The Continuing Adventures of the Devirginator

The Devirginator makes her entrance through the second-story bedroom window. Perched on the sill, backlit by the rising moon, she must look like a full-page panel straight out of a graphic novel. Or at least that was the intention. Her purple cape billows and flaps dramatically in the night breeze. Her breasts are supported by a shocking-red strapless bra, the kind that works so much better in theory than in practice, and she is wearing a matching pair of skimpy, butt-floss style panties that her alter-ego wouldn’t be caught dead in. On her feet are sequined red rock-climbing slippers, with modified racecar rubber for soles, and her face is obscured by a red feathered masquerade ball mask.

In the soft moonlight, the sleeping boy on the bed looks like a cherub. If she hadn’t known his actual age—22—the Devirginator might have mistaken him for a prepubescent child. But then he rolls over onto his back, still mostly asleep, pushing the blankets away, and the illusion is shattered. Ben always sleeps in the nude.

The Devirginator sees a lot of naked young men in her line of work. Typically they are not the most conventionally attractive specimens. They tend to be overweight, underweight, and/or have grooming issues. Not that she is complaining. She isn’t. The Devirginator loves them all. But this one is an entirely different kind of Ken doll. He has the body of an athlete, the wholesome good looks of an Eagle Scout. As a matter of fact, the Devirginator knows that he played high school football, and that he was something of a sensation as a quarterback at his small Christian school. His body looks like it could have been chiseled out of marble by a classic Greek sculptor. A rather horny and perverted old goat of a sculptor: young Ben is sporting quite an impressive erection.

He half-sits up in bed. “I didn’t think you’d really come,” he whispers.

The Devirginator puts one finger to her lips, miming a ‘Shush’. Ben’s parents are watching TV downstairs. She shinned past them when she climbed the drain pipe. The Devirginator hops down from the window sill, and more-or-less elegantly slips out of her sequined red climbing shoes. The strapless brassiere has fallen down of its own accord, as it tends to in these situations. Her boobs are not particularly large, and appear somewhat asymmetrical when unrestrained.

She climbs up onto the bed and straddles him. His dick is rubbing delectably up against the front of her scarlet panties. She kisses his lips, and he kisses her right back, with an eagerness and candor that almost takes her breath away. Her pussy is drooling with anticipatory lust. This is going to be great. She takes his hand, a big strong soft paw, and guides it to her breast. His stomach is flat and hard, with a soft fuzzy treasure-trail leading south from his navel. His balls are thick and heavy. His cock is leaking slick fluid onto her thighs, agonizingly close to her crotch. Her clit is pounding like a big bass drum.

She reaches down between her legs, and takes him in hand. He feels even bigger than he looks. His cock is hot and hard and eager and alive. She pulls her panties to one side and guides him toward the target. Her cunt is wet and slippery and open and slaveringly hungry. Her clit is thumping along in time with her pounding heart. She is really going to enjoy plucking this one.

Ben jerks away from her, breaks off the kiss. “No,” he says. “Stop, please. No.”

“No?” She lifts herself up, poised to pounce, ready to engulf him in one fell swoop.

“No… I’m just not ready.”

The Devirginator fumbles her shoes back on, and leaves the same way she got in, though the window. Her stupid strapless bra is all askew and her panties are annoyingly wet and crawling up her butt something fierce. She slides down the drain pipe in a bit of a snit, past his parents watching reruns, and wraps herself in her purple cape once she reaches the ground. She climbs into her little grey Toyota and drives off into the night. She has other fish to fry.

She bangs on the door of Tony’s apartment. The Devirginator carries a lock pick kit in her car, but right now she just isn’t in the mood to diddle around with torsion wrenches and tumblers. Looking quizzical and sleep-deprived, Tony answers the door, an open bag of Doritos dangling from one hand. He is wearing a Dragon magazine t-shirt and grey sweat pants. She pushes past the threshold into his combined living room/bedroom, pressing her body up against him, nibbling and kissing his lips, ignoring his questions and protests. The half-eaten bag of chips falls onto the floor and the door swings shut behind them.

True to form, Tony was on his computer playing Dungeon Crawl or something of that sort. The boy has a possibly unhealthy addiction to obsolete D&D style video games from the 1980s. The Devirginator, or rather her alter-ego, found him leafing through diskettes in the back of a dingy gaming store at the mall. One glance and she knew he was just her type.

Her hand slips down the front of his grey sweat pants, past his tighty-whities. He is already hard. This is promising. He’s not hung like a python, but he’s no mini either, and anyway the Devirginator doesn’t put much stock in metrics like size. She’s in it for the whole experience.

He tastes like sour sweat, Diet Coke, and Doritos. “You,” she says in a voice that brooks no argument, “into the shower. Now.”

Never taking his wide, innocent, slightly bloodshot brown eyes off of her, Tony strips out of his clothes, and turns on the water. On another guy, the extra weight Tony carries wouldn’t be troublesome. It might even be fetching, in a cute-and-cuddly teddy bear sort of way. On Tony though, it just looks like flab. Lack of muscle tone and sketchy posture and a pale complexion don’t help, but the problem runs deeper. What Tony lacks is confidence. Boy should get out more often. If he ever wants to get laid.

The Devirginator has ditched her shoes, cape, and panties, as well as the retarded bra. He watches her all the time he is in the shower. He’s probably afraid that if he blinks she will disappear like a djinn, evaporating into whatever bottle she came out of. He doesn’t need to worry. The Devirginator is going nowhere. After he has rinsed the soap suds off, she reaches in and turns off the water. No sense in ruining her red feathered masquerade ball mask. Damn thing was expensive.

