The Summer of Sheila


The summer after my sophomore year at college, I got a job in a medium-sized city 1000 miles from my school. I spent three months doing the 8:30 to 5 Big Office routine during the day and the Footloose-And-Fancy Free at night. I rented a room in a large house that served as an adjunct frat house rental during the school year, though during the summer the students were gone and the house was just half-filled with twenty-something guys who took advantage of cheap housing. Life was good!

One Thursday a housemate suggested we drive a half hour across the river to a dance club he knew about, and on Friday evening we made the trek. The cover charge was small, the bartender didn’t look too closely at my fake ID (being six months shy of 21), and the dance floor was crowded – who could ask for more? An hour later I spotted her, standing out in a huddle of three girls. I studied her from 30 feet away – an absolutely gorgeous face, and a slim frame with generous breasts. I was entranced.

I had nothing to lose. I approached, made eye contact, and asked her to dance. We stayed on the dance floor for an hour, gyrating to the driving beat of rock otherwise we just fed off each other’s presence as we moved together in sync. I was enamored with her, and she gave me every indication she felt the same.

At the end of the evening I had her name – Sheila – her phone number, and her encouragement to get together “real soon.” I called her on Saturday, and on Tuesday I was driving from work to her house. It was her mother’s house, although during the week her mother (who was divorced) worked a couple of hours away in another city, renting an apartment there and only coming home on weekends. Otherwise, Sheila lived with her older brother and his girlfriend and their infant son.

Our relationship progressed quickly. Sheila told me she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend Billy, and I accepted my role as The Rebound without complaint. Sheila was, without exaggeration, simply the most beautiful girl I’d ever been with. Sexually, she was timid. She told me she’d only had sex with one guy – not Billy — and it hadn’t gone well. She never told me exactly what happened, though she hints she dropped hints that he had forced himself on her in a way that was borderline rape. She dumped him and got together with Billy, the recently departed boyfriend. They were together for almost a year until something happened between them and they broke up. I figured it had something to do with sex, since she told me she never had sex with Billy, as she was too traumatized by the earlier encounter.

With me as The Out-Of-Town Rebound, however, Sheila was curious about sex. At first we’d hang out around her neighborhood and in her house. We’d make out on the couch in the darkened living room while her mother (on the weekends) and brother were in their own bedrooms. By the fourth date in two weeks, we were hot and heavy on the couch. My hands were up her shirt on her spectacular breasts and down her pants diddling her swollen, creamy pussy. Thankfully, Sheila kept her orgasms quiet, with her moist gasps aimed directly into my ear.

I was in love! Okay, maybe not “love,” but I was definitely in lust!

My first two lovers were nonorgasmic, despite my best Anadolu Yakası Escort (albeit inexperienced) efforts. Nothing worked with either of them – not fingering, not oral, and not (of course) from fucking. Number One was on the Pill, and we had sex whenever we got the chance. She was my introduction to bareback sex, and that spoiled me forever. Number Two was a very reluctant virgin. After weeks of gentle seduction, she eventually allowed me to slip my cock inside her tantalizing pussy for all-too-brief, partial insertions, finishing with “coitus interruptus” eruptions on her tummy. She wouldn’t use birth control beyond a Rhythm Method eye on the calendar, doubling-down with defensive use of contraceptive foam. “I’m still a virgin,” she asserted one evening after our usual rub-and-spurt, “because you’ve never cum inside me.” A few minutes later I settled that particular issue. Long story short, we broke up shortly thereafter.

Number Three was a charm, however regrettably brief our relationship turned out to be. She was delightfully orgasmic and on the Pill – and orgasmic during intercourse, which got me addicted to that, as well as to bareback. I enthusiastically enjoy the female orgasm, regardless of how it arrives, though there is something profoundly satisfying to bring your lover to a climax with your cock stretching her open and buried deep. It’s a primal thing, an instinctual dominant-submissive penetration of your masculine hardened flesh into her soft, slickly welcoming feminine flesh, and then being able to thrust and grind and bring her to a breathtaking, writhing moaning orgasm as you pump rivers of your juice into her body.

And so with Sheila, I was flooded with testosterone and horny as hell, and I was looking for more than simply fingering her to an orgasm. The next weekend I brought her back to my house in the early afternoon. There in the relaxed privacy of my room, out of earshot of her mother and brother, we got naked and we wrinkled the sheets in my double bed. Sheila was a goddess, and my mouth worshipped at the altar of her pussy. Her scent and her taste got me rock-hard, and in my bed she allowed herself to be more vocal. She was still somewhat shy, though that soon passed. Her breathy, guttural grunts ramped up to announce her orgasm, complete with a final few seconds of muscle-stiffening silence followed by several sharp, high-pitched squeaks as she rocked her hips to slash her raw, open pussy against my mouth and slathering tongue.

The only catch was that I didn’t have a condom, and Sheila wasn’t on the Pill. When I mounted her, I kept my cock outside. “Be careful,” she warned, and I caressed her pussylips and clit with my erection until I couldn’t stand it any longer and carefully (and reluctantly) unloaded onto her belly as her right fist clutched my pulsing shaft. It wasn’t my ideal, but it was a start.

Afterwards, I asked Sheila about her menstrual cycle. I’m regular, she said, and told me she expected her period to begin in a couple of days. In my horny optimism, that meant she was still probably safe – “probably” being the operative word, of course. You’ve heard the old saying, “What do you call people who use the rhythm method? Parents!” Still, in my current state of mine Bostancı Escort – and Sheila’s – “probably” seemed adequate enough.

We began to make out again, and soon my erection returned. My mouth returned to her sweet, musky pussy, and before long her nectar was flowing again, her pussylips were fattened with arousal, and her clit hardened as stiffly as my cock. This time when I mounted her, we both knew where things were headed. Sheila’s legs opened wide, and she angled her hips to give me a target that I didn’t really need.

