Finger-Blast From The Past
I was Nineteen-years old at the time, and starting University in a new city a few of hours from my hometown.
It was many years ago; it was an era, a time long before ‘consent culture’ and the hostile tensions between the modern indoctrinated woman and man. A time when men and women were normal; everyone fucked and had a good time without all the bullshit. The year was 2010, can you imagine? It seems like forever, but the times change quickly.
Like many First year students I saw it as a chance to reinvent myself. I was shy and anxious throughout high school, so didn’t have a lot of experience with girls aside from a couple of drunken one night stands.
We seriously need to give thanks to the wonderful job that all of the cul-de-sac dads out there had done for us: Freed their virgin daughters, and slutty ones; we got to experience the beast waiting to be let out of its cage. Daddy's little princess just had to go to University to be empowered.
Thank you, so much.
It was the first week of University (Frosh), and I was meeting my new flat mates one-by-one. She, the focal point of this erotic tale, was the last one to arrive, and as luck would have it, her room was the one directly opposite from mine.
She walked in confidently with her long brown hair swaying side-to-side; she was wearing dark blue leggings, and a tight yellow tank-top. She was about 5’ 8” tall, had brown eyes and an unbelievably, sexy body.
“Hi, I’m Kirsten,” her voice was soft and friendly.
I said “Hey...” back to her, and introduced myself: I couldn’t help but notice her nipples poking though her shirt.
I tried not to get caught staring at them, but it was really difficult with how perky her tits were. After some brief chatting and exchanges, I let her get to her room and started unpacking.
This would be the first of many instances in where I tried my best to maintain eye contact with this amazing, aesthetic product from the suburbs of White middle class, America.
She often went without a bra. With the cold, windy weather of where we lived, her nipples seemed to be hard and poking through her tops, constantly.
Her favorite thing to pair that with were leggings or booty shorts; she loved showing off her ass. It was relentless torture. You see, back then...ten years ago, women actually gave-a-shit about their figure and appearance; they actually cared about what the opposite sex found attractive in women.
For the first months we were just dormies, despite flirting with each other often. We had the same sense-of-humor, and she loved to tease me when she caught me leering at her body. She was three-years older, and with how fit she was I was hesitant to make a move thinking she was out of my league and simply joking around.
This was University, though. It’s a place, a bubble, where hedonism is fostered, and where you can establish yourself not based on your former high school years, but in the here and now.
I had a clean slate, and there were loads of nasty, degenerate, dirty pussy to be had. Virgins becoming skanks; skanks morphing into super spreaders; skanks rub off on all hesitate, suburban princesses.
Women feed off each other.
College is a numbers game; you learn that in First year Statistics.
It was now the first week of December; Kirsten and I would soon be breaking-off to our respective hometowns for Christmas, and wouldn’t see each other for a few weeks. I knew that I needed to make a move, and after a few drinks for confidence, I decided one night that I seriously needed to deep-dick this chick; dig her out, as if her pussy was some Public Works project—I was the Foreman with the right equipment.
It was a Saturday, and we were in a club in town with a few friends—Saturday Night by Wigfield was naturally requested at some point, I am positive. Kirsten was wearing a tight red, bodycon dress and had nude colored heels on. Most chicks today would probably venture to the club in either sweat pants or mom jeans. Send the nukes, please.
Her body that night looked incredible in it, especially when she did slut-drops and twerked her ass; she wasn’t shy at all.
Back then, people danced, grinded and nobody ever started a conversation by saying, “Did you hear what Trump said today?” Politics and feminism had no place in any space designated for fun. Today, people can’t wait to expose themselves as complete fucking morons fast enough; people today are generally no fun at parties; women back then would expose themselves first, and then talk about their politics later…long after you pumped and dumped them.
Anyways…back to the good stuff.
It got to about 1 AM in the morning when the rest of our group headed home; Kirsten and I decided to stay a bit longer. The club we were in had a huge dance floor that was almost pitch black so you could barely see anyone, it felt like it was only us in there.
It was the perfect spot for what would come next...
We were both pretty drunk at this point, and our bodies were getting very close on the dance floor. She had her hot, prime, fertile body up against mine; I had my hand on her lower back, and pulled her in for a kiss; consent is for the weak, for the betas.
It was passionate, with plenty of tongue; I cleaned her fucking, mouth, better than any dentist.
I slid my hand slowly, down from her lower back toward her perfect, fucking, ass. I gripped it firmly; she flashed me a smile with delight along with all the femininity in world. Her ass was so lively, unlike that of a Wall-hitting 40-year old; it was bouncy, even for a slim girl. You could bounce a dime off that thing. I couldn’t keep my hands off it.
