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Kristi needed frequent pep talks. These took place in the parking lot at the end of the day’s work, around 5:30 pm or thereabouts. I know it’s considered chancy to date (much less fuck) someone under the same employ, but we’d decided to throw caution to the wind. Maybe we’d make it work somehow. She was a little clingy, sure, but nothing too exhausting.
Sitting on the trunk of her car, she’d scoot her sexy ass on top of it, leaning back against the back windshield, listening to me talk. I’d place my face close to hers, dispensing advice. The traffic coming home was too congested to really want to queue up in line without giving it some time to die down first. This was a good system. It worked for her, it worked for me, and it worked for us.
I always said some variation of the same thing. “You can do this, honey. You are stronger than you think you are.” And she was, but I had to make her believe that for herself, not just for me. When we sat next to each other during office meetings, she squeezed both of her legs around one of mine in a kind of vice-grip.
I wasn’t used to being wanted and needed this much, but it was flattering. I never felt that she was smothering me. She did at times resemble a scared bunny, scampering back and forth from extremes—confidence on one hand and complete terror on others. That’s why she needed so much guidance, and I was good at guidance. My father was a psychologist and he’d taught me a few tricks here and there.
Kristi had flaming natural red hair and often joked about being on Team Red. One of her friends, Amanda, also was a ginger and I’d go with the two of them to hang out with mutual friends on many weekend evenings. They were never elaborate affairs. At most, they consisted of ten people throwing a frisbee around in a rural part of town as a bonfire burned in the background.
Everyone brought their beer of choice, enough to get a nice buzz on, but no one drank to excess. It wasn’t the most stimulating pastime, but Kristi came along with it, so I tried to be a good sport and not complain too much. The others there were polite, but I longed for deep, meaningful conversation and got a lot of surface trivialities instead. Small talk is fine in its place, but it’s not enough to sustain me.
I never felt quite a part of these gatherings. These were not really my sort of people. mobilbahis güvenilir mi Oh, they were nice enough, and accommodating, but as I said, conversation was a touch strained. I mostly sat silent as they talked amongst themselves. One man in his forties always brought along his teen daughter, who was quite content to keep to herself occupied and fill out crossword puzzles while everyone else was acting silly.
Kristi was an introvert like me, but she and Amanda would keep up a shy patter, mostly commenting upon what was happening in front of them. We’d keep the action going until a few people gracefully bowed out. Around 10 or 11 on Friday nights we’d head out. And among Kristi and it was understood that we would quickly gravitate to bed.
She was the first woman I’d ever met who could squirt. She told me that someone at an orgy a year or so before had taught her how to do it. Very quickly I took it as a personal challenge to see if I could pull off the gesture myself. I don’t like admitting I can’t do something, but I could never trigger it myself.
Only she knew how. I understood enough to know that it required G-spot stimulation, but that every woman was different. Some could do it on their own. Some could not. Some could only do it with partners involved, but only those that they fully trusted.
Our clothes smelled smokey from the burning wood as we cast them off of our bodies. Kristi was tiny, barely five feet tall and very petite. After lying down rubber sheets on top of our mattress to aid in the cleanup effort, she opened a drawer in the bureau and located her favorite vibrator.
It was oblong and silver, battery operated. It always reminded me of the silly joke about what BOB stood for (battery operated boyfriend). To increase or decrease the degree of vibration, one held a black plastic wheel and clicked it back and forth between thumb and forefinger.
She started out by licking her fingers to lubricate her clit, then began generously rubbing herself up and down. Quickly fingers entered her cunt, pushing in and out, after which she applied the now humming vibrator to her engorged clit. Kristi came easily. Some women are a challenge to get off. She was not. Decidedly not.
It was never a question of whether she could orgasm, but how many she could manage before mobilbahis her strength gave out. We could have fucked that night, but I’d run around chasing that stupid frisbee at least part of the night, and in any case, I enjoyed watching her get herself off. She took extended gulps of air as she felt herself building to climax. And periodically she would increase the clit vibration as her fingers rolled around and around the G-spot. Then she inserted fully the vibrator into her.
It was actually a lot of fun to see her enjoy herself that much, and I admired the skill involved. Clearly, this was a learned behavior that had required some degree of self-teaching.
Her vibrator’s name was Iris. I found that a little corny, but far be it for me to judge. And, familiar with the process finally, I knew what to expect next. She never made a sound but looked, prior to lift-off, like she was having a seizure. Perfectly clear fluid shot out of her vagina, making a wet dripping noise like heavy rain hitting a tarp. Hence the reason for the rubber sheets. A squirt this copious would have soaked regular cotton material.
This was orgasm one of many to come. I neglected to tell you that she owned far more than Iris. She owned a whole collection which she kept hidden inside the mid-century modern, sliding headboard of the bed. It resembled a hidden compartment. She had at least four dildos, some of which also vibrated, and some which did not. I forgot the name of the one she selected next, except that it was glass and oddly shaped, looking a little bit like a hash pipe except with no bowl to fill. This she inserted next, twisting it around and around her pussy.
“Oh, God.” She whispered, taking in another deep breath, in and then sharply out. Her red pubes were now soaked and dripping. As her eyes grew glassy, I knew her second orgasm wasn’t that far away. Her legs spread apart abruptly, followed by another round of what I had initially confused, years earlier, as pee. This one had been especially hard, so she took some time to recover, reaching her head up to kiss me passionately on the lips.
“I love cumming for you, baby.”
“I love it when you cum for me.” I smoothed her right cheek with the back of my hand. This was why I didn’t mind the constant pep talks, the reassurances that everything was really going to mobilbahis giriş be fine between us. I enjoyed being desired and had never been around anyone quite this kinky before. You’d never know it looking at her. No piercings. No tattoos. No body modifications. She looked like the girl next door.
We had one final kinky ritual that we performed after sex. We exchanged underwear. I slid on her surprisingly dry silk panties and she donned my grey cotton boxers. We’d sleep in them and then wear them the whole of the next day.
Saturdays in the fall and early winter were reserved for football games, but we’d sneak in a quickie during halftime. Of all my partners, I had a special affinity for Kristi. We loved each other very much, enough that we were willing to overlook a variety of shortcomings. I encouraged her to move out of her parents’ house into her own place. I kept her enrolled in nursing school when she wanted to drop out. I’d answer late night phone calls where she was sobbing over some slight and take no offense whatsoever. Isn’t that what love is supposed to be?
We were just too young. That was our post-mortem. As I took stock of what we had going on between us, once it was over, I realized that she’d been a good college girlfriend. That and nothing else. We had never seriously considered marriage or any sort of long-term commitment. Our friends were very different, and as I contemplated the matter further, I wondered if, at long last, being a motivational speaker for life would have eventually ground me down to nubs.
Still, I’m glad for what we had. I suppose what was the saddest thing about the entire thing was that we were typecast as the model couple. People thought it was going to be Kristi and me forever, and it broke a lot of vicarious hearts when we split. But, knowing us, we were convinced we were going to go out on a high note.
She wanted to masturbate for me, one final time. She selected a dildo this time, one designed to simulate an actual man’s penis. It produced amazing results but had to be treated with kid gloves because it was fragile. She called out my name with each stroke, as tears streamed down her cheeks.
She graced me with three hearty, lusty orgasms before a goodbye kiss and hug, whereupon we turned away from each other and walked out of each other’s lives. There would be other partners. We would grow older. I would leave college upon graduation, settle elsewhere, and take a very different path than I had ever thought. She would marry five years later, to one of those infamous frisbee chasers. Now they have three kids and I have remained childless by choice.
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