For One Night Only - I Was a Teenaged Slut
written by:
Naughty Miranda

Tommy's not the oldest guy I've ever been with, but he's definitely the most mature, and that makes a big difference, you know.

Like when other guys asked me to do things, I'd hesitate and they'd get all aggressive - "well, if you loved me, you'd want to"; and I hate to come on all "Tina Turner on the Oldies Station," but what's love got to do with it?

Or they'd start sulking, and it was like suddenly trying to reason with a ten year old. With Tommy, if I hesitate, he hesitates with me, and though I know he's only doing it to make me feel good, it works.

Other things I like about Tommy. He doesn't grunt. What is it about guys who think they have to make so much noise during sex? Especially during blowjobs? That half-cry, half-moan they do... and you know what I mean, because it's why you always turn the volume down when you're watching porn on your iPad.

It's the same when a guy goes down on you and he starts making all those "nom nom" sounds. Excuse me? Just because it's a pussy, it's not a Lolcat too. Sometimes, you just wanna go "shut up and suck my clit," except that'd probably make him nom-nom even louder.

Tommy's quiet.

He doesn't fuck around either. Not when we met and not today, either. Most guys are happy to be sent off to work with a good breakfast, a kiss and a "have a nice day."

Not Tommy.

From the first night we spent together, across all the nights since then, he can't even get up in the morning without... no, let me rephrase that. He won't get up in the morning without a blowjob. He awakens, and he gets up to pee. He used to run quickly to the kitchen to switch the percolator on, but since he bought one with a timer, he doesn't even do that.

Then he's back beneath the covers, gently stroking me awake if I need it, or just cuddling me if I don't. I cuddle him back and he presses himself to me, sometimes already rock hard against my ass, other times still working up to it. Either way, that's my cue to kiss and nibble my way down his chest and abdomen, and say "good morning" to his little fellow... and don't ever tell him I call it that. Because he's not that little, really. More... average. Bite-sized. Fun-sized.

It's our routine, this daily delight, and a few of the friends who I've mentioned it to have rolled their eyes and growled "typical guy." But you know what my response to that is? "Then I must be a typical girl." Because just as every guy loves to have his cock sucked, every girl loves...

What's that you say?

Some of them don't?

God, I feel sorry for them.

Tommy wasn't my first ever. In fact, he wasn't even my first of the evening when we met. Which makes me laugh, because if you go online and read up on modern teen sexuality, everybody's getting their panties twisted over the thought that the young generation are spending all their time sucking and licking. As if their elders weren't doing exactly the same thing. The only difference is, it's less of a big deal now.

Celibacy advocates recommend oral as a safe substitute for actually "having sex," as though fucking your man with your mouth isn't about as sexual as you can get. Television jokes about it, Presidents (well, a President) do it with White House interns, and whereas once, before the Internet, there was something mystical and even mythical about the act, now blowjobs are up there with kittens and prat falls as the most common home videos posted online. And why? Because... well, yes, people want to see them.

But they also want to post them. I've seen even more stiff cocks on my girlfriends' iPhones than I've ever seen in real life, and I've learned more tricks from watching them blow than I ever could have thought up myself. In fact, I wonder sometimes how people actually did sex in the years before there was the internet and phones and things to show you what to do.

Posting your own pics and videos is like marking out your territory, showing off the things you're good at, showing the things you enjoy. You can always tell the videos that were posted by girls, as well. They're the ones where she looks like a million dollars, and everything she does is beautiful, slow and graceful. Whereas the ones that the guys post... they're the ones where she looks like shit, and runs to the bathroom while he's still recording, to spit his mess out in the sink.

Yeah, like that's something we all want to watch.

Where was I? Tommy wasn't my first. I didn't even start that young - well, not as young as some girls I knew, but the evening I met Tommy for the first time, and met his little fellow too... well, let's say it was hectic, and leave it at that.

Or not. You really want the details?

Okay. But you' better not breathe a word to Tommy. I'm pretty certain he still thinks I'd never even seen a dick before he introduced me to his.

I was a freshman, Lisa was a sophomore. My best friend through High School, and even before that, she lived out on the Cape in one of those wonderful clapperboard mini-mansions that ostentatious Victorian fishermen use to be build, to prove they'd come up in the world.

