#99) Because He Was My First Love, I Let Him In the Backdoor – GRAPHIC CONTENT

In most of my writing, I speak in the first person as a character named Jean, who has some of my life experiences, while some of the story is entirely fiction.
In this piece, I want to recount actual events as authentically as possible. Only the names of the guilty have been changed.
Back in my second posting here entitled, “First Steps,” I detailed a bit about my first real boyfriend, the one to spank me initially as a young adult. I truthfully documented all that was relevant in that short piece. The second serious boyfriend was more influential in my life’s trajectory, so this piece will be more detailed.
I was a little scared that he was a drama major, I wondered if a skilled actor could lie more convincingly, if his emotions might be manufactured as needed. I found over time that he was one of the most honest humans I’ve ever known. As he himself explained, Joe thought acting training was great communication training. He really listened to what I had to say, better than I was used to from family, friends, and my single past boyfriend.
I was a little scared that he was so handsome. He had chiseled features, a deep tan, golden Adonis curls, a lithe, well-muscled body, which he unself-consciously called his “artist’s instrument.” His circumcised cock was average sized, but remarkable in another way. Joe could fuck for hours at length, not climax until he wanted to do so. I suppose that if he had been prodigiously endowed, the pull to go into porn would’ve been too much for actor Joe. As it was, he did a lot of modeling to pay his tuition, and was the best cast individual in our college’s drama department. He aspired to be the next Lawrence Olivier, a great stage actor who did as much film and television work as necessary to allow him to do the better quality stuff on stage. (At least, that’s how it used to be, back before cable created such demand.) He also aspired to be a Renaissance man. As a fellow junior, I didn’t know who Olivier was, and barely knew about the Renaissance. I grew to be smitten, totally head-over-heels for him over time. (But I’m already getting ahead of myself.)
At first meeting, I was still seeing my first boyfriend, Paul. Things weren’t going well, I suspected him of infidelity. The proverbial straw that broke us up was when I heard that Paul had drunkenly told a whole group of people (both some that I knew and some that I didn’t) that I liked, in fact needed, to have my butt spanked to get-off. I was mortified enough to die. I was livid with Paul. I was seriously considering transferring schools. I was seriously depressed, had been crying, ruining what little make-up I had on. I hadn’t showered or even brushed my hair in over twenty-four hours. I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. Normally, I wouldn’t have picked-up, but for some reason (fate), I did.
“Hi, this is Joe.”
“I’m concerned about you. Are you okay, Jeanie?”
“Want to go out for a drink, talk?”
“No, but thanks. I mean it, thanks.”
“Can I come by then, just for a bit?”
“I look terrible. No. Please…”
“I don’t care how you look. I am concerned. Enough not to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
I was touched. I wanted to talk to someone, but preferably a girlfriend. I thought he was a God, the one time I’d seen him at a party about a week previous. I lusted for him. My eyes teared-up
“…Okay, but give me an hour to clean-up. Okay?”
“See you then,” and he was gone.
I sprinted to the shower. While shaving my pubes in there, I spoke to my pussy. (I do this on occasion. Okay, with regularity. We’re good friends.) You’re not in control tonight! I said out loud to my soapy vag. I mean it, I normally let you rule, but not tonight. I’m gonna be a little lady, chaste, demure, polite… I reached around back and soaped-up my butt crack with my other hand. I mean it, you two! Both orifices just laughed at me.
Joe was knocking on my front door an hour and ten minutes later.
“Well, you’re punctual,” I said, smiling wanly.
“You have no idea. I’ve been sitting in my car for the last fifteen minutes,” he said with a laugh and I joined him. It felt good. I felt at ease. He held up a bottle of wine.
“That doesn’t have a screw top or come in a box, so it must be good…” I said.
“Actually, it’s very good. Have a corkscrew?”
I led him to the kitchen, gave him the tool as I got out two tumblers. It was good, rich and deliciously full-bodied. I took in a deep breath and it exhaled as a shudder. I was relaxing and I welcomed it. We sat, talked about the party where we’d pseudo-met. Then a thought occurred to me and I blurted it out unfiltered.
“Now most of those people know intimate details about my sexuality…” and my eyes teared-up again.
“Hey, not that you’re a nympho, just that you’re a spanko..” Joe said brightly as a joke. I didn’t join him in laughing this time.
“You were there, too, at the Village Spot when Paul…?”
Joe nodded. “At first I was sorry for you and mad at Paul for being such an asshole. Then I was joyous.”
I looked up at him, totally confused. There was an awkward silence.
“…I have Dominant tendencies… wanted to Top you for so… I haven’t experimented much, acted upon them very…”
“You’re not just saying that, are you?”
“No, I wouldn’t! I’ve looked at your incredible ass more times than I could count and dreamed about smacking it, kissing it…”
My two lower orifices screamed in unison, ‘don’t let him get away!’ My eyes overbrimmed when I closed them and pressed my upper orifice hard against Joe’s mouth.
