"Poppin' Eric's Cherry" One-Shot Contest
Title: Fill My Pot
Pen name: afalcone10
Status (Virgin or Almost-Virgin): almost-virgin
Primary Players: Eric and Pam
Beta'd by: the lovely chiisai-kitty (thank you! thank you! thank you!)
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine; they belong to Charlaine Harris. I just got to watch over them for a particularly exciting night.
To see other entries in the "Poppin' Eric's Cherry" contest, please visit the C2:
http://www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/Poppin_Erics_Cherry_One-Shot_Contest/75492/
"Living in Beverly Hills for eighteen years has shown me that sex is rarely an act of love, used instead for personal or professional gain. Living in Kenya for two years has shown me that fidelity is rare and female sexual empowerment even more so.
The 90210 that has enthralled Americans for decades only disgusted me – the social whoring, the worship of beauty over truth and nature, the driving force of superficiality behind every decision made. My loathing of the town and its inhabitants stems not out of jealousy or malice (my parents own a successful public relations firm, and as for my physical appearance, I'm the only white guy in the above picture) but out of realization and acute awareness. I desired meaningful conversation when others desired fondling or fame. I searched for elusive realness that was always marred by makeup or hair dye or plastic surgery.
My Beverly Hills High senior year photo caption simply reads, "Rather than Love, than Money, than Fame, give me Truth;" the myriad of new ideas and inventions that popped up long after Henry David Thoreau's death served to make his words even more meaningful to a practical idealist such as myself. I scorned love and the people who tried to make it with me – I didn't use the money from proposed business deals or trust funds, and I loathed the fame that my family and appearance brought me. I wanted truth – still want it – about life, about the people and things that I see, about what I can do to make a difference.
The day after graduation, I boarded a plane to Kenya armed with only an 80-pound suitcase, a Peace Corps identification card, and a head full of dreams. I put off my college education in order to learn about humanity and the world I inhabit. I felt like I would gain more by living in a rural village than in a college dorm.
As a Peace Corps volunteer, I saw things that couldn't be researched and people that couldn't be defined. I learned how to teach a generation of children whose parents and grand-parents believed that books were evil traps set up by the white people, or Mazungus. I demonstrated first-aid techniques to a village that equated vomiting with the ritual cleansing of sins. I met people who lived on $2 a week yet always offered food and drink to anyone who asked. I even witnessed a man literally take his shirt off his back to give to a shivering elder.
The experience was as rewarding for me as I hoped it was for the people I interacted with. I had discovered my very own Walden, a place where I could find truth and independence while living a simple and pure existence. I even affectionately called the small hut that I lived in my very own "Walden Puddle." My time in Kenya was as refreshing in its way as the rustle of the grass on the open plains or the lazy snorts of the hippopotami basking on the shore. It restored my faith in humanity and gave me new hope, both for myself and for my generation.
The only negative about my Peace Corps experience was that it did not teach me about sex. Granted, that's not why I enlisted in the organization, but still. I left Africa as pure and untouched as I had entered it – out of personal choice. I was trained by a former Peace Corps volunteer (PCV for future reference) who had slept with another PCV out of loneliness and desperation and ultimately ended up infected with AIDS. I heard about another PCV who had dated a native woman and was forced to switch host villages because the locals did not approve of the union.
If anything, my experiences with sex in Africa made me even more confused. There, physical beauty is still an important factor when choosing a lover, but not in the typical American sense. Rather than an ample bosom or slim thighs, the Kenyan Maasai tribe believes that a natural gap between a woman's two front teeth means that she is an exceptional lover. Indeed, I have met chiefs who would only marry a woman with this feature. This instilled some hope in me – yes, there is still an unnecessary emphasis placed on external appearance, but on something one is born with and cannot be created and manufactured – on teeth.
On the other hand, the tribe allows the men to keep any woman in the village as a lover, especially if she is married to another man of the same age – all he needs to do is bury his spear at the doorway of the house, and the husband knows not to enter. The Maasai also promote female genital mutilation to increase a man's sexual enjoyment while decreasing a woman's sexual desire. The woman is inferior to the man – she has no say in whether or not the man wears a condom, much less if he needs to get tested before they have sex.
