The knock at my bedroom door startled me. I hadn’t expected him to arrive so fast. We’d been texting each other for the last two hours, our messages finally jumping the sexual shark into bold statements of outright lust after months of increasing flirtation. His last text read, “Cmng ovr.” “K” had been my abbreviated reply. That was more than thirty minutes ago. Since then, I had freshened up, fluffed my hair, and reapplied my lip gloss too many times to count. I was still in my school attire—plaid skirt, white cotton blouse, knee-high socks, and saddle oxfords—a bundle of nerves as I reflected on how we’d gotten to this point so quickly. I was ready. Scared to death, but ready.
“Come in,” I said, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.
The knob turned a slow revolution. The door opened with a creak.
There he was, all handsome and tall, walking into my room. My heart did a quick-step as I realized this moment I’d dreamed about for so long was finally about to happen.
“Your mom said it was okay to come to your room.”
He was setting his backpack on the floor near my bed as he spoke.
“She said she’ll be back at six thirty with some pizza for dinner.”
He was grinning now, unable to contain himself at how conveniently things had worked out. It was five after four, which meant we had more than two hours alone. We were supposed to be doing homework, which was why he’d shown up with his books. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. We would be doing homework. Maybe not the kind my mom would have expected, but it would be homework, that was for sure.
The plan was for me to study. He would be my teacher. He walked over to the bed. I was lying on my stomach, surrounded by scattered papers and my economics and history books, clearly looking the studious part. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and kissed me softly.
“Mmm,” he said. “You taste like frosting.”
It wasn’t our first kiss, but when his lips touched mine, a jolt of expectation raced through me. Now was the time of reckoning. I’d talked so much smack in my text, making promises of what I’d do when I got him alone, how I would take him in my hands, hold him in my mouth, suck him like there was no tomorrow. I knew nothing about fellating, other than what I’d glimpsed furtively on naughty Internet sites and from things my more experienced girlfriends had bragged of doing with their boyfriends. I never knew if they were exaggerating or not. This was all new to me. Seeing him before me now, however, I was eager to try. I reached out for him, my hand in his lap, tugging at his zipper.
“So you weren’t playing,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “I’m ready to do this.”
He moved closer to me, his hands on my breasts, as he covered my lips again with his own. He groped my full and fleshy 32Cs as his tongue hungrily probed my mouth. His fingers lingered on my nipples, then circled them slowly, the sensation it ignited below making me squirm. I arched my back as I groaned against him. My tongue danced hotly with his, eager to taste his desire. He pulled me closer and stood, lifting me from the bed. Drunk from his kisses, I wrapped my legs around his waist as I continued to feast upon his delicious lips.
I could feel his hardness just below my bottom as he carried me over toward the wall and pressed me back against it. I released my thigh-grip from around his waist, planting my feet firmly on the floor. His hands scoured my body, running up and down my sides and over my breasts as he dry-humped me against the wall, our loins desperately grinding together. I shyly placed my hand on his crotch, feeling the massive hardness beneath his jeans. I glanced up at him as I felt for the button and opened it, and then unzipped his fly. I wanted to see what I’d been imagining for so long, wanted to explore this brave new world. He opened three buttons on my blouse, raising my bra and lowering his head onto my left nipple. His tongue made circles around the areola, and then flicked quickly, back and forth, over the nipple. The feeling was so heady, my knees buckled slightly. He fastened his mouth onto my nipple, gentle at first, his tongue still flicking over my sensitive bud. I could feel myself growing wet below as his tongue flicks grew rougher, then turned into full-on sucking. I leaned my head back, my eyes closed, hotter than I’d ever been. I reached inside his unzipped fly, into his briefs, for his treasure. It was rock-hard, solid—a staff of steel that pulsated in my hand. I opened my eyes and looked down. It was golden, glorious, the magic wand that was going to turn me into a woman. I sank down the wall, my breast pulling away from his mouth, until I was eye-level with his throbbing beast. I held it in my hand, observing its simultaneous strangeness and perfection. I kissed it, sweetly at first, and then pulled the head into my mouth. He moaned as he watched, pushing his hardness in deeper. I sucked the way I’d seen them do in the movies online, running my tongue up and down the shaft, then fastening upon the tip and sucking, sucking, sucking more. He widened his stance, giving me more room, as I held him with both hands and relished the taste of his hard flesh.
