Hayley's Party Ch. 00

I could see from his face that he was getting more and more excited, his movements jerkier and less steady, more demanding, more uncoordinated and tonight I knew that I wanted to satisfy him. I felt his body push against me and jerk frantically, his breathing fast and hard, his body tense on mine. I knew what was happening. I reveled in it. I reveled in his satisfaction as he groaned and pressed hard against me. As we'd separated, both of us breathing hard, I'd giggled at the sight of the large wet patch on the front of his swimming shorts. Steve had been embarrassed, but I'd reassured him and kissed him and held him, delighted with what had happened.

Back at home late that night, in my bedroom, I undressed, throwing my clothes in the laundry basket. But tonight, instead of slipping into my pajamas, I turned and stared at my reflection in the full length mirror on my closet door. I studied myself, trying to see what Steve saw, trying to see what attracted him and what got him so excited. Turning to see myself in profile, I studied my regrettably small breasts, then turned back to look at the small fluffy triangle of sparse black hair at the juncture of my thighs. I ran my fingers over them, spreading my legs a little, my index finger tracing the line of the vertical cleft which ran downwards and between my legs.

I ran the fingers of my other hand over my body, over my breasts, pretending my hands were Steve's. I stroked my nipples, teasing them to a swollen hardness, moved my hands to stroke my ribs, to slide across my flat stomach, move down over my hips and then ease inwards and down to lightly rub my inner thighs. My fingers circled and spiraled inwards towards my sex, tentatively brushing across it, then pressing slightly harder with my fingertips. I gasped and pressed harder still, pressing inwards, exploring myself, finding myself moist in anticipation of further exploratory touches. Eyes wide, I slowly pushed one finger inwards between my now slippery labial lips, pushed inwards into the hot wet tightness of my sex, gently stroking and rubbing. It was pleasant, my body glowed, I shivered and then I came, but my orgasm was mild compared to those I would come to experience later.

In my bed, relaxed and content, I thought about Steve's fingers touching me instead of my own. But no, I was a good Chinese girl, I forced that thought down. It wasn't going to happen, even though I knew I loved Steve dearly. There were other things I could do to satisfy Steve, things that would take his mind off touching me.

But of course the very next weekend I did let him touch me between my legs, although only on the outside of the shorts I'd worn. I hadn't planned or anticipated letting him touch me between my legs, it somehow just happened. As we'd lain together kissing, this time at my house with my parents out, his hard erection rubbing against me, my excitement had risen and risen and risen.

I remember that we were passionately kissing, and he was moving against me. All of a sudden he slid off me to lie beside me, his hand suddenly on me though my shorts, cupping me between my legs. His hand was pressing against the swollen nubbin of my clitoris through my clothing. I'm sure it was accidental; he didn't have the skill or the knowledge to do what he did deliberately. But as his fingers rubbed over me clumsily and pushed my shorts and panties inwards where I was wettest, the heel of his hand stroked across my sensitive clitoris. Inexperienced and inexpert though he was, that touch was enough to bring me to my first back-arching gasping and sobbing climax.

It was a sensation that was so startlingly pleasurable that I couldn't believe how much better it had felt than my own fingers. My mind went blank as that wild tidal wave of golden heat washed through my entire body and left me quivering limply, unable to say anything except a whispered "oh my God ... oh my God ... Steve ... Oh Steve..."

Afterwards, I wondered if it felt as good for Steve when he came as it had for me, and then I thought that if it did for him, it was no wonder he wanted to do this with me all the time. If it felt like this for me every time, I was more than willing to acquiesce to his needs. I smiled happily at him, my face blushed, my body limply relaxed.

"Your turn," I'd whispered lovingly, kissing him and drawing him over me to move against me until he came, content that his enjoyment of my body beneath him would lead to his satisfaction. After that of course, I couldn't wait for the next time and, not for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to actually see his cock, to hold it in my hand, to feel him touch me, even perhaps to make love to me. My stomach did little flip flops at the thought and that night, at home in my own bed, my fingers worked overtime. I was definitely getting more experienced at playing with myself and I'd now developed two different styles for bringing myself off.

