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AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a continuation of the story begun in the original “Lars and Jessa,” which is (hopefully) linked on the back page. For those unfamiliar with the first installment, the stories are probably best read in order. Thank you for taking the time to read.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Roseanne and I were astonished when Violet told us that she’d never been properly fucked before. The three of us were having a quiet cigarette on the benches outside school and Violet was reflecting on her latest breakup.
“I mean, I’ve had a lot of sex that was good, you know? But nothing that was just, like, mind blowing. At least I don’t think I have.” Violet took a drag of her cigarette while Rosanne and I shot each other a glance.
“If you’re not sure, then you probably haven’t,” said Roseanne.
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Violet. I didn’t say anything because I was still pondering the implications of this.
Violet’s a good friend but it can be challenging to hang around with her. When the three of us walk down the street, every guy is looking at Violet, and only at Violet. She’s all curves, practically every contour of her body is an exaggeration of the female form. She’s got a big round ass but it’s proportionately perfect; I’ve seen her literally stop traffic with it. Her hair is long and lustrous, red-tinted with copper highlights. She has luminous emerald-green eyes that will stop you dead in your tracks, even if you’ve known her for years.
Men don’t stand a chance; they’re drawn to Violet like moths to a flame. They flutter around her, laugh at her jokes, and are endlessly fascinated by everything she does. They pay just the minimal amount of attention to me and Roseanne to avoid seeming like total assholes. Am I a little jealous? Of course I am. But Violet is a sweetheart, and it’s not really her fault that every guy wants to fuck her. I imagine that gets exhausting, after a while.
All of this is to say that, to look at Violet, you would just assume that she’s having great sex all the time. There’s seemingly nothing stopping her from getting it whenever she wants, however she wants, from whomever she wants. So hearing her complaint was particularly disturbing — if Violet can’t get a proper fuck, then what hope is there for everyone else?
“It’s not just you,” said Roseanne. “For me it’s always been . . . adequate. Nothing earth-shattering.” Roseanne was lying, of course, but she would never actually admit that some guy had rocked her world.
“Am I expecting too much or am I just meeting the wrong guys?” Violet asked. Neither of us responded. “What about you?” she asked me. I stared down at the ash forming on my cigarette, wishing I could avoid this conversation. Roseanne laughed derisively.
“Oh, Jessa’s mind has been blown,” she said.
Violet’s eyes lit up. “Details!” she demanded. “When did this happen?” I shot Roseanne a dirty look.
“Recently. Maybe a week ago,” I said, reluctantly.
“Someone at school?”
“Can you tell me who? I shook my head. “Pretty please?” she pleaded, irresistibly, thick eyelashes fluttering.
“Just tell her,” said Roseanne. “What difference does it make?” We all knew Violet would get it out of me eventually, it was useless to resist her.
“Lars Parsons,” I said at last. Violet looked shocked and incredulous, like I’d just told her the aliens had landed.
“Oh my God!” She turned to Roseanne. “You knew about this?”
“Apparently he fucked Jessa so good she passed out,” said Roseanne.
“Just for a moment,” I said.
“For real? Lars?” Violet stared at me, glassy-eyed. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I had no idea. Is he seriously packing, or what?”
“That wasn’t it. It was more like, I dunno. We fit together the right way, I guess.”
“Jessa thinks she had a near-death experience,” said Roseanne, sniffing and blowing out a giant cloud of smoke.
“I’m pretty sure I did,” I said.
Violet looked perplexed and slightly horrified. “You almost died?”
“No. It’s hard to explain. Like an orgasm so intense that it seems like dying.”
I had Violet’s complete and total attention now. “How so?” she asked.
“You come so hard that it becomes your entire existence. Everything else is just snuffed out. Darkness, nothing there anymore.” Roseanne rolled her eyes and flicked her cigarette butt into the street in an impressive shower of sparks.
“That’s wicked,” said Violet, emerald eyes alight. “I can’t even imagine what that would feel like.” She pondered it for a moment. “You think it could happen again?”
“I have no idea. I doubt it.”
“You know, it’s funny, I used to have this silly little crush on Lars,” Violet said, “if I’d known he was some kind of sex god.”
“I’m not sure he is,” I said. “I don’t really know how it happened.”
“Give the guy a little credit,” said Roseanne.
