Posts Tagged superheros

The Summer I Learned to Fly

That summer started out badly, with a pretty much total core meltdown. Our house was being foreclosed on; dad was under indictment (I still don’t know exactly what the crime was—some kind of financial chicanery that was shady and technical); and mom completely lost her shit and had to be hospitalized.

That would have left the three of us—Me, Tacoma, and Ryan—in the lurch in a pretty serious way. Except that Uncle John and Aunt Ellen stepped in and swept us away for the summer, all the way across the country to their immense and rambling old farmhouse in upstate New York.

It was a tough time for me. I’m sure it was hard for my older brother and sister too, but at the time I was too self-centered and wrapped up in my own problems to think about them. I was an awkward kid, introverted and perpetually self-conscious. I have Cerebral Palsy, which means my legs are twisted like pretzels and I need two canes and leg braces to walk; ugly metal braces that clunk with each step. To compound that, I was a late bloomer, compared to all the other girls in my class. I finally hit puberty, and it was like an F-16 switching on the afterburner. Paradoxically, that just made me feel like even more of an outsider. I got my period, fitfully and unpredictably, and I started growing breasts; small but sensitive speed bumps that made me feel like everyone was always staring at my chest. My sexuality suddenly made the quantum leap from occasionally having my G.I. Joes and Barbies play out unnatural acts together to furtive pornography-looking and actual masturbation. Lots and lots of actual masturbation.

I probably would have been miserable anyway, but at the time being yanked away from everything familiar was a kick in the gut.

On the other hand, I had just begun to experiment with my superpowers. Maybe it was a side effect of the CP and maybe not, but I discovered that if I sat very still and concentrated, I could go invisible. It took a fair amount of concentration, and if I stayed that way too long I got a headache, but it worked, and I clasped that knowledge close to me like a precious jewel.

I spent most of the flight from SeaTac to JFK in an aisle seat with my pants around my ankles, playing with my pussy, letting my fingers wander up, down, and sometimes inside my moist slit, idly toying with my clitoris and thinking dirty thoughts. Occasionally, depending on my level of excitement, my focus would lapse, and I’d flicker in and out of view, like interference on a TV set. This caused great consternation for the middle-aged businessman across the aisle. I think I may have given him whiplash: he’d catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye with my pants down, legs splayed into the aisle, shirt lifted up, tits hanging out, my hand busy between my legs; and by the time he’d swiveled his head around, I’d be invisible again.  He must have thought he was hallucinating, or seeing some erotic ghost.

By the time we landed in New York I had a pounding migraine and a very sore pussy. I could hardly walk, never mind the canes and braces. It was hot and humid, and JFK smelled like jet fuel and Porto-potty. I was exhausted.

Uncle John and Aunt Ellen met us just on the other side of security. They were old and fat and homely, a pair of life-sized garden gnomes, complete with little red noses. Uncle John swept us up, Aunt Ellen took control of our luggage, and we all piled into their extended-cab pickup truck. It was ridiculously cramped inside the truck. I was sandwiched uncomfortably in between Tacoma and Ryan. My clit was chaffed, and inside my pants, my panties were obnoxiously damp.

It was a two-hour drive upstate to our Aunt and Uncle’s place, and mercifully, I slept most of the way. When I woke up, it was dark, and we were there, and my leg had fallen asleep. Tacoma laughed at me as I struggled up the steps onto the porch. It was not a very auspicious start to the summer.

I slept hard in a strange bed, and felt better the next morning than I had in weeks, not since all the weirdness with our parents had started going down.

The next morning Uncle John made us a big fat pancake breakfast wearing—literally—nothing but a bathrobe, and Aunt Ellen smoked a doobie and invited us to explore the place. “You guys don’t have to worry about anything,” she said. “You’re family here.” Despite my uncle’s scandalously naked pale hairy thigh and the unaccustomed sickly-sweet reek of marijuana smoke, I had the feeling that it was all going to be OK.

The place was an old apple farm, long gone fallow. It was a sort of heaven for able-bodied kids to explore: there were acres and acres of rolling hills, studded with grassy meadows and bent and gnarled old trees; there were any number of old outbuildings in various states of falling down-ness and disrepair; there was a huge and stately old red barn with an alluring and deeply-dangerous looking hayloft. Ryan and Tacoma promptly disappeared, often all day long, coming home for dinner sunburned, sweaty, scraped-up, muddy, and full of glee.