“Suck my balls,” he said, confusing me with his words. I pulled away from his dick.
“But won’t that hurt?” I asked. I had learned early after a game of kickball that suddenly went bad about how sensitive the scrotum could be.
“Not if you do it the right way,” he instructed. “Be gentle. Take them into your mouth. Massage them. Treat them like they’re delicate eggs.”
I opened my mouth wide beneath his sack, taking one of his testicles into my mouth, rolling it carefully with my tongue as I gazed up at him for his approval. He closed his eyes and moaned again, clearly pleased with what I was doing. I palmed his balls softly as I sucked, hoping to increase his pleasure. He moaned again as he placed his hands in my hair and held on.
I continued to palm his balls as I cradled his cock with my lips and tongue and sucked the tip. My head bobbed furiously as I fucked him with my mouth. He thrust against me, shoving his hardness toward the back of my throat. I tried to take it, then coughed and gagged, pulling away.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping back.
“I want to learn,” I insisted, still coughing. “Let me try.” I reached out for his rod. He placed his hands under my arms and lifted me up.
“There’ll be time for more of that later,” he said. “This might be the first time, but it definitely won’t be the last.”
He picked me up and carried me to the bed. He softly laid me on my back, unzipped my skirt, and pulled it off. My panties followed. I leaned up so he could undo the rest of my blouse. He removed it, and then took off my bra. He patiently undid the laces of my shoes, pulled them off, and then removed my knee socks. I lay back, naked and vulnerable on the bed. He stood over me, his eyes glistening as he drank in my body.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
“So are you,” I said.
He parted my legs slightly, lowering himself between them. He licked his lips, and then kissed the insides of my thighs. They tingled at his tongue, the feeling radiating throughout my whole body. I could feel the wetness growing between my legs as he moved higher and higher until he was face-to-clit with my lustful longing. He touched my love bud with a soft flurry of licks, then ran his tongue up and down my oozing slit. He sucked on my labia and my button as I squirmed with delight at the newfound pleasure. His tongue darted hungrily in and out of my pussy, licking, sucking, flicking, and awakening a fire deep inside my inexperienced loins. As he drank from my well, he reached up with both hands and tweaked my nipples and massaged my breasts. I came hard, right there on the spot, my body quaking violently. He watched me closely as he drank from my fountain. I opened my legs wider, dazed by an overload of feelings, my nervousness completely replaced by wanton passion and heady lust.
“Turn over,” he commanded, snapping me out of my delirious state.
I did.
“Raise up on all fours.”
I got up on my knees and elbows.
He slid beneath me on his back, bringing his mouth just under my pussy.
“Now sit on my face,” he said.
I wasn’t sure whether I should sit down all the way. Would I smother him, I worried. I wasn’t sure what the proper face-sitting etiquette should be.
When I didn’t respond quickly enough, he took charge, placing his hands upon my thighs and moving me into a sitting position over his mouth. I rose slightly, out of instinct. He picked up where he’d left off, sucking and feasting upon my lips and swollen bud, then plunging his tongue deep inside me.
I felt myself growing limp. The feeling was too incredible to describe. My hands made their way up to my breasts, my fingers squeezing my nipples, increasing the pleasure I was already experiencing. I gyrated against his mouth, his tongue darting in and out of my wetness.
I closed my eyes, still fondling my breasts, hovering above him. He pulled away and slid from beneath me, pushing me forward, back onto all fours. I glanced over my shoulder at him, unsure of what was happening. He lowered his jeans and stepped out of them, completely unleashing his gorgeous manhood. He pulled his shirt over his head and approached me. I suddenly realized what he was about to do. He was going to take me from the rear, doggy-style.
He slapped my bottom a few times, making it jiggle.
“I love the way your ass bounces.”
I giggled, raising it higher in the air. His jacked himself with his right hand as he took in the view of my fleshy cheeks, then placed his left hand in the middle of my back and ran it slowly down until he reached my wetness. He fingered the opening, feeling around inside. I pushed back against his hand, wanting more. After a few quick finger-thrusts, he moved his pelvis closer, his golden hardness poised for entry.
This was the point of no return. This was the moment that would forever make my virginal state a thing of memory. He pushed the head inside my portal, as if that was as far as he planned to go. An instant later he plunged in deep, all the way to the balls, his girth and force almost taking my breath away. I was beyond well lubricated, so it didn’t hurt. It felt glorious, in fact. But the feeling was so unexpectedly intense, all I could do was gasp in pleasure.
