Sex tour
My first boyfriend was three years older. He was handsome, and I was no ugly duckling either. Our love was mutual, containing everything it should—romance, dates, flowers, enchanting evening walks... Perhaps only that kept me with him after the ill-fated "first time"...
It should be said that early female masturbation has two sides. One, positive, is that it gives the ability to control one's feelings and allows one to avoid doing foolish things later in life.
I noticed that precisely those of my girlfriends who snorted the most at the word "masturbation" and declared "I despise onanists"—started having sex the earliest, and moreover had a host of problems: getting knocked up, abortion, cervical erosion, STIs, etc. Those who kept quiet on the topic started having sex later and were, as a rule, more fortunate. In that case, hormones aren't too "overpowering," and a girl can afford to be more reasonable and selective in choosing a partner.
But there is also a negative side. For those girls who are accustomed to the sexual sensations masturbation provides (and perhaps even know how to bring themselves to orgasm), first sex with a partner and losing their virginity can be a cruel shock. At least, that's how it was for me.
I expected a great deal from my first time. I imagined that if I could easily bring myself to orgasm and give myself such pleasure, then "real" sex should be, at the very least—well, several times more pleasurable.
No, outwardly everything was wonderful. He arranged it all at his place. Parents at the dacha, a relaxing atmosphere, music, embraces with gradual undressing... I reached out my hands to him and prepared to drown in an ocean of unexplored pleasure. It began... I prepared and opened up... He hovered over me... I felt him searching for the entrance (constantly missing the spot), tried to adjust to make it easier for him...
I prepared to experience the first pain, but assumed it would be the inevitable price for the pleasure that would follow. And then, with furious thrusts, a huge log was driven inside me.
The pain that pierced me had no intention of stopping, let alone turning into pleasure. Instead, a log was rubbing inside, seemingly ready to tear all my insides apart. I wasn't thinking about any pleasures anymore; the only thought in my head was to survive until the end.
The only joy I could feel was that it was finally over. Meanwhile, my boyfriend was proud and happy. I was his first virgin. Perhaps if I hadn't expected something extraordinary, it would have been easier for me to accept it as a given and gradually adapt to "normal" sex. But from then on, I only thought about how to dodge "fulfilling my duty" under a plausible pretext.
If my first had known even a little how to handle girls, paid more attention to foreplay, understood how to bring a girl to orgasm—perhaps we would still be together. But he only knew how to please himself.
Probably, it was precisely this unsuccessful first time that was the reason we eventually broke up. Despite our relationship looking wonderful on the outside, a crack appeared and began to grow. Yes, externally everything was romantic—dates, kisses, flowers. But now, the bed was added to this, which had to be endured like a punishment.
He didn't want to and didn't know how to learn anything. He apparently believed he was making both of us happy with his 1–2 minute penetration. He never even asked if I was feeling good, let alone tried to bring me to orgasm. He probably was convinced beforehand that it couldn't be any better. And although there was never again pain like the first time, a feeling of apprehension remained (a feeling now firmly associated with him). And—a feeling of disappointment.
Therefore, although everyone around (and he himself too) considered us an "ideal couple," I felt it differently. Inwardly, I wanted freedom more and more. But only the external side of things held me back from decisive steps.
In such a mood, I once went to a friend's birthday party. Usually at such events, young men didn't lavish attention on me—I was considered "his" girl. Mostly, it was "our crowd," and everyone knew I wasn't free. This time, many unfamiliar guys came—my friend's classmates. And so, one of them "hooked" me with his gaze across the table... I liked him. He wasn't the most handsome, but perhaps the most charming. And also... there was a certain male sexuality about him, if I can put it that way...
That's also, by the way, a topic for conversation. There are handsome men, but you just want to admire them—and that's it. Nothing more draws you. And then there are those who, outwardly nothing special, but they emit a certain magnetism... And something inside jumps, makes a girl laugh and flirt... So it happened that soon we were exchanging glances, smiling, clinking glasses... And then we smoked in the kitchen, danced a slow dance... And I liked him more and more.
Frankly, even before that evening, I was in the mood to flirt with someone, to distract myself from the gray routine of my "love." To flirt—nothing more. But this guy offered to walk me home... and I was happy to walk with him through the streets on a warm June night, after the rain... Our hands met, I didn't want to go home at all... I didn't tell him where to take me, and he, cleverly, didn't ask: - ) So we just wandered around the city, and after an hour we started kissing. First from emotions—it was just very good together, then with increasing passion...
Soon we began "lingering," kissing in every dark corner. And the trajectory of our movement inexorably led not home, but to the city park, where, as all the lovers in our city know, there are rather wild shrubbery thickets: - ) There, in those wet bushes, as dawn began to break, a miracle happened.
Aroused by hours of embraces and kisses, I was already ready to let him do anything, but I was pleasantly surprised when his hand first slid under my skirt and began to gently and skillfully caress exactly where it was needed. He really did it very skillfully; it seemed he knew how to bring a girl to orgasm (where did he learn?: - ) ) After a moment's hesitation, I relaxed and opened up to him—and was rewarded: - )
His fingers rhythmically did exactly what I loved so much, sensitively responding to every movement of mine—and my feminine essence was conquered. It was as if he was playing a delightful melody on me, like a musician on his instrument. At some point, he placed my hand on his trousers, inviting me to also take part in this "concert." And I willingly unzipped the fly, although previously the object inside had been, to put it mildly, a burden. Now, however, I gladly played my part on this "flute": - ).
How to put it best... It was as if he wanted to delicately "place" it there, and not in a boorish way "shove" it in. That was the difference. And a significant one. When a guest politely asks to come in—why not let him in? And if he is pleasant—why not cherish and warm him? These comparisons came to mind later, but at that moment, for the first time in my life, I tried to "cherish" my "guest" with clumsy reciprocal movements: - )...
Perhaps for someone, this is betrayal. At any rate, many acquaintances couldn't understand why our "ideal couple" soon broke up. But for me, this betrayal at dawn in the wet bushes of the city park meant something else. I received a "ticket to sex," so to speak: - )