Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Eighteen-year-old college freshman Mitchell Romini slowly proceeded down Massachusetts Avenue, strolling through the city’s main street in the wet, foggy first Friday night of September. It was the end of his first full week, at Harvard College to be precise, and he damn well needed some relaxation. The first week had been a whirlwind tour of the myriad possibilities offered by the College to its elect freshmen, majors and careers beyond most of the world’s ken. As Mitchell plodded slowly down the avenue looking for somewhere to grab a drink, he pondered the circumstances that had brought him here. He had spent his teenage years striving upward and onward, powered by a burning ambition. Problem was, he never figured out: a burning ambition to do what? He could never remember. He knew there was something to remember, but never remembered what.
His burning ambition for nothing in particular had brought him to Harvard College, where the first week had given a strong indication that everyone else in the freshman class had exactly the same problem as him. Eh, it would work out fine: the institution functioned as an efficient factory, converting the raw material of vaguely ambitious but indefinite young men and women into the world’s latest batch of well-placed, well-connected workaholics.
In short, Mitch Romini was looking at a nasty future and needed a drink. Luckily, the Middle East, the most reputable-looking club in Cambridge to not enforce underage drinking laws, stood ready to provide. He ran his hand through his straight chestnut hair as he walked in, and went to go order a damn Scotch.
Then he caught the eye of a girl from across the bar, and it looked like his night might get a little better.
Sarah Yasmina Yarif did not like where she was. She was in the nightclub her friends had dragged her to, the Middle East in Central Square. They had dragged her there wearing a low-cut, V-neck maroon shirt (from Shannon), tight black jeans (from Jane), and a pleated red miniskirt (from Teagan, her roommate). Oh, and high-damn-heeled sandals.
In the sole blessing of the night, she had managed to cajole Teagan into buying her the one non-alcoholic drink available in the damn place, a “Long Island Iced Tea.” And perhaps it was admissible that the band playing was actually decent.
Still, all in all, Sarah couldn’t damn believe it. This was how people had fun?
Hey, though, that young man across the bar was looking at her. And at least she’d managed to keep her own hairstyle, even though it was naked for all the world to see.
In the basement floor of a nightclub, an odd couple found themselves dancing to a Celtic punk song. Both were Harvard freshmen, but they had little else in common. He had entered with a declared Civil Engineering major, thinking he might as well get something reliable to take back home to Jersey. She hadn’t declared anything in particular yet, because she knew she’d never need it. He looked just about average in height, she came up a couple of inches short on that you accounted for her shoes. He had come in fairly ordinary clothes, while she’d been dressed by her friends. He had straight, short chestnut hair, where she wore gleaming dark half-curls down to her shoulders. She had her hand on his shoulder, while he curled his hands around her hips. She didn’t know quite why she felt rather more flow-y than usual, while he knew what drinking felt like.
In short, he was a boy, and she was a girl. There was a nice slow beat curling through the room in apparent homage to the death of the Celtic Tiger, and they’d each tuzla escort had a substantial amount to drink. For a short, rare time, the various forces at work in the human world conspired to bring together these two utterly different youths in a very close dance.
Mitch was holding on for dear life as he and his dance partner dodged, weaved and swayed through the crowd to the beat. She seemed like a lovely girl, she was plainly tipsy, albeit prone to swearing, she was dancing with him, and he didn’t want to fuck this up. He kept his right hand at the girl’s waist and his left at her hip as they ground and jolted up, down and to the right. The beat throbbed through them in time, pulsing out bars of melody as Mitch and Sarah (at least, she had introduced herself as Sarah) began jumping up and down to the chorus, hands in the air like they just didn’t care (which, at this point, neither of them did).
As the music sloshed him and his dance partner through a wave of humanity, Mitch tried to focus well enough for a good look at her. You wouldn’t think it was hard to look a girl up and down while in direct contact with her, but it was. You only got a part of her in your field of vision at any given second. Still, within a couple of jumps Mitch could make her out: smooth tanned skin given a greenish hue by the artificial lighting, reddish shirt plainly showing off every bounce and jiggle of her cleavage as she jumped, black denim capri-jeans tantalizingly wrapping her legs while protecting what would otherwise be revealed when her red pleated cheerleader’s miniskirt billowed on her way down through the air. The other thing that billowed was her hair, a gleaming black made up in waving half-curls down to her shoulder, with two corkscrews in front framing a soft round face on which her constant look of semi-resentment never quite seemed at home.