The romantic in me tells me that this is not love – but what is? It can't be the pathetic sexual manipulation of America, or the tough love of Kenya. There must be more to love than condoms and creative positions. Africa showed me that there are different sides of people; now I want the world to show me that there are different sides of sex.
When I stepped off the plane in Nairobi, I was greeted by the head of my host family, Farah. He was a doctor at the Nairobi Hospital, and I found him to be kind and intelligent. While shaking my hand immediately after meeting me, he proclaimed, "Haba na haba, hujaza kibaba," an old Swahili proverb meaning "little by little, fills the pot." He expressed his hope that my experience in his country would help fill my pot, even if just a tiny bit, so I'd be more complete. After I moved to my hut in the rural village, he would greet me with this saying whenever we happened to meet. Before I boarded the plane out of Kenya, he hugged me and whispered this phrase into my ear.
Now that I am out of the Peace Corps, I will fill my own pot, little by little. Maybe one day it will be full."
The young blonde stopped reading, looked up at me, and exclaimed, "Bloody hell. You wrote that? You actually did all of that?" I could literally hear the respect and awe in her voice.
I smirked as I watched her makeup-free dark blue eyes return to the rough-draft of what would be my first article for Time magazine. I had applied for, and won, the job as an assistant to the African international editor while still in Kenya; the Peace Corps headquarters in Nairobi had a subscription to the publication, and the tattered magazine issues served as one of my few connections to the outside world, as well as highly valuable teaching tools that I used at the local school to teach English. I thought it would be fitting if I worked at the magazine once I began classes as an international relations and Africana studies double major at New York University.
"When you said that you just came out of the Peace Corps, I thought it was just a skeezy pick-up line that pathetic American blokes used to pick up English lasses. I apologize for my harsh, albeit silent, judgment, and if it helps I now feel like a complete arse," the now-even-more-interesting woman continued. I couldn't help noticing that her pale complexion was as lovely and pale as the coffee flowers that sprouted in the village after I helped plant coffee seeds.
I had felt like I was unintentionally trying to pick her up when I casually mentioned that I was a returned Peace Corps volunteer, also known as a RPCV, fresh out of Kenya. It started when she asked me what I was doing in London. Just small talk while she rang up the £500 of books (hey – I was just stranded in an African village for two years! I could practically recite all of the novels that I had brought with me!) I was purchasing at the tiny bookstore she worked at. I mumbled something about how I was on the paid-vacation that the organization provided to its members after they completed their service, and I was in England to meet with the Prime Minister to discuss whether or not the Brits should have a government equivalent of the Peace Corps to call their own.
She had raised an eyebrow after I finished answering, so I had unfolded the article from my pocket and given to her. Big mistake after I nearly had a heart attack waiting for her to read it all. Her rosy lips had moved as she read my words, and she had unconsciously nodded her head at phrases or passages I guess she agreed with. Her eyes widened or narrowed at some cases, which made me even more anxious. I was surprised that I valued her opinion so highly, even though I had just met her.
"Kudos to you for telling the whole world you're a virgin," she laughed, bringing me back into the present. She refolded the paper and handed it back to me with my receipt.
"Well, I hope that the readers will get more out of the article than the fact that a Mr. Eric Northman hasn't had sex."
"Like what?"
"Like, Peace Corps volunteers aren't just hippie potheads or overachievers who want a leg up on the competition to graduate schools; that they can think about things that don't concern the poor state of the world. I'm basically saying that I joined the Peace Corps for selfish reasons, that I was dissatisfied with the corruptness I saw everywhere in my American life and enlisted in a desperate attempt to find some shred of humanity in one of the least humane parts of the world, a developing nation. The volunteers aren't these holier-than-thou do-gooders who join to save the world and discover the cure for AIDS in a two-year time span – they can think about sex and love too."
"If you included that last bit in your essay, it'd have more of an impact."
She was absolutely correct. What I just pulled out of my – what she would call – arse about the "holier-than-thou do-gooders" would mesh perfectly with my article.
"Oh yeah? Any other suggestions?"
"Too many to discuss this close to closing time. Come with me to the pub around the corner. Then we can discuss your article properly. And I'm sure you could use a large dish of greasy fish and chips and a pint of ale after eating moldy rice and mangoes for two years."