Me, I kept mostly to the house, which was plenty interesting and challenging all by itself. The place was huge. I never counted rooms, but there must have been well over a dozen. There were three stories, plus an oppressively hot and dusty attic, and all the bedrooms were on the second and third floors. The stairs were tough, steep and winding and more than a little scary, but they were a challenge I was up for, not like the hundred-year old homemade ladder up to the hayloft. While my older brother and sister tore around the property and the surrounding countryside, I methodically explored the house, from the dank and musty basement to the hot and gabled attic. Including, not incidentally, my aunt and uncle’s bedrooms.

Aunt Ellen and Uncle John were not a conventional couple; we figured that out pretty much right away. Aside from the fact that they both smoked a lot of dope (they offered us some; Tacoma and I declined, but Ryan sometimes took them up on it); and the fact that they both had a habit of walking around half- or more than half-naked; aside from all that, they both had separate bedrooms, and from time to time there would be strange cars parked in the driveway at night, cars that would be gone by morning. I can’t have been the only one who noticed that.

They were both professors, and taught at the local community college. They both had summer classes, so they were usually gone for a large portion of the day, which facilitated my mission, because I wasn’t very good at moving quietly around the house.

Aunt Ellen had a huge—and I mean huge—collection of sex toys. It filled an entire drawer in her dresser, and ranged from small and discreet to enormous and frightening. Some of that stuff I didn’t have any clue what you were even supposed to do with. I figured she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a small, lipstick-shaped vibrator. She would probably never even notice it was missing.

I found a treasure trove of pornography in Uncle John’s room: some VHS tapes and DVDs, but mainly books and magazines. And to my glee, they mainly featured guys. Naked, muscular, well-endowed young guys, erect and flaccid, posing alone or in groups, fucking and getting fucked. I had pretty much hit the jackpot.

Well, whacking off with a stolen vibrator to glossy pictures of teenage boys fucking each other was plenty hot for a summer afternoon or two, but the truth is it mostly just made me hungry for more. I hadn’t gone invisible much yet that summer; there hadn’t really been any reason to, but I decided it was high time I put my superpower to good use.

They rolled in well after midnight. We had all had dinner together (Uncle John always did the cooking), watched some PBS, and then gone to bed. I hadn’t heard them leave, but I did hear them come back. I sat up in bed when I heard the front door slam. I set my jaw, concentrating hard, and went invisible. As quietly as possible, I got up, put on my braces, and then slowly and agonizingly, one foot in front of the other, I traversed my bedroom floor, cracked the door, and peeked out into the hallway.

I was just in time for them to breeze past me. There were four of them: My aunt and uncle, and two girls I didn’t recognize. They reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana. They were trying to be quiet, but they weren’t succeeding very well. Staying invisible, I followed them up to the third floor, where Aunt Ellen and Uncle John had their bedrooms. Climbing the stairs was terrifying and painfully slow.

Once I was up the stairs, I maneuvered along the hallway as quietly as I could with my canes and braces. The door to Aunt Ellen’s bedroom was ajar. It was almost as if they wanted to get caught. (Maybe that’s exactly what they wanted. That hypothesis didn’t occur to me until much later.)

Secure in my invisibility, I took my time, stealthily creeping into the bedroom and standing by the wall. I probably needn’t have bothered. I doubt they would have noticed me if I’d been fully visible and wearing a Day-Glo safety vest.

The two girls were fairly pretty, a little older than my sister Tacoma. One girl had a mop of curly, chestnut-brown hair. She was a skinny thing, with small, bouncy breasts, not much bigger than my own. The other one was a little chunkier, almost Rubenesque. She was a redhead. They were both dwarfed by the bulk of my aunt and uncle. Uncle John was completely nude. He was splayed out in an easy chair by the bed, jerking off. He had salt-and-pepper pubes, and enormous hairy balls that jiggled and shifted as he masturbated.

Aunt Ellen was flat on her back on the bed. She was naked as well. She was fat, and she had truly immense breasts, and she had her face buried in the skinny girl’s hairless crotch. I could see the wetness, hear the squelching as she licked. The other girl was lying on her stomach, between Aunt Ellen’s monstrous thighs. She was still wearing her lilac panties, and she was busy licking my aunt’s pussy.

