Sam was a fellow recruit at the Farm. Hold on, that needs a better explanation, I think. It's known as Camp Peary, and it's located near Williamsburg, Virginia. The official title is much longer: Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity. The whole operation is run by the Department of Defense. The Farm is the covert training facility for the Central Intelligence Agency, although other intelligence entities use the same facility. The government will never acknowledge that the training facility even exists; it is top secret. Sort of like UFOs, things like that. I'm no longer with the CIA; I haven't been since the day before I was married. That is a story for later, but, rest assured, I'm not divulging any scary secrets–you could literally google this and see what I'm talking about.
The length of training for each recruit varied based on experience, and sometimes on age. It was at least six months, although graduates with that short stay were usually ex-military or Department of Defense adjacent. From what I learned, the average stay was one year. I was there for closer to two, but I was a lot younger than most recruits. We learned covert operations. The curriculum: weapons training, target practice, parachuting, aviation, speed boating, defensive driving, surveillance, interrogation, hand to hand combat, special weapons training, skydiving…seduction. I know there are more. It's a crazy list, but it's true. Real James Bond stuff. On the darker side, we had to learn how to withstand torture and chemical agents like truth serum. Lastly, we learned about asset recruiting and handling.
There was specialized training as well. My personal expertise was languages. Just from the amount of time I spent living in the southern U.S., I learned how to speak Spanish phonetically. One year of high school with actually learning to read it, and I was fluent. Portuguese was very similar to Spanish, and I taught it to myself by using recordings on the internet. I arrived there knowing three languages, and graduated fluent in 12. I speak English, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, French, Polish, Hungarian, German, Italian, Bulgarian, Greek, and Korean. I understand Swedish, Norwegian, Japanese, Mandarin, and Dutch, but can only speak a few words of each. I am also fluent in American sign language.
I learned quickly that no one recruited to the Farm was there because they were mediocre. We all didn't excel at everything, but we all had something in our wheelhouse that made us special. Graham knew about my skills with knives, but he learned later about my talent with languages and fostered that in my training as well.
I actually met Sam on my first day, as we started at exactly the same time, although almost ten months passed from our first introduction to any real interaction. He was a little older than me, recruited out of college rather than high school. I have to add, using the word recruited when it came to me was a bit of stretch, though.
You see, that final con my father had promised? The one that brought us to San Diego and me to high school? Turns out, my father conned an international terrorist. He didn't know that, of course. He just followed the money, looking to swindle who he thought were foreign businessmen. So the ATF went after my father, and the CIA got involved when the orders came down from Langley. The Deputy Director of the CIA was involved, and I believe he had my father arrested. At least, that was what he told me.
I came home from school one day in the late fall of my senior year at James Buchanan High School in San Diego, California, to find my house swarming with law enforcement. I actually saw my father being put into the back of a squad car with his hands cuffed behind his back. I panicked, and drove away, knowing there was no way I wouldn't be arrested too once they confronted me, after everything we both had done wrong up to this point. I remembered my father had given me verbal instructions in case of an emergency. Coordinates I needed to find. So I drove off, and then ran through the woods until I found the spot, and dug up the box full of money my father left me for emergencies.
Langston Graham, the Deputy Director I was talking about, after arriving on scene at my house, then followed me into the woods. He knew who I was and that Jack Burton was my father. I thought he was going to arrest me, especially after he rattled off a list of aliases I had used while on the run with my father. What he actually did do shocked the hell out of me. I wondered at the time if it was even legal, but I think men like him were used to being above the law. He offered me an alias, and recruited me into the CIA, at 17 years old.
My name became Sarah Walker. I had been Rebecca, Katie, Melissa, Lori, Tracy, Brenda, Kelly, Jennifer…Sarah was just another name to me then. But the identity of Sarah changed my life forever. Sarah wasn't a grifter's daughter or a con artist. Sarah was a CIA agent in training, no longer a faceless name in the background. She was a real person. She never existed before that moment in the woods, when Graham offered me back the knife I had thrown at his head. She existed at last, but no one knew her. She was a mystery. I'm getting ahead of myself here, but at least know this. That was the first time Sarah Walker ever saw the sunshine. Turns out, she had been inside me all along, just utterly terrified of the light, willing to live in the equally frightening dark simply because it was familiar. I didn't find that out until years later.
