Nandita To Nandini
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High And Dry: Part 1 – Protection free porn video
A call on my mobile at about ten in the evening was how things would normally start. A withdrawn voice, possibly infused with tears, would ask a simple question: “Can I come over?” It would be the advisory that I should expect a girl and her bicycle at my window within the next twenty minutes. It had become something of a routine over the past few months…
----
I had first met Emma the previous year when she accompanied her mother to a barbecue at the home of my family and me. My parents had been taking part in a local political campaign and hosted a lunch for fellow volunteers. She seemed rather quiet to begin with, but when I withdrew from the gathering after the meal to the lounge room she soon followed me and we got talking. Her interests were what could be crudely described as nerdy: literature and music, with her tastes in the latter being rather eclectic. One wouldn’t normally expect a conversation to start with a whinge about the Rimsky-Korsakoff trombone concerto I was practising at school, proceed through Emerson, Lake and Palmer and end with a debate on the merits of Radiohead (we disagreed on Kid A but we both loved The Bends) but that’s what I got that afternoon with Emma. It didn’t hurt, or help, that her appearance was worthy of more than a second glance: dark shoulder-length hair, green eyes and pale skin on an averagely-built five-foot-ten frame clad in a white shirt, grey jumper, jeans and Doc Marten boots.
While I sympathised with my parents’ politics (not exactly relevant to the story but, for the record, best described as progressive), I hadn’t been interested in campaign work up to that point, but when Emma’s mother mentioned as they were leaving that she had started assisting with letterboxing, my interest was piqued. A couple of weekends later we met up on a street corner on the edge of Melbourne’s north-eastern suburbs with a map, a few hundred flyers and Melbourne’s famously fickle Spring weather threatening to behave itself.
As we thrust flyers into every letterbox we encountered, the two of us taking turns, we got talking about ourselves. I, Francis, was the younger of two children, with my sister Melanie six years older and having moved to the UK long-term earlier that year, and my parents still quite happily married. I attended the local state secondary school, in Year Eleven at that time. Emma’s story was a bit more complicated: her parents had split up a few years before when her mother came to the realisation that she preferred the intimate company of another woman. Emma’s father lived in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs where she grew up, and she still attended school there (also a state secondary, but with a prestigious reputation and a restrictive entry policy to match, where she was also in Year Eleven), but her mother had moved in with her partner in the same suburb as me. Emma and her younger sister Amber would divide their time between both parents, usually spending a fortnight’s stretch with each parent.
As the year rolled towards its conclusion, Emma and I would catch up whenever we could, sometimes on campaign work but also just socially. While I had some feelings for her I couldn’t bring myself to actually ask her out. Much like her, I was something of a nerd, cursed with a shyness that was, to quote Morrissey, criminally vulgar. While I had adventurous musical tastes of my own, in lieu of Emma’s love of books I had a rather more unusual interest in trains and buses: what Americans would call a “foamer”. My idea of getting out of the house was usually taking long rides on my bicycle, sometimes in pursuit of my hobby but often just to take in the hilly countryside near to home. At school I had not received much attention from the opposite sex: was it my appearance (five-foot-ten, average build, shaggy auburn hair, brown eyes, features that could be referred to as “baby-faced”) or was it just that I couldn’t bring myself to walk up to a girl and talk to her without sounding a jabbering fool? In any case, my self-doubt stopped me from asking her if she wanted to be mine, and she seemed to have no particular interest in breaking the impasse herself. Or least it seemed...
----
It was a Friday night in late November when it first happened. Having no plans that night I had retired to my bedroom where I was in an online forum for train enthusiasts. As I was debating the merits of Melbourne’s recent suburban trains versus Sydney’s at ten o’clock, my mobile rang. It was Emma, and she sounded distressed.
“Hi, Emma. What’s up this late?”
“I’m not feeling good, Fran. Are you at home?” she said, her voice showing signs of recent crying.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Can I come over?”
“Sure. It’s late though. Did you want me to come over and we walk back? What’s wrong?”