She climbs into the bathtub with him, sits her butt on the edge of the tub, and gets down to the business of sucking his dick. Now that he is soapy-clean, she savors it. He hasn’t had this pleasure, he once told her (or more correctly, this is what he told the plain-clothes daytime version of herself when they ate mozzarella sticks at the food court) since he was fourteen, at camp. And that was a botched job.

The Devirginator is very good at this, and she knows it. She plays Tony like a maestro conducting an orchestra, simultaneously pushing his buttons and his limits, bringing him micrometers from the edge and then deftly backing off. She pulls out her entire toolkit for this one, stimulating his cock, balls, perineum, and anus with lips, tongue, and fingers. Long before she is ready to move on to Act II, he is wailing and moaning, begging for release. It is deeply gratifying.

At last, it becomes clear that Tony cannot be toyed with any longer. He is a bottle of nitroglycerin that has been shaken as much as it can be shook. Somewhat regretfully, the Devirginator disengages. Her mouth is tired, but happy. They clamber out of the bathtub, partly in the interest of safety and comfort, and partly to give poor over-excited Tony a few moments of cooling-off time. He towels off, his engorged cock wagging proudly as he dries his body. They leave the bathroom and tumble onto his disreputable futon couch. When was the last time he changed those sheets? The Devirginator doesn’t even want to know.

She straddles him. This is her preferred position for situations like this. She grasps his cock, points it directly at her aching, needy cunt. She didn’t even make him put on a condom. She will kick herself for this later, but this time the gamble pays off.

“Are you ready?” she asks. It is strictly a pro forma question. He grunts in ascent, nods eagerly, and she slowly, deliberately lowers herself onto him, giddily savoring every brief second of it.

Even with her on top, in control of pace and penetration, he won’t last long. Three, maybe four squishy, squelchy ins-and-outs, and then it is all over. This is all fine. She is enjoying herself immensely. Later on, she will masturbate to this scene, playing it all back in her head. Then she will get her orgasm. For now it is all about him.

She feels him slip past the point of no return, even as he croaks out “I’m coming!” She plunges down on him, rocking her hips and grinding herself into his fluffy pubes, his entire length and girth buried inside her as his cock swells, pulses, spasms, and ultimately explodes, pumping an immodest amount of semen straight into her pussy. The come leaks copiously out of her as she extracts herself—no post-coital cuddling for the Devirginator—and they are both left slightly stunned, sweaty, half-dazed and out of breath.

The Devirginator recovers first. Of course she does. She has infinitely more experience than Tony does. He is still blinking like an oversized Hobbit as she collects her things, wraps herself up in her purple cape, and exits the way she came in, through the door. Then it is into the Toyota and off to home base. It is late, and there is a hot shower, a cold beer, a dildo, and fresh AAs in her vibrator waiting for her. On the whole, it was a successful night, she tells herself. But it is only a half-truth, and she is irritated. The Devirginator hates to be rebuffed.


The Devirginator’s alter-ego spends a lot of time hanging out in gaming shops, off-label coffee houses, used book stores, and the like. She took an evening Calculus course at the local community college partly for professional development, and partly because it seemed like an ideal hunting ground.

Her looks are unremarkable. She is chunky without being overweight, friendly without being intimidating, neither quiet nor outspoken, and rather plain-looking. Or if you are feeling ungenerous, slightly homely. Over the years, she has gotten quite good at picking out her boys, and at steering the conversation toward the topic that most concerns her: their virginity. Call it her superpower. The Devirginator is, for better or for worse, me.

I never in a million years would have picked out Ben as a low-hanging fruit of the unplucked variety. He sat next to me in Calc, right up in front. He was simply too good looking, in a blonde and chiseled All American sort of way. I immediately assumed that he had a girlfriend, or girlfriends, and I figured he was probably lousy in bed anyway. I ignored him and spent my time in class sizing up the other prospects. Of which there were many.

I probably never even would have even spoken to him if he hadn’t spoken to me first. He asked me in class about a homework problem, and I jumped as if stung. I didn’t know the answer either. Calculus is hard, and it had been years and years since I had last had a math class. We agreed to make a study date, and if I didn’t exactly think nothing more of it, I certainly didn’t get my hopes up either.

We met up the next afternoon, an hour or so before class, in the sterile and depressingly stark school cafeteria. We worked on our homework together, and it actually helped. More out of habit than anything, I maneuvered the conversation towards sex. I was flabbergasted when he told me.

He actually blushed. It was cute. It was a problem, he said, and he had no idea how to go about getting rid of it.

“Why?” I asked. Why hadn’t he taken the plunge when he was a high school football star with his pick of the cheerleading squad?

“Religious convictions,” he said.

And what changed? Why did he suddenly want to ditch his V-card now that he was single, grown-up, and gainfully under-employed?

“Disillusionment,” he told me.

What makes a person a virgin, or not a virgin? It’s a slippery, thorny question, but Ben’s answer was straightforward. “A penis in a vagina,” he said. Oh, so he’d had other kinds of sex, anal or oral, but still considered himself a virgin? He blushed furiously. No, his high school girlfriend had had religious convictions too. The furthest they’d gone was some remarkably chaste necking and petting in the back seat of his Daddy’s minivan.

We settled back into homework. A big part of the art that I practice is in knowing when to back off, knowing when to not push too hard on a sensitive subject. But I was already scheming away like a mad scientist. I wanted to push Ben’s buttons in the worst kind of way.


The next time the Devirginator enters though Ben’s bedroom window, he is waiting for her.

“Are you ready this time?” she asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says, and she is OK with that.

They lie down on his bed together. He is already naked, and she has shed everything but her mask and panties. They kiss for a long while, and touch. She lets him explore her body, though he is maddeningly tentative. The excitement is becoming unbearable.

