I mentioned it in a truncated post here. But i don't think I did it justice by leaving out the emotions and some of the back story, so I revisit it here.
Check on the links to the other "Last Time" stories below this post.
We knew each other in high school but ran in different circles. She was drama, I was band, she was choir, I was soccer. We had friends in common, but beyond being a familiar face, we had no connection.
After graduation we both moved away to college, but unbeknownst to either of us, to the same college. It wasn’t far from home, but we both lived on-campus and were free of curfews and rules for the first time. For me, that meant lots of pizza, cards, late nights dancing at the punk clubs that surrounded the campus and going on academic probation for the 2nd semester. For her, it meant good grades, fun roommates, and few men.
We ran into each other at a grocery store. My friends and I were buying tailgating supplies for that night’s football game, she was working the register. Upon seeing each other, and getting past the awkward moments until I recognized her, a delay I was never forgiven for, she actually hugged me over the conveyor belt and launched in to a life update.
She was pretty then, short brunette hair with a touch of blond highlights. She was never skinny, but never fat or even overweight when I knew her. She was just average, but a great smile and a wonderfully quick and sarcastic wit. Our conversation was dragging on until Jason, my roommate for freshman year, reached in his pocket, handed her our one extra ticket, and told her to meet us in our seats. On the way out he smacked me on the back of the head and said, “Well, you weren’t going to do it.”
From that night we were pretty much joined at the hip. We were freshman far from home and looking for a little companionship. I lived in the men’s dorms with 2 beds to a room, NO privacy, and a shower I shared with 30 other guys. She was in the women’s apartments, with a kitchen, six girls, a living room, and most importantly, 3 rooms, each with a lock on the door.
She was a “good girl” and so we started off slowly, plus as two 18 year old virgins steeped in that old time gospel fear of hell and brimstone, we were in no rush to go to our eternal damnation. Our first kiss was on the porch to her building under the watchful eye of her disapproving house mother who was really just a hot 23 year old senior who earned free rent by babysitting 36 freshman girls. A few days and a few dates later we found ourselves on the lawn in front of the main quad, a gently sloped lawn that was the location for many first kisses and popped cherries.
We were near the top, close to the statue of the college founder and first pastor. She had brought Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider, a blanket, and my favorite sandwiches. It was a tableau of innocent college domesticity. Our founder would have been proud.
Sandwiches were finished and kisses exchanged. She pulled out the sparkling cider, opened it up and pretended to “let it breathe.” We poured two glasses and proposed a toast, a toast “To Us!” We clinked plastic glasses and downed our apple juice and tossed them over our shoulders.
The mood changed and she crawled across the blanket to me and, from her hands an knees, kissed me long and deep. She had always shied away from passionate “Frenching” but tonight was different, even I could feel it. She was hungry. She needed something more.
She rolled me on to my back and un-tucked my shirt. She smelled my chest and started kissing my bare skin. I was in heaven and totally overwhelmed. She straddled my legs, strong and lean from years of soccer and wrestling, and let her weight settle. As she kissed me, her tongue finding me in ways I had never dreamed of, I felt her rocking on my leg, forcing her knees wider, and her weight down, pressing her body, covered in thin, soft, Velour pants harder and harder against me, awakening her clit from it’s 18 year sleep. (Remember this was the 80’s, forgive us all of our fashion sins.)
Soon she was humping my leg with abandon, no longer trying to hide it, but brazenly, wantonly masturbating herself against my muscular legs. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered in my ear to “get on top.”
I rolled her onto her back and she spread herself open to me and for the first time felt a man’s hard cock against her body. I felt huge, engorged, inflamed that night. I had a long and illustrious history of masturbation and I knew the feelings that were building up in our bodies, though they were new found territory for her. I pressed my erection against her and she gasped and cried out the Lord’s name, surely invoking the wrath of past and future pastors honored to be listed at the feet of the founder’s statue.
My thrusts were firm, insistent, but not too hard. I wanted to rub her, not pound her, and I wanted to feel every inch of fabric through my jeans.
“What are you doing?” she panted.
“Do you want me to stop?” and I did, holding my swollen, but denim-clad cock a millimeter off her body.
“Oh God, don’t stop, don’t stop,” there were tears in her voice but her arms held me tight and her hips bucked up to make contact.
I started again and it didn’t take long for her first orgasm to overwhelm her young body. She wrapper her legs around me, holding me tight against her quivering hips. She couldn’t breath, couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. I felt myself cum against her, feeling the soft folds of her lips through the now soaked Velour. I felt her soft center, her lips, her clit, and knew that I would want more of this. She felt my body pulse and twitch against her sensitive skin, and just asked quietly, “Did you just….” She couldn’t say the word, but I kissed her softly and said yes.
The next three months were a blur of dry-humping, rubbing, and cumming. She admitted once, that she had to replace all of her underwear because they were getting so wet every night. I said the same and we laughed and humped again.