We kissed and kissed. I didn’t trust myself to say anything, afraid my little mouths would do all the talking. He pushed his tongue passed my teeth, I put a hand inside his shirt. He reciprocated, and as soon as finger and thumb tweaked my hard left nipple, I lost the battle with my libido.
“Spank me, please,” I implored. “I need a good cry. …No, that’s not the truth, I’ve been crying all day. I need a good spanking!”
He didn’t run away. We just stared at one another solemnly. I took him by the hand and led him into the boudoir. We took off each other’s clothes. Then we just stood there.
“I want to look at you,” he whispered, caressing my shoulders lightly with only fingertips as he stared at my tits. I wanted to apologize that they weren’t bigger, but he smiled contentedly, then slowly dropped to his knees and stared just as intently at my pussy. I heard him breathe deeply. Was he actually sniffing me? Did I smell? I was so glad that I took that shower! He again gently touched me, now on my hips, turned me. Then it was as if he couldn’t keep from touching my ass. With both hands, ravenously, like a starving man would a loaf of bread. He cupped it, held it as if weighing each cheek, parted it and moved in close. “You… are… exquisite…” he breathed.
I laughed. “It’s me who should be admiring you. You are…”
“Did you mean what you said?”
“About needing a spanking?”
I nodded. He sat on the bed. I laid over his lap. Part of me was glad that Paul had done this with me before, or my brain might have exploded. Part of me wished that I’d waited, met Joe, let him be my first spanker. But what if we’d never met? Finally I put away all other thoughts; I was overjoyed to be where I was at that exact moment with this exact person!
Paul spanked me the same way every time we did it. Joe spanked me this first time and often thereafter like a little boy exploring his sexuality for the first time, full of curiosity as he smacked my butt, full of wonder, full of appreciation as he praised how beautiful he found me, how well he thought I was taking the discipline. I felt adored. I felt worshiped. My bottom felt hot and fully alive as the spanks accumulated. I squirmed around so as to be able to sit on his lap. We kissed as we fell backward. He was on top of me, he was inside me, we were joined, making love, doing it, with our eyes locked together just as our sexes were, with his hands on my butt and mine clawing at the sheets as he brought me to orgasm after orgasm. We fucked long into the night. I came more in that one evening than all the climaxes I’d had in my whole lifetime previous, and that’s said by an inveterate masturbator who loves to jill-off. It was ridiculous at how one sided it became, Jeanie ninety seven big O’s, Joe zero. At first, I thought of Joe’s cock as an all-day sucker, something to be savored, a sweet treat to enjoy for long periods of time. I grew over time to regard his manhood like a policeman’s nightstick, something indefatigable, something he used to bludgeon me or any woman into a stupor. I became his cum-drunk fuck-slut. This was before I learned the trick of inserting a finger up a man’s ass and massaging his prostate gland, practically demanding an orgasm from any male. I, nonetheless, felt indebted to this love machine. I wanted Joe to cum. I wanted him to cum along with me. I needed to know that he found me orgasm-worthy.
(Over the course of our nearly two year long relationship, this presented me with something I had to work through, something worth discussing. I couldn’t inspire Joe to climax. Even though he found me sexy, he enjoyed our varied sex life in the extreme, he wouldn’t allow himself to climax until he wanted to do so, felt like giving himself over to the moment. I liken it to dating a woman who is pre-orgasmic. I discovered on our journey together that you can only take responsibility for you. This was a great insight to gain early in my dating life.)
Then a thought crossed my addled mind. I rolled over onto my tummy, wiggled my ass at him, looked Joe dead in the eye.
“If you want more friction… you can fuck me up my ass… it’d be my first time… I want you to be my first time… there.”
Joe looked like I’d just suggested we go to Disney World.
“Do you have a really good lubricant?” barely contained enthusiasm evident in his voice.
“Is KY jelly good?”
“Good enough!”
I scampered to get the tube I used if my pussy went dry mid-masturbation marathon.
“How do you want me?” I smiled, wondering about position.
“How do I want thee? Let me count the ways… I want thee to the depth and breadth and length my cock can reach when pushed up out of sight into your tight little butthole,” he improvised off an old poem.
“No,” I interrupted him with a giggle, I meant on the bed or on my knees on the floor or…” I realized how good it felt to giggle, how easy it was to laugh with him, how excited I was to be doing what we were about to do. I kissed him, again didn’t let go when it would’ve been logical, just kept kissing and kissing, opening myself to him, opening my soul to him. He pushed me down lovingly onto the mattress on my knees and elbows, and I found myself opening to his finger anointing my rectum with cool slick goo. “Oh, that feels… so fucking good…!”
“Being anal erotic will come in handy, Jeanie. It feels really good for me, too. I love your ass!”
He said that last sentence easily, exuberantly as he slipped a second finger into me back there, stretching me. I heard him say it too many times to count during our relationship. I loved hearing it. I looked forward to a time when he’d say it about me in general (which wouldn’t take too long in the scheme of things), not just my ass. I found myself on the brink of another orgasm. I held it off, so as to ask my lover’s permission.
“Oh, nice touch, my little submissive,” he praised, giving me a playful swat on the tush. “Yes! It’ll relax you all the m..”