The Devirginator wraps her hand around his penis. Once again, it feels even bigger than it looks.

“Can I jerk you off?” she asks, “Would that be OK?”

“Yes,” he says, lying back on the bed and folding his hands behind his head, “please do.”

The Devirginator loves giving a good handjob, though she doesn’t usually take it to its logical conclusion. She wishes she had a bottle of cool, slippery lube to pour over him, but she doesn’t, and he certainly isn’t complaining. He plays with her breasts, ungracefully but enthusiastically, like a kid with a brand new toy, while she masturbates him.

Sometimes faster, sometimes slower, her hand never stops. She pauses to fondle his balls, or to trace a fingertip up and down the swollen vein that runs along the underside of his cock. Her finger softly traces the outlines of the swollen, sensitive head, spreading around the joy juice that is leaking out of his tiny pink hole. She gently pets his testicles, and begins to traverse further down into the darker, unexplored regions between his taut buttocks, but he squirms away. Then it is back to business.

She senses the change, senses him slipping past the edge, and instead of backing off, she goes with it. She grips him firmly and jerks him off, kissing and nibbling at his crinkly little nipples as her arm moves with the regularity of a metronome. Allegro con brio.

He goes off almost without warning. The only sound he makes as he orgasms is a gasping inhalation: “Uuuuuh!” He squirts a perfect arc of pearlescent white semen halfway up his nearly hairless sternum. She stays with him, stroking him until he is completely finished and too sensitive too touch, though her shoulder aches with it. Then, not being the wasteful sort, she laps up the salty-bitter come that is splashed all over his flat tummy. Every last drop.

“Was that alright?” she asks, “Are you still a virgin?”

“Yeah,” he says, still a little dazed, “I think so.”

The Devirginator makes to leave. She has places to be, cherries to pop tonight, but he stops her.

“Can I reciprocate?” he asks.

The Devirginator does not normally linger. ‘Full speed ahead’ is her motto: fuck ‘em and forget ‘em.

“Sure thing,” she says, sitting back down on his bed. She slides her silly red panties off. He goggles at her pussy as if it is the first one he has ever seen. Maybe it is. Have a good look. The Devirginator is emphatically not the waxing type. She does keep things neatly trimmed down there, but her pussy is neither airbrushed, nor does it taste like peach ice cream. She hopes this doesn’t freak him out: inexperienced guys who have seen a lot of porn can have some strange ideas about what belongs between a girl’s legs. But Ben doesn’t seem phased.

There is no shortage of wetness, that’s for sure. That is rarely a problem for the Devirginator. They experiment with a couple different positions, but what seems to work best is her sitting on his lap, legs splayed apart and leaning back against his solid, muscular chest.

His hands are aggravatingly clumsy at first. It takes a little hand-holding and instruction, but Ben proves to be a quick study, and he learns the terrain remarkably quickly. The Devirginator realizes that she is in serious danger of having an orgasm—a non-self inflicted orgasm, and Lord knows it’s been long enough! She would like to let go and scream out loud as the climax approaches, his hands drawing tiny circles up and down and all around her clit, but his parents are in the other room, so she stifles herself by kissing him hard and viciously on the lips. She is playing with her own nipples, pinching and pulling them harder than he would ever dare. Her spine ratchets and twists, and her toes curl as she comes. Not bad, not bad at all. Not even half-bad. She watches, smoldering, as he licks his fingers clean. It may not be peach ice cream, but he sure doesn’t seem to mind the taste.

Then the Devirginator makes her exit. She does, after all, have other fish to fry, other appointments to keep. She is smiling all the way down the drainpipe.


What makes a person a virgin? When I posed the question to Hami, he answered unequivocally.

“Sexual intercourse.”

“So a penis inside a vagina? That’s what defines virginity?”

He paused and mulled that over. “No, not necessarily. Any kind of sexual intercourse, really.”

“So if a scantily clad superhero broke into your bedroom and just gave you a handjob, that would count as losing your virginity?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I guess it would have to involve penetration of some kind or another.”

Hami’s problem wasn’t that he was bad-looking or ill-groomed. Far from it. His problem was that he was invisible. Tall, bespectacled, skinny as a shadow, quiet as a whisper, he was one of those anonymous, brown-skinned kids who sit in the front row of the classroom and always seem to get straight-As.

Actually, Hami was anything but another generic civil engineer to-be. Once I got past the shyness and the not-perfect English, he turned out to be pretty interesting, the kind of guy I’d like to be friends with. He was bright, philosophical, soft-spoken, liberal, irreverent, slightly perverted, and hilarious in an extraordinarily dry sort of way. And I was absolutely itching to pop his cherry. You want penetration Mr. Hami? You got it!


The Devirginator makes her entrance through the only window there is in his converted basement bedroom. In addition to her regular costume, she is wearing a black webbing harness, and attached to the harness is a large pink dildo that bobs and waves as she moves. Maneuvering herself through the tiny window without snagging her cape, pulling off her strapless bra, or getting the dildo caught is quite the Houdini act, and the Devirginator feels rather proud of herself.

Hami is sitting on the side of his bed. He is wearing white cotton pajamas. It’s pretty adorable.

“Are you who I think you are?”

“I think so.”

“Are you planning to do what I think you’re planning to do?” He looks pointedly at the brightly colored phallus projecting from the Devirginator’s crotch. “With that thing?”

“I sure am.”

The Devirginator hadn’t been at all sure what his reaction would be. It had been a gamble, based on a hunch. He might have run screaming. But no. Hami is smiling and pulling of his pajama tops. The gamble, so far, seems to be paying off.

She knows that his parents are watching TV in the room directly above them. That is half the problem with these boys, she reflects: they need to get their own apartments. He half-leans back on the bed, and she removes his pajama bottoms.