I say "wonderful" - well, that's how it seemed at the time. Lisa still lives there and she's always complaining about the cost of heating it, the constant repairs, the sheer size of the place. But when we were kids, it was a magical playground, and when we were teens, it was make-out central, because even if Lisa's parents were home, there were corners of that house that nobody ever visited. Nobody except the handful of friends, a couple of guys and a couple of girls, who Lisa would have over for evenings or weekends - or once, for a sleep-over that turned into an orgy. Apparently. I was in bed with the flu and missed it.

This weekend, Lisa's parents were away, and they'd taken her two brothers with them. They'd probably have taken Lisa, too, except she made a fuss about how much homework she had... which was true, because she did. What she didn't say was that it wasn't due to be handed in until after the following weekend, so while they drove away secure in the knowledge that their little girl was going to be buried in math problems for forty-eight hours, she and I were making the sort of plans that only big girls (we thought) would ever hatch.

We were going to have a Prude Party.

I don't need to explain, do I? There was so much outrage about them in the media a few years back that... again like blowjobs... you'd think that the latest generation of teens were the first to ever think of such a thing. Basically, it's a fancy dress party, where the girls all come clad as nuns, librarians, maiden aunts and pinchy-faced news readers, and the guys all come dressed as little as possible. "Imagine the Chippendales at a convent," Lisa said, and I laughed because I could. Especially if the convent was inhabited by the girls we invited.

Tommy was not on the guest list, for the simple reason that we didn't know him. He arrived as the friend of a friend of one of the older guys who turned up... not quite gatecrashing, but not exactly welcomed with open arms, either. They weren't even dressed appropriately! Although I did notice a few of them getting into the spirit, and the last time I saw my friend Shelley, immaculately dressed in the style of a TV evangelista, she was heading upstairs with a beast of a biker - with whom, she confided later, she had a wonderful time on her knees. Praying for his soul, no doubt.

I didn't root myself permanently to any single guy. Even as Lisa and I first planned the party, we knew this would probably be our last big bash of the year, before the last of the vacationers retreated back to the warmth of the city, and the sea air became too cold to breathe.

She knew I had an eye for at least four of the guys on our guest list, and she, I think, had the hots for five. Including one of mine. So far as we were concerned, the whole Prude Party angle was simply camouflage for what the pair of us really intended. Which was to see how many different guys we could make out with in one evening, without any of them realizing they were part of a crowd.

Yeah. I might have been dressed like a middle-aged weather girl; Lisa might have been done up like a 50s sit com housewife. But looks can be deceiving. We wanted to be sluts.

It was easy, too. Again, that house had hideaways that you would never imagine. So you'd secrete one boy in one, and make out for a while... then "I'm sorry, I have to pee. Wait here, I'll be as quick as I can." And off you'd run to where another was waiting. Another make-out session, another call of nature. "I'll be as quick as I can" - and off to number three, and there would have been a fourth, but Lisa had already stashed him away some place, and I was never able to find her to discover where.

You know the game Clue? Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the Rope? It was a little like that. Getting the guys off, that is. Horny Chrissie in the Attic with her Fist. In the One of the Bathrooms with her Mouth. In the Main Room, Dancing with her Ass Cheeks.

It's always amazed me just how quickly guys cum sometimes. I mean, I know that's the whole point of the exercise for them, but they go on and on about "that feels really good, babe," when all you're doing is rubbing their dick - well, if it feels that good, why don't they enjoy it a little longer?

Not that I'm complaining, of course. The first time I ever made a guy cum... all on my own, without him helping me out, it was like winning the lottery, finishing a great book, passing my driving test and getting accepted into Harvard all at once. It still is, too, a lot of the time. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised that guys want to get there just as quickly, cos if it feels good for me....

Mark knew Lisa's house almost as well as I do. A veteran of past parties there, and past explorations too, he dragged me up to the attic almost before I'd decided who I wanted to start with. Almost. But the finger I trailed across the bulge in his (unfeasibly tight) pants, and the way it lingered when there was an answering twitch - those things probably told him that he was in with a chance, so up we went, and down I went, crouching on the dusty floor, jerking him hard and angling him down....

