My high school boyfriend and I weren’t too sure of how to go about the whole relationship thing.  I’ve always been a debilitating romantic, and spent most of my adolescence obsessing about boys who wouldn’t give me the time of day.  I was an avid day-time soapie enthusiast and blame that for my getting the impression that serious commitment at a young age is really quite a good idea.  Anyway, when I was 16 and finally found this gorgeous boy that actually liked me, I was at a total loss.  We were obsessed with each other and seemed to be miserable every minute we were apart.

When we were actually physically together it was a bit more complicated though.  A typical visit to his house entailed a meal with his family followed by a good couple of hours of us, alone, sitting on opposite sides of his bedroom.  Considering we spoke for hours on the phone every day there was usually very little of substance to say to each other, and we spent most of the time making small-talk.  Throughout the evening we would slowly move closer towards one another, almost as if by levitation, until somehow we were suddenly kissing frantically.  This would go on until about 4 o’clock in the morning when he would slip out to the guest bedroom so we didn’t get into trouble with his parents.

We had fumbled our way through the first couple of months and started getting more comfortable in our relationship when one evening, after a few successful hours of making out, he started moving my hand southwards.  He had been providing me with unreciprocated pleasure for about 2 months at this stage, so I wasn’t exactly shocked by the move, nonetheless I was frightened.  This was my first live penis.

I’d spoken to my friends about it before and they’d given me some tips, and I thought of these over and over and tried to perform exactly as instructed.  Almost immediately I knew that it wasn’t going to work.  I had expected my hand to just slide around down there and for it to be over in 5 minutes, but it was all dry and a bit sticky, and I knew from my tutorials that the pushing and pulling I was doing was entirely wrong.

After a while he rubbed some spit on himself – how was I supposed to know to do that? – and things started getting somewhat easier.  Still, I kept thinking that he, being far more practiced than I, should have just been doing this himself.

After 10 minutes I started swapping arms but I just couldn’t sustain the movement and my arms were killing me and every time I stopped he said he was just about to cum.  He never did.  Well not by my hands anyway.  After what seemed like a lifetime we called it a day and he went about his own business in the bathroom.  All I achieved was a bit of a work out.

We gave up on our latest venture and, for a while, got our kicks out of the occasional awkward grinding.  I really put my back into it too, scared as I was of another penis encounter, but teenage boys are not so easily satisfied and it was only a few weeks before he suggested our relationship move to the next level: oral sex.

Luckily he offered to go first, so I had a good 20 minutes to devise a plan of action.  When he eventually emerged like a man victorious (which, believe me, he wasn’t!) I had built up a fair amount of confidence.  I figured that, with the mouth automatically being involved, I wouldn’t have to worry about my hands sticking or jolting and I was pretty convinced that the thought that he was getting a blow job would be enough to satisfy him regardless of technique.   I was still somewhat scared that I might accidentally throw up on him, but from our previous experience I knew that he had a rather small penis and I resolved it was unlikely.

What I didn’t consider, however, was the consequences of success, which came far sooner than expected.  My first thought as I tasted this salty goo in my mouth was relief that whatever I had been doing had somehow worked.  Suddenly though, my whole mouth was full of the stuff and for a few seconds I sat, a bit traumatised, before I bolted down the corridor into the kitchen and spat it into the sink.  I rinsed my mouth out about five times and downed a glass of orange juice.  When I went back into the room my boyfriend was still recovering and looked at me expectantly, so I put on my sexy face, cuddled up to him and told him that, really, I’d quite enjoyed it.

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