“You okay?” he asked.
I responded by grinding my ass farther back onto his dick.
He pulled out, then thrust again deep, taking care not to apply too much pressure. I welcomed him in, my body freed of all semblance of restraint.
“Your pussy’s so tight,” he moaned between strokes.
“How tight?” I asked, knowing his range of experience far eclipsed mine. He’d been with four others before me, he’d confessed once during a phone conversation, but had never been in love. I was the first to break the cherry of his heart. The thought of him being more experienced sexually both excited and comforted me. The last experience I wanted during my first time was two inept people fumbling in the dark.
“You’re the tightest of them all,” he said.
I laughed, thinking of the evil queen in Snow White. Mirror, mirror on the wall. He says I have the tightest pussy of them all.
He plumbed my depths, simultaneously reaching beneath me to massage my clit. The rhythmic motion of his hips and my backside bouncing off his waist heightened my excitement as I looked behind me and watched our bodies moving together.
“You’re so tight and wet,” he whispered, not missing a stroke. “I can’t get enough of this sweet, sweet pussy.”
I could feel his cock growing inside me, swelling to capacity. He pumped faster, groaning as if he was in some sort of pain.
“I… I don’t think I can hold it,” he said. “I won’t cum inside you. I promise.”
He tried pulling out, but I wouldn’t let him, my tight, newly explored crevice clamping down hard. When he felt my walls grip onto him, he immediately let go, filling me up with his cream. He collapsed against my back, the pressure of his body pressing me flat onto the bed. He rested above me until he could catch his breath, and then rolled onto his back, still panting.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
I cut my eyes at him slyly. “I read in Cosmo about these exercises I could do down there. I do them all the time, just for practice.”
“I think you’ve got it down.”
I glanced over at him. He was smiling. I laughed, suddenly not feeling like a novice anymore.
I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. His hand slid across the sheet and clasped mine. We both lay there for a long moment staring up, savoring the power of what had just transpired.
“I love you,” he said finally, breaking the silence between us.
“I love you, too.”
We spent the next hour just like that, enjoying the freedom we’d been afforded. Our children would be home soon, so I’d have to get up and put away the fake schoolbooks, backpack, papers, and costume. This was why I loved my husband so much. After two kids and four years of marriage, he could still manage to discover a way to take a schoolgirl’s virginity all over again.
There are certain fantasies floating around in a man’s mind that many women may consider appalling. If your mate is turned on by the idea of being with a virgin and you obviously aren’t one, don’t feel dismayed. Also, assuming you really know your man and are confident in who he is, rid yourself of the thought that his desire to experience a virgin teeters on the brink of pedophilia. Most men love the idea of conquering uncharted territory, so rest assured that a fantasy involving him having his way with an unsullied woman is just that. It is what it is. This is a man thing, a moment where he gets to be the ultimate chest-beating teacher and lover (and, um, revisit the “tightness” that goes along with it!).
There are at least two ways of becoming that virginal flower he desires, over and over again. All you have to do to make this fantasy a reality in your sexual life is choose one.
First off, there’s what I like to call the “lady’s days” virgin. I’m sure you can figure out what “lady’s days” means. No? Are some of you stumped, seriously? Well, you may know “lady’s days” by other euphemistic phrases. Like “Aunt Flow,” a “visit from your friend,” the “red tide,” or “riding the cotton pony.” Heck, I’ve even heard it referred to as “Shark Week,” which is both hilarious and clever. So do you get it now? Good! Yes, “lady’s days” are your menses.
It is not nearly as bad as you think. In fact, I find there’s something quite primal about having sex while on your period. It is true that some women and men are uncomfortable with the idea of intimacy during that time of the month. It can, sometimes, prove messy, awkward, and seemingly more trouble than it’s worth, but that’s only if you have hang-ups about it. If it’s not against your religion or personal dictates, and doesn’t upset you visually or psychologically, I say go for the gusto!