My crimes were excused. I was allowed to finish the remaining six months of high school. I graduated unceremoniously, with not a soul in the crowd there for me when I walked across the stage for my diploma, one with a fake name emblazoned across it. My father was sentenced to ten years of hard time. I went to see him once, a few days after I graduated. He had a black eye and a split lip. He told me he was proud of me…and then that I shouldn't come back there…that both of us were safer if we stayed apart.
I hadn't seen him in so long, and when I finally did, I realized how much I missed him. Not the way you might be thinking, though. There wasn't enough emotional depth in that relationship for me to feel his absence in my heart. Just my life. Missing, like a tooth…or a chopped down tree. A presence I was used to, comforted by, simply by proximity and familiarity. The way he reacted to me hurt more than I had anticipated when I convinced myself to go see him. I don't know what he thought I was doing, and he didn't seem that curious to know. He left a 17 year old girl with a box full of stolen money buried next to a tree…and absolutely nothing else. I had no one to help me, nowhere to go, no hope for anything. What did he think I was doing? No doubt, carrying on his legacy and stealing to survive. He was more concerned that I would be arrested by visiting him than where I was sleeping. I can step back now and see how despicable that was, but at the time, seeing my father in orange prison garb, trapped behind a thick pane of glass, just made me sad.
I never told him the CIA recruited me, or that I was leaving for Virginia in a few weeks. Somehow, I almost thought he would have been disappointed, that I was caught by the authorities, or that I wasn't going to follow in his footsteps and con my way through life. I left the prison that day and didn't see him again for over nine years, when he found me in Burbank.
So…the Farm. A more dangerous, military version of high school, with far less female friendship potential. I was the youngest recruit in the bunch that season, and one of only 15 women out of a class of nearly 90. I spent a lot of time quietly observing, just like my father had taught me to do all my life. Trying to figure out what people's stories were, why they were there. I was almost certain no one had as quite a dramatic backstory as me, and I made sure I kept all of that to myself. A lot were orphans. Some were military, either current or former enrollment. ROTC in college, things of that nature. The people that I knew came from what some would call a normal home–both parents in a house–were rich kids. People who had materially everything they ever could have wanted, but for all that, were veritable orphans themselves anyway, left alone by their parents at a young age…boarding-schooled, signed off for other people to raise. The Farm was a perfect transition for people like that. Spies were selfish by the very nature of the job. They had no personal entanglements, no personal life. We were giving our lives to the job. We all knew that and accepted it. Maybe not embraced, but accepted. What other choice did I have?
I don't know what I went in expecting, but I came out of that experience believing I had only traded one set of bad circumstances for another. Anything normal, anything I may have craved for myself when I was a small child, was no more attainable as a CIA agent than it would have been if I'd stayed a criminal. My only consolation was that now, at least, I wasn't breaking the law, and I was working to make the world a better and safer place.
That was naive Sarah. It didn't take long for me to realize that I would have plenty of opportunities to do damage and hurt people. My job would be hurting people, even killing people. Sure, most of them were bad and dangerous people. But, some of them were completely innocent, their deaths serving some greater purpose that we would never be privy to. The law was fuzzy when it came to our missions and what we did. Perhaps the world would slowly get better as I worked, but the big picture was harder to see. The one thing I knew for sure–I would eventually blacken my soul to achieve whatever end result that would be.
One of the first things the CIA did for me, although I should say did to me, for I was not a willing participant, was to give me a makeover. Not as glamorous as the kind on TV. It started with an exercise and weight loss program. I was awkward and underweight, not busty or curvy enough. They purposely fed me to fill out my curves, then ran me into the ground with exercise to tone my muscles. They dyed my hair, straightened my teeth. They pierced my ears. Then the lessons…how to apply makeup, how to dress, even how to apply perfume. In the end, it took about seven months, but I went from a gawky teenager to a femme fatale. I would stop in the mirror sometimes and look at myself, wondering at the fact that it was actually me I was seeing.