“So are you two seeing each other?” Violet asked.
“No, not at all,” I replied.
“You’re istanbul escort funny,” said Violet, “I’d sure as shit be seeing him after that.”
It feels strange to be sitting at home on Saturday night but Roseanne’s home with the flu and Violet’s out breaking hearts somewhere. It’s a cold, rainy night and the TV couch is warm and inviting. Mom’s in her room napping before her shift at the hospital, so I crouch outside on the fire escape in the rain and smoke the stale, wrinkly joint that I found in my army jacket yesterday. I have to hunch against the building to light the damn thing and keep the rain from putting it out.
I hardly ever smoke pot anymore, but I’m bored and it will pass the time very nicely. I hit it a couple of times and cough violently into my sleeve. I’m soon cold and wet, my legs are cramping up and there’s no way I’m finishing this thing tonight, so I stub it out gently against the damp wall behind me. High as a kite, I stagger back through the window into the warm living room and collapse onto the couch, burrowing under a wool blanket.
I flip on the TV. There’s some outer space documentary on the Discovery Channel. The spiral arms of the Milky Way are slowly rotating. At the center of the galaxy lies a supermassive black hole, dense and dark, with gravity so strong that not even light can escape. On the screen the black hole voraciously swallows innocent nearby stars into its infinite, absolute darkness; the entire galaxy is caught in its pull, madly spinning around it.
“Black hole” makes it sound so cute and friendly, but really, it’s the utter absence of light. Nothingness. The void. I stare at the screen, my eyes barely open, imagining what it would feel like to be sucked in there. My earlier conversation with Violet replays in my mind, I wonder if she ever watches shows like this. It seems unlikely. But I bet Lars does.
I feel a tingle and flutter between my thighs. I’m thinking about the black hole and then I’m remembering Lars writhing beneath me, his cock plunging into me again and again, my body shaking and hips thrusting desperately to meet him. Reaching into my sweatpants, I discover that my panties are already soaked. Beneath, my pussy is slick and sopping, radiating warmth and arousal.
I rub my clit deftly and gently, just the lightest touch of my fingertips. The sensations echo around my drug-addled mind like a feedback loop, growing in intensity. My fingers begin to work faster and suddenly an image of Violet flashes through my mind; naked and slick with sweat, her hair disheveled, nipples stiff and swollen, head thrown back and mouth wrenched wide in a silent scream, consumed by an orgasm that shakes the foundation of her very existence.
My fingers are moving quickly and precisely now, applying delicate but insistent pressure on my clitoris that forces me to gasp and shudder, my body drawn taut like elastic. On the TV they’re talking about dark matter, the nearly infinite black space between the stars. The image of Violet fades as my mind goes slowly dark, subsumed by a recurring wave of bliss that rises within me until I can barely stand its intensity, and then recedes, leaving my body clenched and quivering in anticipation of its return. As the waves wash over me, my consciousness fades away, there exists only pure, exquisite sensation.
For one fleeting second, I’m back in that bedroom with Lars, riding the wave as it starts to crash down into darkness, the abyss opening before me.
Then suddenly the moment is gone, and it’s just me, writhing under a blanket on my mom’s couch, stoned out of my mind while the room spins around me and the TV flickers in the dark. I pull my hand out of my pants and catch my breath.
Roseanne called it the “existential orgasm.” She thinks I’m making the whole thing up, but just now, for a one brief moment, I had glimpsed it again. All it had taken was a rainy night at home and, of all things, a Discovery Channel documentary. Was I going a little crazy? It was possible. But I knew that what I wanted — what I needed — was to get myself back there again.
I scheduled the DVR to record every space documentary on cable, to the point where the memory was entirely filled up and Mom couldn’t record Grey’s Anatomy. “Since when are you so interested in all these space shows,” she asked me.
But when I watched them, I wasn’t getting turned on at all, plus I started to feel like a total head case lying there fingering myself to images of black holes and dry lectures about the event horizon. Apparently, I had managed to catch lightning in a bottle before. Whatever stars had aligned then, they sure as hell weren’t aligning now.
Having no further success in recapturing the “existential orgasm” through my solo efforts, I decided to enlist the help of a capable outside party. For some time, my friend Grace had been trying to hook me up avcılar escort with Archer, her boyfriend’s ex-roommate, who had graduated from Northeastern and worked as a fitness trainer. Reportedly, he was 6’5″ of solid muscle, with a huge cock and a fearsome reputation in the bedroom.