But as the song changed, Mitch’s attempt to switch from the jump-up-and-down into the Cotton-Eyed Joe brought his foot sliding under him on the slippery floor, and the rest of him tumbling down, tripping Sarah over him. Each of them felt their limbs and bones report in their varying levels of dulled but definite pain; they groaned a little at each other.
“I think it’s time to go home,” Sarah muttered into Mitch’s ear.
“Before anyone asks us our age,” he growled.
“Hey!” she answered, “In most of the world a 19-year-old can be here!”
Staggering 15 short minutes along the sidewalk brought Sarah and her new friend Mitch back to the apartment building where she was living this year. She kept a tight grip on Mitch the whole way over, never sure which of them she was trying to steady. She felt fairly sure Teagan had poured some alcohol into her tea when she wasn’t looking, and bringing a boy home on the first Friday night sounded, in Sarah’s head, like an excellent revenge. Let the bitch resent her, she thought, because that had practically been criminal drugging. And let her father resent it, too, keeping her cooped up in the women’s wing of the house all those years!
Sarah’s father had only given her so much money for housing, and she could have had a single small room to herself or shared an apartment with one other girl. She had chosen the apartment for the better location, the top floor of a brick building that looked out onto Mount Auburn Street, and the room within it for its window, letting the morning sun wake her every day.
“Okay,” she said, “We’ll be able to sleep here and get ourselves better in the morning. Then I gonna kill damned Taageen.” Finally home, Sarah reached back and unbuckled her bra, tuzla escort bayan ripping it off through the low-cut top of her shirt to shed the itchy, cutting fabric and let herself hang just a little more free.
She turned around to face her guest, and found herself face-to-face. It had taken her a second to remember she had brought home a boy, and then she also found herself lip-to-lip. She ran her hands up and down Mitch’s back, tracing the emerging lines of bodily geology carved only so recently by adolescence. She felt Mitch doing likewise to her body, and parted her lips to drink in the sensations of her first French kiss.
Mitch took his lips from Sarah’s as he slid his hands downwards and up again, under the red skirt he so adored that he couldn’t bear to take it off.
“Aren’t these just another annoyance?” he asked as he dragged down on Sarah’s capris.
“If I’d known about how these damn things chafe I would have killed Jane instead of wearing them.” Sarah made a noise between a snarl and a purr, still a little mad even as she unzipped the jeans. She and Mitch both pushed and pulled down to get them off, not quite able to shift them until they caught the right spo-
BROUNCE! They had lost their balance on Sarah’s high heels (now skittering across the floor) and tumbled onto her bed. Sarah couldn’t even resent her situation now. She was face-down in her flannel bedsheets with a boy on top of her whom she’d brought him from a nightclub. Now it was just plain funny.
Oh well, at least the damn clothes were around her ankles now. She kicked them off, managing to avoid planting a foot in Mitch’s gut. Her family would have called her a slut and quite literally killed her, but when she got right down to trying it, playing at being a “slut” seemed pretty fun. As a “slut” she could wear whatever she wanted, not wear whatever she wanted, and bring boys home for – ahhh…
Mitch, for his part, was up on his knees, having somehow managed to step neatly out of his khakis, his erect penis pulsing in the not-quite-warm, not-quite-cold air. At this point, between the alcohol and his own excitement, he could only think of one thing to do. He grabbed Sarah by her hips, pulled her up onto her hands and knees, and positioned his penis at just about the entrance to her vagina. After a bungled attempt or two, he managed to get it in.
Sarah felt something deep within her, near her belly, roar warmth and energy and purring desire through her veins. It had been waiting for this, had been so, so empty until this moment of being filled for the very first time. Mmm, it was fun being a slut. She had lost her hymen in a football accident, but the pleasures of the flesh were a brave new world for Sarah. Her flesh was eager to explore them.
