Forced
2006-07-20
She had the choice. In spite of all that happened and what she said afterwards, she always had the choice. We had been out drinking. . . well, I had. I was loaded. She didn't drink. She was a freshman that year, still clinging to her homespun Catholic midwestern ideals. She didn't drink, didn't do drugs, only smoked to be cool. . . and had held on to her virginity.
Not that I hadn't been working her. The entire first semester she was there, I had been her friend, complimenting her, listening to her problems, her difficulties adjusting to college life, her arguments with her mother. One night, after only a few weeks of school had passed, I decided to make my first move, and invited her out to a local college haunt.
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It wasn't a romantic spot at all; it was really just a place where you could get a burrito and a beer, overly loud, screened-in porch, etc. I think a movie star or a rock musician or two had frequented it in the past or something, giving it its allure. It wasn't the sort of place where you could impress a girl by buying her an expensive meal. Rather, you had to impress her by listening to what she said and talking intelligently about her interests.
That night, we went back to my dorm room. We talked some more, talked and talked and talked. She was getting visibly flustered. I could tell that she was becoming more and more attracted to me, and this attraction scared her. She clearly didn't know what she would do if left alone with me, and she asked me to take her back to her dorm. We got into my car, and after perhaps thirty seconds of silence I started up a new conversation. By the time we got to the parking lot outside of her dorm, I had her once again talking in-depth about herself. I asked her about a boy back home she had mentioned several times.
"It must have been hard," I said, "leaving the boy you love behind to come to school. "
"Oh no," she shook her head vigorously. "He's not, like, my boyfriend, or anything.
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I've never had a boyfriend. "
"Never had a boyfriend?" I said, seizing my chance and touching her hair lightly. "Girl as pretty as you? Bullshit. "
She winced, as she always did when I swore around her. "Nope. I've never even been kissed. "
Without speaking I pulled her head towards me and began kissing her deeply. After a moment of furious kissing I pulled back from her and said, "Now you have. "
She took the initiative now, kissing me deeply and passionately. What happened next happened quickly. It's another reason that I still think that she had a choice those three months later. I whispered in her ear that she was making me hugely hard. Her face went pink, but she didn't pull back or try to get out of the car. Grabbing her wrist and pulling it towards my lap, I asked her if she wanted to touch it. She nodded, shaking, as I put her hand on my rigid cock and held it forcefully against my tightening jeans, kissing her again.
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"Do you want to see it?" I asked.
She nodded again, more enthusiastically this time, and I told her to undo my pants. She had trouble with my belt buckle, so I undid that for her while she unzipped and unsnapped me. When my jeans were open, I slid them down along with my boxer shorts, revealing my hard dick.
Without asking, I held it at the base with my left hand, raising it up, and simultaneously pushed down on the back of her neck. Within seconds this little timid Catholic virgin was sucking my cock, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my thigh, trying hard not to gag on me as she was unable to swallow her spit, which coated my balls in a wet sheen.
Who knows how many of her fellow residents passed by and saw what was happening? Who knows how many knew who she was? I don't know and I don't care, but I certainly didn't tell her if they passed by, or if they lingered. As nice as I had been to her, there had always been a purpose, and this was it. Finally I pulled her head off of my cock and put her hand on it instead, holding her lips mere inches from the tip of my glans as I told her to use her spit as lube and beat me off. I used the hair at the base of her neck to keep her from recoiling in shock as what felt like a gallon of cum shot out onto her lips and face and glasses.
She sat up, lips glistening, still dirty from what I had shot onto her. As I used her left hand to wipe the last remainders of my load off of my cock, I asked -- tenderly, mind you -- if she felt all right about what had just happened.
"I. . .
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I guess," she said. I could tell she was lying. In fact, she was on the verge of tears. It was time for the test. I took her right hand, the one not slimed with semen, kissed the tips of her fingers, and placed it under her skirt.
"What do you feel like doing now?" I asked as she gasped. "Tell me the truth. How wet is that little virgin cunt?"