“He’ll change your life, sweetie,” promised Grace, who undoubtably still took the occasional tumble when her boyfriend wasn’t looking.
Archer seemed like the right man for this particular job.
I met him at a Greek restaurant just off Porter Square. He was blonde, lantern-jawed and carried himself with a swagger that I found immediately irritating. His idea of an icebreaker was to tell me I looked like Selma Blair and then launch into a dissertation about how hot she was. After ten more minutes discussing his career as both fitness trainer and “life coach,” it was clear he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but that didn’t really matter.
Archer didn’t care much about impressing me, and he made no effort to avoid staring at my breasts or to refrain from indulging in a steady stream of sexual innuendo. I forced myself to laugh at a few of his jokes, and I didn’t stop him from paying for dinner. I usually avoid dating like the plague but this wasn’t a date, more like a blind booty call. We both knew where things were headed, so the pressure was off and we could be ourselves, for better or for worse.
It didn’t take long for us to get back to his place, an apartment just off Harvard Square that was probably the height of luxury about fifteen years ago but had since fallen on hard times. We drank some wine and made out on his couch. He was what Roseanne calls a tongue-wrestler, and his breath reeked of lamb and tzatziki. He asked what I wanted to do next and I played coy for a while and then told him that I wanted him to fuck me so good that I blacked out.
Archer was impressed. “You’re a little freak, huh?” he said. I was going to try to explain further, but then he stood up and began taking off his clothes. He undressed slowly and deliberately, flexing his deeply etched abdominals as he pulled off his shirt. Despite his other shortcomings, he was easily the most impressive physical specimen I had ever encountered, and I stared, mesmerized, as he unbuckled his belt and slid his pants down slowly to reveal his powerful, muscular thighs and the undeniably large bulge in his briefs. I could feel a dull, hungry ache in my clit and a pleasant warmth spreading between my legs. Now fully naked, except for a tiny pair of briefs, he walked to where I sat on the couch.
I had to touch him, run my hands over the massive, rigid muscles in his thighs and stomach, as the bulge in his briefs twitched and expanded. When I lowered the briefs, his cock fell heavily out, long and thick, even in its semi-hard state. I gazed hungrily, estimating it was nearly as big as Led Zeppelin II, the hardworking electric blue dildo I keep hidden under my bed (its predecessor, Led Zeppelin I, had long since departed for Valhalla after a lifetime of dutiful service).
Archer then managed to ruin the moment, making a show of waving his big dick in my face and then trying to guide himself straight into my mouth. There was no way I was letting him jam that thing down my throat. Instead, I stroked him off enthusiastically with both hands, until his cock was rigid and leaking in my grasp. Fully erect and horny as a bull moose, Archer lifted me up effortlessly and carried me into the bedroom, where he literally tossed me onto the bed and yanked off my skirt and my underwear in one swift motion. I would have been impressed if I hadn’t been so surprised to suddenly find myself lying half-naked and spread-eagled on the bed.
He grinned at me as I lay sprawled beneath him, pulling off my shirt. “You ready to get fucked?” he asked, spreading my legs and tweaking my clit with his fingers. Suddenly, his cock was lying, warm and heavy, against my thigh and then he was sliding it slowly over my slick, soaked labia and across my clit, relentlessly back and forth. It was not long before he had me quivering helplessly in anticipation, grinding myself against the mattress like an animal in heat, my pussy nearly molten with need.
“Tell me how much you want it,” he whispered. I wanted it so fucking bad but he was playing games with me, and I was not about to give him the upper hand. I opened my mouth intending to deliver a sharp comeback, but then his cock dragged across my clit again and all that came out was a low whine.
“I can’t hear you,” he sang. He stopped moving and nothing happened for a long time as I lay there, my body clenched and shaking like an overwound clock spring, and I was right on the verge of breaking down and just begging and pleading with him to fuck me. Then I felt his cock slide into me, and I gasped with relief as it sank deep, completely filling me. I lay quivering and moaning, fully impaled on his huge shaft as he şirinevler escort worked it slowly around inside me and then pulled out. Before I could collect my thoughts, his cock sank into me the second time.