For me, the transition was too quick. I didn't feel like that gorgeous girl. I still felt like my awkward, ugly self, uncomfortable in her own skin. I had spent my entire life blending in, hiding in plain sight, never drawing attention to myself. The attention my sudden appearance change precipitated was unnerving. No one in high school would have believed it was me. All 75 of the male recruits took notice at once, as if somehow I was a different person, and not the same girl they had seen every day for all this time. My personality, despite my so-called devastating looks, was the same, though. I still saw the world through those eyes…waiting to be mocked or ridiculed.
Instead, this type of attention was unsettling. I hated when I felt eyes on me, feeling as if I was being undressed with their eyes. Men would tell me I was beautiful, and I would shrug it off. It meant nothing. That beauty was something the CIA forced upon me, for their benefit, not mine, no matter how it made me feel when I looked at myself.
Sam was the first person who told me I was beautiful that I actually believed. When I say believed, I mean that I knew that he was saying it to be genuine, not because he was trying to have sex with me. It remains ironic then, that the very first notion of me knowing he was not trying to bed me, was what convinced me to have sex with him. Again, getting ahead of myself.
Sam was quiet and intense. He had a ridiculously high IQ and had graduated from Harvard with high honors. He was a math genius, excellent with computer code. He also wanted to be a spy. The CIA often recruited at ivy league colleges like Harvard. He had scored high on their tests, passed all the personality profiling that somehow Graham had allowed me to bypass.
He told me I was beautiful…in the same breath he told me he thought I was lonely. Not a stupid pick up line, not a cheesy come on. A breath of sympathy, or maybe empathy. He went on to explain that people in this program, in this field, were often loners. That we had to be if we were going to survive. I was harsh, probably too harsh, because he had inadvertently unearthed the truth while my guard was down. I asked him what business it was of his if I was lonely or not. I had been alone my entire life, I would always be alone. That was the way that it was.
Did it have to be? he had asked me.
Yes, it did, was my only reply. I didn't know what he meant when he said that to me. In one breath he was telling me that we needed to be solitary, then in a way asked me if that was the only way. It took a long time before I understood what he had known from the beginning. We had so little of ourselves to give…and we needed to find a way to be content, living with only pieces of our lives and holes in our hearts. I know that was how he lived…and how he died. I'll get to that, but not here, not now.
After twelve months of training, they paired us off. I think he requested me for his partner, or maneuvered something behind the scenes, but Sam ended up as mine. We lived together, we trained together. It didn't matter that we were opposite genders, sharing quarters, and a bathroom, like a normal couple would. It was odd…living with a stranger. I hated having to share space with anyone, but it was par for the course.
Training was where I excelled. I had the highest scores of anyone in the class, some of them five or six years older than me. I was a lethal force to be reckoned with, and everyone knew it. Sam's training scores improved the more he trained with me. What I lacked was the social finesse needed for the non-physical part of the job. He was better with that, despite his quiet and intense nature.
We were a good team, and despite my reluctance, we did become friends. I began to see that, because of the way we lived and trained, I was closer to him than I had been to anyone else in my life, maybe even more than my father. He saw me in the morning without makeup, cut up and bruised from sparring, sweaty and messy after a workout. We weren't close friends, though. My past and the secrets I needed to keep ensured that we never got closer. I never told him a thing about myself from my past. He never offered any of his, so we left it at that. It was enough.
At least, until the topic of my virginity came into question. The two of us were partners in class. In one role playing scenario, he mocked the way I walked, the way I pretended to come on to him when they paired us up. Sway your hips, Walker, he had advised. You walk like a shy virgin.
I never replied to that per se, but I blushed furiously, something I almost never did. Being the good spy-in-training that he was, he figured it out, and confronted me when we were back in our quarters that evening.
I was showered, in my pajamas, trying to make myself tired enough to go to sleep. Living in close quarters with him, the only time I could safely use my vibrator was when I was in the shower, and the radio was playing. I stored my vibrator in my room, so he wouldn't accidentally find it. It complicated things when he was around, like earlier, when I couldn't bring it in there with me. It was part of my routine, and when it was disrupted, so was my sleep.