“No. I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“OK. It’s late. You might want to come to my window rather than knocking on the door. Are you sure you’re OK to come over?”
“I’m sure. See you soon.”
I tidied up what mess there was in my room. Having prepared to go to bed at some point I was only in a t-shirt and boxer shorts; I hastily pulled out a pair of cargo shorts and put them on in order to look halfway decent for an impromptu visit.
My house was one of those large homes often found on the fringes of Australian suburbia and built back in the Eighties: single story with living areas in the centre, children’s bedrooms to one side of that, and the master bedroom – the “parent’s retreat” – on the other side, all on an acre block landscaped mainly with native plants. The main entrance was closer to the parent’s end of the house: having an unexpected female visitor knocking on the front door would have probably resulted in a surprised reaction from my folks and, possibly, an awkward conversation about potential nocturnal activities. Luckily most rooms, mine included, had a sliding door outside: installed mainly to allow ventilation in the hot Australian summer, but with the side benefit of providing ease of access on those occasions where one wanted to enter or leave without tipping the folks off.
Twenty minutes later I glanced out the window and saw what appeared to be a bicycle headlamp move down our street, slowing to a stop before being turned off. Having decided it was nothing, I went back to my screen before hearing footsteps and the sound of a bicycle freewheel ticking. Emma stepped into view and I slid my door open for her.
“Didn’t realise you rode as well.”
“You didn’t ask, did you?”
She sat on the edge of my bed, a double futon, and opened up about that night. Emma and her mother’s partner had a massive argument, and it wasn’t the first time. Her mother’s partner was a butch with a capital B and apparently wasn’t averse to bullying from time to time. Previously, with nowhere to easily go over this side of town she had to sit it out; now, she felt she had somewhere she could go.
While Melanie’s room next door had been vacant for nearly a year, I wasn’t keen on explaining why someone had crashed out there to my parents the next day. Besides, Emma wanted the company, so I offered to share my bed. She lay down and fell asleep almost immediately, while I took a little longer as I wondered how I finally managed to have a girl so close to me.
Saturday morning soon rose and I awoke to find Emma facing me, with a rare smile on her face.
“Thank you for having me, for putting up with me”, she said.
“No problem.”
She put an arm around me, pulled me close and placed a lingering kiss on my lips. I was taken aback slightly, wondering why on earth someone would want to be so close to me, before returning the favour. We took turns gently sucking on each other’s lips before I inadvertently passed my tongue over her lip. Unlike my reaction at the start, she didn’t flinch, copying with her tongue. Soon our mouths opened up and our tongues touched, commencing a session of passionate kissing lasting fifteen minutes until we finally broke.
“I guess this is the point where I’m supposed to say ‘I love you’?” I sheepishly asked.
“Yes, and I love you too, Francis”, she said smilingly.
I heard activity in the kitchen. My parents were up and about.
“I’ll go and explain to them, so they don’t get a shock”, I said.
As I entered the kitchen the phone rang. My mother answered it, and soon the tone turned serious.
“Has she? Well…” There was a pause as she listened. “I’m not sure. He’s here, I’ll ask.” Mum turned to me. “Francis, it’s Emma’s mum. She’s gone missing…”
“That’s what I was going to tell you. She’s here, she stayed with me last night.”
“And when were you planning to tell us?”
“Right now.”
She raised the handset. “Don’t worry, she’s here… oh, OK. See you soon. Bye.” She turned back to me. “Is she OK?”
“She’s fine, she’s better than she was last night.”
“Oh good. They were worried.”
I made to head back to my room. As I did, my mother piped up.
“Oh, and… did…”
“The answer’s either no or no comment,” I said curtly.
“Did she walk here? In the dark?”
“No, and neither did some mysterious soul leave a bike outside my window.”
----
This happened a few more times over the following months: there would be a falling out between Emma and her mother’s partner, Emma would walk out and turn up at my bedroom window shortly afterwards. Sometimes it would be earlier in the day, sometimes it would be on a school night in which case she’d bring all of her gear on foot and head straight to school the next day, but usually it would be a Friday or Saturday night.
