The Good Girl Pt. 01

This is part one of a longer story. It is the set-up for a story about how the course of a young woman's life is changed dramatically by an incident that provokes a bad decision from her parents. This part contains some sex, but it primarily the set-up for later events in her life.

*****

I was always the "good girl"—honor roll in school, active in student government, on the varsity soccer team, never did drugs, and never let boys past "second base." I was the girl that other girls' parents said, "why can't you be more like her?"

I had a bright and enviable future ahead of me. I'd received scholarship offers from Yale, Stanford, and Princeton, among others. I was headed for Stanford because ... California! I wasn't sure what I was going to major in, but I was sure I'd be successful. The world was my oyster, as they say, and everyone was sure I'd find it filled with pearls.

That all ended in a moment. It wasn't a gradual shift; it was like flipping a switch in my life: good girl, off; naughty girl, on. In one day, I graduated from high school and flipped my life on its head. And it happened, too, to be the day of my 37th semi-birthday.

"What," you ask, "is a semi-birthday?" Good question. For someone born on December 25, semi-birthdays are ways of having a real celebration of your birthday—cause, you know, Jesus's birthday kind of eclipses yours, especially in a religiously conservative family like mine. So, from when I was six months old, my parents had made the major celebration of my birth be on May 25th. I had two semi-birthdays a year. I always got a present on December 25th but the real celebration of my birth had always been on May 25th.

This year, my semi-birthday just happened to fall on that ill-fated graduation day, the day that should have symbolized the launching of my independent life but, instead, was a harbinger of some dark years to come.

No one expected this derailment, certainly not me. But it wasn't inexplicable. A chain of events led inevitably to the train wreck that happened that day.

It started with a silly bet—a joke turned serious. By April of my senior year, it was clear that I would be my class valedictorian unless they chose Mark Wentzel. On paper, we were in a dead heat: straight 'A's in all our courses, lots of advanced placement classes, great extra-curricular involvement, all that stuff. I thought Mark had the edge because the last two valedictorians had been girls. Mark thought otherwise; he figured the school would still pick a girl over an equally qualified boy based on some misguided and outdated sense of affirmative action.

This led to a friendly rivalry—quite friendly, in fact. Mark and I had dated off and on and, since January of our senior year, it was definitely "on." The subject came up in one of our petting sessions—on Valentine's Day, actually. It turned into a juvenile, "I'm right!" " No, I'm right!" sort of back and forth. All of this between breathless kisses and gropings of breasts, asses, and crotches.

When Mark's hand was up my skirt, feeling my wet snatch and I was fondling his hard cock through his jeans, he suddenly piped up, "Okay, you're so sure! We'll bet. ... If you lose, you owe me a blow job!" Well, he'd been angling for that for since we started getting serious in January. He'd just found a new angle for an old objective.

"And, if you lose, you lick my clitoris till I cum all over your tongue!" I responded, laughing.

Only a nanosecond passed: "Deal!" he said.

"Wait a minute." I realized that this was confusing; I wasn't even sure what the bet was. "Do you mean the person who loses the argument loses the bet or the person who loses out on being valedictorian loses the bet?"

I'm not even sure he knew what he'd been proposing originally but said he meant the person who loses the argument loses the bet. That's what I wanted because I was pretty confident that Mark would be the valedictorian, so I'd win the bet, and I'd feel for the first time his wet tongue between my labia, urging my clitoris toward an orgasm. I'd fantasized about that many times, lying in my bed gently fingering myself before I drifted off to sleep.

I imagine he was just as confident that he was right and he'd be feeling for the first time my wet lips surround his hard cock as I sucked him to an explosive orgasm in my mouth. I was certain that he'd rehearsed that fantasy at least as much as I had mine.

For the next two weeks, we'd joke about the bet. Not about whether it was a serious bet. It was made in jest, but we were both serious about it. Our joking was about who would be servicing whom.

Now, when we were making out and Mark would slide his hand up my skirt, I'd say something like, "I can't wait until it's your tongue you're sliding up there. Are you practicing your lingual skills? I expect you to be a cunning linguist!"

Mark would respond in kind. "I hope you're doing your homework. There are lots of videos about how to give a great blow job. You should be watching them to get your technique down. You want to ace this like you did everything in school."

The banter about who would be giving head to whom came to an end after those two weeks because the school announced the valedictorian. It came over the PA system in second period when Mark and I were both in Physics.

Winners of lesser honors were announced first. Then the Principal got to the top honors.

"And, as salutatorian, I'm pleased to announce that we're honoring Mark Wentzel."

Wow! I thought. Mark won ... not valedictorian; he was the runner up. I didn't have to listen further to know that I'd been named valedictorian. It had to be Mark or me. And it wasn't Mark.

My head was spinning and I didn't really hear the announcement of my name. But when the class broke out in an applause, I was flustered and blushing like a rose. I turned around to look for Mark. He was clapping along with the others and smiling. When our eyes locked, for just a second, he pushed his tongue into his cheek. I blushed even more, though no one else noticed this exchange between us.