Sam was blunt. I liked that about him. He said what he meant, meant what he said. For all his exemplary skill at persuasion and manipulation that he employed, he never played stupid games with me. We worked very well together during training, perfectly in sync with each other. We anticipated each other's moves, and worked in tandem. So while I was stretched out on the couch, he walked up to me and asked nonchalantly, "So, Walker, you're really a virgin?"
I know I blushed again, but I wasn't sure if he could tell in the dim light provided just by the television. "Why does that concern you so much?" I asked him, never turning my head to make eye contact with him.
"How old are you?" he asked with genuine curiosity.
I told him the truth. He could ask questions, maybe questions I wasn't allowed to answer, but it was still the truth. "Nineteen." I had just turned nineteen the month before.
He was flabbergasted. I had truly shocked him. It was nice, for a moment, to know that I seemed older. That whatever the CIA had done to me had made me seem more worldly, not some half-child, half-woman, wanna-be spy that I internally still saw myself as. "Nine—" He started, in a whisper, and couldn't finish. "Wow, Walker. I would never in a million years have thought you were that young." He pressed on, pushing his point. "But even so, nineteen may be young for the CIA, but it's ancient to be a virgin. Especially someone as gorgeous as you are." There it was again, genuine admiration, and not frivolous flattery.
"Why does it matter?" I asked again testily. Why was he making such a big deal out of it?
"How are you supposed to, you know, act sexy? Seduce your marks? Do your job, if you have no idea what it's like to have sex?" he asked. He wasn't being sarcastic or condescending in any way. I could tell. I read people as well as my father, and the extra CIA training made my senses even sharper. He was just curious.
It still irritated me. "The last time I checked, the CIA wasn't interested in prostituting out operatives. I believe that's still illegal, Sam," I countered.
"Maybe not. But it's the tease…you know, the promise of it. How you exert your will over someone else. How do you sell wine you've never tasted? I just think it would be rather…difficult if you had no idea," he finished.
The truth of what he was saying wasn't a new concern. I had been thinking about it more and more, realizing for sure that I was probably the only virgin here in this group. The instructors acted like I should know exactly what they were talking about. Regardless, I had no plans to let anyone just fuck me for the job. I was not a prostitute, and legally it was neither required nor even allowed. I did know there were some who liked having sex, to the point that their sexual partner didn't matter. Even a mark, someone ripe for manipulation. I had never thought of my virginity being a problem that needed solving. But, the closer we got to graduation, the more apparent it seemed.
Did he see what I was thinking then? I wondered. He sat next to me on the sofa. He had dark hair and magnificently pale blue eyes. "Can I say something? You know, just be honest?" he asked gently. His next words startled me. "You could have sex with me."
I almost jumped straight off the couch. "Are you crazy?" I asked sharply. My heart was racing and my skin was burning with embarrassment.
"No," he offered, flashing a dashingly handsome yet sheepish smile. I do have to mention here that I found him extremely handsome, in a very objective way. He was easy on the eyes, as my father would have said. He knew it, which was a bit of a turn off. But, he wasn't my boyfriend, just my partner. His focus on his looks took nothing away from me; it was just an annoying habit.
"I'm just your partner and your friend," he said sincerely. He rubbed his hands together between his knees, fidgeting like he was nervous. "Just hear me out. I know you aren't here training to be a CIA officer because you want a house in the suburbs and two point four kids. Our pasts brought us here. All of us," he added quickly, an indication that he didn't want to know specifics, but yet somehow understood. "I know you're lonely. It's part of this life. But if you're here, however old you are, your chances for…you know, romance or whatever…are long gone."
He was only telling the truth, but it stung all the way to the center of me, facing that truth. That every last one of those childhood dreams had vanished. I pushed that pain down deep. "There was never anyone special enough to you?" he asked bluntly. I shook my head vigorously, feeling my cheeks burning.
"I didn't mean to make you feel self-conscious, bringing it up like that in class. It was stupid, and I'm sorry," he said gently. "I was only offering…because I thought it bothered you."
"A sympathy fuck? Is that what you're saying?" I asked, not sure if my voice mirrored the sentiment behind it. I sensed only kindness from him, but I was bristling.