Led Zeppelins I & II had somewhat prepared me for this moment but it was a very different experience with Archer’s huge muscular frame pinning me to the bed and the powerful and unyielding force of his hips thrusting into me. I was breathing heavily now, eyes half-lidded and my hands reflexively clutching my breasts. Every stroke was intense but deeply satisfying, my pussy twitching convulsively in anticipation of each new thrust.
“That’s right, just take it,” whispered Archer, his hips thrusting smoothly and effortlessly into me. His huge hands grasped my waist as I thrust my hips against him, guiding his cock deep to sweet sensitive places that desperately needed its attention. I thought I might be on my way, but then I looked up to see his big goofy mug grinning down at me.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunted. “Taking that big dick like a champ.”
“Just shut up and fuck me,” I snapped.
He grasped me tightly with his massive arms and began fucking me in double time, our bodies slapping loudly together in a frenetic rhythm. He was filling me to the absolute limit, his cock thrusting nearly continuously across each and every sensitive area inside me, lighting me up like a pinball machine. Now I was crying out in time with his thrusts, eyes dropped out of focus, my body convulsing with the intense and exquisite pleasure he was wringing out of me. He had me now, and he knew it. It felt so fucking good to be held down and pounded and I knew I would do absolutely anything he wanted if he would just keep fucking me like this for a while longer, just a little while longer.
And then my thoughts began to drain away, diluted and swept aside by a rising tide of pure blissful sensation. My mind dimmed, darkness appearing at the edges, like the arrival of forest twilight, and then I knew it was happening, what I’d been waiting for, and I clutched Archer and told him that I needed him to just keep fucking me like this, a little longer. It was so close now.
In response, he sat up straight and bellowed, gripping me painfully tight and slamming himself into me faster and faster until his hips were just a blur and he was roughly jackhammering me into the mattress underneath. Everything had changed. The intensity was overwhelming, the orgasmic bliss of just a moment ago replaced by the sheer force of his cock continuously battering my sensitive insides as his body slammed against mine.
A transcendent fucking had suddenly become a dangerous amusement park ride where all I could do was hold on for dear life and pray for it to end. I opened my eyes to see his face hovering above me, now beet red, his jaw clenched and eyes staring vacantly into the distance. I lay there for several moments getting pounded into the bed, suddenly scared by the thought that even if I asked him to stop, there was no guarantee that he actually would, and there would be absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Suddenly, mercifully, he sat bolt upright and bellowed at the top of his lungs as he pulled his cock out of me and blew his load all over my stomach. He stood up and, without a word, walked out of the bedroom, leaving me lying there clutching my poor pussy, unable to even sit up but thanking my lucky stars that he hadn’t lasted any longer. He reappeared a few minutes later with a wet towel which I used to clean myself off. I hastily located my underwear and pulled it on while he lay back on the bed, admiring his own deflating erection.
“I’m impressed,” he said at last. “You can really take it.” This was clearly as much pillow talk as he was offering. “A lot of girls can’t,” he continued, “They’re just not built for it.”
I ignored him and disappeared hastily into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror was a grim reality check. My hair was a mess, my cheeks flushed and my belly was still sticky. Realizing my nipples were still stiff and swollen, I hastily pulled on my shirt. All I wanted to do was go home and sit in a hot bath.
“So how was it?” he asked when I came out of the bathroom.
“Pretty intense,” I said.
“Hard to believe. You were in the zone for sure.”
“It didn’t happen.”
I told him I had to leave. He insisted that I have one more drink for the road, which I accepted only because, frankly, I needed one.
“Most girls like to go a second round, at least,” he informed me, pouring two glasses of red wine.
“Not this girl.”
“You’re an intense chick,” he observed, handing me a glass. “I wish you’d stick around, we could have some fun. Where you go to school again?
“Cambridge Rindge & Latin. High school.”
“Fuck! You’re kidding.”
“I turned eighteen a few months ago.”
“Yeah, no — it’s just — surprising!” he exclaimed. “Grace must’ve forgotten to tell me that part.” I took a slow sip of the wine and he watched me with an unsettling sort of predatory interest.
“So I’m curious,” he asked, “what does a guy have to do to get you off?” I gulped down the rest of the wine and held the glass out to him. He refilled it, waiting for my response.
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