There are actually lots of women who find themselves extra aroused when their period strikes. If you’re down and your man is, too, why not take advantage of the urge and scratch that bloody itch? If your husband is, indeed, seriously harboring a virgin fantasy where you are to be the virgin in question, you may want to take another look at those lady’s days as a way to satisfy the beast before a real virgin steps in and does it for you. By having it off with your man when you’re in the red, you can re-create the feeling—and visual—of him literally busting your cherry all over again. Talk about your “ocular proof”! Throw in a little (or a lot of) theatrics, including the occasional “ow!” and “ooh, that hurts,” and you’ve got the makings of a bona fide revirginization. Add to the equation the rumor that chemicals released during sex help ease the intensity of the cramps that sometimes come with menstruation, and it’s a win-win scenario all around.
Hey, who needs Midol or Aleve when you can bone those pains away and make your man feel like William the Conqueror in the process? Virgin-fantasy sex on your period may not solve the bloating issue, but at least you’ll feel good as you waddle around with all that extra water weight. Your husband won’t even notice those swollen ankles and mini-muffin-tops Aunt Flow gifts you with because he’ll be too busy grinning from getting a virgin a night for a few days in a row. And we all know that nothing beats a happy husband. So let’s examine this idea further, shall we?
Now that your boudoir is prepared, let’s get you ready. Virginity comes with the notion of innocence, so this will not be that fantasy-turned-reality that calls for hooker boots and a whip. Put away your grown-up toys. Now is the time to think like a girl—a sweet, pure, inexperienced girl. Your demeanor and appearance should reflect this. You should seem simple rather than worldly, a naïf embarking upon an exciting—if borderline frightening—adventure. Since this is your husband’s fantasy, his job will be to make that sweet, nervous girl feel safe, trusting, secure, yet willing, all while exposing her to the ways of passion and the joys of erotic love.
Okay. So now it’s on. You’ve got your Pollyanna thing going and you’re ready for the plucking. This is where the role-playing comes in. You’ve created the look. Now you have to be believable. In most people’s minds, a virgin is shy and unsure, most likely young, although not necessarily a schoolgirl. A virgin is definitely not a woman who is married with three kids so, whatever you do, don’t be yourself!
When the time comes, don’t ruin the fantasy by showing him this isn’t your first time at the rodeo. Act as if you’ve never seen one of these penis thingies before and you have no idea where it goes and what to do with it. At the most, pretend you’ve maybe caught glimpses of it in furtive peeks online while hanging with your girlfriends, but be giggly, awkward, and much more skittish about seeing one in the flesh. Once you’re in the act, squirm in discomfort or pain, even though having sex with your husband after all this time is as natural, instinctive, and synchronous as a veteran tango team performance. Allow yourself to bleed all over him. This is when the fantasy will begin to feel all too real for your man. Bask in your newly found innocence, asking him if you’re doing the right things and if your body pleases him. Seek instruction on how you should touch, kiss, and respond to his every move. Let him know you are eager to learn!
I trust that you can handle yourself from this point, so let’s move on to the second option for creating a virgin fantasy for your husband. I’m sure some of you have your thinking caps on and already have it figured out. For those of you who haven’t, well, I’ll just cut right to the chase. I’m talking about the ultimate virgin territory: that ass! All right, maybe that was a little harsh. Let me dial it back a little and try to be a bit more PC. I’m talking about anal sex, ladies. Rectal exploration. “That undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns…”
My bad. I waxed a little Shakespeare for a sec. Your husband, however, might want to wax more than just Shakespeare. He might seriously be entertaining waxing that ass. Your ass. So here’s where you decide whether you’re ready to give up that last legitimate bastion of purity. That being said, are you ready for some back-door loving and the potential pain that might come along with it?
For those of you who’ve already been having parties in your backyard, this option is moot. Go the sex-on-your-period route to fulfill your husband’s desire for a virgin because your ass will be old hat to him. For those of you, however, who are seriously behind the idea of delivering to your husband the authentic feel of breaking in a virgin, doing it in the butt is the way to go. There is no definitive answer to the question of how you should have anal sex for the very first time. Aside from brutal, forceful entry (definitely not advisable), there’s really no wrong way to do it, as long your husband is mindful of your feelings and does his best to minimize any pain (unless you actually want him to be rough). So while I can’t tell you exactly what to do, I hope the following advice illuminates how to approach the experience for minimal pain, maximum pleasure, and a night of deflowering the two of you will never forget.
