Hoppy Summer with a Hint of Love
When I remember my favorite women, she invariably comes to mind — Angelica. Thanks to her, my summer of 19** is perhaps the brightest memory in my hapless fate. Several months of mad love and forbidden pleasures were colored by such intense emotional experiences, as if I had lived an entire life.
The young beauty appeared in my life unexpectedly. I was young — just over twenty — and by the time we met, I not only knew the theory of sexual relations but had also clumsily passed through its basics. Anything that moved and smelled like a woman gave me a persistent erection, and when regular release was impossible
I fervently chopped wood.Angelica arrived with her mоm from Tashkent to our country to enter university. As acquaintances, they stayed with us — to my happiness and my doom. When I saw Angelica for the first time, everything nature had gifted me gave a jolt. My reaction resembled an Irish dance, and I leaned against the wall so I wouldn't be taken for a lunatic, at least for the first half hour.
Angelica wasn't just pretty — she was dazzling. Slender, toned, with a blonde mane of luxurious hair, thick waves cascading down to firm buttocks, with coquettish curls playfully framing her beautiful face and expressive green eyes, in which magic splashed. And when she noticed me, standing there trembling like the letter "Z," trying to hide my inappropriately protruding tail — she smiled such a radiant smile that I thoughtfully walked out of the hallway through the closed door.
I'm not exaggerating at all: she really was stunningly beautiful. Back then, I wasn't yet a cynical asshole, squinting cunningly at another skirt-wearing sturgeon: I liked everything about Angelica. Now, perhaps, I'd say her firm breasts could have been bustier, her lips fuller, and her ankles slimmer. But she was only 18 years old, and her breasts probably grew a couple more sizes later — judging by her mоm.
The feeling of being a goat in the garden so inspired me that on the very first evening, I galloped like Pegasus on a date with the fish of my dreams. I showed her the city, and Angelica looked around wide-eyed with admiration, completely oblivious to me. Finally, I led her into some slums, against which I looked quite presentable and sexy. We started talking, and I learned with regret how she felt about sex.
— Once I peeked at my parents watching a porn tape, — she whispered conspiratorially, looking around, — it was awful!
"Bummer," — I thought in despair, poking a stick at some hollow in the tree we had sat on for a heart-to-heart talk. And when I found out she was still a virgin, I quickly deflated and started gathering myself to go home.
Angelica had one trait that annoyed me: she was pathologically dishonest. Angie lied not for any personal gain, but just automatically and, as a rule, always. I couldn't understand what was going on, and it sometimes seriously upset me.
But our closeness was inevitable: we were in the same apartment for the lion's share of the time, and physiology took over, especially since our mothers had predetermined everything. Angelica and I were already secretly kissing, and I was breathless each time from her kisses: they held so much genuine passion... It seemed to me that Angie herself didn't understand the weapon she possessed. Unfortunately, our fervent petting never led to anything, and I would later crawl to the bathroom in a sprawl, like a sick tarantula, where I would again fiercely chop wood.
Angelica slept in one of the four rooms, and in the mornings, when all the relatives had cleared out of the apartment — some to work, some elsewhere — I hovered near her door like a cat around sour cream. Pulling my spyglass from my pants, I peered intently through the crack in the door, hoping to see and die.
One day, Angie woke up earlier than usual and, without a second thought, padded barefoot into my room and climbed into my bed. She hugged me under the blanket and said something, while I lay there neither alive nor dead, completely baffled by what was happening — like Daphne from the comedy "Some Like It Hot." Knowing Angelica's aversion to sex, I couldn't even imagine that...
But then her hand reached for my flesh and began playing with it, right through my underwear. I lay there like a log, stunned. I couldn't even pretend to be asleep: my tip gave me away completely. And then Angelica threw off the blanket and slid down to my feet. Then she pulled my underwear off my stiffened legs, and I felt the moist heat of her kisses on my member. And then... I couldn't see anything because of her wheat-colored hair, a thick mane lying on my thighs, but I remember those sensations to this day. Until that moment, no one had ever sucked me with such love and rapture!
The pleasure was short-lived: less than a minute later, I came in her mouth with such force that I thought I could hear the sound of the flying stream. Angelica swallowed everything, licked my member, and, climbing out of bed, kissed me on the lips. That was the first time I tasted my own semen.
— I'll go make breakfast, — she said nonchalantly and added, — I adore your cock! — and left the room.
I lay in bed with the smile of Gwynplaine and stared glassy-eyed at a dried-up spider on the wall. Questions swarmed in my head, to which I found no answers, and I mentally spat on them. After a while, I shuffled to the kitchen to make sure I hadn't dreamed it. Angie was already having breakfast, not even waiting for me to finish my shower. What do you think she did? Angelica gave me another blowjob without even getting up from the stool, merely interrupting her meal for a minute.
I soared to the sky again and realized I had fallen in love.
Our relationship reached an extreme level: I never had a blowjob like that again. Angelica sucked me everywhere possible: at home, on the balcony, on the street, in the store, at the movie theater... Her favorite word became "Give!", to which I developed a conditioned reflex stronger than Pavlov's dog. If she leaned toward me somewhere, like at a store checkout, touching my ear with her lips and whispering the magic word, I would immediately, with my reflex, push the entire queue forward.