Now our teasing was decidedly one-sided. I insisted that the bet wouldn't be paid until I was actually awarded the honor of valedictorian. So, there were weeks of groping sessions where Mark would talk about how good it was going to feel to have my sweet lips around his hard cock and to shoot his load in my mouth.

To tell the truth, I was a little scared and wasn't at all sure I was going to like this. I mean, I'd fantasized about having his cock in my mouth. I'd imagined the soft skin and the hard shaft pressing past my lips to fill my mouth. When I'd fantasized about this, I could almost feel it—feel my hand around the base of his cock or cupping his balls as I sucked earnestly on his rigid rod and he pistoned it in and out of my mouth.

I was certain that I'd like that. I'd done it with my fingers and sometimes, with a carrot or a zucchini. I'd found it strangely satisfying.

But the idea of him cumming in my mouth was disturbing. This was a big jump for me. We'd groped each other a lot but I'd never jacked him off to an orgasm. I'd never seen him cum. I'd never felt or tasted cum.

And some of the videos I'd seen on the Internet were frightening. Women were taking huge cocks deep in their mouths. They were gagging as men pushed their hard dicks way down their throats. Some of the men blew enormous loads of cum. The women would often play with the cum in their mouths and make a show of swallowing the whole load. They would always smile as they did this, but it seemed to me like that smile required a lot of practice.

Worse, though, lots of times, the men would pull out at the end and cover the women's faces with their jizz. I'd seen some scenes where the woman's face was covered with streams of cum. The woman would often smile and push the cum into her mouth to eat it, but this smile seemed even more forced to me.

So, I had disturbing thoughts but they were also arousing thoughts. Watching the videos and imagining my first time with Mark, made me come to appreciate how erotic it was to fantasize about being forced to pleasure a man, to be used by him. Not really forced! I wouldn't like, and no woman should tolerate it—just pressed, just made to feel the man's need.

My fingering before bedtime sessions took a turn toward the imagery I'd been seeing of women giving blow jobs. And I was finding some of the raunchier ones the most titillating.

Then, it was graduation day, and my 37th semi-birthday, to boot. The commencement ceremony was nice. My extended family was there, some driving a few hours to come. My parents were putting on a big party at our house after the ceremony: family, some of their friends, and lots of my friends. But I didn't have to help with that. I just polished my speech and let them take care of all the tasks they were undertaking to honor me.

I was having fun with my speech. I wouldn't share any of it with Mark. I did practice it with my parents a few times. I needed a test audience because I'd very carefully (I hoped) laced the address with references that only Mark would understand. It was only by actually reading it in front of other people that I could gauge whether I was hitting the sweet spot: obvious enough that Mark would get it; subtle enough that no one else would even suspect there was anything to get.

When I gave my valedictorian address, I couldn't see Mark. As salutatorian, he was sitting on the stage behind me. But I was certain that he didn't miss the allusions to the "hard things that we would face after graduation," the need to "handle whatever would come," and the assurance that "if we meet those things that confront us openly and with love, we would achieve our goals."

The party was going great. My parents opened some bottles of champagne and, in a dramatic deviation from their normally straight-laced manner, allowed those of us whose parents permitted it to join in the toast to all the graduates, another to Mark, and a final two to me: one for being named valedictorian and one for my 37th semi-birthday.

As the party progressed, Mark and I snuck some more champagne. I'm not blaming what happened on being drunk. We weren't drunk. But I do think we were a little more relaxed, and certainly more careless, than we would have been without a few glasses of champagne. It doesn't take much champagne to affect someone who's been a teetotaler until she was 18-and-a-half.

Most of the time, Mark and I were surrounded by friends or family, sometimes we were together and sometimes apart. But, then, after a few of the guests had left and things were quieting down just a bit, we found ourselves alone in the kitchen.

"So, when you going to make good on the bet?" Mark smiled as he said this.

"When would you like?" I replied flirtatiously.

"Like ... NOW!" he said.

"Not now! Not here! Are you crazy?"

I think he'd been joking when he'd said it. But now he was thinking about it more seriously.

"Why not? Everyone is outside on the deck and in the back yard. They won't miss us for a few minutes."

"Where?" I said, thinking that this was a stopper. "My bedroom is where people left their purses and stuff. We can't go there."

I had thought that an impracticality argument would end the discussion. But Mark was resourceful, and assertive. Now that he'd entertained the thought of receiving his payoff, he was a man on a mission.

"Here!" he said as he grabbed my arm with one hand and opened the pantry door with the other. He pulled me into the pantry and closed the door. Closing the door automatically turned the light off so the tiny room was illuminated only by the sliver of light coming in under the door.

Mark pulled me to him and kissed me as passionately as he'd ever kissed me. I think it was as passionately as any woman has ever been kissed. His hands were all over me and things were suddenly incredibly steamy.

My family and friends were just yards away from us in the backyard. But my thoughts of them were miles away, completely pushed out of my consciousness. Thoughts of today's celebration, of graduation, of my birthday ... all gone from my mind. What existed was me and this man that I loved and wanted more than anything—his lips on mine, his tongue pressing into my mouth, his hands on my breasts and my ass, and then his hand sliding down inside my panties to feel my very wet snatch.

