The thing was, she was very young. Certainly legal, but still, I really should have been ashamed of myself. I was a thirty-year-old man, and she was eighteen. It started out so simply, though. She sent me a picture because I wrote something silly, like, “if a picture is worth a thousand words, then a thousand words must be worth a picture?”
It was almost cliché, the dorm room nude. Bad lighting, bitten lip, odd angles. There was a very immediate and contemporary intimacy about it, something both forbidden and accessible. Innocent and slutty.
She was short. Tiny, actually. A thin waist, compared to her hips, which flared out, and her tits, which were ridiculously large for her frame. It would be silly to say that I wasn’t obsessed with her breasts. Her dimensions almost seem impossible, so small and curvy all at once.
When I received the pictures, I replied with thanks and not much more. Still, the images kept popping up in my head, and I kept opening up the email again and again to take another look. I couldn’t help myself. Eventually, after looking at them for the hundredth time, I hit reply and asked if she was near NYC because I “kinda wanted to make out with you or something.” I was aiming for that specific tone, where you are comically forward, but on some level, still very serious. It was classic Jack.
She replied that she was in college upstate but came into the city occasionally. In fact, she would be there that weekend. I mentioned that I would like to meet her if she had time. Maybe just a walk in the park, maybe for a kiss.
There was something in her tone, though. Her emails were specifically vague about the who and what her trips to the city were about. Vague in that way that I knew it demanded a little more investigation.
“So what exactly do you do in the city?”
She stalled, telling me specifics, but not the answer. She goes to museums. She goes to fancy restaurants. She sees movies.
“With whom do you do all of these wonderful things?”
Ah, there was the rub. A man. An older man. Older than me and I already felt like a fiend for attempting my little seduction. An older man with children and a career and a vicious ex-wife.
Once the cat was out of the bag, the details poured out of her. She was obviously waiting to tell someone all about her secret life. She liked being a secret, but liked to tell secrets almost as much. She told me how she was his pet and his little secret and how he cuddled and kissed her, how he spanked her and fucked her. She told me about her love of being marked up and walking around sore the next day.
There was drama, too. He had many other girls he played with. He didn’t hide his other affairs from her, but she tried not to ask, and he tried not to tell. Still, when they were alone, she was all his, and for the most part, he was all hers.
The emails went back and forth, fast and furious. We told the stories of our lovers and adventures, and always she sent pictures. The vitality and exuberance of youth. She sent so many little snapshots and bits of video that her room became a familiar place, and her crooked girlish smile and lush body became things I looked forward to every time I checked my mail.
A plan was forming—an odd little plan. We were just supposed to meet. I knew she had that risque appointment, but she had a few hours to kill beforehand. We were going to go to Central Park. A safe place where we could sit and talk, nothing more.
When she got to the city, it was raining. She looked wide-eyed and shy when I met her at the big clock in the middle of the Grand Central. I said hello, and she only blushed. I took her hand, and she squeezed it hard and smiled as she followed me out.
The city was a wet mess of black and gray. The park was out. I asked what else we could do. She shrugged and held my hand, moving close, so I could feel the heat of her body. What other choice did I have? I told her we were going to my place, where it was dry. She didn’t say yes or no, really, she just followed me. I got a cab.
I knew she was short, but in person, five feet is impressively tiny. She wore things I told her to wear. Thigh highs, a skirt. When we walked to get the cab, my hand was on her waist and then her hip, and I felt around for the line of her panties. Nothing, just as I had requested. Smooth hip. I groaned as I felt her hip, and she knew that I knew.
In the cab, she was blushing.
It was too soon. We really shouldn’t have been going to my apartment. We had emailed a lot, though. I felt comfortable. Plus, she would be leaving in a few hours. Hell, she was headed uptown anyway. My apartment was just on the way. Part of me really thought that we would kiss, talk, laugh. That other part of me knew exactly what would happen. These two parts of me were often at odds. The latter almost always won.
When we got to my apartment, I showed her around. We sat on my couch, and she was shy and blushing and silent. This, of course, forced me to not be shy.
Sometimes I get into this mood where I am aggressive and kind of sarcastic and mocking. Teasing a girl about her desires and goading her into doing things.
I put my hand on her knee, and I kissed her. She turned away. Now I wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted. Maybe I was too forward. I kissed her neck, and she sighed. I moved my hand up her skirt, and she gasped. I touched the very tip of her thigh, edging near heat and wetness, but I didn’t touch yet.
I moved away and watched her squirm. Then I moved in and took a hungry handful of her breasts.
Really, they are perfect. They might be the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen. I’ve been with girls with large breasts before, and indeed I love breasts of all sizes, but hers are perfect. I felt the delicious weight of them. I pushed her back and squeezed them. She gasped.
“They don’t like it; they need it.” Unf.