Her dry humor combined with my lack of dating skills led to me wondering if she truly thought my article needed that much work, or if she simply wanted to dine with me. Either way, I wanted to spend more time with this intriguing woman who said and did what she wanted. I had found that some men, both in Beverly Hills and Kenya, did not appreciate a woman's outspokenness and frankness. I was not one of them – I found it incredibly refreshing. Plus, I didn't have any dinner plans and didn't know anyone to meet up with.
"Only if you tell me your name – I already revealed mine. The Peace Corps taught me that I'm not supposed to go places with strangers."
She smiled, "Pam Ravenscroft. Although I guarantee you'll be referring to me as your own 'personal muse' once I finish with you tonight."
After she handed me my bulging shopping bag, she started tidying up the counter and taking the money out of the cash register. I pretended to be checking my emails on my Blackberry so that it wouldn't seem like I was staring at the bundle of money and where she would hide it.
"You can stop fake-reading your email. I'm ready to go," she spoke. She walked out from behind the counter and was carrying a tote bag that read "I Am Not A Plastic Bag." I could now see that she was wearing a pair of well-loved jeans with the navy corduroy blazer and simple white shirt that I had noticed while she read my article. She looked like what I would imagine Alice in Wonderland to look like in the 21st century.
"You like the tote? Granted, I didn't spend the past two years educating African bush babies and using tap water once a month, but, as you can see, I do my part to help the planet. Now, can we please go to the pub? I'd say I'm starving, but something tells me you wouldn't appreciate the sentiment."
Okay, so the 21st century Alice in Wonderland had verbal fangs.
I snorted, pleasantly surprised by her gall. I decided that it would not be wise to tell her that I was actually appreciating the way she looked in her jeans, and that her bag had barely registered with me – I sensed that she'd only reply with some snarky yet completely true comment about how my whole "kumbaya" approach to internal beauty was just a pile of stinky elephant shit. Besides, I was already thinking the same thing and I didn't want to feel like a hypocrite even more.
"You should be glad that this conversation isn't taking place in Kenya. The natives would stake you and then place your head on the chief's personal rain stick. And just for the record, never say you're so hungry you could eat a cow. That would get you five lashings with the sundried tail of a slaughtered sacrificial bull."
"Tell me, Eric, how do you know such things?" She sweetly asked, fluttering her eyelashes to emphasize that she knew she was calling my bluff.
"I'll tell you over dinner. You did imply you were hungry, didn't you? Let's go before you break another international etiquette snafu," I countered, offering my arm to her in an exaggeratedly comical gesture.
Sliding her arm through and guiding me out the door, she asked, "Wouldn't you rather stash your big-arse bag o' books in the store instead of lugging it to the pub? We can stop by here after the meal, I promise. Unless you plan on wooing me with the wonderful words of David Foster Wallace, which is actually a freakishly real possibility considering you just bought four of his eleven published books."
"Hey – I brought my hardcover copy of Infinite Jest with me to Kenya, even though it weighs about eleven pounds, and reread that thousand-page bad boy like it was an illustrated children's book! And I left all of my books at the village's school, so I need new copies. Plus, he committed suicide when I was over there, and I didn't get to mourn properly!"
"You are the biggest dork I have ever met."
"You're the one who knew he published exactly eleven novels. Even I, the biggest dork you've ever met, didn't know that fun fact off the top of my head."
"Just one of the many perks of owning your own book store, Eric."
"My bull shit meter is reading that as a 'false,' personal muse."
"That's why I don't have one – they're pretty unreliable. Come on, let's go in. I'm so hungry I could eat Simba and Mufasa and Timon and Pumba and all of the other animals at Pride Rock without even caring about stupid Kenyan tribal customs."
After she spoke she removed her arm and stepped in front of me, and I became very aware of the fact that I was standing in front of what looked like an old wooden house embellished with a maroon sign that simply read, "Mutt's Nuts." I looked down at her heart-shaped face and raised an eyebrow; she reciprocated the gesture with a knowing smile. She had opened the mahogany door while I was getting my bearings, and she was now impatiently holding it open for me. Hmm…guess she didn't like chivalry.