"You're not supposed to call it that," she admonished me, but didn't take her hand away from her crotch.
"Answer my question"
After a moment's hesitation: "Really wet. "
A girl who will suck a cock seconds after getting her first kiss is not a girl who should cry rape later on. A girl who will wear my hot load back to her dorm room while people are still up and around is not a girl who should be concerned about the way people view her. However, should and will are two different things. There was one more time that semester that she sucked my cock, and then a friend of hers convinced her that I was the wrong sort of people to be hanging out with. I had to work an entire nother semester to get what I really wanted from her, and I almost missed my chance.
We were out drinking, like I said before, only I was shooting whiskey while she nursed a Diet Coke.
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It wasn't just us; we were out with a group of friends, celebrating the Super Bowl. The Rams had defeated Tennessee on the final play of the ballgame. It was one of the coldest nights of the year, and my dorm's proximity to the bar compared with hers, coupled with the fact that although I was her ride home, I was hopelessly blitzed, may have contributed to her being in my dorm room that night. But mainly, it was my willingness to listen to all of her problems and concerns.
She had never had a good relationship with her mother, a domineering and judgmental cunt from the description. Somehow -- I can't remember how, as drunk as I was -- that subject came up. We came to a point where I could turn one way and be at my dorm, or turn another way and drive to hers, where I asked her if she wanted to keep talking or if she wanted to go to bed. She chose to keep talking, and we went back to my dorm room. She was enticed, she said later, by the prospect of having my ear all night long. I promised to talk to her as long as I could stay awake, but the second we got to my dorm room I stripped naked, shut off the lights, told her she could have the top bunk, and passed out in my bed.
The next thing I remember is waking up at around four in the morning, still drunk and desperately horny. I didn't even think; I simply rolled out of bed, climbed up top, pulled down the covers, grabbed her hand, and placed it on my cock. Now she claims that she was sleeping right up until the point of penetration, but I know differently.
Her hand grasped. It moved up and down my shaft.
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And yes, it struggled when I first grabbed the wrist.
When I was fully hard, I rolled her over and straddled her face, dipping the head of my cock between her lips. It took a couple of pokes, but I felt her lips part, felt her tongue on me, recognized that feeling. I knew that, drunk as I was, I was about to lose my balance and fall, so I pulled away from her face before that could happen. I rolled her back onto her stomach and pushed up her long skirt. She was wearing - I kid you not - white cotton granny panties underneath. I'm sorry for the vulgarity, but that's the only way that I can describe them. I pulled them down. I saw what was before me. I knew that now was the time. Pick one, I told myself. Pick one.
Here's how I made my choice: I knew that I was too drunk to pull out, and I knew that, being a virgin, there's no way this girl was on the pill. Her virginity would have to wait; I pressed the head of my cock against her tight pink anus. It took some force, but I finally penetrated her.
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She never fought me.
I'd like to repeat that. It's important that you know that she never fought me.
She moaned a bit when the head of my cock went into her asshole. She cried out in pain when I shoved the entire length of my shaft into her. But that was the extent of the sound that came out of her. She never struggled, never told me no, never tried to get away or push me off. And she could have; she was sober and I was drunk, she was taller than me and athletic and could have overpowered me in that state, had she chosen to. She chose to lie there and let me violate her ass for nearly fifteen minutes.
Once the full shaft had penetrated and my balls were resting on the backs of her thighs, a strange thing happened. The tightness stayed; she was incredibly tight. But it became easier to push in and out, as if she was self-lubricating. In my stupor, I forgot all anal sex technique and started fucking her ass as if it were a pussy. When I came I slammed into her and stretched her asshole upwards at the same time, and while she made no noise she gripped the sheets tightly, her body went rigid, and her shoulders began spasming, almost as if she were crying.
I left my load in her, climbed back down into my bed, and went to sleep.
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Later, when the accusations were flying, I claimed to not remember any of it happening. I was passed out, I said, I had so much to drink you could have told me I tamed an elephant and I wouldn't remember it.
But I remember. I remember very well.
.