He laughed. "Such a beautiful girl…such a filthy mouth," he teased. He paused, then continued more seriously. "You aren't in need of a sympathy fuck. Believe me…anyone here would have sex with you if you asked them, no questions asked. You are incredibly hot," he added with a chuckle. That sincere flattery was getting under my skin. "Maybe an empathy fuck?"
"What?" I countered, squinting at his funny word choice.
"It can be…unpleasant, the first time. You know that, right?" he asked, with a strange wisdom in his tone that made me curious. I did know, thanks to health class. I nodded.
"You're volunteering for unpleasant sex?" I asked, half-teasing.
Blunt Sam again, turned his striking blue eyes to my face. "I'm saying…I can make sure it isn't all unpleasant." He lowered his voice, sounding so sexy in the moment it gave me chills. "Once we get past the…hard part…trust me…it would feel…so…good."
I felt a hot flush wash over me like a wave. It seemed like he was bragging that he was good in bed. It seemed strange and a little off-putting. But there was no brashness about him, no swagger. He was just quietly confident. It was the sexiest thing in the world.
Waiting changed nothing about that experience. I could wait, maybe find someone else, maybe someone less accepting or willing to accommodate my virginity. Or I could have sex with him. He knew I was a virgin, that I was inexperienced. He was a trustworthy guy.
I kept my head down, staring at the floor. He was serious, and he was waiting for a reply from me. Unbidden, I felt a wave of sadness tinged with self-pity rise from somewhere deep inside, brought out by his honest explanation. I had dreamy pictures from movies and books I had read when I was younger…stories about love…making love, the ultimate expression of that ephemeral state of being. Just stories. I didn't believe in love any more than I believed in the goodness of the world, or even in my father. It is just the nature of human beings to not believe in things that they can't see.
I actually never believed love was real…until I saw it, in my husband's eyes when he looked at me, many years in the future from here. Making love was something I only have ever done with him. Everything else was just fucking. I used that word almost exclusively when referring to my sex life. The only time I ever even heard it used that way after Chuck and I were together was from him, in his playful way of talking dirty to me while we were in bed. It was adorably sweet and cute the way he did it…the way he does it. The joy I found in his arms allowed me to smile when he talked that way, without dredging up the pain of my life before him.
I remember lying next to Chuck in the dark in our cabin on the train we took from Paris to Switzerland. We lay atop the covers, trying to cool off from an intense and passionate session of lovemaking. Our heads were touching. He asked me how old I was when I lost my virginity. We had been in love for three years, but there was so much I had never told him before about my life. Those days together on the train were all about sharing. He laughed about the optics…why were we talking about other people we'd had sex with when we were lying naked beside each other? He might have had a point, but I wanted him to know.
I told him I was nineteen. I told him about Sam. Chuck never made me feel ashamed of my past, and that certainly made it easier. He told me about his first time…when he was 20, in college, with Jill, his ex-girlfriend. I had met her in the past, so I knew what he was talking about, and he was blessedly brief. I only asked him if Jill was a virgin too.
His reply, even as I remember it now, made me laugh. Good lord, no. Could you imagine nerdy college virgin Chuck with a mutual virgin? My god, I'd still be a virgin now.
I asked him if she knew he was a virgin. He blushed six shades of red, and then told me not until the third time they had sex. What? It's easier for guys. Especially when…the girl is…uh…aggressive. I made a face and he changed the subject to me.
Jill said she loved me. No one had ever said that to me before. That was why I decided to have sex with her. What made you decide it was him? he asked me.
Because I couldn't graduate from spy school, to go on seduction missions, if I was a virgin, I told him. Not their rule. Mine.
I know a part of Chuck's heart broke hearing that. He loved me so much that anything that hurt me hurt him too. Even in that state, his response to my words was to hold me close to him. Comfort, never judgment. Did you love him? he asked me.
No, I told him, certain of it. Chuck was the only person I had ever truly loved, and yet, at this point in our relationship, I had yet to just say the words to him. I wanted to, but I didn't know how. Nothing in my life up to that point had prepared me for someone like him. We were friends. Sort of.
"You look like you're thinking about it," Sam teased, almost sing-song in his tone.
