Page 9 of The Loves We Lost
Flopping down on my bed, I sigh. I reach for the book and open it to the page I got to. It’s fucked up that I can put places and times to most of the events in this book, especially the night I took her virginity. I read Viola’s words.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“I don’t know, buttercup. I heard so. But I’m not a girl, so I can’t say. I promise we’ll take our time. Go slow. I got some lube ’cos I heard that helps.”
“And condoms?”
“Got those too, sweetheart.”
I’d been carrying condoms for a couple of years, but Viola didn’t need to know that. But the lube had been a special purchase. It had been Whip’s idea when I drunkenly told him I was going to take Viola’s v-card.
In the book, Viola describes those heady moments of me settling her into the bed in the guest room I’d booked at the innin Maine. I’d gotten my first paycheck from the club and wanted to spend it on the two of us. She remembered the lighthouse ornament that had sat in the window overlooking the sea and described it in detail. It pisses me off that she remembers the itchy lace edging on the blue comforter.
And I hate the idea she’s sharing our most private moments with the world. They weren’t for anyone else. They were for us.
As I read those first few moments of putting some lube on my fingers and sliding one, then the other inside her warmth, my cock hardens. I rub my palm firmly over it. Viola was naked, her body open to me as I kneeled between her legs and took in the way her tits moved when her back arched.
I can see the fear in her eyes, so I place my hand by her soft cheek and kiss her while I ease in and out of her, doing what I can to ready her for my thickness. I don’t want it to hurt. I want her to come. I want her to see how fucking good sex is with the right person.
I know my cock is leaking, so I pause and put a condom on.
I look down at my jeans and can see some things never change. I place the book next to me, unbutton my belt and jeans, and shimmy them both down over my hips a little so I can grip myself firmly.
I got no problem watching porn to jerk off, but there’s something painful and yet comforting about jerking off to the two of us written from Viola’s perspective ... well, my perspective through Viola’s mind or whatever.
Picking the book up, I resume reading and stroking my cock.
“I’m gonna slide it in, sweetheart. Good and slow.”
She grips my wrists. “You’ll stop if I need you to?”
“For sure. But if I do this right, it shouldn’t hurt much.”
I look down and watch as the tip of my dick slides through the curls and then lips of her pussy. There’s cream there, and lube, and fuck me, I gonna die holding off coming.
When I nudge in a little farther, I can feel the warmth of her. My cock in her pussy looks so fucking good.
Fuck, did it ever. I’ve remembered that view ever since. Her white thighs wide open, my lightly tanned hand holding my cock down in position. The cream that looped some of her curls together.
“Shit.” I huff as my cock pulses in my hand. This is the nerdiest hand job I’ve ever given myself. Reading to get off is a new one for me.
I commence reading, but the words start to blur as the feelings and memories take over. How fucking awful I felt when she cried out as I fully seated myself in her. The gasp when we began to move again after I confirmed she didn’t want to stop. How her body began to move with mine. The way her fingernails dragged along my back.
My breath becomes choppy as I chase the ultimate goal.
My mind takes over. Viola on her knees in front of the fireplace at Christmas. Eating her out in the back of my truck. But the memory that pushes me over the edge? Viola in a pale-yellow bra, riding me, a huge smile on her face.
Fuck, she was beautiful. And everything I ever wanted.
I pump myself, squeezing as I go, and I throw the book to the end of the bed as I give in to the orgasm bearing down on me.
It’s impossible to hold myself off any longer.
My sight goes even blurrier, I lose track of any sounds in the clubhouse, and I squeeze my eyes shut as thick ropes of cum hit my T-shirt.
“Vi,” I call out, and it’s followed by an immediate wave of shame.
She doesn’t deserve this walk down memory lane. And I deserve better than a hand job to images of someone who didn’t want me.