He has a very nice cock. Not too hairy, darker than she’s used to, uncircumcised. He is already halfway erect. It’s not huge, but it’s not small either, and she thinks it’s quite aesthetically pleasing.

She stands next to the bed and lets him suck her dick. She hadn’t thought this part would do anything for her—there aren’t any nerve endings in that pink dildo of hers—but in fact it is almost knee-bucklingly sexy. He is doing his damnedest to swallow her whole, and his hands are on her butt, and she is humping up against his hungry lips, and the base of the dildo keeps rubbing up against her clit, and she thinks that if he keeps this up, she might just be able to come.

The Devirginator pushes Hami away with both hands, sending him sprawling onto the bed. He lands on his back and pulls his knees up toward his chest. His balls are plump and ripe. His cock is definitely erect now, the purple crown peeking out from beneath the foreskin. His asshole is tiny and precious, pink compared to the brown of his skin. He smells slightly of exotic spices.

The Devirginator would very much like to spear him, impale him with one vicious thrust, bury her cock all the way up that tight little hole and fuck him like an x-rated Wonder Woman. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t stick her tongue up his asshole either, though she is deeply tempted. Instead, she pulls a small bottle of lube out of her utility belt, and dribbles it slowly onto his anus as if she is decorating a cookie. He whimpers, and bites down on his pillow. She pours more of the slippery stuff up and down her day-glo phallus.

She nudges the end of her dildo up against his tiny asshole. Her cock seems awfully big, and his opening is puckered tightly shut. It is possible that she has miscalculated.

She pushes a little harder. He grunts. His asshole yields, and she is inside.

Once in, the going is substantially easier. The Devirginator pushes in and pulls out and pushes back in again. Each time, she slides a little deeper. Each time she shoves it in, Hami grunts into the pillow, and his cock jumps and his balls shake.

The dildo is all the way up inside him. The bed squeaks every time the Devirginator thrusts with her hips. Hami is chowing down on that pillow of his. His dick jiggles and twitches pleasingly as she fucks his ass. It has gotten quite hard, quite hard indeed.

She really is going to come. She probably couldn’t stop right now, even if he wanted her to. Fortunately, he doesn’t appear to want any such thing.

The Devirginator wraps her hand around Hami’s penis. It feels delicious: hot and hard and smooth as silk. With her dildo buried all the way up to the flanged base in Hami’s tight little asshole, the Devirginator bucks her hips, grinding herself against the base of the dildo, relishing the expression on Hami’s face, and the stifled noises he keeps making as she sodomizes him. Her hand moves on his dick in precise sync with the motion of her pelvis. She feels herself slipping over the edge, and she is determined to take him with her.

Miraculously, they manage to come at the same time. Hami’s cock twitches and spurts at the exact same moment that the Devirginator’s orgasm washes over her. He splashes come all over his smooth, brown belly. She chews on her purple cape to keep from screaming out loud.

She gently withdraws from him, and cleans up his spilt semen with her tongue. Because she is not the kind of girl to let a good thing go to waste. Watching her lick up his come gets Hami hard all over again—he is, after all, only nineteen. He ends up jerking off onto her breasts, which she finds quite fetching, although he doesn’t produce nearly as much semen this time. The expression on his face as he comes though is truly priceless.

The Devirginator gets dressed again, removing the dildo from its harness and tucking it into her utility belt. Hami looks sleepy, and has a big goofy smile plastered across his face. The Devirginator asks him what it feels like to not be a virgin anymore.

“Nice,” he says, “it feels pretty nice.”

The Devirginator wouldn’t mind having that cock inside her sometime, no not at all. Perhaps another night. There is, after all, more than one kind of virginity.

The Devirginator slips out by the back door. The basement window would be too challenging and awkward to squeeze out through, so she takes the less dramatic route, quietly up the stairs and out into the night, past Hami’s parents who are sitting in the living room watching Baliwood on VHS with the volume turned up high.

When she gets home, the Devirginator masturbates herself to another orgasm, still wearing her costume. This time, though, it isn’t Hami she is fucking in her mind’s eye. It is Ben, and it isn’t a silicone dildo she is wearing either, strapped onto a cumbersome harness, but an actual flesh-and-blood penis. Anatomically impossible, but hot nonetheless.


The end of the semester was coming up, and my adventures as the Devirginator’s alter-ego and talent scout became curtailed by the very real necessity of studying for the final. Locating and seducing virgins suddenly became a much lower priority. I wanted to pass this test, and I wanted to ace it. I was studying my ass off, studying as hard as I had ever studied in my life. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that math is easy, because it ain’t.

I didn’t even realize she was flirting with me, not until long after the conversation was over. I’ve never been especially good at talking with girls. It always makes me feel gauche and awkward and unsure of myself. I’m never sure what to say.

Sally wasn’t even in my calc class. She was just a girl that I kept running into on campus. She was a pretty girl, younger than me, with round bouncy boobs, a pony tail, a pleasant smile, and a gorgeous wide ass that always seemed to be perfectly framed in a pair of tight, faded blue jeans.

I watched that ass hungrily as she walked away down the hall after one of our conversations. She had stopped and chatted, and I had set aside the heavy textbook and she sat down next to me, and next thing I knew we were talking about boys, crushes, sex, pornographic fantasies, superheroes, and virginity. As she walked away down the hall, her generous butt wiggling saucily, I realized in a self-conscious flash that she’d been flirting with me. And that I’d been flirting back, pretty shamelessly. Next time we met, she asked for my phone number, and I wrote it down for her, my ears blazing hotly and my hand trembling as I printed the digits.


The Devirginator picks Sally up in her little grey Toyota in front of her apartment building. Rarely has she been so nervous about a mission, and she’s not even sure why. She checks her costume one last time as Sally jogs up to the car.

