Molly: The First

I have of late been led to a great deal of reminiscence and reflection, in which I’ve realised what a debt of gratitude I owe to my women, and how lucky I have been to consort with such strong, powerful and sexy creatures as they, not a one of whom has ever been willing to just put up with my male pattern bullshit.

For example, this is about Molly. My first, or at least the first woman who would let me near her in sober moments, and for longer than a finger-bang after hours.

She was the cousin of the brother of a mate’s girlfriend and we loathed each other on sight, and through numerous arguments and bitter disagreements. i now realise that this was because I was an entitled, over-educated and under-socialised dickhead, whereas she was someone who knew bullshit, and called it. But it was embarrassing. We probably managed to ruin quite a few pub trips and days out and at least one birthday. And then, one Saturday night there was a club trip, to Quetzalcoatl’s in Arkham, down by the Miskatonic and only a few hundred yards away fro the University, where I was then studying. And, yeah, Ding phoned me up and said, with audible strain, that Molly would be there too. And I loved Ding like a brother and I felt bad.

So I resolved to be nice, and not argue at all, just talk, and be real. Wearing by best suit probably helped some, too. It was an awesome midnight blue Crombie, deep double breasted with a broad dark pink pinstripe. I wore it with a white oxford shirt of some ludicrous thread count, sans tie. Pink pocket square. Shined my shoes like a god-damned marine. I found this armour very effective. I felt like a million bucks, and it made me want to behave, too.

As it happened, I didn’t need the courteous lines I’d prepared about her appearance, couldn’t have spoken them if I had. She wore a red dress. You know that song, Soulful Dress? Sugar Pie Desanto? Well this sucker hit her way above her knees, had a deep cut back, and straps instead of sleeves. Fire engine red and designed, it seemed, with a loving attention to detail, probably by some German scientist. The way the fabric moved over her skin was captivating and her legs and arms shimmered in the dark of the bar, her eyes glowing and lips plump with promise. I behaved impeccably. Asked her how she was, took an interest in her work, which I’d never even asked about before, because I didn’t really mix with working people then. She worked at the Department of Water & Power and organised the delivery of plant to worksites. Logistics is fascinating, people.

We danced a bit, and she smelled amazing. There was a light, grassy smell to her thick blonde hair, and a light cherry scent to her lip gloss and, down in the hollow of her throat, a thick, dark perfume, which made my head feel somehow bigger, made me suck in my gut, and turn myself away so that I didn’t inadvertently nudge her thigh in my excitement.

Eventually, we tired of dancing and there were few chairs and somehow Molly ended up in my lap. The nudging was of course impossible to disguise in those circumstances and made the more obvious by the proximity of my face to her bosom, which was, at best, only half-clad and had a sheen of light sweat in its cleavage. I could see her nipples, and the arabesque ornament of her bra beneath the red satin and, with a slight change of angle see the peach eyelash lace where it swept across the upslope of her right breast.

She caught my eye, and smiled. Shimmied slightly and rearranged my cock so that it fitted into the hollow between her buttocks, and nodded, seriously:

Is that more comfortable? She asked. And, before I could answer in my strangled voice, she kissed me. Once softly, just on the the lips and then sat back and frowned. Eyebrowed me and leaned in taking my face in her hands. Firm pressure of lip and she opened my mouth. I could feel the heat of her, suddenly there on my lips and tongue and then hers came too. She licked carefully, seeking my tongue-tip and exploring the back of my lips. Then suddenly broke off, stood up.

Ding! This one can get in the trunk, right? Stabbing a beautifully manicured thumb over her shoulder.

Ding was over by the bar talking football with a couple of guys and their glazed-eyed consorts. He looked startled.

Uh. Sure..

So I travelled with them, tucked up in the trunk of Ding’s car, with nothing but a pile of girl’s coats and handbags for company, hardly knowing what was happening, or what to expect.

When the car finally came to a halt in Essex Falls, I was somewhat discombobulated, half high from the beer and shots, prospect of sex, and the miasma of face powder and perfume I’d been breathing all the way. Molly opened the trunk and looked down at me, shaking her head. Then she reached down and hauled me out by the bunched cloth of my shirt and snogged me furiously, half sprawled on the car. I reached for her thigh and she slapped my hand away.

Not yet, she hissed through her kisses, and bit me.

As she nibbled and sucked and tongued me there in the yard. Ding’s voice, his drawl, rang out.

Hey Molly, what we all said about doing it in the yard? Jesus girl. Bring the man in.

And she did, manhandling me into the house like a cop, albeit one with half a breast showing, bruised lips and a smell so enticing I thought I might pass out.

Inside we drank Southern Comfort and played cards drunkenly til all had evaporated, leaving Molly and I alone at the chipped table, with nothing but the sound of bugs banging into the screen for company.

Okay First-timer here’s how this goes down.

You make yourself comfortable on the floor, down here. I give you a blanket. And we’ll talk. Things you should know, that you haven’t been taught.

And I did. She sat in a big wing chair by the empty summer fireplace and sipped her drink and watched me undress. God help me, I took it all off. She said nothing, just sipped, and the light off the lake slid over her in faint blue ripples like she was some kind of ghost.

I stood before her, trembling, and she was good enough not to laugh at me, but just nodded at the blankets and bade me get to bed.

And I lay there, looking at the ceiling, my cock itching against the coarse army wool, and listened to her talk.

This is not a done deal, Edwin. You have been a terrible asshole, most of the time I’ve known you. So why should I give you any of this, of me?

Because I want to? A little, but I’m drunk, and nobody’s fucked me for a month or two, and I’m bored. So…

I don’t know Edwin. But I’m a little turned on. At your pale boys body. That unused skin. You’re hairless, new nearly, at 21… I, I believe I want to take that. Assuming you want to give it.

I expect I mumbled something. Some assent, of sorts. I do remember that my cock head was wet and my mouth dry. And she said:

Wait. And was gone.

I drifted off, a bit, and then the door opened again and as I stirred, the blanket was taken from me and she…She returned.

She had changed out of the dress and changed into a, into an entirely different creature, a thing of fire and magic, a thing that wrapped me in herself and her mercy and her gifts and she showed places to touch and be touched and, as I bent to her and fastened my mouth to her satin-clad gusset and drowned in this new scent and savour she raised herself on her elbows, and looking down the length of her body, over breasts and belly and smiled and said:

You can’t fuck me, not until you’ve made me come.

masturbation monday


16 thoughts on “Molly: The First

  1. Nero Black says:

    Great story, I look forward to hearing more about the other women in your life.
    “You can’t fuck me, not until you’ve made me come.” – I was going to use that, in a piece of cation. Damn you! 🙂


  2. Posy Churchgate says:

    It was all so dizzyingly erotic – I was totally discombobulated too! But it was so heady, you totally conveyed that first time build-up euphoria. My favourite piece:
    “I could see her nipples, and the arabesque ornament of her bra beneath the red satin and, with a slight change of angle see the peach eyelash lace where it swept across the upslope of her right breast.”
    O my, not since I read the Great Gatsby have words had me so spellbound! Keep on with the catalogue of strong ladies please!


  3. May says:

    ” I was an entitled, over-educated and under-socialised dickhead”

    I never doubted it for a moment 😉

    discombobulated – made up word from way back but you use it well 😉

    Great story – I am with Nero (usually am) – love it


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