July 1, 1936
I had been back from school for winter break when I met my mom's new boyfriend for the earliest time. My parents divorced when I'm five, so that it wasn't love it was traumatic or anything to meet up with the guy. I did not expect him to become so damn hot, though. He's a trainer, and fit as hell—six-pack-abs-and-ripped-arms fit, like you see in advertisements for losing weight fast supplements and gym memberships. When he rang the doorbell one night around 6pm looking for my mom, who was simply out back then, I made a decision to play hostess in my comfy but clingy sweats. I invited him inside and poured us each a glass of wine.
Couple of hours later, there we were two bottles deep and neither people had heard from my mother. I made the earliest move, touching his knee and after that sliding me up his inner thigh. When I managed to get to his crotch, he leaned back and said, ‘Fuck it!' Then he stood up. I stood up too, within the seat of the couch. Then I jumped into his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his waist and impressively firm ass. His dick felt so good poking through his pants, rubbing on my vagina, I knew I could orgasm from dry humping him similar to that. But I wanted him inside me, so I reached down and grabbed it. We fucked—fast—within the laundry room, where we'd a take a look at the driveway should my mother came back. Most of our clothes were on, and we powered within the washer therefore it would vibrate beneath me as he pumped and pumped, deeper and deeper. It had been the dirtiest thing I've ever done, and I'd do it again.”