She also didn't like the hostess's blatant eye-fucking of me (she muttered, "piss poor example of the female sex" in what she evidently thought was an inaudible audio level for humans), corrected me when I asked the bartender if I could please "get" another drink ("If you wanted to 'get' another drink, you'd walk behind the bar and 'get' it yourself! You want to 'have' another drink, for Chrissake!"), and didn't tell me I had lettuce in my teeth until after the waiter threw me a disgusted look ("I thought you were saving it for later! Honestly!").
She was the most exhilarating and unabashedly honest person I had ever met, and I felt myself wanting to be closer to her in every sense of the term. It awed and scared me at the same time.
True to her word, we actually discussed my article. She told me I needed to have more about my self-induced vow of chastity, like how old I was when I made it and whether or not it was just to boost my self-esteem and make myself feel better because no one wanted to bonk my brains out. I told her she was full of it. She said that I should water down the Thoreau references because Americans would either not understand them or wouldn't recognize the author. I said that was a common international misconception akin to the belief that the British quoted Harry Potter all of the time. She responded, "Expelliarmus."
After discussing my "passable" article, we moved on to our childhoods (she was the black sheep of her semi-aristocratic family because she refused to have a prearranged marriage with a stuffy Oxford bloke who was "the three-hundredth person in line to the throne"), our favorite authors (she liked J.R.R Tolkien "because it's practically a requirement if you're a British bookstore owner" and Kurt Vonnegut, in addition to Wallace), and our preferred type of music (she was also an insane Dylan fan, which provided fodder for a fifteen-minute debate on whether he would have been able to achieve as much recognition as a twenty-something folk singer in today's modern music era as he had in the '60s).
It felt so easy to talk to her, to eat with her…to be with her. I had never met a creature of her character that had interested me so – not man nor bird nor beast. She even paid for dinner after some intense squabbling and hand-swatting – "You practically paid next month's rent with your books alone. And besides, I know you'd be depressed if you spent the pretty colored money that you not-so-secretly want to keep as a souvenir."
The walk back to her bookstore – cheekily named "The Holy Grail" – seemed shorter and quieter than before. I didn't want to have to say goodbye just because we finished the meal, and I would have bet any amount of dollars, pounds, or Kenyan shillings that she didn't want to either.
She silently unlocked the door and I silently retrieved my shopping bag. Once she locked up again, she turned and looked at me. Her eyes seemed bigger and bluer – and shinier.
"So I guess this is the part where the American bloke and the British lass say goodbye, and the director yells 'end scene?'" she asked in an uncharacteristically soft voice.
"Wrong. This is the part where Eric asks Pam if she'd like to accompany him back to his hotel suite and order the most expensive champagne and dessert on the menu and charge it to the U.S. government."
Her eyes widened but still she didn't say anything, she just kept looking up at me.
"This is the part where Pam says 'yes,'" I supplied.
In typical Pam fashion, she one-upped me and softly wiped my sun burnt lips with her smooth ones. She lingered there, waiting for me to speak or move. I did neither – I was in shock. But when she started to move away, some animalistic force inside of me compelled me to take her face in my hands and try to kiss her mouth off with passion. She responded just as eagerly, intertwining her fingers behind my neck and bringing me closer. Our tongues battled for dominance and our hands tiptoed behind enemy lines. She was ravaging me with her mouth to let her take charge, let her be the dominant one, but I didn't want that. I didn't want her to be submissive either. I wanted us to be on equal levels, trying to best the other in a heated fight of eagerness and ecstasy.
I could feel my dick start to harden, causing me to panic because I was in a public place – in front of an innocent bookstore! Pam began grinding her hips into mine, and although it felt fantastic, it certainly wasn't going to help with my very real threat of indecent exposure. I maneuvered her over to the wall of the building and pressed her against it, desperately trying to conceal my bulge. Of course Pam took that to mean that it would help if she wrapped her legs around my waist, thereby placing the hot denim covering her bikini bottom area directly on top of my erection.
"Pam…" I hissed into her mouth, trying to tell her to stop but loosing focus when she ran her fingers lightly up and down my back. I shivered with joy, and the vibration against her hot core made my dick swell even more. I needed to stop this…to resume at a later date.
Quickly, I thought of the saggy breasts and wrinkly butts of the old women I saw in the village, and the pressure in my pants alleviated. I idly reflected that the Peace Corps should include something about how the sights of the naked tribal elders will be enough to will away any erection.