Whether vaginally or anally, losing your virginity is considered a big deal to most women. Sex is an incredibly invasive and personal act and should always be undertaken with the utmost care and consideration. As a role-playing experience, the virgin fantasy should allow you the opportunity to remember yourself back at the moment when you crossed the threshold into womanhood. Many of us, sadly, regret our first sexual experience, later realizing it came too soon and with someone whose name we hardly remember and whose face we’ll never see again. This is your chance to recast and replay that moment with the love of your life. There should be no moment more satisfying than this, no matter which of the two versions of this fantasy you decide to employ.
Oh, and remember to take your bows and return for that second curtain call, ladies, because this will be one fine act you’re putting on. If, after years of marriage and having children, you can still get your man to feel as though he is taking an untarnished peeper for its first spin around the block, that’s grounds for an Oscar. Move over, Meryl.
A star is born!
There are at least two ways of becoming that virginal flower he desires, over and over again.
You may want to take another look at those lady’s days as a way to satisfy the beast before a real virgin steps in and does it for you.
Virginity comes with the notion of innocence.
Whatever you do, don’t be yourself!
Don’t ruin the fantasy by showing him this isn’t your first time at the rodeo.
There is no definitive answer to the question of how you should have anal sex for the very first time.
Remember yourself back at the moment when you crossed the threshold into womanhood.
It’s 12:09 a.m. You’re in one of those little curtained-off areas they put you in when you come through the hospital’s emergency room. You’re lying on your side on the cold bed with its thin sheets, your face blank as you stare at the wall, your ravaged rectum smeared with soothing ointment and taped up with gauze. Your husband sits bent over in a chair beside you, a riot of nerves, occasionally throwing up into a wastebasket. A nurse comes in and gives him something to quell his lurching stomach. What a pitiful scene. Do I even need to explain how we got here? Of course I do. How else are others ever going to learn?
Welcome to What Not to Do During a Virginity Fantasy Involving Anal Sex: A Cautionary Tale. Pull up a chair. This one’s a doozy.
Goodness. I almost don’t even have the words for this one.
So, as we have noted, you and your hubs chose the virginity fantasy. You have been married for eleven years, having wed in your early twenties. It has been a long, long time since he’s had anything fresh, let alone virginal. You were still pure when the two of you met as college freshmen and he had the proud distinction of being your deflowerer. It was a beautiful moment, one you both have reminisced about over the years, but never once did you consider that you could replay that special, magical time. Not until now.
So you read the Virginity chapter together and your husband’s eyes nearly swell with tears at the thought of being able to take you all over again. Your heart is full at the promise of what can once again be. You love him so very much and live to make him happy in every way you can. You allow him the choice of which type of deflowering he would like: sex on your period or via that safe house of innocence, your butt. You mentally cross your fingers, hoping against hope, never daring to speak your deepest fears aloud. He quickly blurts out that he wants… the butt. Damn you, crossed fingers! Damn you to hell!
Your man explains that he wants to do it anally because he has already experienced what it is like to have sex with you on your period. While it wasn’t intentional, there were times when he accidentally struck red gold when he was dipping in for a marital visit. Each time it happened, he was out of there, posthaste. Although he doesn’t need to, he reminds you that he is none too fond of blood. In fact, the sight of too much of it makes him quite ill. He explains that sex in the butt will be far less bloody than sex on your period. He’ll be able to suffer through it, if it means getting to devirginize you again. He admits that he likes the idea of the tightness that will come with venturing into your booty. He hasn’t had tightness in a long, long while—eleven long years, to be exact. He reminds you of that. Not in a passive-aggressive way, of course. Not like he’s trying to pressure you. He is sincere, saying it with just a hint of wistfulness, as if reflecting on some paradise lost. You melt inside. You love him, so you let go of your fears and give in. Of course he can do it in the butt. It’s just a butt, after all! Mi culo es tu culo, you tell him. And with those words, your husband claps his hands together happily, a schoolboy once again, and covers you with a shower of honeyed kisses. “We’re doin’ it the butt!” he sings, dancing around the room with his rump in the air.
“Doin’ it in the butt,” you chime, rooting your patootie right along with him. The two of you grab hands and dance like giddy children as you sing your silly song, oblivious to the world of ugly waiting just around the corner.