I stuck my hand inside my own pajamas, and ran my fingers up and down my slit. I was already sopping wet, and my clit was humming. I began to masturbate in earnest. It was difficult to whack off and stay invisible at the same time, and I may have flickered in and out a little, but like I said before, I don’t think it mattered. They certainly didn’t notice me. They had other things on their minds.

Aunt Ellen licked her fingers, and inserted two of them into the skinny brunette’s asshole. The girl grunted and grimaced, using her hands to spread her ass cheeks wider to give Aunt Ellen better access. Aunt Ellen craned her head, the veins in her neck sticking out, keeping her extended tongue on the girl’s juicy slit, while she finger-fucked her asshole. The girl who had been eating her out scrambled up, straddled her thick leg, and started dragging her pantied crotch back and forth along Aunt Ellen’s thigh. The two girls began kissing each other and playing with each other’s breasts.

Uncle John stood up (his back mostly to me, unfortunately), and started frantically jerking off. He made a sound like a tractor-trailer downshifting, and splattered his come all over the females on the bed. This seemed to set Aunt Ellen off, and she came, screeching like poorly-oiled machinery. I wondered why I’d never heard them before. The reason, I think, was the old house: thick plaster walls and timbers.

Aunt Ellen went to work on the two girl in a serious way, keeping her fingers crammed up inside the skinny one’s ass, she licked up the semen that had splashed across them; and then with both girls lying on their backs on the bed, she alternated licking their pussies, the skinny girls shaved and puffy vulva and lapping the bigger girl through the wet crotch of her panties. She licked and finger-fucked them until they both came.

That was just too much for me. I wanted to come like an overinflated balloon wants to pop. But one thing I couldn’t do was orgasm and stay invisible. It may be that they were too wrapped up in their own orgy to have even noticed me, but I wasn’t about to put that to the test. Pulling up my pajama bottoms (that had somehow crumbled down around my ankles), I gathered my canes and began the long, arduous journey back to my own bed, where I could finish the job properly. And that I did, masturbating until I was sore and silly.

I didn’t get another opportunity for a while, but when I did I jumped on it. I was in the kitchen one hot August afternoon, and looking back, I may have been invisible without realizing it. I had started doing that from time to time. Uncle John and Aunt Ellen walked through the room on their way out to the garden. Uncle John was wearing cut-off shorts that were cut off distressingly high and nothing else; Aunt Ellen was wearing a hideous floral summer dress that violated every known law of aesthetics and barely contained her huge breasts. As they passed, I heard Aunt Ellen say “…going to pick up your sweet little boy toy tonight…”

That was all I needed to hear.

I heard them leave this time. They were actually really quiet and discreet about it, tiptoeing out of the house after we had all gone to bed and not turning on their headlights until they had pulled out of the driveway, but I was listening for them, and I heard the front door click as it closed. I made my painfully slow way upstairs, let myself into Uncle John’s room, sat down on the easy chair, and settled down to wait.

As it happened, I barely had to wait at all.

They pulled into the driveway, and I hastily went invisible. I stood in a corner with my braces leaning up against the wall; the last thing I needed was for somebody to bump into me or accidentally sit on my lap.

The boy looked like a dark-hair Tintin with glasses. He was that cute! He looked like he was about my age, but I’m sure he was older than he appeared: my Aunt and Uncle may have been perverts, but I don’t think they were pedophiles; and he had a big Soviet sickle-and-hammer emblem tattooed across his hairless chest.

The scene this time was much slower and more languid than before. They all three got naked (Tintin had a nice, big, delicious-looking dick that was already hard and waggled as he moved), and smoked something sweet and sickly out of a funky glass pipe that made me a little light-headed. The three of them kissed a lot, sharing the smoke, which smelled like marijuana only more so, and touched each other. Tintin’s penis never flagged; Uncle John and Aunt Ellen seemed to make a point of not touching it, which only seemed to make it harder and more eagerly erect. Uncle John produced a big syringe full of yellow liquid; I hate needles and I flinched as I watched, but I couldn’t make myself look away. First he injected about half the syringe into his own arm, and then he changed needles and gave Tintin a shot in the inner thigh.

The boy looked disoriented, and Uncle John grinned and tweaked both his nipples, hard. Then Aunt Ellen fetched a vibrator that looked more like an industrial kitchen utensil than a sex toy, plugged it in, and turned down the lights. She sprawled out on the bed next to the guys, with the huge white vibrator humming between her thighs. Uncle John lay on his back, and Tintin lay on top of him, in a 69.