Okay, here's a question for you. Do kisses count as a blowjob? If that's what you ultimately intend to give him, but you're just warming up with a few gentle pecks, open-mouthed on his shaft, tongue on his helmet, looking into the eye as it stares back at you... and then it winked at me, and I looked up at Mark to tell him what had happened, my hand still rubbing his flesh back and forth - and splash. He came.

Not a lot. Someone obviously was a little dehydrated. It was on my hand, dripping lazily to the floor, and there was some on his bare feet, around his Birkenstocks, too. And I was so hot that I actually considered kneeling to lick it off. But his eyes were still closed, his head was tilted back; he'd never even know I' d done it. So I didn't. Instead, I joined him for a reasonably long kiss, then excused myself for a pee.

Which I did actually need, but there was a line... well, two of us. Gerry (‘with a ‘G'," he always said), whose folks owned moored their yacht here every September, and then migrated to a hotel where they lived out their vacation. The yacht would not be touched all month, although I knew that Gerry occasionally took friends on board for - whatever. Not me, though, so I admired him from afar, and we smiled silently at one another while we waited for the bathroom to become free.

"After you," he said as the door swung open.

"No, you were here first," I told him politely.

"It's okay, I can wait," he answered, and we could have gone back and forth all night before he said, "to be honest, I just want to see if there's any paracetamol. I've got a bit of a headache."

"Then let me help you look," I replied, so smoothly that I surprised myself, and that's how I wound up with my panties hanging loose from one foot, my dress bunched up around my waist, my bare ass on Lisa's mother's granite bathroom surface, and six foot three of Gerry-with-a-G kneeling between my splits-spread legs, eating me out like he'd been starving all week.

It didn't even matter that he didn't really know what he was doing. I was so hot from what I'd been doing with Mark that I'm amazed he didn't drown in all the juices I was flooding with. After all I said before about guys who cum so quickly, I'm not sure Gerry even touched my clit before I was clinging to his head, tugging at his hair, and grinding my cunt into his face, cumming harder than I ever had in that particular position.

He stood, and he'd already dropped his jeans, so his cock tented his boxers and peeped over the top. I reached out to his waistband, and pulled it a little tighter, trapping the tip of his dick against his stomach, and then I leaned forward and started to lick it.

Long, languorous sweeps that devoured his flavor, and the precum he was spilling, pressing his balls and his shaft with my palm, only gently releasing his cock from its prison, my mouth aching to take him wholly inside, but enjoying the torturous tease as well. So when he did cum, I was ready and waiting, my heart pounding louder as my jaws opened around his pulsing, twitching cock, and I felt his orgasm leaking from my lips back down his shaft.

I would lick it back up in a moment.

And then I would excuse myself.

This was too easy.

The third one - does it count? He asked me to dance as I walked across the living room, fully intending to grab a drink and then go back to Mark in the attic. Except I guess he'd got bored waiting, because there he was deep in conversation with some other girl, so ... yeah.

"Yo Chrissie, wanna dance?" "Yo Jason, is that how they teach you to speak at Andover?" A running joke, three years old and still not tired. Something by someone I vaguely recognized was playing, slow enough for me to jam myself tight up to Jason's body, but quirky enough for me to keep my back to him, so his hands could play over my breasts as we danced, and his hips could grind into my butt as I reached one hand behind me, and fingers twitched questingly down the front of his pants.

Bingo! We have contact.

On the dance floor, in front of everyone?

Don't worry. Everyone else ha their own hands full. It's only called a Prude Party, in case you hadn't already guessed. The reality is quite the opposite. Meaning, even that early into the evening, I certainly wasn't the only girl kissing her partner with penis breath, and I probably wasn't the only one kissing him with someone else's penis breath.

My hand was still down the front of Jason's pants the first time I saw Tommy, and I don't remember now whether I'd already decided to jerk him off where we stood, or if I was going to suggest we went somewhere less public.

Either way, I felt the button go flying away as I thrust my whole hand deep inside Jason's Dockers, and hoping only that they wouldn't fall down, I gave him the kind of handjob that... to be honest, it was probably the kind of handjob you could get for five bucks from a really bored junkie in an alley by the waterfront in Boston. Yeah, that good. But Jason didn't complain, and I didn't send him an invoice.