Mitch pushed himself into Sarah, feeling her wetness engulf him even as it squeezed his dick like a vice. He couldn’t help it, with her boobs swinging freely below her and the skirt framing her hips and ass, it was fucking time. Yet, there was something strange in the moment. He felt like he’d forgotten something, even as he also thought he was getting whatever it was right.
Whatever. Mitch pulled out a little and thrust back in. Pulled out a little and thrust back in. Sarah’s pussy (he couldn’t think a word as un-sexy as “vagina” now that he was actually in one) had melted and wrapped into the right shape around his cock, and he began to build up a rhythm to his thrusting, varying his depth and force to feel each tiny difference in the gripping flesh he slid in and out of. He also ran his hands over Sarah’s escort tuzla legs, lower back, and gloriously round, heart-shaped ass, enjoying the way the cheeks bounced back and forth when he slapped them lightly.
“Yesss, shove it in me more!”, Sarah moaned. She was purring and even almost roaring as she not only gave her virginity but gave herself, as she felt Mitch’s cock pumping more and more of the same warmth she’d felt before into her through her cunt, through her cunt, into her womb, and through the rest of her body from there. She began to meet each thrust of his driving piston with a counter-thrust of her pelvis, feeling her crotch meet his balls and her butt, his flat stomach. Each wave of pleasure from her pussy broke around a different part of her body, engulfing another erogenous zone. She whimpered and leaned on her right arm, using her left hand to start pinching and tweaking her nipples under her shirt.
“Deeper, harder, fill me uooohhh!”
Mitch kept trying to concentrate on the technique and rhythm of his fucking, but was having an increasingly hard time of it. He’d had a few awkward sexual encounters back in high school, but this was something else! He was drunk, horny, tired, had mounted a beautiful girl like a lion and was now rutting her as fast and hard as he could. And she was wearing a red pleated skirt. He had always admired the extra special something a skirt like that gave to a cheerleader’s pair of hips and toned ass, and how he was holding onto the skirt’s hem for dear life with one hand to keep it on this girl. It was hotter than naked, and he could also watch her boobs sway and bounce as she caressed them while taking his thrusts in stride.
“You like this slutty skirt, boy? Uuuggggh, then go on, oooh, and fuck me and make me match it! Gooooo on and make it wort my sluuutty whiiiile. Mmmm!” Sarah must have noticed what he’d been doing.
He felt his balls starting to boil over with sheer pleasure, he wanted so much to release his cum into Sarah and make her his. He ran his right hand up Sarah’s ass and lower back to her hip from inside her skirt and started to groan as he could no longer contain himself.
“I can’t take it any longer!” He pulled Sarah as far back to his body as he could, ramming his cock into her cunt to the hilt as his whole body spasmed and every muscle worked together to coat her insides with his seed.
Mitch opened his eyes and pulled out, thrilled and exhausted. As his eyes wandered down Sarah’s back, he noticed something just under the him of her skirt, where her lower back met her butt. It looked like a simple, black tattoo of… her skirt? How had he not noticed that before?
Sarah quivered for a few moments, then turned around and hugged Mitch to her. She then turned the pair so that Mitch was sitting on the edge of her bed, got down onto the floor, and began to rub, lick and suck Mitch’s cock. It didn’t take long before he got hard again, and the lithe girl took him all the way in her mouth, even deep-throating his penis when she could. She bobbed her head up and down Mitch’s rod, looking into his eyes with a look of pure lust. She played tricks with her tongue, a wet warmth that went everywhere and tickled Mitch in a way no pussy ever had. Mitch moaned, his second orgasm of the night nearing. Sarah took him out of her mouth and quickly threw her shirt off, licking and stroking Mitch while pointing him to the right place.
It didn’t take long for him to coat her face, hands, and boobs in semen, albeit less this time. The young man could take no more, and flopped back down onto the bed, tired as all hell. As he drifted off to sleep, he heard the girl quizzically object.
“I can’t slut for you some more?” Someone would have to tell her about how only females could have multiple orgasms…
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32