I had an absolutely gorgeous view of Uncle John with his head between Tintin’s thighs, licking and kissing and nibbling on that beautiful engorged cock. Every now and then he would divert himself by playing with the boy’s wrinkled ball sac or asshole, but mostly he just slurped at his cock like it was a particularly tasty gobstopper. I wished I could see what Tintin was doing to him, but all I could see was his unruly dark hair bobbing up and down between Uncle John’s thighs. I didn’t want to move around much to get a better view; I was afraid of getting caught.

They went at it for ages! I watched two hours tick by on the clock while they suckled each other and Aunt Ellen lazily masturbated next to them. My pussy was drenched: my juices were literally running down my thighs, and my clit hurt. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, Tintin squealed and came, squirting what I swear looked like several gallons of semen all over Uncle John’s red, chubby face.

Aunt Ellen laughed out loud. Uncle John, viscous white come still streaming down his cheeks, lips, nose, and forehead in sticky little rivulets, squirmed out from under young Tintin, got up on his knees, and vigorously jerked off into the boy’s open mouth.

Uncle John stood up, his fat balls swinging halfway down to his knees, went to the bathroom and washed his face and pissed, all with the door wide open. Aunt Ellen watched Tintin get dressed (I discovered that I adore watching a cute naked guy get dressed), got dressed herself, and took the rather dazed-looking fellow down to the truck. Presumably she gave him a ride home. Uncle John, meanwhile, went to bed.

It was torture getting out of that bedroom. Uncle John snored. The floorboards wanted to squeak under me. My cunt ached. Aunt Ellen had closed the door tight behind her. It took me half a century to gingerly tiptoe out into the hallway. Once I was finally safe, I couldn’t even wait to make it back to my own bedroom. I sat down at the top of the stairwell, spread my legs, and rubbed out a massive orgasm right there. I don’t know if I had ever come so powerfully before. It was the kind of orgasm that seemed to go on and on, like the perfect wave, curling my toes and making my nipples tingle. It made me wish I had a video camera so I could make a recording of myself coming, just so I could whack off to it again later on. Anyone who says girls don’t get off on visual imagery is insane in my book.

I didn’t spend all my time that summer indoors. Sometimes we went to the park, and we all went swimming a couple times, which was fun, and I did a little exploring of my own around the yard. It was just hard because of my mobility.

One night, when it was too hot and humid to sleep, I watched (invisible and from a safe distance) as Uncle John and Aunt Ellen strung a boy up from a twisted and gnarled old apple tree. They stripped him naked, bound his wrists, and hoisted him up until his feet kicked wildly a few inches above the grass. I don’t think it was the same boy as before; this one seemed a little fatter, and I didn’t see the communist sickle and hammer tattoo on his chest. Aunt Ellen and Uncle John took turns sucking his dick and whipping his backside with a willow branch. He howled like a coyote!

Finally, Aunt Ellen cut him down with a scary-looking rigger’s knife. He collapsed, and Uncle John pissed all over his face while Aunt Ellen cackled with laughter, jagged and uproarious. Then they watched while he jerked off, and I felt compelled to join him, curled up in the tall grass, one finger jammed up my asshole while I strummed my clit underneath ten thousand bright and merciless stars.

One hot and sultry day toward the end of August, they took me to the country fair. Ryan and Tacoma declined to go, so it was just the three of us. I had never been to anything like it, and I had a blast! It was a redneck freak show, a raucous anarchy of the senses. We ate sickly-sweet cotton candy and rode the Ferris wheel, and my whole body clenched with the thrill of it. I’ve never been comfortable with heights, and the construction seemed rickety at best. I thought there was a good chance I might die up there, but I didn’t.

The whole time, I felt like Uncle John and Aunt Ellen were on the verge of propositioning me, asking me to join them for some crazy kinky sex. The prospect set me on edge, twisted my stomach, made my pussy salivate and my clit swell and throb, and made me all jumpy and nervous. But there was no innuendo, neither one of them said anything in the least bit inappropriate or suggestive, and when they dropped me off at the farm late that afternoon (they both had faculty meetings at the college to attend, the new semester was getting ready to begin), I couldn’t decide if I was more disappointed or relieved.

