Do you Remember the First Time?

Posted on 26 January, 2008

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“Hi Mr. Drayton, can I come in?”

I smiled weakly, pushing my handbag back over my shoulder, hoping the request wouldn’t be turned down. Mr. Drayton took some time to answer. He glanced up and down the street, a little perplexed. He looked back at me, seeming surprised to see my eyes still fixed on him, like he thought I might have vanished. He opened his mouth to speak as he moved back against the door frame. No words came out, but I took his movement as a sign I could go inside.

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He closed the door behind me as I headed inside, the sound of the heavy rain outside suddenly feeling far away.

“How can I help you Clarissa?” he asked, trying to sound jovial.

The first words he’d spoken to me, as a matter of fact. I enjoyed the voice, if not the tone. I took a moment to study his sparse room, stepping inside gingerly. It was tidy but bland, a sofa, table, armchair, some shelves. Nothing looked particularly new, but aside from the armchair it all seemed unused. The couple of books and cds I saw on the shelves reminded me of a furniture store display. I stared at them for a moment, water dripping from my hair.

Mr. Drayton coughed, I turned. He looked concerned so I smiled.  My clothes were already soaked, my white t-shirt translucent, pink skin and bra visible underneath. “So what can I do for you?” He repeated, uneasily. 

What I told him wasn’t strictly true. My parents would probably be back pretty soon, but things had been so strange  I had no desire to go home. Mum had become kind of secretive, introverted, very unlike herself. College couldn’t come fast enough. Still, the silence was nice, it beat the insults. Reclusive, hopeless, more recently cocky and vain. Wet was her favourite though. “Think you know it all but you’re just a silly wet girl”. I bit my tongue those times, and I didn’t tell things strictly true.
“So I knocked on your door and here I am!” I said brightly.

The high pitch of those last few words jarred with the silence of the room that followed. I wasn’t sure if Mr. Drayton had been listening, because he was staring dumbly. His voice was flat when he finally spoke, his mind elsewhere.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

He left the room, and I wondered if I should sit down. Cold and wet in that dull room, my clothes clinging to me, I suddenly felt very vulnerable. Was this what I wanted?
He returned and handed me the towel, handing it at arms length, a defensive gesture, it seemed. I threw it over my head, massaging my skull, scrunching up my long blonde hair. The towel covered my eyes and I wondered what Mr. Drayton was doing while I couldn’t see.

I knew he’d been watching me recently, the last year or so. We’d moved next door to him a few summers back, but I hadn’t been conscious of him myself until last spring. I’d been 18 then, and my body was finally mine, much later than I’d hoped. I added a couple of inches in what seemed like just a few weeks, though I imagine it must have been longer. My breasts became rounder, swelling to a then awkward size. It happened so quickly that everything in my closet had become suddenly too small. My mother had begun to castigate me about the way I dressed, unfairly I thought, especially considering her own wardrobe.

I peered from behind the towel. Mr. Drayton looked away guiltily.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked quickly.

I nodded, holding the towel with both hands in front of my lap. His eyes lingered on me for a moment, my legs and then my breasts, before he left the room. When he returned I was leaning back in the sofa, looking up at him. I took the drink from his hand, brushed his fingers, felt strong.

He sat opposite me on the chair. When our eyes made contact he smiled pleasantly, but his eyes contradicted him, they were hard, serious. He was agitated and trying to mask it.

“So, enjoying the summer?” he asked.

“Getting bored.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have lots of things to occupy your mind at University, I’m sure. Lots of new people to meet. There’s more to life than goes on in this town, you should remember that.”

He finished his sentence abruptly and I sensed something threatening in his words. The mention of university hit me harder though, I still wasn’t sure I had the grades. I lost myself in thoughts of being stuck in this town forever, every little action considered, talked about and judged. Just getting your ears pierced made you a harlot in Rosaton. When I glanced back to reality, Mr. Drayson’s eyes had drifted to my chest. He turned quickly. I smiled.

I had began to enjoy the attention I received from men, the experience of being noticed, the knowledge of being wanted. There was darker World all around me and suddenly, I saw it. And was the centre of it. I was a woman who was desired secretly, it excited me. Just a few months before I was invisible. Now I could observe sly smiles, dirty little glances. I walked around the town making eye-contact with as many attractive men as I could, getting particular thrills from the men accompanied by their wives. It became a familiar game, flashing them a naughty smile as we passed, imagining my face in their mind the next time they fucked.

That was as close as I’d got to sex. I’d had a boyfriend but  broken up. He could have had me but I resented the pressure. I wouldn’t be forced into anything. I didn’t want to be taken, I wanted to take. I felt certain of my power, then.

“I hope I’m not intruding on you.” I said innocently, crossing my long bare legs.

“I am a little busy, as it happens.” he replied.

He tried to sound nonchalant, but there was something else in his eyes. Fear, possibly. I hadn’t expected that, he’d always struck me as a confident man. He was the only person in our small town who hadn’t spent his whole life there, wasn’t even from there. Some people looked on him as an outsider still. He was treated with suspicion. Whether through choice or not, he kept himself to himself and was something of a mystery. This mystery intrigued me, attracted me.