There was a rather clumsy discussion between my parents and me about how to accommodate Emma, with them under the presumption that there wasn’t anything happening between the two of us: fair enough, it was early days. While they were completely OK with her sleeping in Melanie’s long-unused bed, I thought that Emma might feel funny about spending the night alone in an unusual room. There was the option of an inflatable mattress but… well, you can make your own jokes about pumping up an air bed at midnight…
Soon, though, it was clear that we were an item, and we were welcomed into each other’s family’s homes that Christmas. I felt a bit awkward at Emma’s mother’s house, meeting the woman who seemed to be causing all manner of torment – and, inadvertently, bringing Emma and myself closer together – but dinner with them was civil enough.
When school resumed at the end of January I seemed to have a sunnier disposition. There may have still been the jokes about dating the books in the library or being in need of a girlfriend, but at least I knew I was fine on that front. Even the leader of the school concert band, whom I had a secret crush on for the better part of two years, noted I didn’t sound as awkward around her.
“You’re sounding more relaxed. Did something happen over the holidays?”
“Well…”
“Or did someone happen over the holidays?”
“Well…”
“Ooh, Franny’s got a girl…”
“Er, yes…”
“So, who is she?”
“It’s no-one you know of…”
“So she’s imaginary…”
“No, she just doesn’t go here.”
Sure, I may not have had the prestige of being able to swan about the school grounds with my girl hand-in-hand, but I felt much better knowing there was someone who not only cared for me but actually trusted me.
My liaisons with Emma were still at an early stage. We would make out whenever we had the chance, an outcome of the fact we didn’t see each other every day, and it felt good. But I didn’t want to push things on too fast: every time I had the desire to maybe push my hands further down or further up and feel more of her, I would remember that she sought me for security and trust and that I think twice before doing anything that might suggest that I would exploit that. But the desires were there, and they would linger long after Emma returned back to either of her parents. A doubt developed in me: what if I could not convince her that I wanted to go further with her? What if she decided she could go no further with me and decided to take her own new-found confidence and find someone new?
In an attempt to break out of that funk, I decided to at least get myself prepared. One night, I took the long walk from my house to the local shops and purchased the two things I thought I may be needing in the future: a packet of condoms and a tube of lubricant. Thank goodness for the self-serve checkout at the supermarket: in this state of mind, the last thing I needed was the storyline from Madness’s “House of Fun” playing out in front of me. As I walked back, I tried to imagine just what it would be like to finally be fully intimate with Emma. Unfortunately, my mind instead decided to focus on the mechanics of putting on a condom in that moment, which proved to be quite a downer.
Easter passed and April saw both Emma and I celebrate our eighteenth birthdays, two weeks apart. A week after her birthday, she had another falling out with her mother’s partner and, once again, my mobile rang and a sullen-sounding Emma announced that she was coming over.
----
Autumn had finally kicked into gear in Melbourne, and while the night was clear and the moon was full there was a clear frostiness in the air outside. Emma pulled up to my window wearing a fleecy jacket and a pair of pedal-pushers, leaning her bicycle next to my window before sliding open the door. I bounded up and embraced her, the combination of the scent of the shampoo she must have used when showering earlier that night and the sweat from her bike ride filling my nostrils.
“Are you OK, Emma”, I asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just the same old thing”, she said with a combination of exasperation and fatigue: the former from the argument, the latter probably due to the exertion of the ride.
After kissing our hellos I briefly adjourned to the bathroom to clean my teeth. When I returned Emma had taken off her jacket, revealing the red t-shirt she had been wearing. I had lent her that shirt on a previous occasion when she was short of clean clothes along with a pair of my jeans, exploiting the fact that our similarly-built bodies meant my clothes fit almost perfectly on her; it meant “boyfriend jeans” had additional meaning in her case. She had also taken off her pedal-pushers and was wearing a pair of navy blue satin boxer shorts.
I embraced her and I asked her again about that night’s events.
“No, I said I don’t want to talk about it”, she said, her exasperation still evident.
