The sexual stirrings of a young sub-in-the-making Part II

I want to get back to the story of me and Jack. This is the story I need to tell. I still want to talk about our past, because I think looking back is important. To me, at least. In exploring who I am, sexually and otherwise,  sometimes I wonder. Am I wired this way? Or did I become this way because of my early influences? How is a person's sexual identity developed? And how much control does one have over it?


Sexual Awakening Part 2

Have you ever been with someone who's very presence made you feel ... different? Not at all like yourself but ... more like yourself than you thought you could feel? Someone who not only looked at you but into you? A person who would hold up the figurative mirror and say ... "Look! Really look and SEE."

That's what Jack was to me. 

He and I spent that summer together. It was dizzying. Our first kiss was in the warm summer rain, like something out of a movie. The electricity between us was unbelievable. Every time our lips met, or our hands, I would literally feel little sparks on my skin. I felt this ... power ... and it wasn't the power that he had over me, not at first. It was something between us, something that happened when we were together. I could see it, shimmering in the summer air.

I felt like every day was important. Lazy summer afternoons could turn quickly into something more. Something unforgettable. Little moments were filled with intensity. A conversation could start about something perfectly ordinary, but between us it would change, grow, and before I knew it, I was sharing something with him that I had never shared with anyone. Private things. Sacred things. Like the dark fantasies I had, things I could only talk about, even to him, in the quiet of his car on a dusky summer night. He would turn a light on it, and try to make me see that it didn't mean I was twisted. A freak. But his light was not the bright sunshine of a cloudless day, with the birds chirping and the breeze blowing. Oh no. His light was the kind of light that hangs just at the edges of the dark side of the moon. Intensely bright, but you didn't know what was hiding just beyond it's sharp edge. But god, you wanted to look.

I could tell him my secrets. He insisted on it. His curiosity was boundless. He wanted to KNOW. He wanted to SEE. He loved nothing more than to figure it all out, to learn something new, and people were his favorite subject. 

And for reasons I could not fathom at the time. I was his favorite subject of the summer. He saw something in me that was hiding. He saw something worth figuring out. It lived  in the language of my body. The inner me that I tried to hide, slipping out under his influence. 

I saw something, too ... not the same, but similar, perhaps, in him. On the outside, he was handsome, charming, always smiling, laughing ... but there was something in his eyes. Something dark that was always waiting, just under the surface. I would see it more often, the more physical we became. If I pulled back from kissing him, if he let me go for a moment, to catch my breath, I would see it in his eyes. A dark look simmering below the surface, like he wanted to devour me. Sometimes, just sitting in his car with him, or laying on the couch in the darkness of his basement, I would be overcome by the connection between us, and I would tremble uncontrollably. So much so my teeth would chatter. To this day, I've never felt that with anyone else. What was it? Just a chemical reaction? Adrenaline? He would notice, and I would tell him I was cold, but jesus, it was the middle of the summer. He would laugh and reach for me, knowing the lie. His hands were always so warm on my skin.

He wanted to know more about the fantasies that I was so reluctant to share, even with him. He prized them out of me, coaxing and insisting, his curiosity unquenchable. I told him haltingly, looking for the right words, that they went as far back as I could remember. Way before I even had an inkling of what sex was. The first one I can remember, I was probably in ... second grade? Maybe third? It featured Dolly Parton and Sylvester Stallone.  Don't laugh! It's true! I don't know why I picked them. Have they been in a movie together? Did I see a commercial on TV? In my mind, they were standing on a porch. He was talking to her quietly, and she was backing away from him. She backed up as far as she could go, before she hit a wooden post. He kept advancing, and grabbed her arms and started kissing her. She tried to pull away from him, but he was too strong. She tried to push him away, but he held her hands tightly behind her back. She struggled against him, but he was relentless, continuing to kiss her. Finally, she gave in, and started kissing him back, but even after she gives in to him, he still holds her hands behind her back.

Pretty tame, I know. But for an eight-year-old? Where did I get that? And while I let these images wash through my head, I would lay on my stomach in my bed, in the dark, with my hands between my legs, and rub myself against my hands. I wasn't touching myself with any knowledge, not really, I just knew it felt good. That was also something I had been doing for as long as I could remember. Not completely unusual for young girls, I know, but I did it a lot.  