He came, I withdrew my hand, and I caught Lisa's eye. I flashed three fingers in the air. She smiled and made the same gesture. Then I added a fourth and nodded over to where Tommy... or the guy who would turn out to be Tommy... was standing, talking with some other people. Lisa's nod told me she approved of my choice, so I downed a whiskey to freshen my breath, then started a slow dance across to his corner.

I felt his eyes on me before I'd even got halfway, which was great because it meant I didn't have to be obvious. And it is still great, because it means he still believes that he did all the running that night, and I was this shy little princess whom he rescued from a life of tightly-buttoned convention. Yeah. He didn't see the irony in the Prude Party either.

We danced. We talked. In fact, we talked a lot, which bugged me a bit because time was a-passing and at some point in the proceedings, Lisa walked by and flashed me five fingers. And I was still on three.

But somehow, talking was fine. Talking was great. I don't necessarily believe in "love at first sight," but I don't not believe in it either, because we were getting on well; we had a ridiculous amount of things in common; and it even turned out that his parents knew mine, through some convoluted line of golf club acquaintanceship. I was a little taken aback when he mentioned his age - there's seven years yawning between us. But so what? There's almost ten years between my parents, and they've been together forever.

Dancing turned to closer dancing. Talking turned to kissing. Saturday night became Sunday morning an the first signs of the party breaking up began to show. "Do you have to be anywhere?" I asked him, and he breathed a soft "only with you" in my ear. Lisa passed by, grinning like a loon. In her hand she held a can of 7-Up.

"I think we're going to make a move," I told her and she nodded. Tommy's car was parked down the street, and he'd not drunk so much that he shouldn't be driving. In fact, he'd barely drunk anything. Too busy gabbing. Too busy smooching.

I went to find my jacket, and Tommy excused himself while he ran to the bathroom. That ol' trick, I laughed to myself, but then his arms were around my waist and I caught his odor... a dash of cologne (Lisa's brother's, from the smell of it), minty fresh mouthwash - I liked this man. He'd even run some fresh deodorant under his pits. I leaned back into him, wondering what else he'd washed while he was away, and I hoped he'd not been too thorough. A lot of guys are so conscious of the way their cock and balls smell, and will scrub away for hours if they think they're going to get lucky. Big mistake. The sweat, the scent, the natural yummmm... those are what make things so alluring down there.

Well, some of the things. The other is... through his pants, I could feel his cock straining. Super-hard as well. Probably all the dancing. And kissing. And... okay, a little caressing as well, my knee raised to press against his balls, just so I could see the look on his face, and hear the soft moans every time I shifted.

Out into the still night air, giggling across the lawn to where he'd parked. We fell into his SUV and his hands were on my breasts, rolling up my T-shirt and cupping them through my bra. He fumbled for the clasp; I twisted a little, undid it from the front, then shrugged it to my lap. His fingers were on my nipples, crushing them between thumb and index, then pushing them with his palm.

Our kiss was endless, hungry, hot, and I was tugging at his top too, feeling momentarily cheated when his hands left my tits as he hauled the shirt over his head. But only momentarily, because he knew what I wanted before I did. His mouth on my nipples felt great. But his teeth... he bit and I squeaked. He bit again and I melted. A finger pushed my panties aside and plunged inside me. It felt wonderful. Four fingers inside me and I was screaming so hard that he had to practically smother me with a kiss before someone called the cops.

And I was still coming down from that when he pushed me back for a moment, unbuttoned his pants, and his cock sprang to beautiful, seething, hot rock hard attention... at the same time as its owner looked at me with what was probably the most apologetic expression I have ever seen on a man's face.

For a moment, I was confused. And then he grinned. "I'm sorry," he said. "But if I didn't take it out, it was either going to explode, or rip my jeans to shreds. Neither of which would have been a pretty sight."

I smiled, and reached for it, thrilling to a blazing heat that burned away the memory of everything else I'd done that evening. Everyone else.

"That's okay," I said. "I was hoping we'd be properly introduced some time."

He started the engine, eased the SUV out of the parking space. His apartment, he said, was fifteen minutes away. "Let's see if you can last that long," I teased, as I lowered my head. And then, as I raised it again from my first succulent mouthful, I corrected myself.

"I'm sorry. I meant, let's see if I can last that long."