The Big Day arrives and you do your due diligence, right in keeping with the recommendations in the prior chapter. You eat a light breakfast, just one piece of toast and a smoothie to get you through the day. By afternoon, you empty your bowels using the Fleet enema you purchased. You empty them again a few hours later, just to be sure. You purchased three enemas, after all, since you were unsure just how much poop might be in there and you couldn’t remember if you’d evacuated your bowels the day before. You’ve picked up several of the suggested items from a local sex shop, even though you were mortified to even go in. You bought a butt plug, Astroglide, and anal beads, your head down, eyes averted as you paid for it all. As the cashier bagged up your goodies, she gave you a friendly smile and said,
“Have a good day!”
That one simple phrase sent you scurrying out of the store, flush with embarrassment, certain she was making fun of what you’re about to do.
At home, after your enema, you spend some alone time getting your mind right. You soak in a hot bubble bath while drinking a glass of Chardonnay. Two glasses of Chardonnay. A few glasses of Chardonnay. You pop an Aleve in advance of any potential pain. Like the commercial said, “All day strong. All day long.” You hope they mean it.
Your husband arrives early with an enormous bouquet of multicolored tulips, your favorite flower in the whole wide world, the same size bouquet he gave you the night you made love for the very first time. How apropos: flowers in exchange for your butt flower. Nice. He kisses you. You’re dressed almost exactly the way you were that very first time—in a simple sundress, sandals, with a band in your hair. Suddenly you are an eighteen-year-old college freshman all over again. The beads, butt plug, and Astroglide are on the nightstand next to the bed. You coyly glance at them, but do not speak their names. You are innocent, you see, and innocence knows nothing of anal beads and butt plugs. Innocence and Astroglide have never been friends.
Your husband’s eyes light up when he notices the items. He’s eager, so eager, and rushes off to shower while you turn down the bed and wait for him to take you.
He emerges moments later, freshly shaven, sleek and clean, wearing a buttondown shirt, jeans, and the same inexpensive cologne from that very first time. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed as he walks up to you. Each step he takes, each move, is exactly the way you both did it before. He takes your hand as you stand before him. You glance into each other’s eyes, deeply in love. He kisses your neck, your shoulders, down the length of your arms, carefully unzipping your sundress as his lips have their way. The dress slips to the floor, exposing your virginal white cotton bra and panties. Your husband breathes in deeply, something close to a gasp. Your body looks just as young as it did back then. He reaches around you, unfastening your bra. He kisses the delicate buds of your nipples. You giggle like a bashful teen. He picks you up in his arms and lays you on the bed facedown.
This part of the narrative of your love story differs from the first deflowering. Back then, in your dorm room, he laid you on your back. But he’s ready for the gusto now, so your honey wastes no time. He gently pulls down your white cotton panties, leaning his face into the crack of your backside. He parts the cheeks and breathes in. You’re fresh after your double enema, a living tulip of wonder. He reaches for the Astroglide and squirts a good measure of it into his hands to warm it up. He spreads your cheeks apart and smears it on your rectum. You’re trembling, slightly, and not for show—you’re shaking for real! This is brand new for you, but it is being done under the cloak of love. You are partly nervous, partly excited. You wonder if the feeling of him sliding in and out of your bum will be comparable to the sensation of him sliding in and out of your vagina. What if you like it more than vaginal sex, you wonder. What if you hate it, but your husband loves it and wants it on a regular basis? Your heart pounds, the sound disappearing into the mattress. Your husband smears more unspeakable on your butthole. He pushes in a finger. Then he pushes in two.
You squeal in the beginning, but it is nothing major. It’s the squeal of surprise. He didn’t warn you when his finger first went in, but it doesn’t hurt at all. It feels different, but it definitely doesn’t hurt. Your husband sticks in a third finger, twirls all three around, checking to see if it’s causing you pain.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, sensing his concern.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure. Everything’s okay.”
You hear him unzipping his jeans. He steps out of them and kicks them away. You glance back to see his rigid penis angled up and ready for action. You glance at the beads and the butt plug, but your husband has no time for them. In his mind, three fingers going in means you’re open for business.
“Honey?” you mutter, but he doesn’t hear you. He is busy squirting the lube onto his shaft. He slathers it up and down with his hand as he crouches above you, aiming for entry.
And now he’s at the back door, cramming the head in. You squeal for real this time. Not in surprise. This time, it does actually hurt a little. He pauses, waiting for you to collect yourself before he begins anew. You breathe in, breathe out. It’s okay now. He pushes in again.