Like most college romances, ours turned ugly when she decided that orgasms and love were the same thing and she started feeling guilty. She felt guilty when my hands or my cock slipped between her legs, about me staying the night and sleeping in her bed, even though we were never naked at the same time. She felt guilty of dreaming about me and about touching herself at all hours of the day. She rationalized her guilt about sex by saying we were in love and that everything would be OK “some day” but she knew that I was moving to a new college the next year to start a different program. She thought she was coming with me.
We had a long, passionate multi-orgasmic weekend over Easter that spring when we went to my dad’s place. He didn’t care what we did and the privacy of a real home let us go crazy. Which is what she did, but not in a good way. After a particularly powerful climax she said that she couldn’t wait until we got married and did it, “for real.”
I ended it the next day in the cold windy back yard of my father’s
There was a lot of yelling, crying, clinging, begging, and shouting, but no more loving, and, by the time night fell, no more talking. That, I thought, was my last time.
We stayed broken up after that weekend. No half-hearted attempts at getting back together, no long phone calls begging for one more shot. It was a heart wrenching weekend for both of us, but we were done.
I moved away as planned and graduated 2 years later after accelerating my program and increasing my class load. Soon after graduation I was at my dad’s house again.
My dad collected junk mail, reunion notices, unpaid traffic tickets, and old subscriptions that never seemed to end, and tossed them on my bed when I came home for holidays. This weekend was no different except that in the stack was a letter from Cynthia. It was simple, asking if I was doing well, and that she heard through the grapevine that I was graduating early and may be coming home for the summer. She ended with a cryptic note, “If you are home before July 23, please give me a call.”
Perhaps she was moving I thought, and figured that after 2 years we could probably go for coffee without any tears.
I called her and she sounded genuinely surprised and happy that I had called. We chatted on the phone for a while and agreed to meet for lunch the following Friday. She gave me the address of a coffee shop near her home and I hung up the phone.
She picked me up and said that she had a picnic basket as she drove up the canyon into a shady grove of trees. The sun and leaves combined to create a shimmering puddle of light on a perfect little patch of lawn in the mountain park. As we laid out the blanket and unpacked the salads, chips and a bottle of Martinelli’s she confessed that she hadn’t brought me there just for lunch. I asked her what she meant as ideas formed in my head but she just smiled and served lunch. We ate in relative quiet, asking each other questions that skirted the important ones lingering in the air.
Finally, she looked me in the eyes and asked if I was in a “serious” relationship, complete with air quotes. I told her the truth and said that I had been single for quite a while. Seemingly satisfied that she wasn’t stepping in to another woman’s territory, she stood up. She was a bit thinner than I remembered her, a little more curvy, and more attractive than before.
Standing there she looked at me for a long time and said, “I want you to make me feel good one more time.” Without another word, she slipped off her pants and pulled me in to the back seat of her car. Her panties were small, silky, and expensive. I thought that it was a little crazy because we hadn’t spoken a word to each other since our Easter split, but I went along with the flow. We started off with kisses, soft and tentative, but they soon turn passionate, hungry, and angry.
Her kisses were hard, insistent, desperate. She started making noises as I touched her, harsh grunts tinged with sadness, moans that were meant to cover tears. I fingered her deep and hard, loving her slippery skin, her swollen lips, her need for me. My ego was as big as my cock, and just as hard to control. Her hands came to my pants and grabbed my cock roughly, eventually pulling it out through my fly without the benefit of opening the zipper fully. Now almost sobbing, she grabbed me and stroked me in savage grabs as she wrapped one arm around my neck and mounted my thigh like our very first time.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god….” Her orgasms was loud, a wailing screed that scared me and the song birds that perched on the branches of the trees that gave shade to her car. I came at the same time, coating her hand with copious amounts. Her body clenched and shuddered around my fingers and covered my hand with equal amounts of slippery fragrant cum.
She collapsed into my arms crying and buried her head in my shoulder. Each attempt at talking made her shake her head and her fingers came to my lips to quiet me.
Out of the picnic basked she pulled a pack of handi-wipes and cleaned ourselves up. She washed her hands under a water tap at the edge of the clearing without putting her clothes back on. I tried to avert my eyes, her body, so bare, so exposed, as raw as her emotions seemed to vulnerable to gaze upon.
“You can look at me if you want.” She said and pulled her shirt off, leaving herself naked, spent, and sad in a sun dappled clearing. I looked and smiled, she was more beautiful, more sad, more lonely than any woman I had ever seen.
The drive back to town was quiet. She reached over and held my hand but no words were spoken. She smiled more than she cried, but smile she did, and by the time we pulled up to the coffee shop where my car was parked she seemed happy, complete, and more at rest.
I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“I’m glad you called,” she said, “I needed to see you again.”
“I’m getting married in two weeks.” As she said that she cried a little more, patted me on the cheek, said thank-you, and told me to get out of the car with a laugh.
I went home and looked through my dad’s stack of mail again. There was no invitation.