Strange Taste - First Love - Sex Stories

Strange Taste - First Love

... The tension gnawed at his stomach. He felt hungry. Clambering over the scattered human debris, he made his way to the scullery.

He eased his way past humps of entwined teenagers as far as the sturdy oak kitchen table. Half the table was taken up with Party Sevens, spirits, open lager cans, full foil ashtrays. The other was allocated to food: decadent displays of fatty cocktail sausages, pineapple-and-cheese on sticks, chicken vol-au-vents, sausage rolls, mini pork pies, salted peanuts, and crisps. Famished, he grabbed a plate and helped himself.

She was standing by the bar pouring herself a glass of ‘the real thing’, gorgeous in a plain white t-shirt, drainpipe jeans. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight of her pale angular face, tinted wispy hair, slim, petite, scant figure, her fake drop-pearl earrings. She cried happily above the din.

‘Hello! Come here often?’

She was Australian. He stopped eating. Didn’t know what to say. He gave her his bottle. She unscrewed the top. Poured herself a large shot. Mixed it with Coke. Drank a swig.

‘Ah, thanks! Needed that. Gets boring when you don’t know anyone, doesn’t it?’

He didn’t answer. She topped up her glass, found a clean glass, half-filled it with Malibu, and offered it to him.

‘Fancy a drink?’

She was tipsy. He started to sweat. His hands shook. She made him apprehensive. His mouth was parched. Desperate for a drink, he took the glass from her, downing it in one.

He struck her as the silent type, ...

... vulnerable to her charms, pleasantly shy. She wanted him, badly, wanted to push her hand through his wavy hair, stroke his face, kiss his split lips, and feel his slim-toned body. He excited her. She needed to touch him.

‘Feeling lonely?’

The drink went to his head, ‘Yes, very.’

‘My name’s Georgie,’ she disclosed. ‘Shall we go outside and play in the garden?’

She took hold of his hand and led him through the outhouse to the garden. It was getting dark. He made out the stars appearing in the young night sky, a half crescent moon. The mossy lawn was surrounded by shrubs, bushes, overhanging trees, creating a feeling of privacy, peace, quiet. They were alone. Georgie took a deep breath, relishing the fresh evening air, reached up for him, drew him to her, and kissed him. She was wearing a scent.

He responded: parting his lips, opening his mouth. She explored his palate, savouring his strange taste, coating her flickering tongue in his saliva. He crushed her in his arms. When they eventually came up for air, she was panting, breathless, clamouring for him, gasping.

‘Think we should go and play on the swing now, don’t you?’

Georgie took off her t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her back was dripping with sweat. She took his breath away. He couldn’t speak. There was a child’s swing in the corner of the garden. She led him there.

The twins must have played here once, as little girls,he thought, feeling a sickening rush of guilt over the wretched state he’d ...