Another fantasy I shared with Jack was the playground fantasy. This one started when I was older. Maybe junior high, maybe high school.  I would be on a playground, after dark. Standing under that piece of equipment that's actually hard to find these days, the metal honeycomb thing? A man would come up behind me. I couldn't see who he was. He was silent. He would grab me, touch me. Hold my wrists against the metal bars with one hand, while his other hand roughly explored my body. Pulling up my shirt, my bra, to feel my breasts. Pulling up my skirt to push his hand between my legs. And at first I'm scared. I struggle. I cry out.  I push back against him only to feel the hardness of his body, of his cock, pressing against me. His grip on my wrists is too strong, I can't get away. And then I realize I don't want to get away. What he is doing to me is too arousing, and I don't want him to stop. The tighter his grip on me, the more excited I become. This faceless man, forcing himself on me (and did he fuck me, in this fantasy? Not at first, but I'm sure, once I experienced sex myself, the fantasy changed to include that as well) restraining me while he had his way with me ... I think this might have been the fantasy I was engaged in when I masturbated to my first orgasm. 

And from those early days, until now, just about every fantasy I've ever had, every scenario I've created in my head to get myself off ... have all included elements of bondage, restraint, reluctance. I don't know why this is. Am I just wired that way? I can't imagine one television scene at a tender age, if that ever happened, would be enough to set me on this path. So ... why? When I was young, even up to that summer with Jack, I tried not to think about it too much. It was something I hid, ashamed. It was not something I talked to my girlfriends about. But I wondered, did everyone else get so worked up reading those god-awful Flowers in the Attic books? My nice high school boyfriend gave me a book to read, called Slave Girl of Gor. God, I loved it! I wanted to wave my hand in the air and squeal, "Pick me! Pick me!" And then there were the Anne Rice Sleeping Beauty books. That was a whole summer's worth of masturbation material. It was my secret, in the dark of my bedroom, as I groaned and sweated, grinding against my sheets.

It was my secret, until I told Jack. I was afraid he would think I was a freak. I didn't even tell him about the masturbation, that was just too mortifying. I didn't want to talk about those fantasies. But I was powerless against his inquisitiveness. His dark looks. And guess what? 
He didn't think I was twisted. He was fascinated, he wanted to know more. Why did I think these images turned me on? How did it make me feel? Why did I feel like it was so wrong, it was natural to have these kinds of fantasies ... I was so relieved, on the one hand. Talking to him about these thoughts I had, the images that got me all sweaty, was so easy. It didn't feel weird at all. And on the other, I was so aroused. Just talking to him about these dark dreams of mine was a turn on.

To his credit, I think, Jack didn't use this knowledge against me. Looking back, I'm not completely sure when these conversations took place, on the trajectory of our physical relationship. But he knew the power he had over me. He knew I would do almost anything he asked. He did not abuse that power. In fact, he insisted, he was going to send me away to college a virgin. This would make me laugh. He was going to be my first. I had decided that the night I met him. And it was going to happen that summer. Did he really think he was going to be able to resist my feminine wiles for four months? No. He was not. And I never bought it. I think his vigorous protestions were all for fun. He all but admitted it later. You know the strategy. Get me so turned on and frustrated that I was practically begging for it. "People, I couldn't help taking her virginity! She insisted! She wouldn't take no for an answer! I had to put the poor girl out of her misery!" Uh hunh.

I also, on some level, knew this truth: I belonged to him, body heart mind soul. And he knew it. And there was no way he was going to let some idiot frat boy be the first to fuck me. He wanted it just as badly as I did. But, in what seems to have been a precursor to our later relationship, he was going to make me wait. He was going to build anticipation until I was practically drooling. He was going to make me beg for it.


The First of the Firsts

But there were other firsts that came first. Talk about building anticipation. I experienced so many "firsts" with Jack. One of my very favorite memories of that summer revolves around one of them. 

My best friend at the time, Katherine, had a little thing going with Jack's good friend Nathan. One weekend, Katherine's parents were out of town, and we decided to entertain the boys at her house. We would cook them dinner, we would procure some alcohol ... we would see what happened after that. I was jittery with excitement. I really thought this might be the night. Jack and I rarely got to spend any significant time alone together -- I lived with my parents, his brother and mom lived with him. It was summer, there was always someone around. But Katherine's big empty house? A romantic evening? It seemed like the perfect opportunity. 

