Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 3 - Sex Stories

Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 3

... wondered whether I was going to make it all the way through this date, or maybe I should just rent a hotel room in Manly and get Kevin to finish me off then and there. Dinner was sweet and romantic in its simplicity. We walked across the neck of land between Manly Cove on the harbour side to Manly Beach on the Pacific Ocean, and found a bottle-O – where we bought a bottle of South Australian champagne (oops, je suis désolé France, I mean Sparkling White Wine) – and a discount shop where we picked up two plastic champagne flutes for a dollar each. With drinks sorted, we ordered a seafood basket from a take-away fish shop and took it across the road to eat and drink and watch the waves as the sun went down behind us. Like a couple of idiots, we replayed the Lady and The Tramp spaghetti scene with a crumbed calamari ring, nibbling into the middle and then stealing a greasy kiss and laughing when our lips met. As the darkness slowly deepened and the bottle slowly emptied, our sense of privacy and intimacy grew out of proportion to the situation, which was essentially a very public – though sparsely populated – city beach. Lying on my back with Kevin propped on one elbow beside me, I conspired to untuck the front of my blouse per Belinda’s instructions. I was trying to work out how I could discreetly pull down my bra when his fingers left my naked thigh and crept beneath the white cotton, making my stomach muscles flutter nervously as they moved inexpertly but eagerly up to stroke ...

... across the satiny cups. Fuck decorum, it’s overrated. Without breaking our kiss, I reached under my blouse and hoiked my bra down from under each arm, my breasts popping free on the second try and giving me enough slack to pull the entire thing down to my waist and out of the way. Thank you Belinda! I will never question your choice of underwear again! Oh God, and she was so right; Kevin’s first tentative touches to my breasts sent out ecstatic shivers through my entire body, making me squeeze my thighs together as the fire kindling there flared hotter. I heard his breathing double as his gentle fingers found my areola and traced the little bumps there that rose to his touch. Hearing his arousal only served to heighten mine, and I whimpered and arched my back, pressing my breast more firmly into his hand, desperate for more. I couldn’t believe I had made it to twenty-four years without being touched like this. I’m no prude; I touch myself to masturbate, and I thought – wrongly as it turned out – that a man’s touch would be not so different. I even considered that it would be less satisfying because masturbation gave me more control. Kevin’s first touch to my nipple burst that bubble. It was stiff and hard and resisted as he brushed across it, leaning but not yielding before snapping back like a bowstring and sending miniature shockwaves of pleasure through my breast. His fingers returned unerringly, gently pinching and shaping it, feeling its hard, excited texture and making ...