Pam unfolded her legs and stood up straight, wondering what caused me to stop.
"As much as I love what we're doing, we're in a public place. In a foreign country…well, for me. I want to continue this, but in private. Like my hotel room. Is that okay?" I tried to explain.
She grinned, "Let's go put a big dent in that trillion-dollar deficit of yours!" She grabbed my hand and started dragging me down the street before she realized she didn't know where I was staying. I could see her thought process, and timed it so that when her head snapped back to ask what hotel I was in, my mouth was already open and saying, "Keep going, it's the Marriott." She winked devilishly and pulled me forward – with relative ease, as I now started running with her to keep up.
We'd stop every block or so and frantically kiss under the street light until one of us started to get restless again. I don't know how long the travel time would be under normal circumstances, but it felt like whole weeks passed by whenever we stopped to kiss. Finally, I recognized the building from before and rushed Pam into it. We sprinted through the lobby, cackling at the shocked reactions of the swanky concierge and the well-to-do bar patrons.
Unfortunately for us, there was a young bellhop in the elevator. Pam politely asked for the fourth floor, and he dipped his head and pressed the correct button. In the awkward silence that ensued, Pam took in the mirrored walls and I could tell she was imaging what kinds of tricks we could get into if it weren't for the poor bellhop. Of course, now I was imagining them too…
No fun – until Pam opened her mouth and jeered, "For a virgin, you're a pretty good kisser." I could see the bellhop's eyes widen in shock and dart to my face in the mirror before he encountered my "don't fuck with me" look and wisely glanced away.
"Yeah, well, I practiced on baboons in my spare time, so I feel comfortable kissing you," I responded, laughing when she punched me in the arm in mock-outrage.
"Hey, would it help if I said you have a cuter butt?"
"No. And they have cuter faces."
Thankfully the door opened then, and the bellhop practically flattened himself against the wall so it'd be easier for us to leave. As soon as the doors closed we both started cracking up. But the laughing turned into guffawing which turned into panting…which turned into kissing and fumbling on my part to pull the room key from my jeans pocket and insert it into the door. I had to swipe it a couple of times before the door opened…I must have been distracted or something.
Pam didn't remove herself from my grasp, choosing instead to cling to me like a crazy ape. I improvised by sliding my hands down her back until they cupped her jean-clad ass and hoisted her up; once again, she wrapped her legs around my back, and I had the same reaction as the last time we were in this position – except now I didn't have to hide anything.
With my new 120-pound appendage attached to my hips, I barreled through the doorway and headed straight for the bed, pleased that my time in Kenya taught me to always keep a clean and orderly hut…er, hotel room. In fact, the suite was as neat and fresh-looking as it had been when I dropped my luggage off earlier; I had stopped to use the loo and left to stroll through the impressive city. No stray boxers or leftover room service to kill the mood.
I gently laid Pam onto the pristine white bedspread without breaking our kiss, and she maneuvered her hands to my ass and gripped it like she was squeezing a melon to check its ripeness. She pulled me closer to her, and I obliged by carefully aligning my body over her petite frame. I placed my hands behind her head and awkwardly tried to have it so I was laying on top of her but wasn't about to flatten her into a Pam pancake. I ended up kind of straddling her, kneeling with my legs on the outside of her thighs and hunching over her like a beast preparing to eat his prey. I felt a little cramped, but the way her lips and hands were making me feel helped block out the slight pins-and-needles sensation.
Pam wriggled underneath me, which I enjoyed so much that I didn't even realize she was trying to wiggle herself free. Still sucking on my lip, she reached up to take my hands that were still cupping her head, and rolled me over, so that she was now straddling me and pinning me down to the bed. Planting baby kisses on my jaw line, she murmured, "This is only the beginning." I barely heard her over the moans I was emitting that seemed to flame out from my sweltering cock. She cupped my face and resumed kissing me at warp speed – sucking on my top lip, nibbling on my bottom one, licking my teeth, and playing with my tongue so forcefully I oddly wondered if she was trying to tie it in a knot. It felt magnificent, though.
I needed to hold onto something to keep myself in check, so I latched onto her ass. Not exactly the best place when willing myself not to shatter my pants. I felt unsure about what to do with my hands. I felt it'd be weird if I started tapping my fingers on her butt like I was bored, which I most definitely wasn't, or if I stuck my fingers in her back pockets, but I didn't know what else to do. So I skimmed over the stitched design of her pockets and ghosted my fingers up and down the back of her thighs.