I was, but not the way he meant. This was a once in a lifetime thing. Something I would remember my entire life. Did I really want to look back and say my first time was my CIA training partner who was trying to do me a favor and fuck the virginity out of me? But the dark angel on my shoulder wouldn't let me back down. That was the best case, losing my virginity in my own bed, in our quarters, with someone I knew and trusted. Someone who was assuring me he would find a way to give me some pleasure from it. Passing on it here meant something worse down the line. There was no fairy tale for me, no happily ever after. I was not normal. I never had been, never would be.
I let the sadness go, fly away from me like a balloon rising up into the sky. No happy ending, but I did have an incredibly attractive man who wanted to fuck me. I thought about my vibrator, about my secret wishes in the darkness of my room to know what it felt like to orgasm during sex. I was resigned to the accompanying pain it would cause…but the promise of pleasure, however fleeting, tipped the scales in my mind. It was a relief when I accepted it. Sam and I were going to have sex. I already felt that heavy itch between my legs.
"You know, the CIA requires those monthly injections for the female operatives for contraceptive purposes. I know they make you a little nauseous. At least take advantage of the benefits of that," he said with a sweet smile.
"And what would those be?" I asked him, surprised at the playful lilt I added to my voice, as well as my breathless undertone.
"You can…fuck…anyone you like. Your boyfriend, your mark, your partner, some random guy you meet in a bar…anyone at all. Why does James Bond get to have all the fun?" he teased.
"Are you telling me you think you're James Bond?" I teased.
"No, no, absolutely not," he replied. "But I am working on it."
"Those injections don't protect against STDs, you know," I told him, struggling to keep my voice steady. I was nervous, but the subject matter was starting to make me wet between my legs nonetheless. I could feel my pulse in my vulva.
"You're a virgin, Walker. You don't have any STDs," he teased. I was acutely aware of how close to me he was sitting on the sofa.
"I meant you," I said, trying to stay playful, but my voice shook.
"I would always use a condom," he said. "In this case, it isn't necessary, exactly. It's been a while since I've had sex…with anyone. And the last time I did in college, I was run through the gamut of testing because my girlfriend cheated on me."
I had several lines in my head to reply to him, but my mouth was dry and my heart was pounding. I wanted him. It was a bizarre feeling.
"I'm just saying…popping that cherry will feel better without it," he said. It was disgusting and sexy at the same time. "Especially if it's a little dry at first." He knew at that point I was in, even though we weren't even in physical contact.
I could feel how wet I was. Dry? Really? But, anticipating pain might affect me. "Without," I whispered, accepting his offer out loud, consenting to the encounter. He smiled again, that unbelievably handsome smile that made my knees go weak. He stood up and pulled me to my feet by my hand. My palms were sweaty and my knees were shaking. Slowly, he led me into my bedroom. I stood awkwardly by the bed while he pulled the curtains closed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand.
"Don't be afraid, Walker," he said in an effort to relax me. I was terrified. This wasn't even the locker room rutting I had witnessed. We would both be completely naked, twisted together under the sheets. The thought was making my head spin, too much all at once. "We have all night. Let's take our time."
He pulled off his t-shirt, tossing it to the side. Then he slid his sweatpants down to his ankles and kicked them off. His boxer shorts went with them, and he pulled his socks off and added them to the pile. He stood before me, completely naked, his erection already evident. The thought of having sex with me caused that, I thought. He was enormous, and I know my eyes widened at the sight.
"Take off your clothes," he instructed me, though his tone was a question, something he was asking me. I pulled my nightgown over my head, then bent down, sliding my panties down my legs and kicking them off. I fought the urge to cover myself with my arms.
He took one step towards me. "Dear lord, I knew you were beautiful but…my god, Walker," he gushed. "You're like a goddess." It was strange how he kept referring to me by my last name. I thought he was going to reach for me, but he pulled the blankets on the bed down instead. "Lie down," he whispered.
I did as he asked, lying horizontally across the bed. He laid beside me, never touching me at all. "Show me how you touch yourself," he whispered.
My entire body flushed, and I couldn't look at him. "I hear you use that vibrator…when you're trying to fall asleep. Show me what you do to yourself…when the vibrator would be too loud."
