Miranda's Journey

He looked at her. "I still can't believe you're a virgin. I mean, you're so beautiful. You're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. You're so beautiful, it's . . . intimidating."

She felt herself blush. "Thank you. You're sweet to say that."

"But I mean it, though. You're gorgeous, Miranda. Don't you know that?"

She shrugged. "I could say the same about you, you know. You're very cute."

Now it was his turn to blush. She had the lamp on, beside the bed. It cast a bright glow across the room. Perhaps that was part of the problem. She flicked it off. Now the room was murky, shadowy, the only light coming from the moonshine, which slivered in through the open window.

She reached for the buttons on his pajama top, undid the top one, then the next one, and the next, until she caressed his bare chest, put her hand over his heart.

"Your heart's beating so fast," she said. "Please relax, Jeremy. I'm not gonna bite. Unless you want me to." She hoped he'd smile at this, but he only looked away.

"You're too pretty, Miranda," he said. "You're just too beautiful. I don't know how I can . . ."

"Ssssh," she said, and kissed his forehead, his eyelid, his cheek. Finally, he turned to her, and she kissed his lips.

"So beautiful," he whispered. "You're so beautiful."

And then his kisses became a little more fervent, a little more insistent. Good. Maybe they were getting somewhere.

The funny thing was—because of his nervousness, Miranda wasn't allowed to let hers overtake her. She was too preoccupied comforting Jeremy. She realized, even as he kissed her, that maybe this was helping her in a way that nothing else really could. She just hoped it didn't last much longer. She desperately wanted to be ravaged. To feel him thrusting away inside of her, calling her a slut, a whore, a bitch.

She unbuttoned his pajama top all the way, and pulled it off his shoulders, letting it slide off onto the bed. She touched his chest. He wasn't a weightlifter, not by any stretch of the imagination. But he was in good shape. And she told him that.

"You really think so?" he said.

She answered him with a French kiss, and he reciprocated in kind, their tongues parrying, dancing, coupling. "Mmmm," she moaned, and caressed him again. She wanted him to caress her back, pull the tank top she was wearing over her head, revealing her bra-less B-cup breasts. She wanted him to slide her silk night-shorts down her long. coltish legs, hardened by years of track practice and her Walk across the state. She wanted his breath on her, tickling her, tantalizing her. She wanted his tongue on her nipple, his teeth biting and nibbling, pulling and playing.

As they continued to kiss, she took his hand, guided it to her shirt-bottom, then reluctantly broke the kiss. She raised her arms above her head, urging him on.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. And then she was topless, the warm, humid air sighing through the open window a hot tickle on her skin. He gasped, audibly, licked his lips, adjusted his glasses.

"My God," he said, and then his lips were all over her, on her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, her nipples, her stomach. Then back on her nipples.

"You like them?" she said, partly because she wanted to show some self-consciousness, too. Maybe that would help him to take the lead. But also because she genuinely worried. Maybe he was a big-tits kind of guy, and she was so far from measuring up to that.

"Do I like them? Do I like them?" He kissed her nipples, over and over, his tongue suddenly freed from its cocoon of worry and shyness. Then he nibbled, bit down, softly, and she squealed. He rewarded this with a kiss on her lips, and they fell over on the bed, tangled in each other's arms, their hands groping, reaching, exploring.

"Ohhh," she purred, as he pinched one of her nipples. She desperately wanted him to reach for her shorts and slide them off. If he did, he'd discover she wasn't wearing any panties. In a moment of clarity amid the cacophony of lust, she thought of the condoms she had hidden away in the nightstand. She'd need to wrap him up before they got that far. . . .

But thoughts of wrapping up his cock were far from her mind a moment later, as he did in fact reach for her shorts. His hand slid inside, slowly, haltingly, and, to encourage him, she told him to rub her clit, rub her pussy.

"Take me, Jeremy," she said.

Still, he hesitated. Where was the bold, horny young man of a moment ago? Don't chicken out now. Not when we're so close. Suddenly a brainstorm hit her. It was corny, stupid as all hell, but maybe, just maybe it would liberate him from this latest stronghold of fear and hesitation.

She sat up, looked at him firmly. "Ralph!" she said. "What's wrong with you? You leave me home alone all day, surrounded by these four drab walls, and when you come back, you can't even fuck me right? I need you to take me, Ralph! Dominate me! Show me what a man you are."