She was warmest near her center.
With trembling fingers I unbuttoned her blazer, nervous she'd stop all the festivities and storm out like a Hurricane Pam, but she rolled her arms back to help me with the sleeves. I could now see that she was wearing a tissue-thin white v-neck tee that barely concealed her black bra. As I fingered the soft material, wondering how she managed to stay warm in the frigid London air, Pam nuzzled her face in the crook of my neck and talked onto my skin, "Are you sure you want to do this? We don't have to do anything. After all, I knew you were a virgin within five minutes of meeting you." She seemed so sweet and gentle, and nothing like the lioness from before.
I didn't even hesitate before I replied into her coconut-scented hair, "I know I want this. I know I want you. You know how I feel about you, and I know how you feel about me, so…."
"Let's mate," Pam suggested – the lioness was back on the prowl. Her hands floated down my chest, unzipping my olive-colored canvas jacket. To facilitate the removal, I slowly rose up, so now I was sitting upright on the bed and she was sitting on my lap, legs coiled around my back. I figured that now it was my turn to remove an article of her clothing, so off with her shirt.
I was never a porn or Playboy kind of guy and I have never rated a woman's attractiveness on a scale of 1 to 10, but I could not look away from the bewitching sight that was Pam in just her black lace bra and jeans. The contrast between her dark clothing and her icy-white skin made me think she belonged in an Irving Penn picture, and the smirk that graced her lips when she realized I was starstruck made me remember how peculiar her kisses made me feel, all fiery one moment and shivery the next. Everything about her was beautiful: her blonde hair draped over her shoulders like a fragrant golden curtain; her full breasts, even though they were partially concealed by her lingerie; the way her skin almost shimmered because it was so pale, especially against her dark clothing and the perma-tan my arms had acquired over the past two years. I kissed the smirk off her face, briefly stopping so she could lift my black long-sleeved shirt over my head.
I forgave her smug smile once I saw her staring at my chest like it had the meaning of life tattooed on it. I had always been fit, but my time in Africa caused me to become very lean; I had lost ten pounds off of an already-athletic frame, and my muscles had become more defined as I became more and more inventive with my fitness techniques. During the past two years I would run about ten miles a day during sunrise, and I had managed to befriend a Massai warrior, Kanuthia, with whom I would train with and do crunches and other muscular exercises with. I knew that I was muscular, and not in a steroid-y kind of way, and I also knew I had a six-pack, but I didn't know how attractive I was until I saw the worshipful expression on Pam's face. I felt warm knowing the same effect she had on me I apparently had on her.
She was at a disadvantage because she still had an article of clothing covering her torso and I didn't, so I attempted to solve the problem by fingering the clasps of her bra, like touching it was the physical equivalent of proclaiming, "Open sesame!" and the confusing contraption would unleash her breasts. No such luck. I could tie nine different types of knots and play the acoustic guitar with either hand, but my fingers just could not figure out how to undo her bra. Pam nonchalantly snaked her hands back there and unhooked her bra within a matter of seconds. Oh. To atone for my blunder I helped her remove the garment and was rewarded with the heavenly sight of her breasts and strawberry nipples. Just when I thought my dick couldn't get any harder…
I slid my hands up her back, so that they were pressed against the skin where her bra used to be clasped, and she arched her back for me, so that her breasts were standing upright and at full attention right in my face, just inches away from my gaping mouth. I lowered my face to gently nuzzle her breasts with my nose, barely touching her smooth skin. She moaned, "Stop…being…such…a…tit tease," so I planted baby kisses around both of her nipples before finally taking one in my mouth, playing with it using my tongue over and over again while simultaneously fingering the other. She tasted like cleanliness and baby powder and the combination made me feel delirious. She moaned again, and I took it to mean that it was time I started paying attention to the other nipple, making sure it received just as much care as the other.
