First Handjob
NOTE: All characters featured in this are at least eighteen years old.
A friend from my kink group told me this tale of her first time, way back in the 80s, and I went a bit wild with it! Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, I say!
But the key bits are all true. In real life, it was even crazier in a way. This is one of at least six parts.
The first time he put my hand on his cock, I didn’t know what to do.
It was the weirdest mix of soft, malleable, delicate, and hard. I swear I could feel it pulsing long before I made it explode. I fell in love with it right away.
I loved his cock, or should I say I loved cocks. I didn’t think about it at that moment, but it started a lifetime of love for the that wobbly, excitable thing that men are so proud of and ashamed of in equal measure. I fell in love with dick.
I didn’t fall in love with him. I didn’t even fancy him. He wasn’t my type. He wasn’t Christian Slater. He was tall, very tall, much taller than me. I was short, I guess, but I didn’t feel so very short until I was standing across from him in his living room, holding onto his penis and not looking down, but up, up into his eyes. He demanded it. There must have been way more than a foot that separated our eyelines.
How did I end up holding his penis like that? Awkwardly, at an angle underneath.
It is a tale which makes you think, “This wouldn’t happen today, this couldn’t happen today, this shouldn’t happen today. However, your morals feel about it, it did happen, and it happened to me, and I don’t regret a single moment, a single stroke of his cock, a single orgasm.
It was the late 80s, and I was still at school. Yes, I know, high school, or senior school as we would call it here in the UK. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but I was eighteen, it was summer, I was soon to have a long break waiting for A-level results and working in some dull shop or behind a bar and being driven round and round in circles in a field by boy racers in stolen cars. Before university. If I got into university. If my grades and my parents let me go.
I wasn’t popular. But I wasn’t picked on. This isn’t an American high school movie full of exaggerated cruelty; sixth formers didn’t act like they were still little kids, bullying little kids, or playing out prom queen bitchiness. It would have seemed uncool and creepy by that age. But I didn’t have many friends, all the same. I kept myself to myself. I walked home on my own.
And David knew that. David knew I walked home on my own because he studied me from his bedroom window every day.
Walking past him, still in my school uniform.
He sat at a desk in front of a bay window that afforded him a view of my passing for at least three and a half minutes. It was long enough for him to cum.
He would still be up there with his hand stroking quickly, warmed up to rigidity by the time I walked by. I was totally unaware of what he was doing. I don’t think I ever looked up. I was always in a world of my own, probably replaying scenes from Brat Pack movies or imagining one of those actors taking me for a drive in their car and making love to me.
Or hanging out with Molly Ringwald, laughing as she styled my hair. Maybe kissing her if I got really confused. Whilst David was upstairs trying to cum in the three and a half minutes that he could see me, I would be thinking about what I might masturbate to on my little bed when I got home.
Would it be Rob Lowe or Andrew McCarthy lying on top of me? Would I have them kissing each other as I watched again? Would I have Molly laughing as she took over from my hand to help me get off? There were a lot of variations. But I didn’t really know what it felt like to do any of it.
One boy had kissed me at school, and he was no Tom Cruise, so I didn’t bother again. My imagination was more than enough to do it for me.
And what did David think about? Well, I found out more later because eventually he did talk. We didn’t talk very much, you see.
But he would start by watching my school blazer move up and down in front of my breasts.
I didn’t, I still don’t, have huge breasts, but with binoculars (yes, honestly, he probably should have been arrested, bless him!) as he sometimes used, he could watch my breasts move under my blazer, up and down, a little bounce to them.
I didn’t wear great bras back then, and so they would move when I didn’t want to. I had a weird, jumpy walk like I was half skipping all the time, and that didn’t help. Or it did help if you were jerking yourself off watching them.
By this point in the summer, I would often have my blazer off by the time I got to this point of the walk home, and he would get a much better view. He would imagine stopping them from moving with his hands, holding them still, and groping them for hours, just right there in the street. Then bringing me home and holding them around his penis. His hand would tighten, or both hands if he dropped his binoculars and made them tight in the way he imagined they would be for him between my breasts. A tit wank.