I'd either roll my clitoris between my thumb and index finger with my right hand or I'd slide one finger in and out of my sex whilst simultaneously rubbing against my clitoris and inner labia, enjoying the sensation of my finger sliding past my swollen and wet labial lips. Sometimes I'd use my other hand to stroke and squeeze and tug at my nipples but even if I didn't, they would become swollen and hard as I played with myself. As I rapidly grew more familiar with my body, it was easier and easier to bring myself to an orgasm. Later, I found that I could reach a whole series of orgasms which was even more enjoyable. In the bath or the shower was good too and after Steve went back to university, my fingers became my main source of sexual satisfaction.

My fingers and my imagination.

In my bed at night, my imagination ran wild. Once those thoughts of Steve touching me, of my touching Steve, of Steve making love to me entered my mind, it was impossible to drive them out. I no longer thought merely of touching his cock or of Steve touching me. I thought of making love. Of sex. Of being taken.

I liked those thoughts. Especially I liked the thought of being taken; there was something about that word that excited me. Not making love, not any of the romantic synonyms I could have used. Instead, I imagined myself being taken and fucked and those were the words in my head. When I played with myself at night, it was with an image in my mind of myself on a bed, Steve above me, pinning my hands down above my head and taking me as he wanted, my legs spread wide, entering me and using me. Using me hard as I moaned and sobbed and cried out for him using words I'd never yet used in real life.

With time, it wasn't only Steve I thought of. The first time I thought of another guy taking me, I was shocked. Shocked and horrified but I still couldn't stop those thoughts as they ran through my mind. In my imagination that night it was Jeff that took me in the backseat of his car. Jeff was one of the jocks, a large, muscular football player, not even particularly good looking, but he was big. I'd heard girls he'd dated talking about how big his cock was. In my fantasies that night he pinned me down in the back seat of his car and stripped my clothes from me, then spread my legs and fucked me eagerly with a cock that turned out to be huge. In my fantasies, I had no problem taking that huge cock inside me and I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to stop myself from screaming out loud as I orgasmed. Afterwards, I couldn't even bring myself to feel ashamed that I'd teased myself to an orgasm thinking of someone other than Steve. Weird!

After Jeff's first foray in my mind, other guys in my year at High School or older guys who were Steve's friends or acquaintances became a part of my evenings. I imagined what they looked like naked, how they were in bed, what I would do with them. God, I even toyed with myself and brought myself to an orgasm while thinking of a couple of the male teachers at High School, and even of a couple of my Dad's male friends. I was shocked at the scope of my imagination, but unable to resist those thoughts that just seemed to materialize in my mind of their own accord.

A little odd, you might think, but who really understands the minds of teenage girls, least of all the teenage girl herself? There's no way I can explain why the thought of guys I barely knew fucking me could make me so wet, and so excited; but there it was, in my nighttime fantasies they had me again and again.

But only in my mind, my body was different, my body belonged to Steve and after he'd started back at University at the beginning of the semester, whenever he returned for a weekend, I spent every moment I could with him.

Steve, as one might expect, benefited the most from my wanton imagination.

When he came back for the weekend two weeks into that first semester and picked me up for our date, all I wore was one of my black Giordano t-shirts and my new skin-tight lycra running shorts. I'd bought them the previous weekend and just about given old Joe Dos Passos next door a heart attack when I went out running in them.

Joe was a lovely old guy in his early seventies, his wife used to babysit me back when I was a toddler but she'd passed away back when I was ten and Joe lived alone now. I knew he liked looking at my butt. He was always out gardening early in the morning and his eyes always followed me when I went out for my early morning run. They also followed me when I came over to give him a hand with stuff around his house that he needed help with, like changing light bulbs. He was always so helpful, like holding the stepladder for me so it didn't move around when I climbed up it to reach the bulbs on those hard to reach points. Of course I soon realized why he was being helpful but I didn't mind at all.