Sally grins as she climbs in. “Holy shit,” she says, “I didn’t know you were being serious!”

Sally puts her hand on the Devirginator’s naked thigh, and the Devirginator breaks out in goosebumps and her stomach does a back flip. “I could kill my roommates for staying in tonight,” Sally goes on, not moving her hand from its position, perilously close to the crotch of the Devirginator’s fancy panties. “Let’s find somewhere to park, OK? I’m fucking dying of horny.”

The Devirginator parks her car in a cul-de-sac in an abandoned subdivision full of ghostly, unfinished McMansions. She really should be at home, working on her calculus, but math is about the furthest thing from her mind at this moment.

Sally starts it. Sally has more experience with this than the Devirginator does, though by her own admission she’s never taken it much further than ‘kissing and a little furtive touching’.

The kissing is very nice. And the touching is rapidly becomes less and less furtive and more and more overt. Pretty soon it is going to be downright pornographic.

If someone were to drive up right now, they would be treated to a show indeed. But no one does drive up, and the two girls quickly steam up the windows anyway.

Sally is a very good kisser. And Sally has very nice breasts. Once the Devirginator removes them from the confines of their brassiere, she can hardly bear to leave them alone. They are larger than the Devirginator’s (who’s own strapless bra is now down around her waist), and, she thinks, more shapely. Sally, although she appreciates the attention being paid to her own boobs, and enjoys nibbling and tweaking the Devirginator’s pink erect nipples, is eager to move onward and downward.

The front seat is just impossible. The steering wheel and gear shift are in the way, and the Devirginator’s cape keeps getting tangled. They move into the back seat, which is still cramped, awkward and uncomfortable, but better.

It is fun to kiss a girl, and it’s sexy, and it is a lot of fun to play with her boobs, but this is uncharted territory. The Devirginator isn’t sure exactly what is supposed to happen next.

Sally is all over that. She unbuttons her jeans, and gently pries the Devirginator’s hands away from her large, bare breasts, and guides them inside her pretty pink panties.

She is startlingly wet down there. It is hot and slippery. The Devirginator feels slightly lost. She isn’t exactly sure what to do with her hand, which strikes her as odd because she does this to herself on a daily basis. But still, it is different with someone else. Sally guides her finger, holding the Devirginator’s hand in her own, running laps up and down the length of her vulva. The Devirginator can feel a bump near the top that she is almost certain is Sally’s clit. Every time her fingers brush that bump, Sally jumps as if she has been shocked.

They are kissing the entire time. The action is making the Devirginator almost unbearably horny. She feels like she could finger-bang Sally all night long. Sally squirms impatiently away from her, pulling the Devirginator’s hand out of her panties.

“I want to fuck you now,” Sally says.

“I have a dildo in the trunk.” The Devirginator is actually blushing.

“Not like that,” Sally smiles. “Like this.”

The Devirginator lies down across back seat, hooking one leg behind a headrest. Sally pulls off the Devirginator’s bright red thong, and proceeds to fuck her hard and deep with her long, slender fingers, mashing her palm hard against the Devirginator’s clit. She presses one finger up against the Devirginator’s asshole. The Devirginator comes hard, and Sally kisses her all the way through the exquisite, languid, drawn-out orgasm.

When Sally pulls out her fingers—three of them!—the Devirginator’s pussy makes a slurping sound that sounds a lot like a fart, and the Devirginator is momentarily mortified. But Sally is doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Look how wet I made you!” Sally says, holding up her fingers to demonstrate. They are thoroughly coated in come, glued together and slick with the Devirginator’s juices. Sally is beaming with pride. The Devirginator licks the proffered fingers clean. She is just that kind of a girl.

The Devirginator drives Sally home. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to come.”

“I don’t mind,” Sally says. “It’s pretty hard to get me off. It was fun though. Maybe next time.”

“Will there be a next time?”

“Yeah, definitely. If you want there to be a next time?”

“Oh absolutely,” the Devirginator says, “I sure do.”

“Me too,” Sally says. “And maybe next time we could do it without the superhero costume.”


The Devirginator really should be studying. Tomorrow is the final exam. Instead, she scales the drainpipe, and slips into Ben’s bedroom through the open window.

She is hungry for him, viscerally, ravenously hungry. She is going to devour him, eat him alive, suck his dick until he comes in her mouth. Then she will go home and masturbate and do a little studying.

Ben is waiting for her. He is naked, but not in bed. He is standing in the corner, just out of sight, and when the Devirginator slips through the open window, he tackles her, throwing her onto the bed.

The Devirginator’s cape billows and flaps, just like a full-page panel out of a graphic novel. Her mask is knocked askew and almost comes off, and while she is straightening it out so she doesn’t reveal her face, he pulls her panties off.

For a fleeting moment, she thinks he is going to fuck her, and that would be just fine. But instead he dives face-first in between her legs.

The Devirginator has never been entirely sure she likes being eaten out. It hasn’t actually happened all that much, and the few times when it wasn’t weird or uncomfortable or awkward or over before it even started, it just didn’t seem to do that much for her. All the books say cunnilingus is the bomb and then some, but in general the Devirginator would rather suck and fuck.

This time, however, seems to be different. For one thing, it is apparent that Ben is in it for the long haul, not just a few tentative licks and come up for air. For another thing, and she isn’t entirely sure why this would be the case, the Devirginator doesn’t feel at all self-conscious about having him down there between her legs. She isn’t worried about whether the taste bothers him or whether he’s getting bored. She finds herself relaxing into what he is doing, and admiring his taut little football player’s butt while he’s doing it. And for another thing, she is beginning to realize that he is really very good at this. It’s partly technical (he’ll tell her later that he did quite a bit of reading up on the subject), and partly the intuitive sense of a skilled performer.

