Chloes’ period showed up on Friday, for her, perfect timing. This last weekend of her virginity was limited to second base. She had to go to one of her storage units to get what she wanted. Two Alun Hughes ‘Emma Peeler’ jumpsuits in junior size nine, that just fit her. She bought them on UK eBay and had only worn one, once. The fact was that they were a pure scarlet hell to take down far enough to pee. And no man would ever solve the zippers. And yet for an entire generation of British and American men, peeling them off of Diana Rigg as Mrs. Emma Peel was an obsession.
She wore one on the drive down, cursing it off in a gas station rest room in King City. This trip her bag consisted of a chuck roast and a frozen bag of pot roast veggies, a bag of split peas, two cans of beef broth, some heritage carrots, bacon, and a new bottle of A1 sauce.
Since she had a full figure, the jumpsuit made Eric figuratively drool. All she had to do was walk and he started to get hard. She had chosen the red with the yellow accents to drive down, saving the blue with white for the store. When she saw Eric’s reaction, she knew she’d made a mistake.
“I’ve got some good news, and some bad news,” she said, “which one first?”
“Let’s get the bad news out of the way.”
“I have my period, so we can only do second base this weekend.”
“Then why did you wear something so incredibly sexy?”
“Didn’t think it was, I mean everything’s covered.”
“Your shape isn’t. So, let’s leave the subject of why Eric is shaking and readjusting his jeans and move on to better things.”
“Next week, by Friday evening, neither one of us will still be a virgin.”
“That is something to look forward to.”
The Emma Peeler worked in the store however. Apparently, word had gotten out about the new weekend clerk at Back Story Books, and though the demographic profile was definitely skewed male, once again sales records were broken.
Chloe agonized over what to wear to her deflowering almost the whole week. Both she and Eric had gone through most of the sex manuals in his gated off section and one almost universal ‘tip’ was that a garter belt and nylons could and should be a part of the performance. Thursday, she settled on a mini dress that settled in a couple inches above her knees, was cut too low in front for a bra but that was partially obscured by a cape like panel that fell over her right shoulder in a shimmery off-white double silk. The dress was an original John Pearse from the original Granny Takes a Trip boutique in London, about fifty years old. She chose black nylons and ivory tee and ankle strapped two inch heels, silk lace trimmed panties completed it; an ensemble that suited her anatomy down to the ground. She was made aware of this in Paso Robles when an appreciative cashier at a gas station waved off her payment for a tank of gas.
Eric endorsed her choice by holding her from behind and sneaking his hand under the front to brush the nipple on her right tit as she tried to put the groceries away. When she finally wrestled the groceries away, she turned and frenched him vigorously, then blew a whispered, “go to bed” in his ear.
She was careful with the dress, as it was fairly valuable she hung it up, losing her shoes and panties as she approached the bed.
Of course, the spectre of Bobby Burns raised its head and the best laid plans gang agley. They performed about half a manual of foreplay, and Eric came against her stomach. She was hot and this made her hotter.
“Use your hand,” she whispered with an exhalation in his ear.
Well he had learned to be good at that, both academically and practically. Chloe responded to her pelvic bone very quickly.
So they lay in the bed, still two virgins, but now pretty much sexually exhausted. They puffed and panted, relaxing out of the heightened excitement.
Chloe lay there mentally turning pages in her mind until she ran across one from A Porn Star’s Guide to Satisfying Sex, setting the exact sequence in her mind.
After about ten minutes Eric signaled that something was astir by massaging her tit. She turned over and placed her nyloned leg over his crotch slowly massaging as she felt the stiffness returning. A few kisses, a little more coaxing with her leg and he was erect again. She breathed, “Hold on Bucko” in his ear and straddled him.
She put him inside of her and slid down, the sensation almost made her forget what she wanted to do. She sucked it up, rubbed her clit against him and slowly rose to her hands and knees, going wild, as the book instructed. Then she dropped again, rubbing her clit against him in a more frenetic fashion. On the fourth such drop she felt his hands on her butt cheeks as he pulled her tighter directing her in circles and rubbing her clit against him. He came and it was like lightning flashed through her, with it her clit finally surrendered and her climax was like thunder following the bolt.
She lay on him, unwilling to give him up.
“Well,” she said, “Now we know why that’s the World’s favorite leisure time activity.”
They rolled apart and she whimpered softly when he slipped out of her.
“In two weeks,” she said, “I become a Bachelor of Art History. Come and watch?”