Divine Providence

Divine Providence

While my “first time” was over 40 years ago, I still remember it quite clearly. I had just graduated from a small college in central Massachusetts. After graduation I moved to Providence, RI and began my first job as a reporter for a local newspaper. While finding a small apartment wasn’t difficult, I also found myself very lonely. My entire college support system had been yanked from under me. I had gone from being a “somebody” on a small University campus to another face in the crowd in a what seemed a very large city.

So it was only natural to keep in touch with my few friends from college. And my only girlfriend from college, D, who now seemed more than just a friend and who lived and worked less than an hour away, filled the bill perfectly. Over the summer our friendship deepened. I went to see her. And she, in her little Volkswagen “bug,” came to visit me. Then one afternoon – since at that time I was working nights – our relationship reached the point where – wonderfully for me – it became intimate .

(I was not quite 21. Imagine. Such an advanced age to have finally had a woman.) Regardless, my first sexual union was an intense luscious sensual step-by-step journey into the previously unknown world of intimate relations.

Of course, once we began, the denouement was foreordained. And though I was inexperienced and a bit nervous, I was also intensely eager, very ready and more-than willing. Above all, definitely able to lustily throw off the cloak of carnal innocence.

The time was early fall. It was afternoon. (An excellent time of day during which to make love, I’ve subsequently concluded.) The location was my first away-from-home residence; a ground floor furnished series of rooms in a private house in Providence. The landlady, a 60’ish older woman whom I never saw except to pay the rent, lived upstairs.

Something classical was playing on my proudly displayed new stereo. It was quiet music, supplied by the RCA “Record of the Month” Club since CD’s hadn’t been invented yet.

Our encounter started innocently, likely picking up wherever D and I had left off the last time we’d been together. Sweet words, perhaps an even sweeter glance surely led to a deep wet kiss. Then another and another; then cuddling on the lumpy couch. Which fast progressed, far less virtuously, to my hand under her sweater caressing the bra-less unfettered more-than-a-handful soft breasts and the rapidly hardening cherry red nipples.

As if we did this all the time, my right hand found its way under her skirt. And discovered, Oh My God … D was wearing no knickers. My middle fingers easily buried themselves in a burning wet pussy. D had come prepared. And, she was hotly eager and waiting for me to figure it out.

Some parts of the above paragraph are true. The rest is “wouldn’t it have been nice” fiction.

Actually, I did slide my hand under her skirt. And I realized it was okay to go further under the elastic of her white cotton panties. And it was even permissible for my middle finger to bury itself deep in what was definitely her hot slippery pussy. I couldn’t get enough of the fevered “feel me up” petting that ensued. D, for her part, used her hands to first loosen my trousers, then to gently take on my swiftly risen cock and give it a gentle assault.

These few moments of foreplay were all-too-brief. Because gloriously in breathless rapid succession I heard the four most provocative prompts every eager would-be lover awaits. “Is the door locked? Close the curtains. Turn off the lights.” And most definitively: “Let’s go where it’s more comfortable.”

We moved the few feet to my small bedroom where D utterly wantonly, carnally, yet with unfeigned naturalness performed a not-so-innocent striptease just for me. I watched with widening eyes as she disrobed among the dust motes dancing in the beams of the waning afternoon sun. Article after article of feminine apparel was shed, put aside in a neat pile.

The penultimate item was those now-damp panties. The last was a skimpy white cotton T-shirt I subsequently learned was called a camisole and which D customarily wore in lieu of a bra. Punctuating the fabric were her nipples’ proud points. Unobstructed below was the sight of a mass of curly dark pubic hair. Hidden below were the secrets it foreshadowed. Slipping the camisole off – and except for narrow tortoise shell glasses perched on her nose – D was now naked; flaunting her femininity.

Because she tended to wear skirts and tops that to my untutored eyes were somewhat mismatched, D had – to me – an outward-appearing gawky-ness. But when all her clothing fell away that afternoon, I discovered she had a lusciously curvaceous figure.

D was tall, perhaps 5’ 9”. Her complexion was slightly darker than fair and her hair was long, dark brown and naturally curly. Her face was open and guileless with a pleasing smile and friendly voice. Her eyes were hazel and a cute nose held up her glasses.

Continuing my gaze downward, D always expressed the view she was somewhat flat-chested. But at that time, having personally viewed no other women than in centerfolds, I thought her bosom just right. Her breasts seemed perkily pendulous, topped with rosy nipples and slightly darker aureoles. Oh how I loved looking at her bosom when, topless, she bent over.

