Taking his virginity

Your hand leaves his cock, and the loss of contact makes him whimper, a small, desperate sound that goes straight to your cunt. You stand, and your knees are sore from the hardwood, but you don't care.

"Let me...," you whisper.

He obeys immediately, his jeans still unbuttoned, his cock jutting out from the gap in the denim, long and dark and slick. You hook your fingers into the waistband and push. The jeans slide down his narrow hips, over his thighs, past his knees. He steps out of them, clumsy, almost tripping. His boxer briefs follow, and soon enough he's as naked as you are.

The sight of him makes your breath catch.

He's all long lines and sharp angles—bony shoulders, a chest that's lean but not weak, a stomach that hollows just below his ribs. His cock curves up against his belly, thick enough that your fingers don't quite meet when you wrap your hand around it earlier. His thighs are tense, his knees slightly locked, and he's trembling.

"Come here," you say, and you take his hand.

You lead him to the couch. You sit him down, and he goes like a puppet, his eyes never leaving your face. The cushions dip under his weight. He's perched on the edge, his hands gripping his knees, his cock standing upright, heavy and full. The head is dark, almost purple, glistening with a fresh bead of precum.

You stand before him, naked, and you don't cover yourself.

"I don't have condoms that will fit you," you say, and your voice is small, guilty. "You're too big. But I'm on the pill." You bite your lip, looking down, letting the shame flicker across Cathy's face. "I wouldn't do this if I weren't. I'm not stupid. I just—"

You look up at him, and your eyes are wet.

"I just need this. Please."

He nods, mute, his throat bobbing.

You climb onto the couch.

Your knees find the cushion on either side of his hips, and you hover over him, your thighs brushing his, the heat of his body rising between you. You're face to face now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Your hands find his shoulders, and his skin is warm, smooth.

You lower yourself.

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, and the contact makes you gasp. You pause, your eyes locked on his, and you let him see the moment—the fear, the desire, the overwhelming rightness of what you're about to do.

Then you sink down.

The stretch is immediate, a deep, burning pressure that forces your mouth open. He's bigger than Matt. Wider. You feel every inch as it enters you, the thick head parting your lips, sliding past the ring of muscle, filling you in a way that feels impossible. Your inner walls clutch at him, desperate and greedy, and you make a sound—a broken, whining moan—as you take him deeper.

His hands find your hips. They're shaking. He doesn't push, doesn't guide, just holds, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You sink lower. The stretch deepens, spreads, becomes a fullness that presses against your cervix. You feel him hit the end of you, a solid, gentle pressure that makes your whole body shudder, and you stop. You're full. Completely, achingly full, and there's still more of him left.

You whimper.

"God," you breathe, and your voice cracks. "You feel so good. So fucking good."

His eyes are wide, his chest heaving. He looks like he's dreaming. He looks like he's never imagined anything this good.

You start to move.

Your hips rise, slow, and his cock drags against your inner walls, every ridge and vein sending sparks through your pelvis. You sink back down, and the stretch is there again, sharp and sweet, and you moan, a high, broken sound that fills the quiet room. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his neck, to his jaw, and you hold his face as you ride him, your thumbs tracing his cheekbones.

He's watching you. His eyes are dark, reverent, and they move over your face like he's memorizing it, like he's trying to hold onto this moment forever.

You speed up.

The rhythm finds you—lift, pause, sink. Lift, pause, sink. Each descent drives him deeper, fills you fuller, and the friction is maddening, a building pressure that coils in your belly. Your pussy clenches around him, and he gasps, his hips twitching, and you feel his inexperience in the way he holds himself still, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell.

"It's okay," you whisper, and your voice is ragged. "You can move. Fuck me, Marcus."

He does.

His hips thrust up as you sink down, and the angle changes, hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur. You cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he does it again, and again, each thrust driving deeper, faster, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room.

You're losing yourself.

The coil in your belly tightens, burns, and you ride him harder, your thighs burning, your breath coming in sobs. His hands grip your hips, and he's watching you, always watching, and the look on his face—the wonder, the disbelief, the raw, desperate want—pushes you closer.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "I'm going to—"

The orgasm hits you like a fall.

Your back arches, your mouth opens, and a sound comes out, high and broken, as your pussy clenches around him, a pulsing, rhythmic grip that draws him deeper. Your vision whites out, your body shakes, and you feel him stiffen beneath you, his hips bucking, his hands tightening.

He comes with a cry.

You feel it—hot, thick, pulsing—as he fills you. The sensation is overwhelming, a wet, spreading heat that seems to go on forever. He pumps into you, his body convulsing, and you ride him through it, milking every drop, your own orgasm tapering into aftershocks that leave you trembling.

You collapse onto his chest.

His arms come around you, automatic, and you feel his heart pounding against your cheek, fast and wild. His breath is ragged, his skin slick with sweat. He's shaking.

"I'm sorry," he stammers. His voice is raw. "I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to—I'm so sorry—"

You lift your head. You look at him, at his flushed face, his glassy eyes, his trembling lips.

"It's okay," you say, and you mean it. "I told you. I'm on the pill."

He swallows. "But what if—"

"It's okay." You press a finger to his lips. "I asked for this. I wanted this."

He falls silent. His arms tighten around you, and for a long moment, neither of you moves. You lie there, still joined, his cock softening inside you, his cum leaking down your thighs. The room is quiet. The flat is still empty.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Time feels like honey, slow and golden.

But eventually, the world creeps back in.

You think about the bathrobe on the floor. The eggs, still in their carton, somewhere near the door. The tea, cold and forgotten on the coffee table. Matt, out with his friends, oblivious. Cathy, at practice, running laps around a track, her muscles burning, her ponytail swinging.

None of them know.

You're still inside their lives, a ghost wearing a borrowed face. And now you've given a virgin his first time, a shy boy from downstairs, on the couch where Cathy and Matt watch movies and fall asleep.

The thought should terrify you.

It doesn't.