It's time

"Oh my god," you gasp, "you're doing me a favor. If you had any idea how long I've been this wound up, and—I don't have anyone, you know?—I really want this!"

Scott only tries to talk you down once, rather half-heartedly, after that. Then he's letting you shuck your wet swimsuit off and climb on top of him on the pier. The two of you stop kissing, only long enough for this repositioning to take place, and then his mouth is on yours again as you line yourself up with his cock.

Just like that, it's only an eyeblink really, you are no longer a virgin.

And this was so much easier than you ever knew, you think, and keep thinking, until Scott gets about halfway inside, and you realize it's not made-up scare tactics, that doing this for the first time actually does hurt a little. He doesn't offer to stop, which is great since you were a bit worried he would try to be noble about it, or pissed that you didn't tell him you'd never done this before. But he's gentle, as the two of you work to ease him deeper inside you. You get most of him inside you, or you think you do anyway, because it sure as shit feels like you are stuffed fuller than a goddamned Christmas turkey!

"Oh my god," he's groaning as the two of you settle into a rhythm that doesn't hurt too much for you, and after a minute or two that starts to actually feel pretty good. "Bridge, I love you. I love you so much," he murmurs against you as he thrusts into your soaking cunt. You're so wet and eager for him, not to mention starting to properly enjoy yourself, that your pussy makes a faint schlicking sound every time your pelvises collide.

You know—you fucking know—you should stop before this encounter achieves any of its more explosive possible finales, except by now Scott feels so good it's like you were cast in interlocking molds. Your whole body needs to feel him inside you, so badly that you can't actually will yourself to climb off so you don't get fucking knocked up. Instead, you let him grab your hips and help you move harder against him.

Something in the gesture is akin to stuff you've seen in pornos, or did, back when you had something resembling privacy at home—if the girl's on top, the guy grabs her hips to fuck her harder when he gets close.

You really need to not wait any longer, or it's going to be too late. Except you're so close right now—and you really want to know what it feels like to cum on someone's cock. Maybe you can get there fast and then finish him off another way.

You're starting to whimper a little as Scott strokes into you with increasing urgency. He's going to cum inside me, you think distantly, and realize: you're going to let him, even though that's really, really stupid. There's a freedom that comes with having decided your stupid path, though. You reach down between your legs to touch yourself, rolling your hips with him and enjoying the feeling of his hands on your skin, moving you against him almost like you're a toy he's using.

He's going to cum inside you. You've read descriptions of what it feels like, and now it's actually going to happen. He's going to flood you full of half a metric-gazillion sperm and they are going to go on the warpath to find your slutty egg in her fallopian den of iniquity and that bitch is probably going to just let one of them in and Jesus Christ, what is Scott going to say in a month when you break it to him that you're pregnant with his kid, just because the two of you rolled the dice and lost? You arch against him, freezing in place and panting as your cunt clamps violently down on his thrusting length, at least for another three or four strokes, and then he's muttering something to himself about your tits and hilting himself in your clutching channel.

In some ways your cunt was less sensitive than you thought it would be, when you finally had sex with a boy. But your before-Scott-came-in-me state is instantly distinguishable from your after-Scott-came-in-me state. Thrusts one, two-three, four—steaming hot frothing fuckfest. BEFORE. Thrusts five, six—these two are long strokes—and then thrust seven, he embeds himself, you're pretty sure he must have his cockhead jammed right up against your cervix. Scott obviously absolutely loves cumming inside you. This seems like the enthusiasm of a boy who would give your virgin pussy a five star Yelp review with at least a full paragraph of verbal praise. Thrust seven, which is barely movement, is meant to let him wedge his buried, spurting member truly as deep inside you as he can get. Now you're in, AFTER territory.

Your cunt before: warm, convulsing wildly, slick and tight.

Your cunt after: molten, still convulsing wildly, overflowing with wetness that immediately dribbles out of your stuffed pussy.

Thrusts eight, nine, ten, eleven. Barely anything other than instinctively rocking into you, exactly the way any enthusiastic pre-father should do if he wants to be sure he's getting the job done.

Gradually you come to a stop together, him letting you lie forward on his chest, which is kind of an amazing way to be post-nut. It never occurred to you before that after sex, there would be an option to just stay put and use him for a pillow without having to surrender his dick back to his full custody. It's surprisingly comfortable.