media room, I decide it’s actually pretty cool that Mark invited me back to his house. We’re already friends and past needing a formal date at the stupid movies or something. In fact, if I could, I’d give a few purrs myself as I snuggle into him.
It doesn’t even matter that we end up watching some boring soccer movie based on what must’ve been an even more boring true story. “The Game of Their Lives?” I mock when Mark shows me the cover. “Seriously? It sounds like a bad soap opera.”
“It’s my favorite movie,” he insists as he puts it in the player. “You’ll like it.” Which I suppose is nice that he wants to share his favorite movie with me. Seeing as how I’ve reached the home stretch to becoming his girlfriend and all.
I try to focus on the film, which is about some big soccer rivalry with Britain that took place in the 1950s, but all I can think is, when will he kiss me? We fit together so close and comfortable, me leaning into him on the couch, it’s like we’re meant to be together. I try to focus on the boring sports movie, but Mark’s proximity is too much to ignore. I wonder if he’s actually absorbed in the movie or if he’s as aware of me as I am of him.
I start to grow concerned that we aren’t going to kiss at all, which will solidify us a “buds” and nullify any chance of me becoming his girlfriend. Mark must finally pick up on my telepathetic signals because he hits pause, turns toward me, and narrows his eyes.
I look at him expectantly, afraid he’s about to quiz me on the movie and discover I haven’t been paying attention. Then I think maybe he’s remembered to ask about the pizza bill. Without saying a word, he slowly closes the gap of space between our lips. As our mouths connect, I physically feel the sentiment, now this is more like it .
My first kiss.
His tongue gently prods my lips, and as soon as I part them slightly, the tip of it dips into my mouth. It’s warm and soft as it explores, feeling surreal in its moistness. It drives deeper. Excites me.
It’s silly that Mark asked for the power to heal, since he clearly has a super power already. It’s kissing. And I’m fully under his lips’ control . Mark’s kiss intensifies, and it’s as if I can taste how turned on he is. I feel a thrill until he leans further over me and suddenly I’m not just tasting how turned on he is—I’m feeling it too. The evidence of his swollen crotch against my wedgied one is unignorable and reminds me I have this penis-phobia that I haven’t quite worked through yet.
I realize in a panic that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. I need to breathe. Desperately. As Mark’s tongue continues its caress, I focus on exhaling slowly through my nose without blowing a puff of nose-air onto his cheek. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice.
Mark’s hand slides down to my breast and starts moving around. It’s not unpleasant, but I’m consumed with wondering what the outside of my T-shirt and form-fitting bra feel like to his fingers. And what it means for our relationship that I’m allowing over-the-clothes caresses so soon and if this means I will have to touch his…
Without thinking, I slide my elbow up and around to block his right hand from my chest. I silently curse Su-per Virgin Girl! and her need to be in complete control of the situation. Mark counters by moving his hand to the bottom of my shirt so he can stroke my waist while our mouths remain hotly fused together. Slowly, the hand at the bottom of my shirt begins to travel underneath and upward toward my bra as the other hand gains ground, caressing my other breast from the outside.
A quick assessment determines that the hand underneath my shirt poses the greatest threat, and I quickly press my arm down to my side, effectively pinning Mark’s hand. Bra security has been enforced. Virgin Girl is happy.
We continue kissing, and I try to tell myself to relax already. There’s really no reason to block
It doesn’t even matter that we end up watching some boring soccer movie based on what must’ve been an even more boring true story. “The Game of Their Lives?” I mock when Mark shows me the cover. “Seriously? It sounds like a bad soap opera.”
“It’s my favorite movie,” he insists as he puts it in the player. “You’ll like it.” Which I suppose is nice that he wants to share his favorite movie with me. Seeing as how I’ve reached the home stretch to becoming his girlfriend and all.
I try to focus on the film, which is about some big soccer rivalry with Britain that took place in the 1950s, but all I can think is, when will he kiss me? We fit together so close and comfortable, me leaning into him on the couch, it’s like we’re meant to be together. I try to focus on the boring sports movie, but Mark’s proximity is too much to ignore. I wonder if he’s actually absorbed in the movie or if he’s as aware of me as I am of him.
I start to grow concerned that we aren’t going to kiss at all, which will solidify us a “buds” and nullify any chance of me becoming his girlfriend. Mark must finally pick up on my telepathetic signals because he hits pause, turns toward me, and narrows his eyes.
I look at him expectantly, afraid he’s about to quiz me on the movie and discover I haven’t been paying attention. Then I think maybe he’s remembered to ask about the pizza bill. Without saying a word, he slowly closes the gap of space between our lips. As our mouths connect, I physically feel the sentiment, now this is more like it .
My first kiss.
His tongue gently prods my lips, and as soon as I part them slightly, the tip of it dips into my mouth. It’s warm and soft as it explores, feeling surreal in its moistness. It drives deeper. Excites me.
It’s silly that Mark asked for the power to heal, since he clearly has a super power already. It’s kissing. And I’m fully under his lips’ control . Mark’s kiss intensifies, and it’s as if I can taste how turned on he is. I feel a thrill until he leans further over me and suddenly I’m not just tasting how turned on he is—I’m feeling it too. The evidence of his swollen crotch against my wedgied one is unignorable and reminds me I have this penis-phobia that I haven’t quite worked through yet.
I realize in a panic that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. I need to breathe. Desperately. As Mark’s tongue continues its caress, I focus on exhaling slowly through my nose without blowing a puff of nose-air onto his cheek. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice.
Mark’s hand slides down to my breast and starts moving around. It’s not unpleasant, but I’m consumed with wondering what the outside of my T-shirt and form-fitting bra feel like to his fingers. And what it means for our relationship that I’m allowing over-the-clothes caresses so soon and if this means I will have to touch his…
Without thinking, I slide my elbow up and around to block his right hand from my chest. I silently curse Su-per Virgin Girl! and her need to be in complete control of the situation. Mark counters by moving his hand to the bottom of my shirt so he can stroke my waist while our mouths remain hotly fused together. Slowly, the hand at the bottom of my shirt begins to travel underneath and upward toward my bra as the other hand gains ground, caressing my other breast from the outside.
A quick assessment determines that the hand underneath my shirt poses the greatest threat, and I quickly press my arm down to my side, effectively pinning Mark’s hand. Bra security has been enforced. Virgin Girl is happy.
We continue kissing, and I try to tell myself to relax already. There’s really no reason to block
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