I Was a Virgin Nymphomaniac

Entering high school with the highest sex drive I’ve ever had in my life to date, my Freshman year was tortuously frustrating. Not because I wanted every guy in sight, but exactly because I didn’t. I desperately wanted someone, yet my fantasies brought my standards so high, and I judged so thoroughly on first sight, that no one seemed good enough.

No, too fat. No, too tanned. Too hairy. Too tall. Watch for an erection… nope, too small.

It didn’t help that girls are expected to be practically sexless. We’re not supposed to want sex, we’re supposed to use it. We’re not supposed to be attracted to a male body; maleness is supposed to be an ugly and silly thing that we tolerate for its usefulness. Knowing that I didn’t feel this way, and being encouraged to think I was alone in it, did wonders to isolate me from my own sex for fear of its judgment, and to make even just experiencing lust seem so taboo that it was made all the stronger.

So, with a boiling sex drive I wasn’t supposed to have, and very specific tastes that seemed unmeetable, I was almost convinced that I was somehow broken on both levels and that I would go on like this, desperate for the impossible, through the rest of my life.

That’s how primed I was for Kyle.

Catching a lot of flak for being short and skinny and perceived as pretty feminine, girls called Kyle cute and treated him like a little brother; boys were more vicious. But I think the treatment from the girls hurt him more. Yet I thought he was beautiful.

When the first school dance of the year rolled in, I showed up dateless and depressed, but seeing Kyle off at a chair in a corner, I challenged myself to have the nerve and skill to make the best of the opportunity. He didn’t seem to notice as I closed in, and as I saw his dejected-looking state, I wanted to be delicate, but playful.

I carefully took the seat behind him, plus a deep breath, and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up from staring at the floor’s tiles and craned his neck around, saw me and widened his eyes in nervous attentiveness.

“What’s wrong?” I fought to be heard over the noise.

Confusion sat on his face for a moment. “Oh! Right.” He shook his head, putting some motion into fluffy, light hair. “Nothing. This is my neutral state.” He chuckled at his self-deprecation.

I don’t think my face showed anything. “Do you have a date?”

“April twenty-second.”

I was embarrassed to smile at the joke, but I couldn’t help it. I held a hand out to him, which he puzzled at for a moment, clearly not sure whether to take it seriously, and then took it.

I stood us from the table and moved not in toward the rest of the dancers, but outward to the nearest wall. The little light-haired Harry Potter-alike was led by the hand, by me, into those shadows where I had at some point in the last ten seconds decided to try to claim him. I don’t remember why I felt it had to be that way, but there I placed one of his arms around my waist and the other hand on a hip, fitting my body against his and moving with the building excitement I felt.

I fell into the rhythm of the music, with movements small and deliberate, not befitting the energetic dance music. He looked ready to bolt, but I quickly felt a hardening against my thigh that I took as his approval. His hips started to pull back as if to hide his arousal, whether because it embarrassed him or because he thought it would creep me out, I don’t know. I let him have that distance, but smiled to myself that he kept his hands on me.

I danced in his grip with images in my mind of those hands wandering, but the song soon ended and he pulled away tentatively, embarrassment on his face. He looked out the window awkwardly, as if searching the streetlit parking lot for words, maybe a way to apologize for not getting into the dance. I lowered my gaze to the floor in disappointment, but on their way, my eyes froze on his crotch.

The streetlights were highlighting a bulging shape that made my heart stop, my spine tingle, and my jaw slack. It strained against the fabric of his pants so tightly that little was left to my imagination. This boy’s body was almost as feminine as mine, but he had the cock of a sex god. It looked longer, and especially thicker, than anything the spam pop-ups had thrown at my computer at home.

When he turned back to see me gawking openly, he seemed to realize in an instant where I was looking and covered the sight in a panic. “Sorry! I’m so sorry… I’ll go. I’m so sorry! I’m going…”

He tried to turn to leave, but I held him facing me, as looked at him with probably puffy lips and wide eyes, hoping to convey that he had me, that I wasn’t freaked out but amazed. Amazed and fucking horny. He seemed to get the message as his own expression seemed amazed.

The new song was faster, but I was moving slower. As the horde of teenagers bounced and thrashed around, we stood off in this dark corner, exploring each other. By which I mean that he explored me and I obsessed over his cock.