D’s legs were long and proportionate. Rear-ward the view of her was delightful. From the front, where her near-flawless thighs joined, her hips were wide and her waist slender. Even more exquisite was that plump love mound with its muff of thick, dark tight wiry curls leading down to those hidden lips. Lips, which, in turn, sheltered an entrance that was almost always damply wet, sweetly fragrant, soft-as-clouds tender, and eager to embrace and enfold my turgid hotly-risen cock.

This first time that I saw this beautiful 24-year-old woman in the altogether I enjoyed with wide-eyed wonder her titillating striptease. And, of course, hastily shed my own clothes – albeit with nowhere near as much panache. Nor did I give a second thought to my own 165 pound six-foot-tall skinny physique. What D saw was short cropped hair, eager brown eyes, happy smile, almost bare chest, and most prominently, a very erect penis nestled in a thick thatch of brown hair; hotly waiting, some seven inches long and on rigid burgundy display. (What a pleasant discovery for me, by the way. What I heretofore thought rather modest personal equipment turned out – rising to the occasion – to be far less humble than I had perceived.)

Standing by the bedstead, I ogled – I am sure with a silly grin – as D put her glasses on the nightstand, pulled back the covers and got onto the bed. On her back, she positioned her bareness suggestively; spread her thighs widely and at the same time flexed her knees. Her tantalizingly love mound and curly-haired wet lower lips were now lasciviously unobstructed. “Would you like me?” the hot honeypot wordless and hungrily seemed to ask. Definitely “YES, MAM!”




My heart skipped a beat. With faux modesty D had primly drawn the sheet and light blanket up to her chin. But her eyes twinkled and beckoned and a `come-hither’ smile lit her face. As I yanked the covers off, prurient thoughts raced. This was it. We were actually going to DO IT. (I knew the vernacular word for sex. Everyone did. But until about ten minutes later it didn’t have a physical reality for me.)

God, how would it feel? The dreamily wet slishy space at the fork of her thighs. I’d just been deep inside with my fingers. What would be the fit when my cock slipped in? Lusty thrusting! Hot climax spurts! Fast-forwarding mental imagining stretched my condom-less erection, reddened it even darker, angled it even steeper.

Condom-less? Yes. I knew D was a regular user of the newly-available birth control pills. Thus I never suffered the – to me – prior embarrassment of having to go out and buy a package of Trojans. I was almost painfully shy. And in those days the purchase of a condom wasn’t quite the casual full-aisle-of-endless-varieties, even advertised-on-TV-matter it is today. You had to ask the man behind the counter. And I was a very modest boy living by himself in Puritan New England even though it was the seemingly enlightened 1960’s.

Thus, because I knew D was on birth control my sexual initiation was stress-less. There was no mortification as the loved one earnestly watched as I – for the first time – fumbled my way to the task at hand. Or, D offering to help might have had even more embarrassing results. Being so eager might I have come before she’d slid it halfway home. Yuck! What kind of a first time would that have been!

Thus my knowledge the pills were doing their work was of endless import. It allowed me to relax – if only just a little – cast inhibition aside, know no distraction and totally avoid the worries of “what if.”

At the remove of the present day, it would be nice to say I approached my first lover concentrating solely on the upcoming experience’s sensual and emotional sides. Focused on the curve of her breasts, the softness of her kisses, the warmth of her breath, the heat of her inner thighs, the sweetness of her words and of course, the delicious wetness and perfume of her inmost secret place.

But that was not the case. The physical side – having her, fucking her, making love to her – that was all I cared about. Far faster than I have told this and with no further ado, I pulled the sheet and blanket back over us and framed myself on elbows and knees directly above her. So this was the famed “Missionary Position.” It was easy to get quickly comfortable and not much of an athletic reach for a former crew-person such as myself. As I hovered ever-so-briefly, our lips joined, tongues dancing softly. My hardened length positioned itself just in front of those soft damp labia, and the lovely – and for my virgin cock, unexplored – opening between her hot, widely spread loins.

D and I were far too eager for further foreplay. I gently crushed her full breasts and simultaneously lowered my hips. Without asking – and probably so there should be no first-time miscue – her gentle fingers encircled, aimed, and guided my cock into ultra-well-lubricated slippery inner folds. And as easily as that I was virgin no more. D’s sleek velvety vagina easily yielded; instantly and simultaneously tickled, teased and sucked me in, wordlessly begged my cock: “Skewer me lover! Have me! Relentlessly!”

