by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by gamergirl
There’s a thing about virgins that winds me up just right. It’s not even a power thing, not exactly; it’s more like this delicious mix of innocence and nervous anticipation, the way the air turns a little sweeter, a little tart with possibility, when I imagine someone trembling on the edge of their very first time. I think it goes deeper than horniness, honestly. The urge is almost maternal, if your mother was a dominatrix with a soft spot for shaking, wide-eyed ingenues. Sometimes I imagine the scenario in near-cinematic detail: you’re in my apartment, sitting on my couch, your hands fluttering awkwardly as you try not to look at my legs, or my mouth, or the spot where my shirt is just a little too low and my bra is a little too bright.
I make you peppermint tea, not because I’m nurturing, but because your hands are shaking and I want to see if you spill. You do, just a little, and I laugh and wipe it off your wrist with a thumb, lingering there a beat too long. You talk about your favorite anime, your favorite color, your terrible cat allergies, and the whole time you’re vibrating like a tuning fork, trying not to let your eyes drift to my lips. I wait until the cup is empty and you set it down next to the coasters you obviously noticed but didn’t use, and then I ask, “Do you want to see me?” You don’t answer—at least, not with your mouth. The blush travels down your neck, across your collarbone, and your eyes flick away and then back, holding my gaze for the first time all night.
I stand, and you watch, both afraid I’ll stop and desperate for me to keep going. My skirt slithers down my legs, catching at my hips, and I make a little show of stepping out of it, just for you. My shirt follows, and you gasp when you see the tattoo that wraps around my ribcage. You didn’t expect that, did you? I bet you wonder how far the ink goes. I’ll show you, but not yet. I step closer and pull your hands from your lap, where you’d tried to hide your trembling.
“Touch me,” I say, because I know you need permission. You do, gently at first, the tips of your fingers skating over my thighs, my waist, the hollow of my stomach. I can tell you want to be careful, and I love you for that, but I also want to teach you how not to be. So I guide your hand higher, under the lace of my panties, and the noise you make is so sweet I want to devour it.
You look up at me, searching my face for any sign of disapproval, so I cup your cheek and kiss you, soft but demanding. You melt, just as I hoped you would, and when I let you breathe again your eyes are glassy with hunger. I let you explore, let you memorize every curve and line, let you ask questions with your hands and your mouth and the sounds you try to stifle. I want you to remember this forever, to compare every future encounter to this one, and know that I was the first who wanted you so fully.
I take control, of course—I’m not a monster, but I’m not a saint, either. I seat you on the edge of my bed and kneel between your knees, showing you how to touch me, how to let yourself go. I whisper encouragements, tease you when you’re shy, push you when you hesitate. Your body learns the rhythm, the ebb and flow, and I can see the moment you let the fear go and replace it with need. That’s always the best part.
I could go on, but you already see where this is headed. Maybe I got a little carried away, but that’s the curse of my imagination: it never stops at reasonable boundaries. Hopefully you get what I mean, and if not, well, maybe I’ll just have to show you in person sometime.
And also, I think the slightly naughtier side in me is Like, I kinda wanna fuck you and take your cherry ?
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