I wondered at his request. The thought of doing that in front of him was mortifying. But so was being naked in front of him. And everything else that could happen would be worse…if I couldn't relax. He wanted to see it, I argued with myself. And as nervous as I was, I was also dripping wet and throbbing with need between my legs. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, and slid my finger down over the crest of my pubic bone, deep into my wet folds. My breath got tighter, more strained. I began massaging my clitoris, back and forth, gradually increasing the speed. It took probably five minutes, an eternity compared to using the vibrator or the shower head, made worse because he was watching me. I was close, lifting my hips off the bed against my own finger when I felt him touch me.
He had reached across my leg and deliberately, yet quite gently, cupped my vulva in his hand. He slid his index finger all the way inside me, and with his thumb strummed my clitoris like a guitar string. My orgasm exploded, filling every fiber of me with pleasure. "Oh…" I moaned. He had done that to me, I thought. And it was intoxicating like alcohol. I wanted more, so much more. It was the same thing I had done to myself hundreds of times. So why then, did it feel…so much better…when he did it to me?
He was turned on. I could hear how heavily he was breathing, like we had just gone ten rounds fighting in the gym. His finger was still inside me, his thumb running tiny circles over my clitoris. "Damn, Walker," he breathed. "You're like fucking velvet. I want to feel that on my cock."
I realized he was talking dirty to me. It seemed silly, but at the same time, with the way he was touching me, it was so sexy. Did he want me to talk dirty back to him? I couldn't. Some part of me wanted to try, but with all of this, I just couldn't. Instead, I let myself go. "That feels so good," I moaned breathlessly. It was amazing to be touched that way, thrusting my hips upward and fucking his finger.
He was touching me on the inside like someone would run their hand over a shiny piece of chrome, savoring how I felt. He was massaging me exactly the way I touched myself. Asking me to masturbate in front of him…was his way of observing, of learning. I was amazed, feeling my blood flowing to where he fluttered his finger against me. He whispered, "Relax, Sarah." My muscles were clenched tightly. "I promise I won't stop touching you until you come."
I whimpered at those words, just what I needed to hear. It dispelled the awkward worry that he had to work too hard, that I was taking too long, or that he would stop in the middle of getting me so worked up. The assured orgasm made me relax, and I sunk into the mattress, luxuriating in the feeling. Expertly, he worked me into a frenzy. I came again, and he slid another finger inside me while I rode it out, quivering and shuddering with pleasure.
"You know what you like, don't you?" he whispered. "It's hard to orgasm at all your first time. You came twice."
I was out of breath, teasing to diffuse the moment. "Are you some kind of…cherry popping wizard or something?"
"I wouldn't say that," he laughed. "But I am a spy in training. My powers of persuasion are top notch. That includes talking girls out of their virginity," he laughed. "Worked on you, didn't it?"
"I've had bigger things inside me than your finger, and I'm still a virgin right now…as we speak," I teased him back.
"Anything as big as my cock?" he asked, climbing between my legs. I heard the desire in his voice. For all his arguments, he did want me. All I could do was shake my head. He was about to do it. And I wanted him to, despite the pain I knew was coming.
I can say here…Sam was the most impersonal fuck I've ever had, but that was what I needed then, probably all I could handle. I didn't expect more. We weren't a couple. We were just barely friends, partners. He wasn't burning with passion for me, he just wanted to have sex with me.
"Going slow hurts worse. Just try and relax and let me do what I need to. Once I open you up, it won't hurt as much." He rammed himself inside me in one rapid, fluid motion. I actually shrieked in pain. And the way he had entered me was unique, that impersonal way Sam always did. He was on his knees, holding me under my buttocks, lifting me off the bed. He pulled me forward when he thrust in, shifted me back when he thrust out. He controlled my movements, keeping me from hesitating because of the pain. It burned like a lit match was in my vagina. I bled onto my sheets. I was well lubricated from the orgasms he had given me, but my flesh was tender, and unstretched, and he was enormously wide and long.
He was fucking me. That was how I saw what was happening. He had anticipated my pain, but gave no heed to it. I'm sure he thought the best way to end it was to just keep going. It hurt so much it distracted me from what was actually happening. The pain was almost unbearable…until suddenly…it wasn't. The warmth of the friction of him sliding in and out of me intensified, lulling the pain, until it almost disappeared. It started to feel good. Very good.