How wonderfully easy to comply. I settled deep into the warm inner wetness. Plunged gently then strongly, discovered nothing easier than letting my hands gently crunch her shoulders as my hips drove me far into an oh-so-ready wetness. There was the white heat of that first stab. Then the electricity of probing further the responsive softness of her yielding intimate flesh. Followed by the erotic silky friction of slithering back… back…back… but not quite out.

Wow! So that’s what making love is all about. No wonder its such a popular indoor sport. And that quickly I mastered the basics of the physical skill that’s as easy to learn as falling off a bike. Lickety-split, of course, D’s eager gyrations more than matched mine. Or was it vice-versa? (Only much later was I to learn another of life’s lessons: Most girls, with even a modest amount of wooing, are as eager to get laid as their fellows are to bed them. The average hot female lusts in her lover’s ear:“I want you to be in me every bit as much as you want you to be in me.” Or as Mae West is reputed to have said: “When I am good I am very very good and when I am bad I am better.”)

We continued this in-and-out, out and in action again…and again…and again. For how long? Did I contain my first orgasm through long delicious minutes? Give me a break. No way! Being 20, making love the very first time. What can be expected? So, suddenly, there it was. Hot ejaculate: pulsing, pumping, jetting out of me, filling her. Yet, wonderfully, I discovered I was still – I suppose potent is the right word. Three, four, five, perhaps even six more energetic thrusts – each matched by D’s robust responses – brought even more spurts of warm wetness spilling.

Eventually I had to stop. Shriveling limpness made continuing impossible. So I just paused for the longest moment. What a wet wonderful sensation it was; coming inside a wanting woman. Then, finally, gently, as my cock became totally flaccid, I withdrew, slid alongside, probably whispering a few sweet words, savoring the sensations.

What did we do next? What did we say? I’ve no recollection. I am sure eventually we got re-dressed and went out for something to eat. As is usually the case after anything but late night sex, after being ravished you’re generally famished.

I couldn’t ask, but to myself wondered: As a lover, how had I done? Was I “fabulous”, “good” or just “acceptable?” As if reading my mind and regardless of the truth of it, D bless her heart, blurted out in no uncertain terms: “That was fantastic.”

I privately pondered two other unanswerable questions: Did D come to our afternoon’s passion as virginal as I? And did she, like me, have a climax? The second question’s answer seemed only slightly easier. As we made love, there were female moans, pants and cries. But which, if any, were the signal? And while D urgently and loudly breathed: “Yes!” or variations thereon, interestingly she never said: “Stop.”

Other than books and magazines, I was untutored. I could only hope as mutual had been our frenzied passion, it had been sufficient. Unfortunately, at that point in my sexual education I still didn’t know it was okay to use gentle manual stimulation. As for D’s more subtle – or direct – clues? With luck, I would have the opportunity to learn.

Regarding my lover’s virginity (or lack thereof,) I ultimately concluded it was long gone by the time I arrived on the scene. She was older than I. And there were those birth control pills. Was she really taking them in anticipation of just this moment? Not likely. D was quiet, reserved and not forthcoming about aspects of her personal life; particularly those aspects. And I never asked.

Further, if D were a virgin, where was the storied maidenhead every horny boy dreams so avidly of deflowering? Surely it hadn’t disappeared from the asparagus-thin tampons she used every month. Wasn’t there supposed to be something there?

More to the point, shouldn’t it have taken a bit of an effort to part it? And wasn’t there supposed to be a maiden’s modest hesitation? (All of which avidly-read romances knowledgeably opined upon.) Not if this wasn’t the first time for the lady in question. When we’d made love it had been so easy. D had been so eager, energetic and relaxed and upon reflection, so seemingly well-practiced. Why, she even knew when – and how – to lusciously guide me into her.

No, I wasn’t her first lover. But it was okay. So someone else had, at one – or many – times(s) been inside her lovely body’s special place, loved her, taught her love’s physical language. Love’s experience was her gain and now her opportunity to share and teach me.

Now it was I who lovingly and exclusively possessed and rode that languid hotness. Now it was I who could stroke and caress those lovely breasts and kiss those full lips. Now it was I who could admire and embrace that long shapely naked body from the tip of its curly-haired head to the base of its cute bare feet. That was all that mattered. Now it was I!

D and I made love on many a subsequent morning, afternoon or evening. But none of our other encounters ever matched – at least for me – the brilliance and fire of that very first time. It was an afternoon when my lover gave her shy-but-eager virgin boyfriend every sexual drum roll, ruffle and flourish any man could have desired in a carnal initiation.

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