I still think about that night sometimes, how nervous he was when he showed up at my apartment door. He was nineteen, barely out of high school, and I was twenty-three with a little more experience than I let on at first. We had been flirting for weeks at the coffee shop where he worked, and I could tell he had never been touched. Not really. When I invited him over for “drinks and a movie,” I already knew what I wanted to do to him.
He sat stiff on my couch, hands clasped in his lap, trying not to stare at the way my robe kept slipping open. I poured him a glass of wine he barely touched. The movie played in the background, forgotten. I shifted closer, let my thigh press against his, and watched the color rise in his cheeks.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head, eyes wide. “No. I mean… not really. Not all the way.”
I smiled, slow and warm, and reached over to touch his face. “That’s okay. I like that.”
I kissed him first, soft at first, then deeper, guiding his hands to my waist. He was trembling a little. I took my time, letting him explore the curve of my breast through the thin fabric, letting him feel how warm my skin was. When I stood and let the robe fall open, his breath caught. I took his hand and led him to my bedroom.
On the bed I undressed him slowly, kissing each new inch of skin I uncovered. His cock was already hard, straining against his underwear. I freed it, wrapped my fingers around the length, and stroked him gently while I whispered how good he felt, how I was going to make this feel even better.
He moaned when I leaned down and took him in my mouth, just the head at first, then deeper. I could feel him fighting not to come too soon, his hips twitching.
I pulled back and straddled him instead. I was already wet, had been since the moment he walked in. I reached between us, guided him to my entrance, and sank down inch by inch. He gasped, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping my hips like he was afraid he would float away. I stayed still for a moment, letting him feel the tight, wet heat around him.
“Open your eyes,” I told him. “Look at me.”
When he did, I started to move. Slow rolls of my hips at first, then deeper, steadier strokes. I leaned forward so my breasts brushed his chest, kissed him while I rode him, told him how perfect he felt inside me. Every time he got close I slowed down, drew it out, made him beg a little without even realizing he was begging.
I came first, clenching around him, and the feeling pushed him over the edge. He cried out, hips jerking up into me as he spilled deep inside. I stayed on top of him afterward, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, letting him catch his breath while I felt him soften inside me.
Later, when he could speak again, he looked at me with something like awe. “That was… I didn’t know it could be like that.”
I smiled and kissed him again. “We’re just getting started.”
We spent the rest of the night exploring what his body could do, what mine could teach him. By morning he was no longer a virgin, and I had the quiet satisfaction of knowing I had been the one to take that from him, carefully, thoroughly, and with a lot more pleasure than he had ever imagined.