Back then, I think a tit wank was the perviest thing I knew about.
I knew Rob Lowe was getting tit wanks all the time, probably from Demi Moore.
And then as I got to nearly outside his house, he was a good point to cum. But like boys do today, he didn’t let himself go. He didn’t think, “god, she’s beautiful, I wish I was in her right now. Here goes!” and let it fly. He didn’t let himself cum. And by the way, I have never been beautiful. I was never popular like that. I’m not being modest; it’s just true. But I was interesting and sexy like Molly, I think. I was the one you’d probably want to hang out with if you gave me a chance. I never really gave anyone the chance. I think plenty of guys loved Molly Ringwood back then, wanted them as their girlfriend, even if Wynona Ryder would have stolen more erections.
Anyway, I get to his front gate and walk on at speed. Of course, I have no idea there’s a man, ten years older than me, might I add, holding his dick and thinking filthy things about me, only a few feet away and little above my head. I just kept walking.
So he could no longer see my face. If he had cum then he could have cum to seeing my face. He loved to see my face. My eyes. I think even with binoculars, I was too far to look into my eyes, moving too quickly. Bouncing my young boobs too much. He was overwhelmed by the number of things to look at and to think about.
But as I walked away, he had one last treat and one last fantasy to make him finally let go. He would cum, not into a tissue that I thought guys always used, but against the bottom of his desk. I would see it one day, the underneath of his desk. But that’s another story. A later story. A dirtier story than this. This is all very innocent!
As I walked away, he would see my pencil skirt, my long, tight school skirt wrapping itself tightly around my pert little ass.
By now I had an ass. It was a long time coming, but I guess if I could have seen myself walking away, I might have gone, “core, that’s a bit of all right. I wouldn’t mind giving her one. I wouldn’t mind sticking my cock up that bum.” Well, I mean if I were one of the boys from school, or the teachers (I really wished it was one of he teachers. No two of the teachers. Another story. Another need I had. Another time!).
Or maybe the workman who never held back with wolf whistles or demands to get a flash of my chest wrapped in its bra, or maybe topless. I never did that for them, might I add, but I’d seen girls in my year do it. Sluts! I was jealous, of course; it was so daring. I wanted those workman cheers!
But then those girls had boyfriends, older boyfriends. Those girls weren’t virgins like me. Those girls talked to people and laughed in groups with other girls. I just got on with life and didn’t waste time on boys or men, or even friends. My video tapes, my knitting (I know! I know!), my studying, and books on anything, they were enough for me. I worked and slept, and I touched myself. What more could I need?
I didn’t realise I needed something else until I was holding its heat in my hand.
But let me finish the story of David holding his own heat. He would watch me walk away, no longer able to see my face at all, and only a slight side view of my breasts. But he could see my ass and long for my ass and want to fuck me hard in the ass. I hadn’t heard of anal sex.
I wasn’t one of the few who watched dodgy porn tapes with other girls and other boys. I didn’t sit around and masturbate together.
(I overheard some crazy tales about porn nights at people’s houses, whoever managed to get hold of the latest weird porn.) But I never understood what was meant by anal sex.
Yes, I must seem dotty to you now. But there was no internet. I thought it was holding the ass or something. I couldn’t imagine anyone would put anything up there. It wasn’t really possible to look it up in the library. I wasn’t sure how and didn’t think I needed to. Just another name for normal fucking.
But he knew. And he knew that’s what he wanted to do to me one day. And that’s when he’d finally let himself cum. I would be about to disappear down Dunkirk Avenue, and he would let himself go, mumbling agitated cries of lust for me,
“Hot fucking sexy slag. I’ll fuck that bum. I’ll fuck her in the bum. I’ll, I’ll, I’ll ughhhhhhh… school slag!”
I know, perfect little reproduction, eh? Well, how I manage that is not just from my imagination, but that’s another story. So many other stories. For a lonely guy still living with his Mum, David gave me a lot to think about and get off to for the rest of my life. A most weird summer was about to start.
And I haven’t even mentioned the photographs yet!
