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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Do you remember the first time?

From the moment I saw her, I knew I would have her. Though it was just a picture she beckoned to me.
Weeks of effort, adoration and longing brought her to me. I could see her, touch her, and sense her readiness.
My fingers carressed the outline of her frame, feeling the beauty I had only heretofore seen.
My hand lightly brushed her seat. I felt a shiver but could not tell whether it was hers or mine.
Anticipation was running through me, the tension was building to a palpable level the need for release growing.
I moved with purpose now, wanting her first time to be, not just special but great I wanted her to be ready.
Her needs came first. I used my fingers, my hands and my mouth to get her ready, pumped and well lubed.
She wants me as badly as I want her. My hands trembling I hold her as I carefully mount her. I'm on.
She touches me in ways I've never felt before. Her body and mine fit like hand-in-glove. It is love.
I begin to pump, slowly at first. She answers back begging me to give her more.
I pump harder, but still hold back, resisting the temptation to spend myself too fast and waste this first time.
We are pumping together now. I feel a burn begin in my glutes and my quads, as I push harder and faster.
She takes it all and screams for more. Every move I make she makes with me. We are one.
Sweat covers me, as I pump, building to that much anticipated pinnacle, a drop falls on her but she seems not to notice.
We are literally flying now. Pumping together, my blood is boiling, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I know we can do it we can get there together. She needs me and I need her. Then...
without warning she throws me as we go through a quick dip. I didn't anticipate and crashed hard onto the ground
Lying there, blurred vision, broken helmet, my first thoughts are of her. "Is she okay?" "Did I hurt her?"
She is fine. Scared, and maybe a bit disillusioned about my abilities, she seems to realize that I'm not as good as I wanted her to think I would be.
She lets me on again. This time though, she is more in charge, I am more reserved.
We finish. We finish together, and it is beautiful. Not the storybook fantasy finish with shooting stars and screams,
for realistically that comes later with much time together effort and patience, but the quiet, spent, satisfied finish that makes me want to take a nap.

Oh, just so there is no mis-understanding Becky Thatcher is a guy.

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