Ben laps incessantly at her clit, just flicking the end of his tongue up against it, like a kitten lapping at a saucer of milk. Every so often, he slurps up and down her vulva, spreading the slickness around, and now and then he slurps her clit in between his lips and sucks on it like a tiny rock candy. This makes the Devirginator squirm and squeal. She wishes he would stick one or two fingers up her asshole, but she can’t quite bring herself to ask him to. He licks enthusiastically, glancing up for approval now and then, which she gives in moans and groans and by tugging his hair. What he is doing is driving her crazy, building up a massive orgasm, a supernova, a Death Star explosion. He slips a finger, or maybe more than one inside her pussy, and the Devirginator writhes, balanced teetering right on the edge. What pushes her over is when she looks down at him and sees that he is jerking off while he eats her out. She comes and she comes hard, screaming into a pillow while her body shivers and shakes and she grinds her cunt up and down Ben’s eager licking face. He gets himself off while she is still reveling in the aftershocks, squirting his hot come all over the Devirginator’s wide-spread inner thighs, which only extends her orgasm.


The calculus final went far better than I had any right to expect. I got an A, by a comfortable margin. Ben was happy with his B+. And then he threw me for a loop when he asked if I wanted to get together with him Thursday night. Our studying days were over, and I figured I’d seen the last of him. No, he wanted to take me to a movie.

I can’t tell you much about the movie. I sat through the whole film, obnoxiously moist between my legs, busily second-guessing myself. This guy was way out of my league. He was a football star, a Boy Scouts poster child. He could be a male model, for God’s sake. And, echoing through the back of my head: he’s a virgin.

After the movie, Ben asked if I would like to hang out for a while, get some food or a cup of coffee or whatever. I told him I could think of something I’d rather do. That threw him for a bit of a loop. He asked if I’d like to come back to his house. I thought about his parents, watching TV in the living room, or reading in bed. I suggested that we go over to my apartment.

My place was a mess in an epic sort of way—I hadn’t anticipated having anyone over—and my bedroom floor was covered in a thick layer of comic books, math notes, dirty laundry, and superhero costume components that we had to wade through like fallen leaves. Ben didn’t seem to mind, though. I kicked a dildo under the bed, hopefully before Ben could see it. He was already busy, kissing and undressing me. I liked it when he was a little bit shy and unsure of himself, but I also adored it when he got aggressive and assertive. It turned a crank for me that I hadn’t even known I possessed. His erection was bulging nicely in the front of his jeans.

We landed in a heap on my bed. Thank goodness the sheets were at least reasonably clean. I think I mentioned before that size isn’t particularly important to me. That said, I think Ben has the perfect-sized dick. It is impressively big, big enough to be a bit of a challenge, but no so big as to be painful and/or scary. It is nice and thick, and has a beautifully shaped head. I got to try my hand at sucking it for the first time that night, on my bed, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. On another occasion, I would happily have made a whole production of it, sucking his cock until he whined and whimpered, until his balls twitched and he squirted off between my hungry lips, but this wasn’t the night for it. We both knew that.

There was some debate about whether or not he should wear a condom. He was a virgin, and I was on the pill. In the end we decided that safe was better than sorry. He put one on, and I lay back on the sheets with my legs spread wide.

He slipped right in. Wetness was not a problem.

I almost never have sex missionary-style. There is something pedestrian about it that usually makes me avoid it. Not that I have a favorite position or anything. I pretty much like it any way I can get it. But I discovered that I really enjoyed fucking Ben face-to-face. I liked that we could kiss while we were doing it, and I really liked that I got to watch his face as he got more and more excited and then screwed his eyes shut and twisted his mouth into a grimace as he came inside me.

He didn’t last long. Virgins almost never do, and that’s fine with me. It’s part of their charm. I enjoyed every second of it while he lasted, and after he had extracted his softening penis and disposed of the condom, I whacked off while he watched, shamelessly rubbing my clit for him until I came, gasping and red-faced. It was a first for me, being watched like that.

Then Ben asked me if he could spend the night, and I heard myself saying “Sure.” Another first for me, but really, why not?

I slept poorly with another real live human being lying in bed next to me. I was half-turned on and half-claustrophobic all night, until we woke up before dawn and had delicious morning sex, missionary style all over again. This time Ben lasted longer, bringing me tantalizingly close to orgasm before shooting off inside the condom. I’ve never been able to come from penis-in-vagina sex. But I got the distinct feeling that maybe that could change.

I masturbated for him again, and this time he put a finger up inside me, and I came really fucking hard, and I was loud about it too. Fuck the neighbors, I really didn’t care.

“Wow,” Ben said, as we lay together on my bed, still basking in post-orgasmic glow. “Well, I guess I’m not a virgin any more.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “There’s a lot of ways to define virginity. You’ve never done anal. You’ve never been in a threesome. That’s every guy’s fantasy, isn’t it?”

Ben blushed. It was cute.

Later on, after more kissing and cuddling, and an improvised half-naked breakfast, Ben got dressed and regretfully left. He had to go to work. I promised him we’d get together again soon. Then I looked at my phone and saw that Lucy had texted me overnight, asking if I was free to hang out. “Maybe this weekend,” I told him.

Still wearing nothing but panties—plain old boring blue ones—I straightened out my bedroom. I changed the sheets, savoring the sex smell and the wet spots, and dug my dildo out from the dusty confines of under the bed. Then I hung my superhero costume up at the very back of the closet. The Devirginator was retired. At least for now.



