Where it happened: the park of a country house
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 5
Category: Straight
ISABELLE
I was twenty-three (well, not every loses their virginity at thirteen) and had arrived at a grand eighteenth-century country house in Berkshire as a teacher for a rather exclusive adult summer course in English language. I had just taken an exploratory walk round the park when I saw two girls standing at the corner of the house. There was an exchange of glances and I remember finding one of them most attractive—I could attempt to describe the chubby face or breasts in close-fitting black blouse or thigh-area pleasantly shaped in jeans, yet never succeed in describing that pleasant surge of sexual attraction I felt from the combination of her perfectly-ripe body and our exchange of slightly-lingering glances.
The first night we had dancing and I discovered that she was Isabelle from Toulon in France and was working in the kitchens over the summer. We then parted, but when the slow last dance came, I went over to her again, and went into a slow body-to-body caress.
The following days we got more friendly and kissed, and a day or so later I came back from shopping in Aylesbury and went to find her in her room. We stood facing each other, saying a few words about banal things, then we started to kiss and as the bed was near, we sat down, side-by-side, our tongues now furiously intertwining.
When I felt her lips hot against mine, I knew that her other lips were ready too. I moved my hand down to the inside of her left thigh and caressed up and down; then moved up towards the centre of my desire, touched it lightly but in order to make the experience as tantalizing as possible, I forced my hand down the opposite thigh again, but was soon back to her darling cunt, stroked it a bit longer–then away again, but now hardly stayed for one caress before I was back where we both wanted to be, where a soft cleft guided my caressing fingers, her legs opening in invitation, while our two tongues intertwined furiously.
We didn’t go any further than this on that afternoon. When we had finished and sat breathless on the bed, she looked at me and said ‘C’est la première fois qu’on m’a touché là!’ (‘That’s the first time anyone has touched me there’). (It’s interesting that in these stories that it’s often the brief comments that are remembered clearly–they give us an precise link to this wonderful but basically indescribable experience.)
So far, very good, you might say. Yet the next move was more difficult because of our combined lack of experience. Actually that understanding about hot kissing lips meant her ‘other lips’ were ready I’d learnt from a book—‘My Life and Loves’ by Frank Harris—and had already found it was an unfailing guide for when to move on from kissing to intimate caresses. But I hadn’t any other such proverbial guide for when I could move on to the next stage!—indeed, in these early-experience years I’d found that both girls and myself could be quite happy to stop at ‘stage two’—perhaps we would have been both overjoyed at going all the way, but there was no absolute urge to get there quickly and no resentment at not getting there.
Anyway, that evening we decided to go for a walk and we set off hand in hand towards the darkened lakeside, away from the house. We kissed; I put my jacket on the ground and we lay down; kissing started again, her legs opened to meet my hand, stroking, stroking at that beautiful soft cleft, feeling her respond in increasing excitement. Then I paused, moved my hand up to her belt– a wide belt with two tongues. I pulled the end free and started to pull the two eyes of the belt free of the two tongues of the buckle. “Non!” she whispered. I hesitated; a second of silence and suspended activity, and then she begged, more insistently, “SI!!”. (For those who don’t know French, ‘si’ is a contradictory ‘yes’, so she said ‘No… I mean, yes!’
I freed the belt, the button at the top of the jeans and unzipped the front. Then I slid my hand down, first (in order to tantalise again: perhaps she would think ‘He’s not going to stroke my cunt!’) to caress from the outside of her panties, feeling the dampness coming through, then inside–over the hair and down, down into the hot, wet fold of her pretty CUNT, and I started exploring and caressing the beautiful soft folds, so hot and wet, pressing against my hand as her buttock muscles contracted to force that delicious centre of life higher and more open.
Her words were becoming more incoherent, our breaths quicker, and I stopped, got to my knees and unzipped my corduroy jeans and pulled out my stiff cock, placed it gently in her hand and continued with my caressing. What an intense few hours that day had been for us both, and especially for Isabelle—this was the first time a boy had stroked her moistening cunt through her jeans, the first time his fingers had explored and penetrated its slippery surfaces, and the first time she had put her little hand around a stiff cock. And of the many pleasures of sex this placing of your hard cock in the hand of a girl for the first time is one of the most pleasant: a soft grip so instinctive and gentle (reminding one inevitably of the baby’s hand immediately wrapped around a proffered finger), and so expressive of girl’s desire for cock, such a wonderful combination of active taking and passive holding on the female side, of passive acceptance of caresses and active thrusting on the male—the very image of gentle sexual yin-and-yang: more than fucking itself, which is an act, while this can be remembered more easily as an image, a picture).
After she had climaxed several times we decided to go. She pulled up her jeans and zipped them up. I pulled up my jeans but my cock was so stiff I couldn’t get it in, so I left it sticking out. We were kneeling opposite one another, we kissed, then glancing down, she saw my stiff cock still standing out from my jeans: she threw her head on my lap and against my erect cock, while I gently caressed her hair. Just a short while before she had said ‘Non!’—and now her soft chubby cheek was pressing against a stiff cock.
Lifting her head, she watched me force my cock into my trousers and said “Je voudrais bien faire l’amour avec toi!”. (‘I’d like to make love with you’).
OK—what more did I want for a sign to move to stage three? But this was at the end of a session, so what she said was more a pious wish, not an actual invitation to go ahead now. It was the conditional tense—there was something distant about the wish.
Fast forward a week or ten days (it was a month-long course) to the evening of the special dinner, when wine was brought by the pupils. Afterwards I went into the kitchen and found that Isabelle and her friend Danielle had been swigging from unfinished bottles and were quite merry. When she’d finished I went with Isabelle for our “walk in the park” and ended up at a swing from an old tree. I pushed her on the swing a bit, but then she fell off, landing on her bum. This led on to intimate caresses, but she said she’d wet herself falling off the swing. So we took off jeans and panties. I think she then went aside to have a pee at this point. Anyway, one thing led to another and I positioned the head of my cock on her cunt lips and was slowly pushing in. I’m sorry I can’t remember more details, but actually, when having sex I don’t think you do actually record things in crystal-clear detail. What you do remember is occasionally images (hand around cock etc.) and also words (‘That’s the first time anyone’s touched me there’), but the rest is a kind of maelstrom of impressions. So I stopped at just that initial penetration, but I haven’t a clear memory of things; we went back to her room and we met up shortly after when she said she’d been bleeding and she thought she’d lost her ‘pucelage’ (virginity). I remember feeling a mixture of apprehension and stupid male pride. Well, that’s as far as we got, stage two-and-a-half. However, we met up at the end of the summer at her home in Toulon and then some years later to make up for lost time. And we did.
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