Our day began as follows: as soon as the adults left this den of sin and vice, I would immediately spring up and, passing through the bathroom, go to the chambers of the Queen of Blowjobs. I would insert my accumulator into the sleeping girl's mouth, and she would suck me off in a half-sleep. Then I would go wash up and visit her again. In my youth, I had a lot of information, and I generously shared it at every opportunity. Angelica truly loved fellatio and did it so effortlessly and with such pleasure that a blowjob for me ceased to be some exotic entertainment.
And that's how we got caught.
One evening, Angelica was sitting at the table in my room, preparing for entrance exams. I, in my favorite robe, which I wore over my bare skin, was wandering around the apartment when I suddenly thought: isn't it time? And I went to her.
I stood next to the table and even started delving into the subject of her preparation, but everything quickly returned to normal: Angelica said, "Give!", and grabbing me by the reins, began sucking with pleasure, smacking loudly and fooling around as if she had her favorite toy in her hands. That's how my dad caught us when he peeked into the room with an unasked question.
Amid loud, slurping sounds, my father carefully examined the walls and ceiling and silently left the room. I was petrified with horror, but Angelica didn't even notice we had already flown to Tartarus: when she was sucking, the world around her simply didn't exist. I later heard my father scolding our mothers: "What do you expect from the guy when you yourselves put a woman under him?!" The outcome was predictable: Angelica was first moved to a rented apartment, and then, when she enrolled in the Faculty of Russian Language and Literature — to the university dormitory, which was popularly called the CVC: Central Cunt Vault.
This event marked the beginning
of the end of our relationship.
I started visiting Angelica at the dormitory. Three other girls lived in the room with her, but that didn't bother her at all: when she wanted to suck, she did it without paying attention to anyone. However, the first time it happened in front of everyone, I behaved so idiotically that her friends might have doubted my adequacy.
We were sitting three on the bed, watching some comedy on TV. Two girls were sitting on the floor at our feet. Sometimes it was funny, and we laughed, perhaps louder than usual: the crowd effect was at play. Angelica was sitting next to me and suddenly whispered the start command in my ear: "Give!". A red light flashed in my brain, and the warhead immediately went into combat mode. I hastily covered my crotch with a small pillow, which were scattered all over the bed.
The provocateur laid her head on my thighs, covered herself with the pillow, and got busy with her favorite activity. I immediately lost interest in the comedy and froze with a stupid smile on my face. Even Angelica snorted into her fist, which was holding my member, because of the funny gags on TV. I sat there boiled like a dumpling, staring blankly at the screen. The girls didn't notice the mischief at first, but Angelica got so carried away that the pillow slipped off her head... and there I was, sitting in a flowerbed of girls, red as a lobster, stubbornly watching the comedy in Princess Nesmeyana mode.
After a while, the girls also stopped laughing and, glancing sideways at the indecency taking place, sat like stone statues from Easter Island, afraid to turn their heads toward the slurping sounds. So we sat for some time: four idiots, embarrassed by each other, pretending with all their might to have an unprecedented interest in a long-finished movie.
Has anyone ever tried to come in public, especially when completely unprepared? When it became absolutely unbearable and I couldn't hold back any longer, I groaned disgustingly, looking shamefully at the grimy curtain, and came in front of her friends. The girls sighed with relief, stirred, and scattered, as if they absolutely had to wait for this spectacular finale instead of leaving the room much earlier.
Once, when we were alone in the room, Angelica suddenly moved closer to me and said simply:
— Take me...
But that's a whole different story, and here's what happened next.
***
Much later, one day, I made Angelica promise she would buckle down with her studies, and after fucking, I left the dorm for home. Something made me turn back halfway, and when I entered her room, I found only her frightened friends: Angelica wasn't in the room. The girls said she had gone to get some notes and would be back soon. With a heavy heart, I left and only caught up with Angie the next day. She met me... in someone else's men's sweater. My heart sank.
For me, a man's sweater worn by a woman over her bare body has remained a lifelong symbol of betrayal.
Angelica babbled something in her defense, but I remembered her weakness: pathological lying. I listened to her with half an ear, while my heart screamed wildly in my chest: How?! Why?! For what?! With some masochistic frenzy, I wrung out of her how many times, how, and where she had been fucked, then some lanky guy barged into the room and started trying to prove to me that he and Angie loved each other and were going to get married. I threw him out of the room and locked the door. Angelica lay at my feet, sobbing and begging for forgiveness. She screamed that she still loved me and everything would remain between us as before, and I quietly asked her:
— And sex?
— I'll have sex with you, — she said after a pause.
— Then lie down! — I barked, and she obeyed.
Fury and anger seethed within me, and I couldn't feel my own tears. My member was hard as stone; I was ready to tear her apart.
Angie pulled the damn sweater over her head and lay on the bed: naked, trembling, sobbing little girl, she fearfully handed me some ribbon, pulling it from under the pillow. Through a wet haze, I didn't immediately see what it was: condoms. Mechanically, I took them, turned them over in my hand, and then threw them right in her face. A trickle of blood running from her split lip sobered me up. Angelica lay there, staring at the ceiling and crying silently.
I unlocked the door and let the owner of the sweater into the room, with whom, of course, Angelica had not succeeded... Now Angie shines in the mass media in one of the European countries and probably doesn't even remember me.
And I still, when I hear the song "Angie" by The Rolling Stones, cry my eyes out...
January 2017