I was sweating like a pedophile in a park, at that point...
She whispered in my ear, “I’ve wanted to do this for ages with you. You turn me on so much.” She spun around, started grinding her ass up against me, whilst dancing. I grabbed onto her hips and grinded back into her. It was one of the best assjobs, ever. We danced like a wave in the ocean for a few minutes, and I’m sure she could feel my donger, digging into her ass; she really knew what she was doing because it felt amazing. It felt amazing in the purest sense of the word, not in the sense that is used today to describe every, goddamn, fucking thing like Oprah.
She tilted her head around, leaned in close, and told me, “I love feeling your hard cock against my ass, it’s making me really wet.”
I placed my right hand on her thigh and slowly glided my hands up her dress.
They don’t teach that move in your Feminist Studies class, today.
As I moved up her inner thigh I could feel the heat coming from her pussy. I was no Biology major at the time, but I knew this was a good thing, for me, and for her.
You don’t need to go to University to understand life and what really matters: All that matters is: Are you making her pussy wet for you?
Don’t make life so complicated.
As she turned her head around, I half expected her to shake it and say, “No, not here”. However, she just gave me a wanting look, and smiled. Fuck Biology class; I was going to fuck this chick.
I really wanted to feel how turned on she was. That prompted me to move my hand further up her dress—I reached her panties, I felt how drenched they were, she wasn’t lying.
Women lie everyday to men; the only way to know if Kirsten was telling me the truth was to feel it for myself. It felt, glorious; she had a warm, comforting soul.
I believed her, and so did my fingers.
I slowly started rubbing her clit through her wet panties, teasing her with light strokes on the flanks of her hood at first, before polishing that pearl-of-hers like a professional jeweler.
I pulled her panties to the side like I had done many times in the past and placed just one finger inside her pussy at first, and then ranked up to Level two.
She was so wet, warm to the touch; my fingers glided all the way in and out. It was fucking, beautiful. The rhythm to the beat of the song playing; I was going to be the symphony conductor of her orgasm. Most women are their own professional DJ’s at night, spinning their own hits on their clits; a panic at the disco. I was the clit-commander that night; it was a wet and stormy journey, rocking her ‘little man in the boat’.
I started doing the ‘come hither’ motion on her g-spot, and she was desperately trying to hold her moans. As I picked up the pace, I could tell she was close; her pussy was soaking; it was beginning to clench and spasm around my fingers.
Her juices, dripping down my index and middle; it was all over my hand. Her inner walls, getting tighter and hotter until I could feel her cumming hard all over my fingers.
After she came down from her orgasm, we decided to get our coats and quickly exit the club and head outside. The brisk winter's wind highlighted the fingers I'd used to bang Kirsten's needy cooter; they were slightly colder now than the rest of my body. What was once slick and warm now felt like the pre-mature stages of ice formation. She quickly took my mind off this sensation with her heated breath against the back of my neck, embracing me from behind, trying to keep warm while we waited for the cab.
She leaned in closer to my ear and said, “I can’t believe we just did that... I want you to come back with me, to my room, and fuck me.”
It’s been nearly a decade since. Who knows where she is these days, and where she is in life. Just to think, that chick is probably someone’s mom right now—some chump is cleaning-up that mess I made metaphorically that night, on that dance floor, in that club to which was packed—packed, like her pussy was with my fingers. Everyone around us knew nothing, saw nothing. Her future husband will never know how crazy she was in bed that night thereafter.
Thousands frequented that club, danced in the same spot that we’d danced. Thousands more will relive a night like we had on that Saturday, during the dead of winter, 2010.
Kirsten and I’s night is ghost, a faded imprint in space and time that many will walk through, dance through and party on. Most of those nights will be a blur to many, like many college nights are. A handful of memories will cement, however.
Some will stick-out as novel, and worthy of keeping; she probably masturbates to that night, every night. Every woman has a shoe-box in her mind, full of moments with men that were worthy of keeping. Fondling memories. They hold onto them for those lonely Saturday nights as they pet themselves to sleep.
If a random person, a co-worker perhaps, were to reminisce with Kirsten, right now, about their college years, their most memorable moments, I am positive she would lie and say that it was all a blur.
However, secretly in her mind are the images, the feelings, the movie-reel of me finger-fucking the shit-out-of-her on that dance floor, when nobody else could see; taking her back to her place to finish what we started.
She’d just smile at her co-worker, leave it at that, and hold-on to that night forever, as it was more thrilling, bold, and exciting than any night will ever be for the rest of her sexual life.
A finger blast from the past, a night she will remember forever.
Yours truly horny,