The first time I tried Anal [True Story]
I was young, curious, and utterly infatuated with the man who made me feel like the most desirable girl in the world. He was older, experienced, and had this way of looking at me—like he already knew my body better than I did. Every touch from him sent a shiver down my spine, every whisper in my ear made my thighs press together.
That night, we were in his dimly lit bedroom, wrapped up in each other, his scent—clean, musky, intoxicating—filling my senses. I was already dizzy from the way he kissed me, slow and teasing, his tongue just barely brushing mine before pulling away, leaving me breathless and needy. He knew exactly how to wind me up, dragging his lips down my neck, his teeth grazing over the sensitive spot just below my ear before sucking gently, marking me as his.
His hands wandered, mapping my body like he was committing every curve, every dip, to memory. When his fingers slipped between my legs, finding me already soaking, he chuckled against my skin. “So eager for me,” he murmured, sliding two fingers inside with an effortless ease that made my toes curl. I gasped, hips bucking against his hand, but he kept his pace slow, lazy, coaxing little whimpers out of me as he stroked that perfect spot inside.
I barely noticed when he let his other hand drift lower, teasing along the curve of my ass. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if waiting for a reaction. When I didn’t pull away, he grew bolder, pressing a single slick fingertip against the tight ring of muscle. I tensed—more from surprise than discomfort—and he paused, his lips brushing my ear.
“Relax for me, baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with lust but soothing, patient. “Just breathe.” And I did. I exhaled slowly as he rubbed gentle circles around my tightest hole, easing me open with soft, teasing strokes. The pressure was strange at first, foreign, but not unpleasant. If anything, it only made the heat between my legs burn hotter. He took his time, working me open little by little, whispering the filthiest praise in my ear about how good I felt, how perfect I was, how much he wanted to be inside me.
By the time he finally pressed the tip of his cock against me, I was shaking, my body hypersensitive from the endless teasing. He moved so slowly, inch by inch, letting me adjust, letting me feel every single stretch, every new sensation. It was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. My nails dug into his back as he pushed deeper, a desperate whimper escaping my lips.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re taking me so well.” And just like that, something inside me snapped. The initial sting melted into a deep, aching pleasure, and suddenly, I needed more. I arched against him, meeting his thrusts, feeling completely filled in a way I never had before. The pressure, the fullness, the way he groaned my name like he was on the edge of losing control—it was intoxicating.
I didn’t know I could come like that, without even being touched. But when I did, my whole body tensed, pleasure rolling through me in waves so intense I forgot how to breathe. He followed moments later, burying himself as deep as he could, spilling inside me with a guttural moan.
Afterward, he kissed me lazily, his fingers tracing soft patterns over my bare skin. “You liked that,” he murmured, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. I bit my lip, still breathless, still floating in that blissful haze. I have to admit, “I loved it.”
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