I want to write freelance. Offer my services to whoever needs it. Copy, editing, the whole works. How about you? Journalism, I think?”
“Yes, journalism. I love it.”
“Hard field to get into.”
“True, except I have a job lined up back home.”
“Where’s home?” he asked. I told him and his eyes went wide and his eyebrows shot up. “Really? I’m from the next town over!” He told me which one and this time my eyebrows shot up.
“You’re only ten minutes down the road from me! Hey, do you know Dottie’s Diner?”
He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I ate there all the time. She makes the best flapjacks. She used to make faces with blueberries when I was a kid. Just for me.”
I laughed out loud for real. Dottie did that for all the kids and Paul didn’t know that. I wasn’t about to burst his bubble. “So you know my town’s paper. The Examiner?”
“Yeah, I do. I even know the owner, John Smyth. He’s friends with my dad.”
I stared at him in surprise. “Wow, small world. I wish I had known earlier.”
“Hmm, me too. We could have been talking about home all this time. Damn, do you have a car?”
I nodded. I had a beat-up Ford Focus my dad had given me for college. He said it was so I could come home more often. “Yeah, I do.”
“Damn, we could have gone home together! I never get out of here. The bus ride home takes too long and I miss a couple of days of school.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Well, I’m heading home this weekend. Do you want a lift?”
Paul looked surprised. “Wow, that would be great. Can I take you out to dinner? Talk about it? My treat since you’re doing me a solid.”
“Well, you’ll pay for half the gas. Wait? Did you just ask me out?”
“Yeah, to dinner. Not canlı casino a date. We should talk about home. There’s no one else that would get where we come from around here. They’re all city folk.”
I smiled at Paul. “Sure.”
“I usually walk into town. Can you drive? We can head to the bistro, Camille’s.”
“Sure, stop by my dorm. I’ll drive us in.”
“Sweet, which one?”
I told him the name of my sorority and dorm. He blinked at me with shock on his face.
“They’re all dykes!”
I frowned at him. The word dyke is like the “N” word. I felt my blood go cold. He must’ve sensed it because he babbled at me.
“Sorry! Sorry! Bad choice of words! There’s nothing wrong with that! I seriously don’t care! To each their own, right?”
I eased my forehead and felt my frown disappear. I was one of those dykes, as he called us. I realised I had to hide that from him. I was playing him. Fishing for a future prospect. I felt guilty but I knew I had little choice. He was from the town next door. His parents probably knew mine. He was the perfect catch. “No problem, I guess,” I finally managed to say. He looked relieved. “Yes, there are many women there who like other women. But this is college, right?”
He nodded at my sage words. “So, I’ll come by around six?”
“Sure. See you then.”
That should have been the end of the conversation. Then we realised we had the next class together and spent awkward minutes walking together to our next classroom. Eventually the awkwardness left, and we chatted about who we might both know from back home. It turned out we knew different people but had heard of most of them.
He sat next to me in English Writing. It bothered me, but I tolerated it. He was leaning a little toward me and I found it claustrophobic. He was already claiming me in a male way. I really was having second thoughts about what I was doing.
That night we had dinner at the bistro. It was lovely and he was funny and had me laughing. He was a charmer and threw compliments at me all night long. He was subtle about it, but I picked up on it. He kept insisting on more wine and I joined him glass for glass. I had agreed to leave my car there and Uber back to the dorm. Soon we were drunk and laughing together.
About two hours into our dinner, I realised I actually liked Paul. It completely changed my mannerisms toward him. I found myself flirting with him and he flirted back. It was exciting and fun. I had never been with a boy, and the uncertainty of it, the strange dynamics and conversation, made it a fun night.
He walked me home to my dorm hand-in-hand. We arrived and he looked up at the lit-up dorm rooms. He looked at me and stepped toward me, holding both my hands. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to kiss me, seduce me, and be invited to my room. I had never been with a man and I was frightened and excited at the same time. I felt naughty, like I was about to do something taboo.
Instead, I let him kiss me. He moved in closer and he looked down at me with a mix of fear and something else. His head moved in a fraction and paused. I tilted my head back a little and he closed the gap and kissed me. It was the second kiss from a boy I had ever received in my life. I won’t tell you about the first time because it paled compared to Paul’s. He was a really good kisser. And I was an expert. Girls practice kissing all the time, and since at the college, I had a lot of practice with the other girls. We kissed all the time. Something about who we are, I suppose. We all want to kiss all the time.
When Paul kissed me the first thing I noticed was just how rough it was. His whiskers felt hard against my skin. His lips pressed a little harder than a girl’s would. He tasted different. Gone were the cherry Chapstick and other exotic flavours the girls always wore. He tasted of wine, and hunting, and fishing, and leather. I found it intoxicating.
I had no interest in sleeping with Paul before we went for dinner. The wine and the light-head he was giving me from kissing me in front of my dorm changed my mind.
“Come upstairs?” I whispered into his mouth.
