Did someone once say “Everyone should pop at least one cherry in their lifetime?” If not, maybe someone should, because it is certainly a rite of passage, whether the popper or poppee be male or female.
Yvette was a college student I worked with one summer. We spent a lot of time together, which meant–given the times–that we slept together a lot. But we didn’t screw. Yvette was a virgin.
What we would usually do is that Yvette would strip to the waist, as would I, then I would get behind her on the bed, spoon-fashion, and reach around and fondle her breasts. I had not seen a lot of naked women before, and I marveled that her nipples pointed to the outside, instead of being perfectly centered. I was young and stupid and couldn’t see the point of this until, years later, I saw my wife nurse our daughter Sudie. Then I understood that nature had found it more convenient to point them outwards than would have occurred to my adolescent mind, when I thought their only purpose was to arouse the male gonads. Live and learn.
I was also a typical male of my time in that I didn’t ask Yvette what she wanted, or how she reacted to what I was doing to her. I mean, I could tell that her nipples popped up when I fondled her, but I had no idea if she wanted me to stop there–as I did–or if she was creaming in her panties hoping that my inquisitive hands would stray lower.
So, by the end of the summer, I had a pretty good feel for her breasts, so to speak, but no experience at all with the rest of her sexual apparatus–nor she with mine.
As the summer ended we both went to the National Student Association convention on the campus of a large midwestern university. One day I took her into my dormitory room and took off her blouse and bra. I looked fondly at her breasts and nipples while she lay on my bed, but after feeling them up, I proceeded on to cup her pubic mound (beneath her shorts and panties) in my hand, and began a rhythmic and gentle squeezing. After a few minutes I was surprised to hear her take deep breaths and orgasm. “Gee,” I said to myself, “she sounds just like me when I cum.” It was a part of my education: the first time I had ever masturbated a woman–though I still had not seen her naked pussy.
We were separated for a few months, but another student conference in Durham, North Carolina brought us together at year’s end. A friend arranged for us to stay in the apartment of a couple who were out of town. This was playing house on a grand scale, and I think we both understood that we would finally play momma and poppa in the bedroom. On the way over I went to a truckstop restroom and bought a condom from a machine, since I would have been mortified to try to get one in a drugstore from a real live human being whose eyes would have drilled through me as they asked “And what are you going to do with this? Where are you going to put it? Are you married? You look awfully young to me!” Or so I assumed. Even a chuckle or a wink from them would have reduced me to a puddle. Such were the times, and such was I.
Our first night in the comfortable double bed I finally got to see Yvette naked. I kept my underpants on, but removed everything else. This was more of each other than we had ever seen before. The most delightful moment came when she rubbed her pussy lips against my hard cock (through the underpants), moving up and down, up and down, until she came. There is just something delightful about a woman using your sex organ, even if covered, to find her own pleasure. It was a fitting climax to a great night.
The next and last night not only she stripped naked, but I as well. While I explored her pubic hair, she felt the penis against which she had orgasmed herself the night before. I decided I could get used to someone else holding my penis, and added it to my list of erotic pleasures. Of course, it grew in her hand, and at full staff was ready to be rubber coated, courtesy of the truckstop restroom. I opened the package and placed the circular ring atop the mushroom cap of my erection, then rolled it down slowly, thrilled at the interest expressed by her unwavering eyes, which followed the condom’s progress down the staff that was soon to pierce her and take her virginity forever.
When it was rolled down my entire cock, I moved my hand between her legs, and explored the pussy lips that had given us both such delight the night before. I slipped my middle finger in between them, and moved it around until I could feel her creaming lubrication. Then I spread her legs and positioned myself between them, using my thumbs to hold her labia apart, creating a target that immediately attracted the quivering arrow of my sex. The tip nestled between the lips, and I moved my hips up, then thrust–bursting right through her hymen.
I waited a , then began moving my cock in and out of her, continuing until I felt the sperm welling up inside my balls and then shooting out into the reservoir tip of my condom. (It is somewhat of a puzzle to me why I used the condom in the first place. This was before the great fear of sexually transmitted diseases, and I always preferred the sensitivity of a naked cock when I fucked. But this time my penis was definitely rubber-coated, perhaps because I thought that, as a virgin, she was not taking birth control pills).
Again, I was young and stupid, and didn’t think to ask how it was for her, or what I could do to increase her pleasure. But it was certainly functional: it removed that fleshy obstruction to fucking forever.
It was the last time I saw Yvette. Geography carried us apart, and a few months later she wrote that she had found a boyfriend closer to home. I was glad for her, and hoped they had a lot of delightful fucking, though he would never have the opportunity to pop her cherry, as I had.
I never again deflowered a virgin, and I would consider myself deprived had I not had the chance with Yvette, so she will always be a member of my sexual pantheon. Bless you!
There is one other thing: when I pierced her, she did bleed. Young and stupid as we were (that seems to be a continuing theme here!), we left the bloody sheets on the bed when we left, which must have been quite a surprise to the regular occupants when they returned from Christmas vacation.
There is a lesson here: clean up your own mess!
And another: popping a cherry may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so make the most of it. Take your time and remember all the details–and write them down for us so we can enjoy them too!
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Popping Yvette’s Cherry
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