It was a gamble—playing on their shared love of The Honeymooners. But maybe a little temporary role-playing would get the job done.

He smiled, blushed, but then he eased right into the role.

"Alice! When a man comes home, hungry, exhausted, worn out, he doesn't need to be badgered! I'll show you who's in charge."

"Oh really? You don't have the backbone." She slid a little closer, giving him a better angle to pull down her shorts. "C'mon, fatso! What are you waiting for?"

"Do you wanna go to the moon?" he yelled, in a perfect Ralph Kramden imitation. "One of these days, Alice. One of these days! Pow! Right in the kisser!"

She giggled and he pulled off her shorts. Staring at her bare, freshly shaved crotch, he licked his lips again.

"My God. You are so fucking gorgeous."

Mmmm. He wasn't Ralph anymore. He was Jeremy now. All Jeremy. And he was ready. He was ready to take her. She knew it.

"I need your cock," she said, and she yanked down his pajama bottoms. She smiled when she saw he wasn't wearing any underwear, either. He was rock-hard, not big, but not too small. Maybe six inches. Perfect. She worried that he'd be self-conscious about his cock, like she was about her tits. Maybe he worried she was a size queen. But if he did, he did a great job concealing it.

"Do you want to suck my cock?" he said. "Do you? Slut?"

She flashed back to the last thing she'd told him when they had sat down together on the bench, after talking about The Honeymooners for over an hour.

"Jeremy, I need you to try to dominate me tonight, can you do that?" He just sat there, silently. "I need you to take control, call me a slut and a whore."

"Miranda, I . . ."

"I know, I know," she said. "It's weird. Say it."

"No, it's just . . . I'm not sure if I could do anything like that."

"I really want you to, Jeremy. It would get me so turned on. And besides, behind that shy exterior, I bet a real brute lurks."

He smiled, shook his head. "I'll try. If you're sure it's what you want."

"Trust me," she'd said. "You'll like what it does to me."

And now, in her corner bedroom in her aunt and uncle's rambling bed and breakfast, what it was doing was driving her wild.

"Suck me, right now," he commanded, and she knelt in front of him, on her knees. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. Sucking her first cock. How hard should she suck? How fast? How slow?

Jeremy pulled her forward, forcing her lips to his cock-tip. He had the inner brute, all right! She loved it. "Suck me like the good little slut you are, Miranda."

And she did it. No more hesitating. No more wondering what if. She just enveloped his shaft and began to slurp on it. It was hot, so hot in her mouth, and she could feel it throbbing. She licked his tip, licked the full length of his shaft, feeling the contours of his veins and circumcised skin.

"Mmmm," she purred as he pushed on the back of her head, forcing himself in deeper, deeper. The sounds of her slurping were loud, wet, sloppy. She wondered if they turned him on as much as they did her. She felt like a slut. She felt like his slut. She was soaking wet, her pussy craving attention. Instinctively, she reached down, and began to stroke her clit.

Jeremy grabbed her arm, pulled it away. "Only I can do that," he said, and pushed her away, and onto her back. She lay there, fully naked, fully exposed before him, the moonlight bathing her in an otherworldly glow.

He turned around, straddled her, his cock hovering mere inches above her mouth.

"I . . . I've never sixty-nined before," he said. "I never ate a girl out before at all. I hope . . ."

"Oh shut up and do it!" she said, and giggled.

"Okay, slut!" he said, and they both laughed.

She took his cock in her mouth again, loving how wet with her own saliva the shaft was. It tasted so good, so salty and firm. Mmmm. She giggled again, wondering if this declassified her as a vegetarian now.

His lips felt great on her pussy, but he was tentative. She bucked her hips, urging him to go at it harder, surer. He did. Did he ever. He exerted more pressure, stuck his tongue in as deep as it could go, lapped her up like a thirsty puppy.

"Ohhh," she moaned as she sucked his cock. But then, suddenly, she felt him stiffen even more, grow harder, and she could sense more than feel the rushing fluid as it sluiced its way through his shaft. A moment later, and a warm, sticky liquid shot into her mouth.

She choked—there was so much! But she drank every drop.

He hopped onto his knees, looked away.

"I'm sorry, Miranda. It felt so good. I couldn't control it another second. I know I should've warned you, but . . ."

She kissed him, wondering if he could taste himself on her lips. "Don't worry about it. I loved it. I've been wondering how it would taste."

He smiled. "And?"

"Yum! But now let's see if I can get you hard again, sexy," she said.