Katherine and I set the stage and cooked a truly magical, almost epically inedible pasta dinner. The guys were good sports and gamely ate as much as they could. I'm not sure how much time passed between the dinner and the pairing off into separate rooms, but I suspect it was not long. Katherine and Nathan adjourned into her bedroom, and Jack and I were left standing somewhat awkwardly in the living room.

Suddenly he gave me one of his dark looks. My heart started beating in my chest "Just come here," he said, and pulled me to him. We stood there, in the middle of the living room, kissing, and oh my god, how I loved kissing him. The familiar buzzing in my head, the feel of his mouth pressing into mine, his warm hands on the small of my back, the electricity that surrounded us. And the unmistakeable tingling sensation of sexual arousal that started at my lips, traveled down my neck to my breasts, and hardened my nipples to tingly little stones. Then it would spread to my belly where it would ignite and shoot almost painfully to that tender area between my legs, which would start with the throbbing and the swelling and the aching. I remember clinging to him, moaning into his mouth, wanting ... wanting ... wanting. I remember his hands on my body, cupping my flushed breasts, rubbing and squeezing my ass, playing with the hem of my too-short skirt. And then his hands were under my skirt, but still over my panties, one hand on my ass, the other pressing, caressing the damp material between my legs. I was sure he could feel the throb of my heartbeat through the skin of my behind, beating in the soft flesh of my pussy. 

 When he slipped his hand down the front of my panties to stroke the warm, downy softness, it was a delicious shock so sharp I cried out against his mouth. "Shhhh ... " he breathed, kissing my neck, my shoulder, my mouth. Feeling his fingers pressing there, exploring, stroking, without the sensation-dampening barrier of cotton ...  it was something I had only experienced once or twice with him, and it made my legs tremble. He was the first guy I had been with that knew what a clit was and what to do with it. But until that moment, this was about as far as we'd gone, physically. Clothing mostly on, warm hands on bare skin ... gentle stroking ...

And then, for the very first time, perhaps encouraged by how undeniably wet I was, he delicately slipped one finger inside me slowly, pulled it out, and then gently pushed in two. I will never forget that sensation. It almost brought me to my knees. Every nerve ending below my waist was on fire. I could feel the blood rushing from my head downwards. I gasped, moaned, and pressed myself harder against him. As he continued to fuck me with his fingers, pushing in and out, rubbing my clit with his thumb, I couldn't control myself. My whole body was shaking, and I couldn't even kiss him anymore. I just buried my face in his neck, panting, and clung to him, legs trembling. I wanted to melt into him until there was nothing left but that fiery feeling of his fingers inside me. I could hear the sound of them pushing through my slick wet flesh. I could feel my muscles starting to clench around his fingers, the deeper he pushed them into me. I could feel the rush of sensation building inside me, and I knew I was going to have an orgasm. But not like the little spasms I enjoyed by myself in the dark, alone in my room. God, this was going to be something entirely different. I felt like I was standing on the edge of the abyss, and all I had to do was let go, and I would fall right in. 

And so I let go, and for the first time I felt the incredible bursting, rushing sensations of a real orgasm. That feeling of falling fast, but rising, all at the same time. My cries were muffled against his neck, but I felt like I was being turned inside out. The buzzing in my ears made me so light-headed (I was probably hyperventilating) my knees buckled, and I literally almost fell. Jack, without taking his fingers from inside me, had to guide me a step over to the couch and we collapsed onto it. My muscles were still spasming, and I couldn't catch my breath. We lay there on the couch for a while, and I didn't even have the strength to put my arms around him. But he still had his fingers inside me, and he cupped my throbbing pussy gently with his hand. I'm sure he enjoyed feeling the warmth and the wet. He started to kiss me again, and when I had the presence of mind to breathe an "Oh.My.God." I could feel him smiling against my mouth. 

And in the back of my mind a thought began to grow. If third base (or whatever the hell base THAT was) felt so incredibly good, what was sex going to be like?And I wanted it even more. Maybe that was why he was smiling so much ...