He was an early morning riser in more ways than one and I suspect that when I reached my teenage years and began running regularly, I'd generated a little more "early rising" than he'd experienced in a while. Like Claire with my Dad, I didn't mind. The attention he paid me was flattering and it wasn't like he tried to grope me or anything. He just looked and looking was fine. Most girls like to be eye candy and I was no exception! Anyway, old Joe was a nice old guy and I always used to give him time for a good long look. More often than not I'd stop outside his house at the end of my run and do my stretches while I talked with him.

Nothing like a sweat soaked sports bra and skimpy running shorts to get Joe up in the morning. I always felt virtuous as I left him behind me, bulging inside his gardening shorts. I knew I'd done my good turn for the day by giving him something exciting to think about. Stretches in those new lycra running shorts probably weren't so good for his blood pressure though and I didn't feel quite so virtuous when his face went pale the first time I wore them. When I rested one ankle on the top of his picket fence it hadn't been my tits he was looking at. Maybe I should have worn panties under the lycra after all.

His conversation was a bit garbled but I figured he wasn't having a stroke because I had a pretty good visual cue as to where most of the blood had gone. I was sure it'd get back to his brain in time to keep him ticking along. He was actually quite impressive for an old guy. Just for a moment there I had a little fantasy of me and old Joe that left me catching my breath. Just for a moment. Then I was off inside. I suspect Joe's little fantasy lasted for quite a bit longer than mine had, but I did think about him again in the shower that morning. That was a bit weird but I shook it off after my morning orgasm was over and I got my breath back.

Anyway, when Steve picked me up that evening, all I wore was a t-shirt and my lycra running shorts: no bra, no panties. We weren't going out anywhere; we were going to make out. I had to bless Steve's parents for being away so often and giving us all those opportunities to spend quality time together. His parents were into all sorts of strange stuff; natural health, motivation, good causes, aid to Africa, educational programs for deprived persons of color, yadda yadda yadda. They attended conferences and courses out the ying yang. God knows what they actually thought they were doing, they were both retired, mid-sixties and wealthy but the stuff they spent their money on!

I used to shake my head. They were even anti-gun, which was even weirder. They donated to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence and to Mayors Against Illegal Guns. I'd seen the receipts on their kitchen table once and been shocked. I'd worn my Ruger SR9 around a few times and that had stressed them out. Once, on the way to the range for some Saturday morning target shooting, I'd brought my AR-15 along and nearly given them a heart attack. I swear if they hadn't recognized me they'd have called the police and we were an open-carry state and I was over eighteen and my AR was pink with Hello Kitty decals! I mean, get real! Did I look like a nutter! That's how weird Steve's parents were. They should have moved to New York or something. Or Jew York as old Joe Dos Passos next door called it.

God, I'd even had to teach Steve how to shoot myself, that's how pitiful his parents were. They'd never introduced him to guns. Ever! I mean, how strange is that? Not that he was a good shooter, even with my encouragement he wouldn't put serious time in on the range, just like I'd never been able to persuade him to take up Tae Kwon Do or even (hush my mouth and wash it out with soap), Judo or even, god forbid and I promise a couple of Hail Mary's in repentance for my sin, a Karate McDojo. But at least I'd got him to the stage where he could point a handgun in the right direction and ease the trigger back without closing his eyes and he could now get the round near the target. Not hit it, but at least near it.

I think it was the "don't squeeze it like it's my nipple, be gentle" that made him miss that last time though. For some reason the Instructor working with Steve was doubled over choking or something after that. I mean, if I hadn't been so head over heels for Steve, I'd have put him right there along with Frenchmen, Gay guys and Liberals. But he was my guy so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. When it was my turn to shoot I drew a little heart on the target with my rounds just to show Steve how much I loved him. I love that 17 round magazine you can get for the SR9, you can just pound away. And I use 9mm by the way. Nice round and the Ruger SR9's a good handgun for a girl my size but really, I'd love to be able to shoot a 1911 competently. There's just something about a 1911 that made me go all shivery inside. I'd tried my Dad's Kimber 1911 Ultra Aegis II recently and really liked it. Maybe for Christmas? If I was extra nice to my Dad?

But I digress.