I didn’t hear him passed that first word, I was moaning and convulsing. He apparently took advantage of this interlude to lube-up his cock, because when I was back in the moment again, I felt his little head pressing against my backdoor.
“Just relax, breathe…” he advised.
I did, and felt him gain admittance.
“Oh, god, that’s… intense…”
“You’re doing great! Keep talking to me. If you find it painful, we’ll stop right away…”
I wanted to say that it didn’t hurt, instead uttered, “Oh fuck…!” as I felt him slide into my tightness slowly. I felt I was being fucked, truly and profoundly fucked, for the first time in my life. It felt dirty, like fucking is supposed to feel. It felt holy, like something unknown and unknowable and not of this world. It felt intense, I’d never felt so full of cock, filled to my brim, filled from deep inside to the outer edge of my stretched-wide anus, so filled that I couldn’t think about anything else but that incredible cock in my ass. And now, like a merry-go-round horse on his pole, I was going up and down, as his cock went in and out and rocked my world off its axis.
“I think I’m gonna cum!” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Touch yourself, your pussy, like you best like it, help yourself through it, just try to relax back here.” Joe advised caringly.
“Are you afraid I’m gonna bear down and pinch your cock right off?” I laughed, and then was over-swept in the climax that drowned me like a tidal wave. Everything was fluid and disorienting, fantastic and delicious, phenomenal, discombobulating, it was fucking divinity!
Everything on this temporal plane temporarily ceased to exist, for exactly how long, I have no idea. When I came to, Joe was easing out of me, kneading my butt flesh vigorously, occasionally punctuating the deep massage with a sharp spank to alternate cheeks.
“You’ve got an incredible gape going on back here. Do you know what that is?”
“Where my butt hole’s been stretched wide and won’t close back up again…?”
“Yeah. It’ll return to normal in a bit, don’t worry,” his tone just as solicitous and caring as ever.
“Before it does, hand me that hand mirror from the bedside table. I want to see.”
It was incredible. My anus, normally just a little pin-prick of a hole, was about two inches in diameter. I imagined that if I opened my mouth wide and caught the light with the hand mirror just right, I’d illuminate the pillow that my head rested upon. With hindsight (excuse the pun), I now think of a meme I’ve read recently. It said, “A mind, when stretched by new experiences, can never go back to its old dimensions.” My anus did finally close, none the worse for wear. But I felt stretched by this new experience, and not just rectally.
Girlfriends talk. I don’t know if guys realize this fact, but we talk a lot, about just about everything. Including butt sex. Some of my girlfriends try it once, and are done with it. Me? I felt I’d seen the face of God when Joe defiled my derriere. I liked that panoramic view. We’d do it fairly frequently, about once a month or six weeks or so. More often and I was afraid my cute, tight butt hole might become hemorrhoidal, less often and it’d feel like I’d missed a special Sunday church service of some kind.
Now, if you want a happy ending, STOP reading this story at this paragraph. I was too truthful with a story I told in the past (#46 “Doctor’s Orders”), and a reader complained about the downer note it ended upon. Please, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Apparently, it was trust issues that kept Joe from cumming at the culmination of sex. (He was honest, sincere, a good listener, marvelous to look at; I didn’t say he was perfect.) We worked on it, and got so he’d cum about once every fifth or sixth time we made love. He was happy with that, and I was very happy with that. But this meant that I had to rethink my conceptualization of what constituted foreplay. In all my other relationships, whether we did it at dawn or at end-of-day, foreplay started about a half an hour beforehand, usually with a playful spanking. But with Joe, sex didn’t seem to stop, because for him, it often had no defining conclusion. Say that we’d make love upon awakening (yes, with an eye-opening spanking for a prelude), and do it for as long as felt right, or as long as we had, before realities like going to class weighed upon us. Joe wouldn’t cum, and I would, multiple times. And we’d meet between classes, or before dinner, and do it again, with the same joyous inspiration of a spanking to get our engines revving, with the same outcome. Then, most evenings, after studying, or a movie, or one of his play rehearsals/performances, he’d spank me lovingly, and we’d make the beast with two backs late into the night. What this meant was that my concept of foreplay went out the fucking window. Life felt like continuous foreplay, punctuated by brief spankings and lots of tasty fucking. It warped my mind for a long time after we ended as a couple.
I noticed that when we talked about long-term plans, Joe would mention ideas about moving to Los Angeles to pursue his dream, but never spoke about it as ‘us’. He thought it was going to be arduous, and felt he needed to face it alone. Just him against the storm, he used to say. So, we graduated from college and said good-bye to one another. It was a clean and complete break. From Joe, I learned how to love more deeply, learned a lot about myself, learned some more about the male of the species, and learned how great butt sex can be. I wish that I knew where in the world he is today, just so I could say ‘thank you’ for all he gave me, did for me. And to say that I love him still.