He froze against me. One second he was kissing me warmly and the next he was frozen like a mannequin. Then he seemed to unthaw. “I would like that,” he whispered back.
I brought him upstairs and lost my virginity to him. I told him afterward and he was shocked. He apologised and then shut up when I kissed him. It was fun and not at all repulsive. Holding my first penis in my hand had been surreal. It was so responsive to my touch. It jerked and spasmed like a living thing; which I suppose it is. It felt so hard and soft at the same time. Vibrators try to copy that feeling but they don’t come close. I could feel the heat of it, and his heartbeat in it.
I couldn’t put it in my mouth, although he insisted. I couldn’t go that far. I stroked him, too hard or too kaçak casino fast. When he realised I was inexperienced his mannerisms changed. He became my teacher and he was patient with me. I learned so much that night.
He ate me out and I admit I came pretty fast. It was my first time having my pussy licked by a man and he was actually pretty good. His stubble excited me. His fingers were thicker and longer than my girlfriends and he was able to read my small motions and sounds. He was an artist with my pussy, and I came hard onto his eager mouth.
Before I could think he was between my legs and I felt the head of his cock press up against my opening. I looked up at him and saw the lust in his eyes. My girlfriends and I used strap-ons all the time. I’m used to penetration of all kinds. When Paul thrust into me, it was different. His cock was a part of him, obviously. I could see the pleasure on his face when he penetrated me. I felt the same pleasure and I felt the connection. I gasped and after three long thrusts, I admit I came.
It surprised me and Paul. I found my legs wrapping around him and pulling him in tight. I thrust against him until he bottomed out inside me. He was long and thick, and I enjoyed feeling him fill me so completely. My pussy came and spasmed and clenched him.
He came then, deep inside me. I felt his cock jerk and spasm along my entire vagina. I felt his hot sperm splash inside me. He grunted hard and held and squeezed me so tightly I could barely breathe. It made me cum again, shocking me. The feeling of him coming inside me sparked some internal instinct I never knew I had. I felt more like a woman and the pleasure he gave me doubled.
Yeah, I know. I’m a terrible lesbian. I became bisexual in that moment. I loved sex with Paul. It filled a void I didn’t know I had.
We fucked all night. After he came he apologised and then worried about pregnancy. I calmed him and showed him my pills. I had been on contraceptives since I had my first period. It helped with the monthly cramps. I asked him about STIs and he laughed. I was the third woman he had slept with at college. He named my friend and I felt at ease. Then we resumed having sex. He had great stamina and would take a long time to come, letting me find my own release. It was all vanilla sex, and I was okay with it.
My favourite part of the evening was when he let me explore his body and cock. I had fun. I had never had a real live naked boy in my bed before and I was curious. I checked everything out. I spent a lot of time on his cock. I was fascinated by it. He was circumcised and he told me it made him sexually aroused all the time. I played with his cock, and smelt it, and I even licked the head once. I told him relax and told him I wanted to see it soft. It wouldn’t listen, which I found hilarious.
In the morning, I told him he was my first and he was so horrified. He apologised again and again until I calmed him and told him it was perfect. It was all I ever wanted and imagined. He seemed relieved and then asked me out. He wanted us to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I agreed at once.
I finally got to examine his cock when it was soft. I was stunned to discover it moves around on its own; which I found amazing. I watched it, making Paul uncomfortable and embarrassed. Then it grew hard in front of my eyes. That was amazing to watch it elongate and thicken. It went from this super soft thing to this hard and heavy thing that twitched when I breathed on it. Cocks were amazing.
We dated throughout the rest of our final year. He came home with me and met my parents and I met his. We went to church together and met our communities and received their acceptance. It was all by the book and perfect for anyone observing. I was happy and I loved him and he loved me.
He proposed on our graduation. My father knew, of course, because Paul had asked him first. It was all very proper. We celebrated and my graduation from college was drowned out by the marriage proposal. I never celebrated my degree in journalism. Not once. We celebrated a future marriage instead and I felt robbed.
We were married that summer in my parent’s church. It made the paper I worked at. The Examiner put it front page announcing their new journalist was getting hitched. We were all the gossip in both our towns. We smiled and laughed. We honeymooned at Nags Head and came home and bought a beautiful home in my hometown and settled down.
That was eight years ago. We are childless and I don’t want children. Paul hates that and demands we have kids. My parents demand it. His parents demand it. And I refuse. It’s my body. Fuck them. It’s made me a pariah in town. The women all gossip about me. The reverend comes by once a week to talk to me. I hate it. I love Paul. I love our marriage. I just don’t want children with him, and I know why. I’ll be fully committed then and I don’t want to be. Part of me wants to escape this forced destiny. I imagine living in the big city writing for a syndicated paper. Doing reporting and searching for scoops. That’s the life I want, and I denied it of myself by getting married. I had been more interested in pleasing everyone else, I failed to please me.
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