And my hand went to his crotch. His cock strained at the fabric of his slacks. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world was to free Mark's cock from its restraint. It needed to be out; I needed to hold it in my hand.

In a frenzy, I used both hands to unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and pushed them and his boxers down past his hips. And then I had it. His hard, hot, bare cock, in my hand. I kissed him hard as I stroked his cock slowly, savoring the feeling of it in my hand.

Mark had both hands on my face, pulling me toward him tightly as he kissed me hard and pressed his tongue between my lips.

We broke our kiss, gasping for breath. And I felt Mark's hands gently pressing me down. It wasn't force; it wasn't an order; it was an invitation—an invitation that he urgently desired that I would accept, but still, just an invitation.

I was compelled, but not by Mark. Just as, a moment ago, the only important thing is the world was to free Mark's cock. Now, the only thing that mattered to me was to get my lips around that hard hot shaft that was throbbing in my hand.

I fell to my knees. You might think that, for a first time giving a blow job, I would be a little tentative. Or, maybe if not that, at least I'd take my time and savor the moment. If you did, you'd be wrong. I had no hesitation and no time for savoring moments.

As soon as my knees touched the floor, I thrust my mouth around Mark's cock. Too deep, at first. I gagged. But, I quickly recovered and began bobbing on his shaft, sucking with my mouth, and jacking the base of his cock with my hand.

Mark was rising to an orgasm quickly. I didn't need experience giving him an orgasm to recognize the signs.

I felt ambivalence to a degree that I didn't think possible. I wanted intensely to bring him to an orgasm immediately. The moment was so raw, so real, so electric, that a pause seemed terrible. On the other hand, I really didn't want this to end immediately.

The part of me that wanted this to go on won out. I pulled my mouth off of Mark's dick, which was met with an audible and disappointed moan from Mark. When I began tonguing his balls and running my tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip, the moans became moans of pleasure, not disappointment.

I was doing what I think they call "fluffing" in the porn industry. I kept Mark hard and on the edge for several minutes. The frenzy I'd felt moments ago had subsided slightly and I was enjoying the surprising power I felt over Mark at this moment. I controlled his pleasure completely.

Now, I was getting a chance to savor the moment. But I was ready to move back into fevered frenzy again. One more time I ran my tongue from the base of Mark's stiff cock to the very tip, flicking it over the part I'd learned was most sensitive, just below the hood. Then I kissed the very tip of his cock and tongued his slit. And, now, slowly—excruciatingly slowly for me, and especially for Mark—I slid my lips over his cock and took him all the way to the back of my mouth.

I began working in earnest to bring him to an orgasm. I had one hand behind his balls, gently pulling him toward me. My other hand was wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, jacking it furiously into my mouth. And my lips were flying up and down his shaft, as I sucked hard, urging him to shoot his creamy load deep into my mouth.

Probably Mark was more excited than I was at this point, but I'm not certain about that. When I'd fantasized about this moment, I'd never thought that my heart would be pounding, my cunt dripping, and my whole body quivering with excitement. It wasn't as if I was going to have an orgasm—at least not a physical one—but I was clearly heading toward a climax. I wanted Mark's beautiful cock to explode in my mouth as much, I'm sure, as he did.

Suddenly, I could feel that Mark's climax was imminent. His legs locked up and he drew in a huge breath. I felt his balls pull up in his scrotum. And then I felt a wonderous feeling as a spurt of cum pushed past my hand that was squeezing the base of his cock.

He was cumming! He was filling my mouth with the sweet cream I'd urged from his balls—one spurt, and then another.

And, then, horribly, disastrously, the light came on. I was startled. I'd forgotten where I was and the significance of the light coming on. And I was temporarily blinded by the light. I pulled back, off of Mark's still throbbing and spurting penis.

Two thick ribbons of cum shot from the tip, onto my face. With my hand still around Mark's cock, I looked toward the door as my eyes began to adjust to the light.

"ALYSHA!," my father's voice bellowed. "Oh my God! Alysha!"

His scream brought my mother to the door of the pantry, too. So, now my mother and father, who'd been so proud of their valedictorian, were confronted with their daughter, on her knees in the pantry, with her mouth filled and her faced covered with her boyfriend's cum.

My father recovered enough composure to say, "Clean yourself up and come out," as he closed the pantry door.

Mark and I were both shaking, for several reasons, I guess. But we found a roll of paper towels to clean up with. Before we opened the door and faced the inevitable shaming and blaming, Mark held me and kissed me—not appearing to mind that my mouth had just been filled with his cum. He told me that he loved me and that no matter what my parents, or his—if they told them—did, we would face it together.

I told Mark that I loved him, too. Truer words were never spoken.

We were holding hands as we opened the door to the disappointed and disapproving looks of my parents.

My father, patriarch that he is, gave the orders of the day: "Mark, your parents are in the living room. Go get them and go home. We've sent everyone else away. Alysha, go to your room. Your mother and I have things to talk about before we talk with you."

Mark left, I went to my room. I thought I was ready to face the music. But, as it turned out, I had no idea what music my parents planned to play.