17 responses to “#99) Because He Was My First Love, I Let Him In the Backdoor – GRAPHIC CONTENT”

  1. First, and most important, this was a challenging piece for me to write and share. As much has been made from, I write in the nude because it brings my sexuality to the fore. My sexuality is a blend of vulnerability and strength as a submissive. This piece made me feel my most vulnerable; I’ve never been as naked.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I really enjoyed reading this true account of your experiences, Jean Marie! It sounds like Joe was the perfect man to explore these things with…loving, but also firm with you. Have you kept track of him? I was wondering if he made a name for himself in theater. Great post! XOXO

    Liked by 2 people

  3. It’s funny, but I don’t want to really (when it comes right down to it). He was so influential for me, but I think I’d find it super awkward to try to reconnect, even just as long-distance friends. Does that sound strange, Nora?

    Liked by 1 person

  4. ”I wanted to apologize that they weren’t bigger…”

    Breasts. I hate it when women say that. Apologizing. Wishing they had ‘more.’ Whenever I heard that I slap their bottoms (nicely.) And tell them how much I hated it.

    For the record: There are millions of us men out here who do not think ‘more is better.’ Who prefer great gifts in smaller packages.

    OK. I’m done.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Women are made to feel apologetic about them. Look at what blithering idiots many men become around a woman with big ones. The Playboy empire was erected around big tits.
      I like mine! They’ll be in the same place when I’m twice this age. But at first meeting, I usually wish they were bigger, more stupifying.


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