“I want to help. I want you to be happy…” I offered.
“Well, you can help by not asking. Not now.”
I slowly kissed Emma and moved to get into bed. Emma followed, lying next to me on her side as we had done previously. I turned off the light and we soon settled into our usual actions of making out: kissing and sucking each other’s lips, stroking each other’s faces – my favourite was tracing my finger from her forehead down the bridge and tip of her nose to her lips where she would snatch a kiss – and, in my case, kissing down her neck. As usual, I wouldn’t try to hold Emma too tightly, and I kept my hands up on her body as though it was a mere cuddle.
“I love you, Emma”, I said quietly.
“I love you too, Fran”, she replied.
“Are you OK with me?”
“Yes. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Am I doing what you hoped from me? Am I being what you hoped?” I said, my doubt showing somewhat.
“You are. I feel good with you, I feel safe with you, I want to be with you”, she reassured me before resuming her kisses.
I moved my arm to relieve it from fatigue but, in a split-second decision, decided to run my hand up under her shirt and up her back. I finally decided to test my nerve and see if Emma was receptive. She gave a small moan and shifted herself closer to me. I gently brushed my fingers across her back knowing that they would probably be sending tingles up her spine. I worked my way up and down her back like one would work a lawnmower across a yard, noting the absence of a bra. Once I made it to the upward side of her back I traced my hand along her side and brushed her breast, feeling the softer texture of the skin. She moaned again and I placed my hand on her tit, gently squeezing it while tracing around her nipple with my thumb.
She moved, and my first thought was that I had finally gone too far. Instead, she sat up, crossed her arms and took off her t-shirt, revealing a pair of cute, firm breasts in the moonlight; I would later find out they were a 36B. I responded in kind by taking off my shirt and then reaching out Emma, placing both hands on the side of her bust and running my thumbs over her tits. She then lay back down and encouraged me to move on top of her. Starting at her lips, I kissed my way down her neck and across her chest before reaching the cleft between her breasts, taking in her scent of lemongrass soap, rose-scented deodorant and the remnants of the sweat from her bike ride. Faced with a choice I moved over to her left tit, kissing and licking on and around her nipple before soon moving over to the right tit and repeating the formula.
Meanwhile, Emma kept running the fingers of one hand through my hair, sending shivers across my scalp, whilst stroking my neck and back with the other hand. Soft moans would emit from her mouth every so often; when I kissed her breast she breathily said “Oh my God”, soon repeated when the other breast was also tended to.
After a period gorging on her tits, I resumed my path of kisses down her belly. Upon reaching her belly button I quickly poked my tongue in, causing Emma to flinch and let out a giggle. I continued the kisses until I reached the waistband of her boxer shorts, brushing my chin against the smooth satin and landing the last kiss right above the band. All the while I had slowly traced my hands down her sides, coming to rest on her hips with the fingers just sitting above the waistband and posed as though to hook under it.
I looked back up over the horizon of Emma’s bust, seeking either a reaction or a sign of approval. The reply soon came: “Would you like to go further?”
Giddy with the feeling that I already had made one bet pay off, I took her question as the cue to proceed. With my fingers already in place, I hooked them into the waistband of her boxer shorts and began pulling down. Emma lifted herself slightly to allow the boxers to clear from under her arse, possibly validating my judgement, and I looked in anticipation of when her smooth, hairless belly would end and her possibly hairy crotch would begin. To my surprise the hairless plain continued downwards and, when the waistband had reached the top of her slit, I realised that she had shaven her pussy. It was not exactly what I had expected of the shy and nerdy Emma I knew.
I pulled her boxers right down her legs and over her feet, and then appreciated the naked, moonlit form lying in front of me. I resumed my place from where I last kissed her, continuing downwards. My chin soon felt a cleft in her skin as I kissed her where one would ordinarily find pubic hair before my mouth too found her pussy. I placed a kiss on her slit before splaying her lips and licking her clit. Emma emitted another moan, louder than previously, so I continued licking away for a while before moving slightly downwards to tend to her hole. I could hear a steady stream of moans from above my head, punctuated by the occasional “my God” and “that feels so good” as I started rubbing her clit with my finger. I soon swapped around, returning my tongue to her clit while slipping my finger into her damp pussy which accelerated the moans until, without warning, she pulled my face hard into her crotch as she stifled the scream of her orgasm.