I nudged my cockhead inside her, just beyond a tight ring at the entrance that snugged around my shaft. “Be gentle,” she breathed, and I was. Sheila’s eyes were wide open and glued to my face, and I slipped my cock in, a fraction of an inch at a time, each incremental forward progress well-lubricated by her glorious, snug silky sheath.

Finally I bottomed out. My pubic bone pressed against her inflamed pussylips. My cock was captured inside her succulent embrace. The sensations were intense. Overwhelming. I hadn’t been inside a woman in months, and now here I was, my cock beginning those telltale involuntary twitches, and none of that was helped by Sheila’s breathy panting and moans and sighs.

Uh oh, I thought. This isn’t going to last long.

I slowly pulled out. Sheila sighed and wiggled her hips beneath me. “Don’t go,” she murmured. I diddled her clit with my shaft until I felt I’d regained enough control to try another dip in the pool. “Oh,” she gasped, “Oh… Oh” as I recaptured lost territory so recently abandoned. This time it was better. Just barely better. Sheila was breathing even quicker, her moans now almost continual, her body writhing underneath me. Maybe she was close, too? I couldn’t tell for sure.

Even in this flood of sensations and flurries of scattered thoughts, I was rational enough to understand that I needed to slow down my onwardly rushing orgasm and speed Sheila’s up. “Put your legs together,” I told her, and then showed her what I meant, ending up with my legs outside hers, and her legs straight and flat on the mattress. My cock was buried deep, and her pussy felt tighter than ever, but past experience with my orgasmic girlfriend gave me hope that this might be a more effective position to get Sheila to climax.

Now my rhythmic thrusts were more like rhythmic pushing pressure against her pussylips and clit, and there was almost none of the old in-out-in-out that was certain to bring me to an immediate finish. It seemed to work. Sheila’s eyes got wide, and her mouth pursed opened and her breaths were punctuated by throat-catching grunts. Her fingernails dug sharp dents into my back. Her body squirmed under my weight, her hips struggled to press upward to meet my muscled, inward pushes.

Sheila seemed right on the edge, but I was closer and got there first. I gave up trying to fight it off. My primal instincts took over my hips, and I allowed myself three or four (who could count?) two-inch (who could measure?) solid thrusts, complete with all-in deep-as-I-could-get moaning-groaning full-pressure pushes that ended with my cock hardened to its max and buried, my body rigid, and my juices spurting again and again and again into Sheila’s hot little Erenköy Escort snatch. Her own voice was a steady, primal moan. And her fingernails. To this day I remember those fingernails digging into my back.

Sheila’s orgasms were reliable and predictable. Two days after that first time she was back in my bed, and two or three times a week after that for the next two months. My mouth would warm her up, repeatedly getting her to the edge before backing off, until she demanded that I get inside her. Sometimes she’d climb on top of me and grind away. Other times she’d lie on her back and spread wide and hold my face as I fucked her. Invariably, what brought her to orgasm was our original my-legs-outside-her-legs position, with my cock buried deep and giving her strong, rhythmic pressure-pushes.

If Sheila was mid-cycle and fertile (and there’s nothing more fertile than a 19-year-old woman), I’d pull out at the last second and spurt on her belly. But if she was close to her period, either before or after, or even during her period, I’d bring her to orgasm, and then we’d adjust to a regular Missionary position and I’d pump away until I unloaded my full measure of juices inside her sweet vagina. As I pulsed white liquid jets into her, Sheila’s eyes would lock onto mine and her legs would hold me close, and her hips would rock and rock and rock until my throbbing cock weakened and body stopped shuddering.

The unspoken reality was that I was leaving my summer job and returning to school at the end of August. Oh, we’d had half-formed conversations about how to maintain our relationship, even raising the notion of her moving to my college town, finding a job, and seeing where the relationship was when I graduated. But all that came to a crashing halt in mid August. “I’m late,” she announced when I picked her up at her house one Wednesday evening. Late? How late? “Two weeks,” she said. “I think I’m pregnant. My body feels weird.”

The following Saturday I was at her front door. She stepped outside. “I don’t want to see you anymore,” she said, firmly. “I got back together with Billy.” Her old boyfriend? What about her maybe being pregnant? “I don’t want to see you anymore,” she repeated. “You need to go back to school.”

I was stunned. My emotions were in turmoil. She didn’t want to talk further about anything. “Go,” she repeated. “I’m going back inside. Please don’t call me.” And then she went back into the house and shut the door behind her. I stood there paralyzed for a minute, then walked slowly to my car. What just happened? Why did it happen? Nothing was clear to me. My anxiety about her possible pregnancy and what we were going to do about it had now suddenly turned into a chaos of emotions – including, I confess, a degree of relief that was colored by a patina of guilt.

A few days later I phoned Sheila. She was curt and blunt. “I don’t want to talk to you,” and she hung up. And that was that. I returned to school and to my otherwise normal life, and I never knew what happened to Sheila. Years passed before I tried to use Internet tools to find her, and by then it was too late for an amateur to accomplish. I couldn’t find anything about her or her family using her maiden name, and she was probably using a married name now. Was she pregnant? Did she give birth? If so, where was the child now? I never knew. All I had was the memory of her gorgeous face and sexy body and the sensory memories of those sharp fingernails dug into my flesh as I pumped my seed into her hot slickness.

The summer after my sophomore year at college, I got a job in a medium-sized city 1000 miles from my school. I spent three months doing the 8:30 to 5 Big Office routine during the day and the Footloose-And-Fancy Free at night. I rented a room in a large house that served as an adjunct…

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