She was amazed to discover—he already was!

"What can I say?" he said sheepishly. "You have that effect on a guy."

"You know how to address me, Jeremy. Tell me what I am."

"You're a slut," he said, and was upon her again. "A whore who just wants to get fucked. And I'm the guy to do it."

She moaned against his chest, purred at his firm but gentle touch. This was even better than she'd imagined it would be. He was better than she'd imagined he would be. She wished the minutes would linger, that the clock would take a well-needed rest and stand still for another hour or two.

Reaching for the nightstand, she opened the top drawer, pulled out a condom, bit into the wrapper. "I always wanted to do that," she said, and Jeremy laughed, as she spit out the wrapper.

There was no delay, no talk, no hesitating. They both longed for it, ached for it. She rolled the condom onto his cock, and again he climbed on top of her.

"I'll never forget this," he whispered, and kissed her. "Not as long as I live."

She smiled, kissed him back. And then he bolstered himself on his elbows, his cock-tip brushing up against her vaginal opening. He fumbled, trying to insert it, but couldn't, and she leaned forward, grabbed his shaft in her hand, and guided him in.

They giggled over the clumsiness—a nervous giggle. As much as they wanted it—what would it feel like? And Miranda wondered again—how would it feel when he ripped through her hymen? Would it be excruciating? Would it ruin the whole thing?

"I'll be gentle," he said. "Don't worry." He kissed her again.

"Does it hurt?" he asked a moment later as he pushed in a little more. She shook her head. "Okay. Here I go." She gritted her teeth, waiting for a flaring sheet of pain.

But it was nothing. She felt nothing—a pinprick, perhaps, and that was all. Maybe she'd already broken her hymen without knowing it during her many hours of masturbating. Or maybe she was just lucky. Whatever the reason, she wasn't complaining.

"You okay?" Jeremy asked.

She nodded. He was so sweet. So perfect for this night. She couldn't have found a better first-time lover if she'd looked for another ten years. But she needed him to take control again. No more sweetness.

"Fuck me," she said. Or, more accurate, begged. "Fuck me, Jeremy. I want you to fuck me like your little slut!"

He smiled. And he thrust all the way in.

"Ohhhh," she said. "Oh yes."

He pulled out, then thrust back in again. He repeated it. Again and again. In and out. In and out. His cock, dripping in her pussy juices, slid in and out with ease. Just as when it was in her mouth, she could feel his cock's heat, it's throbbing, pulsating lust. She felt herself getting close.

"Oh God!" she yelled, and somewhere, deep in a practical recess in her mind, she told herself to be quiet. If she was too loud, Jeremy's mom and dad would hear them, or Aunt Helen or Uncle Jim would hear them. That couldn't happen. The consequences of it were almost enough to dampen her arousal. Almost. Just keep it down, she said to herself. Just watch it.

But it was so hard to keep it down, with Jeremy pounding away, his cock gliding, in and out. For a fellow virgin, he sure knew how to fuck a girl.

"I spent a lot of hours dreaming about it," he told her, mid-thrust. "I got a lot of practice, in my mind. In my fantasies."

She smiled at her lover, watched his chest heave in and out with the deep, strong breaths he was taking. She looked at the sprouts of hair on his chest and stomach—not much, just enough to tickle when their bodies clung together. The moonlight shone on his face, on his glasses, and he moaned. Was he about to come again?

"Fuck me from behind!" she said. "Turn me over, and fuck me doggy, Jeremy. Pull my hair and slap my ass, and fuck me!"

He didn't need to be told twice, and a second later, she was on her hands and knees, as he straddled her from behind. When his cock entered her again, they both moaned.

"Oh God, fuck me!" she said.

He slapped her butt cheek. Again. And again. Harder. Harder.

"Harder!" she said. Another slap. "Oh! Harder!" Another, and another. There was so much pleasure in the pain. It tingled, tickled. And then she felt her head snap back, as Jeremy grabbed her hair and yanked. And slapped her again.

"Oh yes! Oh fuck! Oh yes!" She was barely coherent now. And she knew she was about to cum with a rush. He pulled her hair harder, spanked her harder, and his cock was a piston, a living thing, penetrating, thrusting, pounding. She felt that inevitable feeling wash over her. Yes! Only this time it was better, so much better than any orgasm she had ever experienced. This time it was brought on by her man, not herself. And oh the difference . . .