Emma held my face in her pussy for what seemed ages, her body rigid, until she released me and relaxed back upon the bed. I clambered up upon her, rushing to place my pussy-marinated lips and tongue on her mouth. When we broke, she looked at me in bewilderment.
“My God, where did that come from?” she asked, still breathless from coming.
“I was about to ask the same thing”, I said with a hint of surprise.
“Tonight, Francis, I want you to love me”, she then declared.
“I have loved you since we first met, Emma.” I was taken aback slightly at her choice of words.
“I want you to make love to me. I want to be yours”.
We kissed again, then I climbed off and knelt beside her. The tent pole in my boxer shorts was well evident at this point, the pre-come having soaked through the cotton to glisten in the moonlight. Emma reached out, grasped the waistband on both sides and pulled down my boxers, my six-inch cock springing free. I finished the task of removing my boxers before making to move to one side of my bed to open the drawers.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Protection”, I replied.
“I’m on the pill”, she softly stated.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask, did you?”
There was no point arguing: I hadn’t asked because I didn’t want to let on what I wanted to do for fear of scaring Emma. Now was not the time for that. I moved back into the space between her spread legs and lowered myself upon her. My cock came to rest on just above her pussy; I moved downwards and guided it with my hand to her warm opening.
“Are you sure you want this?” I asked, seeking to confirm consent.
“I’m sure, Fran. Just fuck me”, she said with quiet urgency.
I pushed upwards, sliding my cock into her pussy. She felt tight, and soon I came up against the barrier of her virginity. I pushed harder and lurched forward, prompting a yelp from Emma.
“You OK?” I asked.
“It stings a bit”, she responded, “but it’s settling down.”
I began slowly moving in and out of her as we resumed our kissing, keeping a steady rhythm. The tightness of her pussy reduced slightly as she relaxed, but still wrapped tightly around my cock. I soon broke off our kissing and proceeded to pull out my cock so that only the head was still in her, before pushing right in and bottoming out. Emma’s heavy breaths were soon replaced with sharper moans as I repeated the deep thrusts. I then returned back to our original rhythm, now kissing and nibbling on her ears and taking in the scent of her hair. Meanwhile, she took hold of my lower back before resting her hands on my arse cheeks, encouraging my pumping.
I raised my head and hovered it right above Emma’s face. Her face was passing through a series of contortions, a range of moaning and panting coming from her beautiful mouth. Never before had I witnessed such a display of pleasure and what I guessed was some discomfort on one face. Her eyes were closed initially, but soon opened and stared straight into mine. I first thought that maybe I had committed a grave mistake: here, in my room, in my bed, was the girl who came to me seeking comfort and shelter, who took a gamble on my trust and had relied on that trust for nearly half of a year, now lying under me in the process of being relieved of her virginity. However she soon formed her lips into a smile, and I realised that maybe this was the right thing.
“Hey”, said Emma in between hums.
“Hey”, I replied in between breaths.
“I love you. Very much.”
“I love you, more than you may ever know.”
The quilt that normally covered my bed had long since dropped off the end of the mattress. Emma’s moans soon turned to yelps as her body stiffened, she pulled me tightly against her and I felt her pussy start pulsing around my cock as she came. I became conscious of the noise emanating from our room, hoping that it could not carry through walls and cupboards and across the living area to where my parents were sleeping; that said, the whole idea of the “parents’ retreat” was to ensure such sounds couldn’t travel the other way, so I shouldn’t have been so worried.