  1. I love super-hero stories. If you promise to wear it, I’ll buy you the costume….. 🙂

  2. I love, love, love this. So hot and horny without taking it all too seriously.

    • elsiewrites said

      Thank you so much! I really do appreciate getting feedback… it doesn’t even have to be positive, but that’s even better. I’m thrilled that you enjoyed the story!

      • elsiewrites said

        I make no promises…

  3. Devastatingly devious and deliciously depraved – I devoured it devotedly.

  4. John Cowan said

    Well, I’ve now read the whole So Wrong oeuvre, and I am seriously, seriously impressed (as well as very turned on). No, not all in one sitting! Actually, in about five or six sittings over the course of a week. Also, there aren’t too many kinds of porn that keep me reading after I get off, but yours is definitely one of them.

    Things I especially liked, well, besides the explicit sex:

    How your viewpoint characters’ clitorises “talk” to them, getting hard, throbbing, etc., and insisting on things that are against the woman’s better judgement, long before anyone gets into bed with anyone. You hear this about men and their cocks all the time, but rarely about women and their clits. It’s very, very refreshing as well as erotic.

    How practically everybody, even the lesbians and the hetero men, thinks cocks are juuuuust wonderful. Ditto for semen-eating, even if it’s kind of a tic that they have to insist it isn’t so bad, really. Ditto for anal sex, receptive, anilingual, and penetrative: your characters’ enthusiasm for it is really impressive.

    The way in which you recognize that what feels good doesn’t necessarily get you off, which may require a whole different and highly unpredictable stimulus rather than just more of the same. Also the way you choose those stimuli.

    Negatives? The cannibalism story was the only one that seriously squicked me. Can’t win ’em all. All the rest were either “Yummm” or “Wow!” or both, mostly both.

    Well, this is the Devirginator story, and I’m going to go into serious tl;dr territory here, but it made me think about losing my own virginity, which I think took me about five years to do; it was a gradual process none of whose milestones corresponded to “I lost my virginity last night”. Details, you say? Why certainly. (No details? Skip to the last paragraph.)

    The first person I did sexual things with, I only did them once. We were very young and definitely both virgins. I went down on her completely unsuccessfully (I had no clue what I was doing), until she finally pushed me away (boredom? anxiety? soreness? I never found out). She point-blank refused to go down on me, and while she tried to give me a hand-job, it didn’t really go anywhere. So I came by my own hand, as I’d been doing for some years before that; well, at least she was watching. Immediately thereafter we broke up, still virgins.

    My second lover, the following year, was a man. Again, we were definitely both virgins. The main sexual dynamic was that he was very unsure about being gay or not, and I was extremely obsessed with his body and especially his cock. I jerked him off a lot, ate his semen (I actively like the taste), and gave him blow-jobs when I could. I say “when I could” because he used to protest that they were too intense, that he couldn’t handle the level of stimulus or the resulting mind-blowing orgasm. I was selfish enough to insist on giving him lots of head anyway. I also took his cock between my thighs and squeezed it, which got him off really nicely too. More yum.

    When we finally got to anal sex, very late in the relationship (which came to an end for external reasons, not because we wanted it to), it was all about his cock in my ass, which I adored. But our anal sex couldn’t be described as “he fucked me in the ass”, unlike the Devirginator with Hami. What happened was that I took him into my ass and massaged his cock with my rectal muscles until he came in me (we had no thought of condoms then). It felt completely like a extension of the blow-jobs and intercrurals. I was the active partner, and he remained passive, even though he was getting the sexual stimulation: I got the excitement and the sense of power/control. It was gooooood.

    What about me? Well, my man gave me hand-jobs, but as with my first girlfriend, I couldn’t seem to come. When he sucked my cock, I still couldn’t come: it was more frustration than pleasure. Trying to get my dick in his ass just didn’t work at all: we were, after all, still basically virgins, and completely ignorant of any lubes except spit and semen, of the virtues of anilingus, or of the need for full relaxation — hey, I didn’t have any trouble opening up my asshole in two seconds flat, why should he? So what did we do, then? Well, on most nights (we were living together) I jerked him off with one hand — and brought myself to orgasm with the other hand, just as I had been doing for quite a few years now.

    My third lover was another woman, definitely not a virgin. I had done some necking and petting sessions with a few other women in the four years between, none of them virgins, and I still felt like a virgin. With this one, it went beyond petting: I fingered her to lots of orgasms and then, finally, the big event: PiVving. Did I come? Not a bit. She too went down on me: very nice, but she got too tired to continue way before I was even close to orgasm. So I came — by my own hand. Again. Repeat, night after night.

    Eventually we were living together and fingering and fucking every night, and something shifted, I still don’t know what. I learned to come in her pussy, wow! And then I persuaded her to let me into her ass, and I was most definitely the active partner this time. We were both virgins at this activity, and it turned out that I came easily that way. Double wow. So in addition to our other activities, I was fucking her in the ass, not every night, but often. And I absolutely, positively, wasn’t a virgin any more — this time, fer shure.

    Well, we were lovers for a very long, very satisfying time, more than a decade, and we still would be if it weren’t for her chronic medical problems. We are in any event still in love thirty years later, and indeed have been married for most of that. Erotic kissing and petting are a mainstay of our lives together, but nothing orgasm-related has happened for years and years between us. The last time was perhaps fifteen years ago, when she gave me a hand-job on a whim, which made me come for her just fine but didn’t progress to anything.

    Meanwhile, I started seeing a fourth lover, yet another woman. (My wife thinks this is great, especially since I’m very much in love with both my partners; my lover would like me all to herself, I think, but she accepts our situation freely.) I’ve had some loss of sensation in my penis because of my chronic medical problems, and while I used to be able to come in my lover’s vagina with difficulty, I no longer can. She adores giving me blow-jobs, but due to her own history, absolutely cannot handle me coming in her mouth, with or without a condom. (Yet. Maybe. It took her more than a decade to first accept, then enjoy, going down on me at all — that’s how she was molested as a child. Grrr.) She likes hand-jobs, but I can’t come that way with her either. Anal is off the table. (With my wife, anal sex was in fact on the table! Hey, our kitchen table was just the right height.)