It was makeout time and Steve's thoughts were identical to mine, although I was first into the family room and onto our favorite makeout spot, a huge soft sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace. I loved that rug. I loved the feel of the soft silky wool against my skin as I lay on it. I loved the way I looked as I lay on it, pale olive on a background of white. I peeled my t-shirt off and then I was on the rug waiting as Steve peeled his shirt and shirts off and joined me. We had all the time in the world, there was no hurry so I pushed Steve onto his back and started kissing him everywhere. He smelt delicious and I loved the way his cock strained against his boxer shorts, like it just wanted to leap out at me.

When my fingertips stroked him there through the thin cotton material he groaned. I could tell he wanted to roll over on top of me and rub himself on me till he came. His cock jerked upwards. I loved that spontaneous autonomic reaction. I just knew right away that his cock loved me too, whenever it did that. A girl always likes to feel wanted! I smiled happily as I propped myself up on one elbow next to him and jammed a breast into his mouth, holding his head as he sucked hard. God, I loved it when he did that, it just felt so, so good!

"Jesus Steve, I wish you had two mouths," I blurted out, doing my best to push my entire breast into his mouth and happily succeeding. He licked my nipple right then and it drove me wild so that I sobbed out loud as his hand touched me between my legs.

"I wish I had three," he did his best to growl just before he started in on my other breast. God, I really wished he had three mouths too!

Did I mention skin-tight lycra? I'd bought an additional pair of those shorts to wear just with Steve, not for running, that were a size too small. On purpose, I might add, and that lycra really hugged me. It was tight enough that I knew his fingers could feel all my most intimate contours, and I could see that it drove him wild with excitement. Especially because I was so wet that the material was soaked right through. When his finger pressed against me, it pressed the lycra right in between my labial lips and just like that, I had an orgasm that just about left me blind.

Maybe not blind but I saw stars. Lots and lots of stars! When I finally opened my eyes again I was lying on my back with Steve smiling down at me. I was just lying there panting, limp, and totally helplessly brain dead with no idea how I got there. Honestly, that was the first time Steve could have fucked me if he'd wanted to. I mean, right then, I was putty in his hands. Jelly. He could've peeled those shorts off me and done anything he wanted to me and I wouldn't have stopped him. I couldn't have stopped him. But Steve wasn't an aggressive kind of guy. He would never have done anything like that. So it didn't happen. All that happened was he rubbed himself against me and then came inside his boxers. Not for the first time, I wished he was a bit more pushy.

But it wasn't even eight o'clock. The night was young.

Steve went and cleaned himself up. While he did, I just lay there on the sheepskin looking cute and taking a quick catnap. When he returned I cuddled up topless on the couch with him to watch a movie. That was nice, and I lay with my head on his lap purring happily. I was in love and the guy I loved was with me and we were both next to naked and it was wonderful. Halfway through the movie, one of Steve's hands began to stroke me, my back, my shoulder, my arms, my neck. It felt awesome and I arched against him, easing over onto my back to look up at him, wanting nothing more than to look at him as he played with me. We both got what we wanted. I looked. Steve played.

He was always very gentle with his hands, it was almost a massage, relaxing and exciting at one and the same time. His hands ran over my stomach, my ribs, my arms, my shoulders, teased my breasts, toyed with my nipples until they were fully swollen and hard, dived down to my thighs and to run over my shorts so that I gasped and moaned a little and spread my legs wider to give him lots of room to touch me any way he wanted. He knew at least how to tease a girl and get her hot. Moving my head, I felt that nice hard intumescence growing next to my cheek, hidden beneath his (replaced) boxers and now, seeing it in such close proximity, I wanted to touch it, to explore it, even perhaps to kiss it. My heart raced at the thought.

It was right before my eyes when I turned my face towards him, a long thick bulge hidden only by a thin layer of grey cotton. I moved one hand up and brushed that bulge slowly with my fingertips, exploring its length and girth and shape. I wanted to see it, I wanted to touch it and feeling almost faint at my temerity, I stroked it with my fingers and moved my face closer and closer until it was almost brushing my nose. I really really wanted to see it. I took the waistband of his boxers in one hand and tugged it down, holding my breath as I saw the swollen purplish head of his cock emerge. Steve seemed to freeze, looking down at me and breathing hard as I examined the part of him that I could see.