1. A Polaroid of Kristina, Part 2


    Date: 11/6/2014, Categories: First Time, Author: Oncearunner1974, Rating: 5, Source: LushStories

    I couldn’t believe I had ever lost track of the photograph of my first lover, nude. Well, I could understand how I had lost it, but I was angry at myself. I had been paranoid about my parents finding the erotic Polaroid of Kristina among my things, so I kept changing its hiding place, finding increasingly ingenious spots, until I had outsmarted myself and not been able to find it again, no matter how hard I looked. At some point I had given it up for lost. Losing the picture had helped me not think about Kristina for too many years, and now at forty-three, I found that the memories came flooding back as rediscovered Kristina’s dazzling smile and bright eyes. She had been happy and excited to pose nude for me just that one time, naked in her bed, one hand between her legs. I remembered my infatuation for her the summer I turned eighteen. I remembered how she had made me feel attractive for the first time with a small comment made in passing. And of course I remembered that afternoon she had invited me to her apartment and seduced me. She had called me a man, which had made me feel wonderful, but I had really been a boy. An eighteen-year-old one, to be sure, but a boy nonetheless. I never really knew her age, but for some reason I had settled on forty-seven in my mind, from some comment or other she had made. She had asked to kiss me, and it had been my first kiss. When the kiss was over, she asked me if I wanted to stay or go, but she warned me that if I stayed she was ...
    going to seduce me. We had kissed some more, and she had given me my first blowjob. As we lay on the couch in her sun-drenched living room (she lived on the 26th floor), her hand and head on my chest, she had asked me if I would stay and make love to her. As soon as I answered yes, she managed to look thoughtful and happy and excited at the same time. She sat up and my eyes traveled automatically to her breasts, small and pert, perfect as far as I was concerned. She followed my glance, and although she feigned annoyance, she seemed somewhat pleased that I could not help looking. For all her European poise, her one area of physical insecurity had been about the size of her breasts. Now, remembering that fact twenty-five years later, my heart ached for that wonderful woman, so sleek and poised and elegant, who had managed to never truly realize in her own mind that she was stunningly beautiful, because her breasts were too “boyish,” in her words. She was a tall, slim woman, with impossibly long legs and honey-colored skin. Fairly narrow hips, but an even narrower waist. And she had small, perky, slightly upthrust, utterly delightful breasts. There was nothing whatsoever “boyish” about her. “Perhaps I should put on some clothes, for us to have at least a short serious discussion first.” Her tone was scolding, but her happy expression belied her tone. “As quickly as even you can likely recover from your orgasm,” she mock scolded, “I do not think you are quite ready yet.” She made a ...
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