    So I get my present lover off the only way she can come, with her vibrator, which I love doing. And me? I come by my own hand, as I have been doing all my life, both when I’m with my lover and when we are apart (which is most of the time). I manage this, almost always, with the kind assistance of works like yours (not that there are really any works like yours, if you follow me). Does that make me a virgin again? I hope not. Thanks for listening.

    • elsiewrites said

      Holy Cats! This is one of the nicest comments I’ve ever received; and it is certainly the longest! I can’t believe you’ve read my entire oeuvre… that is no small feat! Just the fact that you were able to wade through the whole archive is a huge compliment. I know that some of my stories are stronger than others, that’s just the way this works. I do like to say, there is something to offend everyone. Hopefully there is something to please just about everyone as well. Did you have any favorites? Are any worth re-reading?

      Your story is touching, kind of sad and beautiful. Actually, it could be one of my fiction pieces. I like the way you have traveled a full circle. I may have to co-opt it someday. I do believe that all the best writers are, at some level, thieves (or at least borrowers); anyway I certainly am, shamelessly so.

      There are certainly some common themes in my work. Some of these reflect my own proclivities, some are more about who I am as a writer. Aside from the ones you mention, my characters all seem to take bizarre situations (sexual and otherwise) in stride; and everything that happens to my characters, even the really messed-up stuff, is consensual. My work does tend to be dark and melancholy, but (like many of my readers), I am a fan of redemption and happy endings. When I’m asked (and God I hate that question), I site as my influences Tom Waits and Penthouse Letters.

      I hope you’ll stick around Tom… People sometimes complain about how often I update; but the fact is I post new stories as often as I can, and no more. I try to do at least one new piece a month, but that is really an artificial goal, and I don’t always manage it. On the other hand, sometimes I’m incredibly productive. It’s impossible to predict. That’s creativity for you. I do live in constant fear of losing my muse, but so far that hasn’t happened.

      I’m curious, how did you happen to find So Wrong in the first place? It’s selfish, but I would like more people to be reading my work. That, and I’d like to someday get rich and famous off it. Or at least rich.


  5. John Cowan said

    Well, thank you for that response!

    I’ll be adding comments to particular stories to address my individual likes and dislikes as well as my thoughts about them. But yes, your stories are very much worth re-reading, from both the masturbatory and the literary point of view. One never quite recaptures the original rush of reading something new (devirginizing it?), but re-reading has subtler pleasures. Alas, this doesn’t typically apply to porn, which most often cloys the appetite it feeds; but your work makes hungry where it most satisfies: the vilest things, indeed, become themselves in it. (See Antony and Cleopatra II:ii.)

    I made my report above as if I told a story, because I was taught as a child on my homeworld that Truth is a matter of the imagination. Everything I said about myself is factual, but it’s a long, long way from the whole truth, whatever that might even be. I pruned it of all sorts of things very relevant to my sex life — which is only a small fraction of my love life, which is a large fraction of my life — that wouldn’t fit the shape of the story I was trying to tell, because that’s what storytellers do. I’m glad it touched you.

    On co-optation: the whole idea that stories belong to someone is a modern aberration. In Milton’s day, the great writer was not someone who made up the great story, but someone who could be trusted to do justice to the pre-existing great story. In the republic of letters, there is (so I firmly believe) no private property and no hierarchy. So if you want to steal from me, I’m honored: damn the copyright/plagiarism torpedoes, full speed ahead.

    On consensuality and messed-upness: A friend of mine, a writer, talked to me once about the difference between consent and willingness, which is significant in her work. You may consent to something and yet be very unwilling for it to happen. At the highest level, this becomes “O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.” More mundanely, in one of my own stories there is a woman who consents to being whipped, not because she is necessarily willing (she’s quite uncertain about it), but because the man she loves has told her in a way she can’t disbelieve that whipping a woman is what his soul needs. When she actually gets whipped in the narrative (not the first or the last time for them), her immediate response is “I can’t believe I let myself in for this again, letting this crazy man hurt me. I must be the crazy one.” But then she is overwhelmed by feelings of belonging as well as belonging-to, of being taken care of and protected, that transcend the pain of the blows. I got a comment on that one that I treasure: this totally aroused me, which I never expected it to, said a reader.

    On sequels: I firmly agree that your stories neither need nor should have sequels. One of the standard ways to end stories besides deaths and weddings (or their equivalents) is at a point of self-knowledge, and this is how most of yours end. As you say, you’re a sucker for redemption, and one can’t be saved twice. Once the character gets there, doing it over would be redundant, climbing the same hill over and over like Sisyphus. I greatly honor your unwillingness to do this, to make more stories just to be making them, feeding the reader’s obsessive need for pseudo-novelty rather than genuine newness.

    I found your work as I find a lot of stuff, by making up a porny-sounding phrase and seeing what Dr. Google prescribes for that particular kink. (Not one hit or near-hit for “It was all about fucking her in the ass”: how wrong is that?) Unfortunately, I don’t remember what the particular phrase was, but when I landed on one of your stories (and again, I don’t remember exactly which at this point), I was immediately hooked. You’ve got to eat a lot of frog spawn to find a princess, or so they say, but I definitely found one here! Long may you go on writing. (As for becoming rich and famous, remember Gore Vidal’s dictum: for a novel to be a best-seller, it is not enough for it to be bad.)

  6. Ella said

    I think I need a cape.

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