I sat up a little, searched in my bag.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“I…are you old enough?” he asked.

“I’m 19,” I shot back, putting the cigarette between my lips. I lit it quickly. I inhaled. I closed my eyes as the first wave of smoke passed through my parted lips. My eyes open again, I glared at him.

We stared at one another for a while, as if waiting to see who would break. We listened to the rain outside. Although around my father’s age he was still in pretty good shape, and must have been quite athletic in his youth. The only hint of age were the wisps of grey hair around his temple. Sitting there he looked older, perhaps because of the prosaic surroundings or the uncertain look on his face. I could see it now, anxiety, his nerves seemed as frayed as the carpet. His attitude annoyed me a little, I’d expected more.

He’d been the first man I’d been aware of, the first to see me. Last spring when I’d been fooling around in the garden, I’d caught his eye. I knew he was looking at me, and that he kept looking for a long time. I woke up that day, I became aware. My tight cut-out denim shorts, my bikini top, the way I curled my fingers in my hair were suddenly infused with something sexual. They had been just the clothes I wore. Now they were my weapons. I wanted to use them, to toy with them, to use and toy with him. What could happen? I owned my body, he just wanted it.

“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Drayton.” I asked, leaning back on the sofa, hands behind my head.

He tried to laugh casually, it came out a nervous snort.

“Like what?”

“Well, what’s your name?”

After a pause, “Philip.”

“Philip.” I repeated slowly, smiling. I took a drag on my cigarette imagining the name crossing my lips again and again in quick succession, each time rising in pitch.

“Ok Philip, tell me about yourself.”

He chuckled, as if this was ridiculous, trying to convince himself I was just a girl. My legs stretching out on the sofa, my flimsy cheerleader skirt riding up, catching his eye. I waited.

“I work for an insurance company. I drive a good car. I play a little tennis, a little golf, sometimes with your father. He trusts me.”

This last thing he said triumphantly, as if he expected to shock me with it. I blew out smoke, flicking ash back into the packet.

“Does he know you like watching me?”

The question hung in the air like the smoke. I waited tensely for a moment before looking back across at him.

“You do like watching me, don’t you?”

He smiled, leaning back in his chair, muscles taut. For the first time I saw the man I’d come to see. Coiled yet composed, self-assured, cocky. I saw the smile he smiled at my father, I know who I am, I’m at home in myself, satisfied. Imperceptibly, something had changed.
“Yes,” He drawled, “I enjoy watching you.”

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I rolled over onto my stomach, reached across to the coffee table stubbing out my cigarette on a tray. My long legs stretched out over the sofa, muscles tight, held together. The tiny skirt had ridden up, only just covering the space where tight thighs became firm, swollen cheeks. I knew Philip’s eyes would be lying somewhere between there and my knee-length socks, somewhere on my long, deliciously slender white skin.

“Why do you like watching me Philip?” I asked, excited about using his name.

“I think you know.”

“Tell me.”

He sat, legs open, stroking his unshaven chin, smug and smiling. I’d enjoyed having him watch me before, but this was more thrilling. I could hear the names in my head of what people would call me. Slut, bitch, whore. It felt good to be an outcast. This room was a secret, normal rules didn’t apply. And I was in control, I thought.

He sat up, leaned forward, resting one arm on his thigh.

“I watch you because I’d like to fuck you,” he said playfully.

His eyes didn’t move from mine.

“You have very nice tits. Your legs are long and nice looking, I want to stroke them right now. I’ve imagined your pussy. Hot, wet and tight.”

I flinched, faltered, but kept his eye. We were quiet while the butterflies spun around my stomach. The pit of my stomach. He glanced down at my belly, watching it move with my breathe. Take me now while I’m strong.

“So?” He asked.

I couldn’t quite move. He shrugged stood, pulled his pants down artlessly. His long cock came out, nodding at me as it grew. I was fascinated, detached. He stepped towards me, sat on the sofa, began to stroke my naked legs. I closed my eyes. I was unsure, chastised myself, and then I turned. There was no going back, so I turned. I rolled onto my side, I took his head in my hand. His teeth jarred against mine as I thrust my tits into his chest.

I remember the harsh wool of his sweater scratched my stomach as his cock rubbed my thigh. I remember his precum on my skin like honey. I felt my panties go terribly damp, his hands wrench at my tits. I remember that I blushed. 
He tore my panties half way down. I yelped. I moaned. I liked the way he looked at me. I draped my arm across my chest modestly, he seemed to like me more. I parted my thighs for him. I wanted to please.
He came inside me, and I wanted it. It felt good to feel full.  But all I could do was watch the rain hit the window outside. It was beautiful. It was ugly. A grunt, a groan, and gone.

I remembered when I was very young, and I had had a balloon. A red one that I had let go. I remember watching it float away and feeling helpless, lonely and small.
When I left his house, the weather had cleared up. Perhaps the sun had come out earlier, but it had gotten dark. There were dark clouds on the horizon, just visible in the gloom. The rain had stopped at least, for the time being, though it didn’t matter to me. After all, I was still wet.

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