He was warm and hard inside me, and I was stretched tightly over him. The only parts of us that were touching were our genitals and our thighs. He never kissed me, never touched my breasts. It was one step further than those two teenagers in the locker room. Just much, much better than what my vibrator felt like inside me. I don't know how long he fucked me like that…maybe five minutes. I found that when he thrust into me, if I shifted my hips down just a bit, still in his grip, my clitoris rubbed against his cock. Ten more thrusts, and I orgasmed again, while he was inside me. "Good girl," he praised me for taking charge of my pleasure.
My mind went blank as I started drowning in the pleasure of that sensation. I was right, I thought. Touching myself was pleasurable, but…nothing…nothing…had ever felt like the orgasm I had around his cock. I felt like I was outside my body for a moment. I heard him murmuring, like it was far away. "Holy fuck, Sarah, you come so hard…" I was in a pleasure induced fog, but I noticed the use of my first name again.
I was coming down from that high when I felt him come inside me. His cock shifted, and the warmth pattered against me on the inside. I wouldn't have felt that with the condom on, I knew. I was glad I told him no. I hadn't anticipated how much I would love the feeling of his ejaculate as it squirted inside me. And, I did trust him, trust what he told me, about it being safe. He was a sincere person.
He was my first.
He flopped beside me on the bed, rolling away, not touching my body. "That was…the most…amazing sex I've ever had," he breathed. I turned my head to look at him, curious as to why he would think so. What had I done that made it better than any other?
Answering my silent question, he said, "Your orgasms. I don't know why girls think they can fake them…because you can feel them when they're real. Sometimes like a flutter…but…damn, you're like a vice. I lost control and just finished. Nice, toned muscles." He said silently, his breathing slowly calming. "Lucky vibrator, huh."
"Now lucky you," I teased back.
"Better than the vibrator?" he asked, winking at me as he glanced over quickly.
I moaned, shivering from head to toe. "Is it going to be weird with us now?" I asked suddenly.
"Why?" he questioned.
"Because you fucked me," I shot back, reeling deliciously at the past tense.
"Why would that change anything?" he asked. I breathed a sigh of relief. Anything else was more than I could handle. I was glad he agreed.
He left me on my bed, and went to take a shower. Then he went to sleep in his own bed. I waited until he was out of the bathroom, then went to clean up myself. I grabbed a towel to place over the blood-tinged wet spot on my sheets, too exhausted to change them until the morning.
In the morning, it was like it had never happened. A normal girl might have been upset, worried, offended, maybe even feeling used. But he wasn't my boyfriend, he wasn't my date, he wasn't even a one-night stand. He had no feelings for me like that, and I had none for him. I liked his company. He was funny. He was a good partner.
Who it just so happened the night before had fucked my brains out until I had almost blacked out.
And that was how it was with us. It started with him offering to help me lose my virginity. But it didn't stay just the one time. It continued as a purely physical entanglement that was mutually satisfying. We never had a conversation about it, never sat down and said we would have sex on a regular basis. But after training for long, grueling days of physical and mental exhaustion, we needed the release of sex. The access was too easy, living in the same quarters. Impersonal as always, he would initiate the sex by touching me between my legs. I found myself surprised at first, but it became a regular activity. The only conversation we ever had about what we were doing all that time was when I asked him if he would wear a condom with me if he fucked anybody else.
His response was, A threesome? You're not ready for that, with a laugh.
I think, looking back on it now, that I might have hurt him by asking him that. Not that he promised to be monogamous, because he didn't, even though he was. More so because I thought he wouldn't do what was right by me and protect me from potential harm.
He never fucked anyone else during that time, and neither did I. Again, no discussion, but I recall an intense round of sex, him thrusting into me from behind, breathlessly asking me if I was glad I let him pop my cherry. My response was a breathless plea for him to fuck me harder, which he always obliged.
It was no little girl's romantic fairy tale, but, for whatever reason, those were never meant for me. Not what I wanted, but what I needed. No tenderness, no intimacy, just hard, intense orgasms to make me forget, even for a little while, how hard the rest of my life was going to be.