On impulse, as their pickup truck pulled out of the driveway, I made my slow and jerky way out to the barn. I had the place to myself; Tacoma and Ryan were out and about. I didn’t have anything particular in mind other than some exploring, and possibly some out-of-doors masturbation. I had slipped my little ‘borrowed’ vibrator into my pants pocket that morning just in case I felt like having a little ‘quiet moment’, and now I thought might be the perfect time to indulge myself, in the quiet musty shade of the old barn.

I slipped in through the enormous barn door that didn’t close all the way, into the cavernous dark and shadowy interior.

As soon as I realized I wasn’t alone, I went invisible.

She was down on all fours on the dusty wooden floor, and he was behind her. They were fucking.

It was my sister Tacoma and my brother Ryan. I could hear them grunting, breathing hard. I could hear his cock squish-squelching in and out of her pussy. She was naked; he was wearing sandals and a white t-shirt.

Tacoma had bigger boobs than I had ever really realized. They hung down like a pair of fat, ripe cantaloupes. I watched, transfixed, as they fucked. My cunt was squishy and wet. I remember thinking ‘They should really be using a condom.’

Ryan pulled his dick out of Tacoma, and she mewed like a kitten. He had a nice-looking cock, not too big, with a well-defined head and a pronounced upward curve. His penis was shiny with Tacoma’s juices, and the crown was bright red and eager. They stood up and kissed, not like a brother and sister kiss, not at all.

Ryan put his hands above his head, Superman-style, and jumped. He did it casually, with no apparent effort. He jumped higher than should have been possible for anyone except maybe an Olympic high-jumper or an NBA star. He caught a rafter with both hands, and hung there, swinging slightly, his crotch right at Tacoma’s face level. I felt a powerful rush of jealousy as I watched, fingering my pussy; not just jealousy for the sex they were having, but jealousy for their able bodies and their agility.

While Ryan dangled from the beam, Tacoma popped the crown of his penis into her mouth, and clasped her hands together as if she was praying. Ryan kicked his legs as she ran her hands quickly up and down the shaft of his cock.

“I’m coming!” he wailed out. Tacoma let his cock pop out of her mouth, but her hands never stopped moving. His stomach tensed, and he squirted pearly-white come all over her tits. I wished I had breasts like that.

When he was all done, he dropped to the floor with a thunk. They kissed a little more, and he rubbed his semen like lotion all over Tacoma’s breasts. Then he pulled on his pants, and left.

She tossed her hair and stared searchingly all around the empty barn, making me flinch.

“I know you’re in here!”

I froze, hand crammed guiltily inside my panties. I concentrated as hard as I could on staying invisible, and tried not to breathe.

“You think you’re so sly, you invisible little skank! If you ever tell anyone—anyone—I’ll fucking kill you. You slimy little cunt, I swear to God, I’ll fucking murder you.” She bundled up her clothes, and stalked out of the barn.

A couple of miserable days went by. I avoided Tacoma as much as possible, and didn’t go invisible at all. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any more, I pulled her aside and apologized.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I shouldn’t have watched. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“You shouldn’t use your powers to spy on people,” Tacoma said. “It’s really lame.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I won’t do it again.”

“It’s OK,” Tacoma said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me though, did we look hot together?”

“You two looked really hot together.”

Tacoma smiled. “Good. Come out to the barn with me, I want to show you something.”

We walked together out to the barn. She was patient with my snail’s pace, which just made me feel all the more frustrated for being slow.

Once inside, she pointed to the rickety old ladder that led up to the hay loft. “Climb it,” she said. “Go ahead, don’t be scared. I’ll help.”

Climbing that horrible old ladder was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life. Tacoma helped me though, guiding my legs and holding my feet and talking soothingly to me the whole time. It felt like it took hours, but we finally made it up into the loft. I was covered in sweat, and I felt like puking.

Tacoma wasn’t even out of breath. She stepped lightly over to the edge. Just watching her do that made me dizzy. “Stop it,” I said. “Come back!”

“Watch this,” Tacoma said, and she stepped casually off the edge of the hayloft, out into space.

I started to scream, but instead of plunging the twenty feet down to the floor and shattering her femur or breaking her back, Tacoma just hovered there, like a graceful, long-legged dragonfly.

“I can fly,” she said with a secret little smile. “You can too. Go ahead, try it!”

I shuffled hesitantly closer to the edge. Tacoma took my hand in hers. I swallowed hard, mouth dry as dust, and stepped out into the abyss.


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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.


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