As Emma came down from her orgasm I stepped up my pace, thrusting with increasing frequency and increasing my depth as I grew in confidence of my actions. Now she was nibbling at my ears and neck, and I moved my head around to assist in her cause, a tingle spreading across my head with each kiss and lick. I was now becoming aware of a sensation at the end of my cock, initially a mere twinge that occurred at the base of each thrust, but soon the feeling would persist and intensify. As she began to tense and yelp as she came again, I wondered if I could hold out long enough to allow her to complete another moment of pleasure.
“Oh, I’m coming again”, she declared in between moans.
“I might be joining you”, I replied with tension in my voice.
I could hold out no longer. The intense feeling in my cock built to bursting point, and with my attempts to hold back no longer sufficient I released myself into Emma’s pussy, pumping what felt like a litre of come into her. While I stopped my thrusts as I focussed on my own orgasm, the sensation of my coming was enough to tip Emma over the edge, climaxing with a repeat of the stifled yell she emitted when I made her come the first time.
As we both came down from our highs, I gripped Emma more tightly to me than I ever did before. I buried my head under her chin, kissing her upper chest as she breathed in and out deeply. I soon resumed fucking her pussy, now much more slowly and aware of the more slippery sensation courtesy of my come, before my cock soon decided to call time and soften. Soon it slid meekly out of her hole and fell between her legs.
I raised my head from Emma’s chest and placed a simple kiss on her lips.
“Wow”, I said with a breathlessness normally expected after heavy exertion.
“Wow, indeed”, she replied, almost equally as breathlessly.
“And that was…”
“The first. A good first. Ágætis Byrjun.”
“Ah, Sigur Rós…”
“It means ‘A good start’.” Yep, still the same bookish Emma. “You?”
“It was good. A good first. Með Suð Í Eyrum Við Spilum Endalaust.”
“‘With a buzz in our ears, we play endlessly.’ Maybe not tonight. I just want to lay with you.”
I clambered off Emma and retrieved the quilt from the end of the bed. As I pulled the quilt across the mattress I moved to her side, encouraging her to move so that she didn’t have to lie in the damp patch left by our passionate activities. Once our bodies were covered we resumed our poses from earlier in the night, albeit on different sides of the bed, recommencing our kisses as we embraced each other.
“I love you, Emma”, I said softly.
“I love you too, Fran”, she replied.
“Do you think, well, differently of me now?”
“Well, how?”
“After what we have done?”
“We’ve done something special. Something wonderful. Something that can never be replicated, although it could be repeated.”
I couldn’t resist making a smart-arse remark. “Schrödinger’s bonk?”
Emma burst out laughing. “Schrödinger’s pussy!”
I took the cue. “Here, contained within this pair of knickers is a pussy”, adopting a faux-BBC English voice. “It may be in a resting state or an aroused state. However, pulling down the knickers and observing it may change its state.” I struggled to finish before bursting into laughter myself.
Once we composed ourselves Emma said “One thing has changed. You’re not as uptight around me. Not now.” And she was right. From the beginning, even though I wanted to be with her and she wanted to be with me, I was always a bit anxious when we were close. I was always in fear that I might do something that Emma was not comfortable with, preferring to keep within the safe bounds of simple making-out, not making comments or jokes that might have been suggestive. I don’t know what Emma though herself: maybe she too was holding herself back, or maybe she was genuinely shy and unwilling to push things forward. Whatever it was, what we did finally broke the barrier – well, a couple of barriers in that case but, more importantly, the one that stopped me from being completely at ease with Emma.
Emma snuggled up to me. “Thank you, Francis”, she whispered
“No, thank you, Emma”, I replied.
Soon we both fell asleep, tangled together.
----
We were still tangled together when the sun streamed through my window the next morning and woke me up. As I took in the scent of Emma’s hair as I gently stroked her back, I recalled what we did the night before. Emma soon stirred herself, opened her eyes and gave a loving smile.
“What could I have done better?” I asked her.
“Nothing. It was perfect. It was special”, she answered softly. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t know. So I asked, didn’t I?”
She kissed me deeply. “Fran, you dag. You’re a good man. Don’t you ever forget it.”
THE END.
----
This is my first story. Thank you for reading.
Trisha
- 07.09.2022
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