It’s not that it was his redeeming feature or something. He was gorgeous to me, and a genius as well, with a cute personality. The thing was that I knew all that already. This was new, it was the most relevant to my mood, and it was absurd. It was a fantasy come true.

I mean, I was tiny. Not even five feet and not even one hundred pounds. I had no business wanting something so big, especially without any experience at all. But I always had. There had always been something subconsciously, instinctively satisfying and ecstatic about the fantasy. As if the part of my brain that recognized an erection had a short circuit that turned “aroused cocks get bigger” into “bigger cocks are more aroused”; so the the bigger it was, the more it wanted me. Intellectually, I knew how untrue that feeling was, but that feeling didn’t care.

So, I obsessed over it. With my hands feeling the bulge of his cock as I curved myself into his touches, I couldn’t think of much more than how massive it felt. The more thoroughly it dawned on me, the faster my heart beat and the more the rushing tingles between my hips intensified.

At some point, while he was kneading my breasts and I was seconds away from just humping that hardon through his pants, the still rational part of my brain reminded me of where we were, and I looked around for eyes cast our way.

Everyone seemed occupied enough, but still I forced myself to pull away. Kyle’s eyes were locked to me with a hot lust, and I saw the shape of his absurdly out-of-proportion cock, straining hard against the fabric, jump in response to the sudden lack of my touch.

I shivered with excitement and took a deep breath, gesturing behind me. “We should go somewhere. I have an idea.” Grabbing both his hands and turning away, I pulled him close, with his arms around my waist and giant erection resting against my ass and the small of my back. I hoped I could hide it for him on our way out and down the hallway, and I think it worked, awkward though I’m sure it looked anyway.

I took us just a few doors down from the dance, to a classroom door recessed into the wall about 10 feet, creating a kind of mini-hallway dedicated to that door. This would do well enough, but I tried the door anyway, expecting to find it locked. It wasn’t. Even better.

My hand was trembling as I opened the door and brought us into the classroom, locking it behind us and turning on just one row of lights. I felt sick with anticipation.

Turning back around and dropping to my knees in front of him, my hands grasped his cock eagerly, and it felt like steel. I remember groaning as if in pain with how much I wanted it, and how he kept looking at me with awe, the kind of awe I must have been expressing as I felt myself going silly for his cock.

The next thing I remember is both of us naked, his beautiful body leaning back against the door, his eyes never leaving me as I worshiped his cock; running my hands along it, wrapping them around it, licking up its length, and struggling to fit the head in my mouth. It did what I could with the urges that came instinctively.

With all my own inhibitions discarded somewhere back on the dance floor, I remember talking a lot. Praising him and his amazing cock with all the suddenly devoted lust I was feeling. I kept telling him how awesome it was, how huge and perfectly shaped, how powerful it felt in my hands, how I probably couldn’t ever take it and how that thought somehow drove me pleasantly crazy. It seemed to keep him in an ecstatic shock, but the real jolt was when I slapped that heavy slab of meat on my tongue for the last few times and whined desperately, “Can you be my first?”

I don’t remember any more words being spoken. I do remember being on my back on a schooldesk as he stood over me, grinding that bare, bulging, titanium cock against my eager pussy until there were tears in my eyes from how badly I needed it. I remember looking up at him through the tears, and whatever look was on my face must have been the final straw for him, because with his cock as thick as my arm and slick from teasing my swollen pussy, he finally began to push the big, flared head into me.

Now, it was true that he was my first lover, but no one with my sex drive doesn’t masturbate. I’d broken my hymen years ago, and I’d moved to a toy pretty quickly. So I wasn’t entirely unprepared. His insane girth stretched me tightly, to what felt like must be a dangerous degree, and I winced in fear of the pain I kept thinking would come, but it didn’t. Wanting him so badly had gotten me so wet, driven me so madly into a height of arousal so intense, that as he stretched me to my limit, well beyond what I thought my limit was, he continued to slide through the impossibly tight fit, pushing until he filled every part of me, until every twitch sent waves from every nerve in my pussy. His cock pressed against everything.

I remember feeling like I couldn’t feel anything else. Or maybe it was all I cared about feeling.

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