This time his shaft goes deeper and you feel it intensely, but what you are feeling isn’t unbearable. He pushes harder and this time, he goes all the way. You gasp. It hurts, but not too badly. He begins to move in and out slowly, gradually. It doesn’t feel bad.
And now your husband is in asshole heaven. Your pucker pouch is tighter than tight. Vaginas wish they gripped him the way your backside has him right now. He caresses you as he pumps in your booty, kissing along your spine, losing himself in the wonder of butt-bliss.
And now you’re getting into it, grinding against him, raising your derriere to meet him halfway. He’s burning hot with passion and lust, furiously pumping in and out of your bum. He notices a trace of blood along his shaft, but he closes his eyes to avoid the sight, letting himself get lost in this magnificent sensation that trumps your first deflowering a thousand times over. He pulls you up toward him, doggy-style, and goes at you with rabbit-fast desperation.
You can’t really feel anything in your butt anymore, just him moving in and out. He’s too caught up in the moment to notice anything, either. You feel nice and wet back there, super-wet, but his eyes are closed as he jackhammers you like it’s the end of days. He doesn’t see all the blood dripping on the bed until he pops, and boy, does he pop. Hard. He empties his big fat I-just-busted-my-wife’s-cherry-for-the-second-time-oh-yeah load into your posterior and you take it, raise your butt up to receive it, and as he collapses onto your back on the bed, he wonders at all the wetness beneath him. Was he sweating that much? He checks. Nope. Were you sweating that much? There’s a nope to that, too. He rises and sees the blood. You glance back and see the blood. And as he slowly pulls out of your booty, you feel the pain—the shredded pain—of the ripping your rectum has taken without either of you really being aware.
Cut to: The hospital, 11:28 p.m. You and your husband arrive at the emergency room and stand at the desk, shamefacedly explaining to the intake nurse exactly why you’re there. You’ve got a maxipad stuffed inside your cotton panties, but it’s not under your vagina, it is under your bleeding ass. Your beloved is wearing the face of a thousand shames. The nurse asks if you were on any medications and you say no, not at all, until you remember… dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnnnnnn: the Aleve.
The Aleve. The Aleve. The fucking Aleve! The very Aleve that I warned of in a Vixen Tip earlier. The same Aleve that I mentioned you shouldn’t take on the day of The Big Deflowering. The aforementioned Aleve I noted was an anticoagulant that could very well make any rips in your rectum that occur during anal sex bleed way worse than normal.
So now at 12:09 a.m. you’ve got a shredded booty as you lie on your side in the hospital bed and your husband’s still throwing up at the thought of all that blood. His penis still has blood on it, too, because he didn’t have time to wash it before you left the house. There was no time. He had to race to get you to here, lest your bottom bleed out.
Let that be a lesson to you, ladies, and you, too, butt fuckers. Read these fantasy chapters carefully. Pay attention to the fine print. If the fine print says avoid a certain kind of medication, well, dammit, then avoid that medication. The worst part of all this is that it isn’t even fine print. It’s written out plain as day, in a font large enough for you to clearly make out. Also, your hubby could have been a little less rabid to get at your ass. Just because he was able to get three fingers in without much difficulty, it didn’t mean you were ready to have your ass plunged into. That’s what the beads and the butt plug were for. They would have helped ease you into the situation, and maybe you wouldn’t have had the tears that you did. Not that the rips were critical or life threatening. They just bled a lot because of the Aleve, but that’s already been taken care of.
Look at that poor soul vomiting into that can and you there with the smear of ointment on your pucker. Next time, try the sex on your period version of the virginity fantasy. Sure, it may be bloody, but at least it won’t put you in the hospital. And there’s definitely a way that your husband can enjoy it. Blindfold him if you have to and then wreak bloody havoc with his cock and balls. He won’t see the blood, but he’ll feel its gushy wetness. Of course, the whole purpose of the sex-on-your-period fantasy is for him to actually see blood so that it replicates the experience of busting your cherry all over again. But your husband is a bit dramatic, now, isn’t he? The last thing you want is for him to hurl on you during sex.
Now that I think about it, why don’t you guys just skip this fantasy and try something else? Maybe the next chapter will work better for you. At least it won’t involve blood, hospitals, and asses smeared with ointment. And vomiting.
At least, I hope not.
It better not. If it does, then I’m going to have a talk with you two!