Pam was running her hands through my shoulder-length sun-bleached hair and rubbing herself against my lap; the combination of the two actions was almost too much for me. I needed her NOW. I rolled over so she was lying on the bed and I was lying on top of her. My shaking hands tickled their way down to her jeans, which I promptly unbuttoned and unzipped. She lifted her hips so I could slip off her pants without any problems. As I freed her skin from the fabric, my fingertips rested over the top of her jeans, caressing her long, sleek legs from the tops of her thighs to her ankles. I slowly repeated the gesture with her matching black panties, only this time it was a little more difficult because she was writing beneath my fingers.
After her panties were removed, I brought them to my nose and inhaled. Her scent was mouthwatering, and I wanted more. I kissed up the inside of her thighs until I was at her center. I gingerly continued kissing her, although this time using more tongue. I established a rhythm, and Pam nearly bumped my face while moving her hips. I further experimented: flattening my tongue out, using only my tip, pretending to lick a Pam-flavored ice cream cone. Her breathing got shallower and she cried out, "More!" I slid a hesitant finger inside and marveled at her wetness for me.
Encouraged by her moans, I slid two more fingers in, searching for her g-spot. Once I felt it, or thought I felt it, I made a "come hither" motion with my fingers and Pam instantly bucked underneath me, hands tugging at my hair. I repeated the gesture a couple more times before she screamed my name. I raised my eyes and took in her tilted head and open mouth, enthralled by the additional beauty her orgasm was giving her. I continued my finger motions until she came down from her orgasm, panting heavily. I slipped my fingers in my mouth and sucked heavily, wishing that I'd never run out of juice.
Once Pam recovered she smiled and inched her way down to my very erect dick. She murmured, "I'm on the pill," as she positioned me at her wet entrance, stroking me encouragingly.
With that, I held onto her hips as I carefully slid inside of her. As soon as I was in I almost came, her insides were so tight and hot. I tried to be gentle, as I was obviously new to this and knew, from past experiences in locker rooms and open bathing in streams, that I was bigger than most. I didn't want to hurt her by forcing myself onto her.
"Harder, Eric. Faster," Pam ordered, and I eagerly complied, thankful for her opinion. I began pounding into her, no longer needing her directions as both of us tightening up. I felt an itch inside of me come roaring to the surface, and my own moment came. I threw my head back and growled, "Pammmmmm," and she had her orgasm right after me, screaming my name and scratching her fingers on my back like she was in a perfume commercial.
After we calmed down I pulled out of her and rolled so I was lying on my side peering down at her. She scooted close to me and snuggled into my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her to give her a twenty-minute hug. After two years of self-induced exile, and a whole lifetime of not sleeping with anyone, I was oddly comforted and relaxed just by holding someone in my arms. She didn't move or fidget nervously, and I assumed she had dozed off.
"Eric," she mumbled somewhere in the vicinity of my armpit. I rearranged our positions so she'd be looking at me in the face.
"Yes, lover?"
"Um…never mind."
"Pam, you had something you wanted to say, so just say it. Come on, now, please?"
"Okay…but don't freak out. I just, um, want to know why you let me be your first shag."
"Why? You're the first woman I've met who is independent and free-thinking, and you didn't try and use me once you saw what I looked like or how much I spent on my books. You had an upbringing like mine and you also rejected your family's expectations and defied society's conventions to do what you are passionate about. You hold your own, both in life and conversation, and I respect you more than I've ever respected a person. I've wanted to know you more than I've ever wanted to know someone…not only on a physical level, but just in general. And I didn't 'let' you be my first 'shag.' I wanted you to be my first 'shag.' Does that answer your question?"
"Yes. Can I ask another?"
"Well, you just did, but okay."
"Cheeky monkey. So what did England teach you about sex?
"What?"
"You know – 'Living in Beverly Hills for eighteen years has shown me that sex is rarely an act of love, used instead for personal or professional gain. Living in Kenya for two years has shown me that fidelity is rare and female sexual empowerment even more so.' The opening lines of your article?"
I thought it was incredibly sexy that Pam remembered the words from my article and recited them back verbatim to me. Then I realized that I hadn't said anything in a while and she was probably worrying about that.
"England taught me that sex can be employed for pure pleasure and enjoyed for pure pleasure if it's with someone you truly admire and adore. For me, that someone is Pam."
"Then I am glad to have helped you fill your pot a little. I would like to help fill your pot even more in the future, Eric."
"As I would like to help fill your pot, little by little, Pam. I would very much enjoy that."