She was flying now, an albatross, high over the arctic seas, the wind carrying her along as she looked down at the ice and snow and blue, crisp waters. Higher, higher she flew. Faster . . .

Until . . .

"Ohhhhh!" She came hard, with a shriek. To hell with being quiet. Being quiet was impossible. And she could feel Jeremy cumming, too, his condom-covered cock deflating inside of her.

She quickly turned around, and kissed him. "Oh yes," she said, still so full of heat, of passion. Of gratitude. "Oh God, yes."

They kissed for what seemed like hours, wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs, body against body, heart against heart. And they made love again, and again, and again, until, shortly before three o'clock in the morning, they collapsed on the bed.

"Oh my God," Miranda said. "That was so amazing."

"So much better than I ever could have dreamed," Jeremy said. "And that's saying a lot, trust me!"

She offered a tired giggle. "Same here."

"Miranda." Suddenly he sounded so solemn. "Miranda, please know . . . I don't think those things I said about you."

She looked at him in the dark of the room. The moon was setting, the light from it no longer filtering in through the window. It didn't matter. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the gloom.

"What things?" she asked.

He swallowed. "I didn't mean them. I don't think you're a slut or anything like that. I understand what you wanted tonight. I wanted it, too. You're a great person. I hope you know I didn't mean to insult you or anything. I was just . . . I mean, those were the things you wanted me to say."

She kissed him on the nose. "You're such a sweetheart, Jeremy, do you know that?"

He smiled, kissed her.

"Besides," she said, "you kinda got off on that stuff, too, didn't you?"

"Well, I . . ."

She elbowed him in the side playfully.

"Okay, okay!" he said. "Guilty as charged. It was hot. I've never really talked that way before. But really, I didn't mean those things for real."

She kissed him again, and they just lay there, holding each other.

But then he got up, got dressed. He had to get back to his room. Likely no one would know if he spent the rest of the night—but they couldn't risk it.

"Thank you so much," she said, as he was about to leave. "You made this so special for me."

"So did you," he said, and they kissed. "Here," he said, and handed her a slip of paper. It contained his cell phone number and email address. "I know you said you weren't looking for a relationship. I guess I'm not either. And anyway, there is the fact that I live in California and you live in New York! But if you want to stay in touch . . ."

She smiled, tore off a blank portion of the slip, and returned the favor. Then she showed him her Tracfone.

"This is what you'd be texting," she said.

He laughed. "Man. Don't know if my texts would get through to that thing!"

They kissed one last time, and then he was gone. She stood at her doorway and watched him pad down the hall to his room.

I don't even know what to say. I've always written to you, my friend. People might laugh. But you've always been my special place to confide in. And you know all my secrets, everything I was hoping to discover on this Walk. You know it all.

And I don't know what to write, how to say it. I know I'll look back on this entry years from now and I'll probably say, "Geez, Miranda, couldn't you have recorded your first time any better than that?" And maybe I can. But I can't. If that makes any sense.

All I can really say is—yes. Yes! It was better than I hoped it would be. It was incredible. Jeremy was amazing.

And I wonder if, maybe in twenty years or so, I'll look back on all this and call myself a stupid, crazy kid, who didn't know any better—kind of like my parents are thinking right now. And they don't even know about Jeremy!! What will I think, looking back? Will I think of this night as a cheap thing? Will I have regrets?

I can't know right now, I guess. But I don't think I will. I hope I won't. I hope I don't become that jaded in my thirties and forties. I hope I can hold onto this feeling forever. I don't want to forget the way I feel right now. I hope my older self will understand.

And remember . . .

She left two days later, ready to walk back home, across the lush, green heart of the Empire State. She hugged Aunt Helen and Uncle Jim, and merely smiled at Jeremy and his parents. She was careful not to give off any signals the others might catch. What she and Jeremy had shared was their secret. No one else's. Besides, she had French-kissed him earlier, in his room. A proper good-bye.

When she started out, she sang songs, whistled, enjoyed the wind as it blew through her hair. Thirty miles later, she set up camp at the back edge of a farmer's field. She slept well, and rose early the next morning, the sunlight peeking through the trees and shrubs that surrounded her.

She ate a Power Bar, drank some of her water, and then took out the slip of paper with Jeremy's contact information. She ripped it, again and again, not wanting anyone else to stumble upon it and make sense of it, and tossed it into the current of the wind, watched it flutter to the earth in a dozen fragments.