Bubbles: Stories of Sex, Scandal and Other Silliness

by Kalen Laurel

  Now for anyone unschooled in the art, it might be helpful to know that an ejaculating penis can spurt copious amounts of semen, and that said substance finding its way into open eyes will result in momentary blindness and stinging pain. And, as a careful review of the nature of my proximity and position at the precise moment the first spurt escaped his throbbing cock probably made apparent, my eyes—wide in amazement—were a primary target, secondary only to my mouth—likewise wide open, or some might say gaping.

  So now I was blind and sputtering, and he was panicking and coming—activities I would have thought would be considered mutually exclusive, though apparently not since he spasmed again and another wad of cum was very obviously working its way up his shaft just as his foot found the brake pedal and he stomped hard.

  I remember studying inertia and something about mass and a tendency of an object in motion to want to remain that way. And, while I’m not happy with the term “mass” used in relation to my body, I believe I nonetheless did an excellent job of demonstrating some principle of physics when the car stopped abruptly in response to the aggressive application of the Mercedes’ powerful brakes and my body continued moving.

  If you’ve been paying close attention, you may recall his death grip on my bra strap and the close proximity of my mouth—gaping as it was—to the throbbing member I held in my hands. If so, you might be ahead of me and already successfully calculated the odds that the outie and innie in question could become matched by this event.

  About a hundred percent.

  And this is how his erection happened to be rammed deep inside my mouth at the precise moment the next spurt of cum was ejaculated. I aspirated semen and was well into a coughing fit of epic proportions a few moments later when the owner of the high heels arrived at the passenger window and leaned down to ask if everything was okay.

  * * *

  Turns out, the man was somewhat lecherous, but not at all balding or pot-bellied. And while he’s older than me, he’s older in the kinda-makes-me-tingle way I find exciting. The incident gave us a strange bond, and we were married the next Spring. He likes to think I was first charmed by his smile, but I’m afraid he’s just going to have to accept that it was really...the black Mercedes.

  Private Lessons

  Although I dated frequently through high school, I guarded my virtue with the fevered commitment of a Baptist minister’s view of drinking and gambling. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in sex; it’s probably safe to say I was obsessed with the subject. I certainly wasn’t afraid of intercourse or worried about pregnancy. I was simply too embarrassed to let a boy see my naked body.

  To satisfy my curiosity about sex, and to satisfy my boyfriends’ appetite for it, I learned how to bring a boy quickly to climax with my hands or mouth. As a result, throughout high school and the first year-and-a-half of college, a number of fellows enjoyed themselves without enjoying me.

  Looking back on these years, there is no question but that I had a great time. As soon as I unzipped a boy’s fly, I was in complete control, and I can still recall the looks of surprise and contentment each registered as I slipped my hand over their penises and began a rhythmic massage. Though I would return to my bedroom or dorm with soaked panties and an urge to masturbate, I resisted all offers to reciprocate and met my husband as an intact, if not innocent, virgin on the cusp of twenty.

  A young woman looking to pleasure boys—obviously bereft of the requisite phallic equipment—requires a certain degree of training. And, those of us who sought to acquire this skill set before the internet provided the world all manner of pornography and legitimate advice, needed someone to school us in the art. My own education began at the tender age of sixteen when I discovered I could see my step-brother’s bed through the keyhole of our adjoining bathroom.

  Up to that point, from my teenage “it’s all about me” viewpoint, Mark was little more than an irritating interloper in our lives. An unfortunate byproduct of my mother’s second marriage, which I only nominally endorsed anyway. It’s not that I had any particular allegiance to my father. He, after all, had moved in with a young slut by that point and I was, if anything, less enthusiastic about that than my mother’s transgressions. But from my perspective, Mom and I had forged a pretty comfortable lifestyle with just the two of us in the family house for several years before Paul and his son moved in, and I wasn’t keen to share.

  My attitude about Mark’s presence in our household change abruptly one night as I was getting ready for bed. I had just turned out the bathroom light, and was unlocking the door to his room to allow him access, when I heard a strained grunt through the closed door. I started to ask if everything was okay, but just as I was going to speak I heard a low groan and a long exhale of breath that was unmistakably sexual even to my virgin ears.

  I froze and held my breath.

  After a few moments of silence, I carefully pulled my hand away from the door latch and noticed the old keyhole in the door just above the newer latch Paul had installed on both of the bedroom doors leading into the shared bathroom.

  I kneeled down as quietly as possible, pressed my cheek against the surface of the door to get my eye as close to the hole as possible, and peered through the hole.

  Oh my God!

  I had to steady myself against the door frame to keep from toppling backwards. I could clearly see Mark lying naked on his back, bathed in the light from the dresser next to his bed, with his right hand pressed against his penis and balls and his left hand holding a wadded-up tissue.

  “He’s been masturbating,” I thought to myself. At the time it seemed like a major piece of detective work on my part, though all these years later I chuckle at my naivety and realize fully that “sixteen-year-old boy” and “masturbation” are pretty much synonymous. I leaned back against the door and took several deep breaths to calm myself before turning around again and kneeling down for another peek.

  Shit!

  He was swinging his legs off the bed and standing up—no doubt heading toward the very door I was crotched in front of. I wanted to keep watching, since he’d pulled his hand away from his cock and I was getting my first look at it, but I realized I had only moments before I was going to be discovered.

  I crept out through the door to my room and closed and latched it behind me as quietly as possible. I was already in my bed with the light off when I heard him open the door on his side and saw a sliver of light appear under the door.

  It took a long time for me to fall asleep that first night. Images and thoughts flooded my brain.

  Has he peeked into my room?

  I’d only discovered masturbation myself a few months earlier, and I frantically tried to remember if I’d ever failed to cover myself.

  Does he realize I saw him? Will I be able to see him again?

  I explored my privates as I thought about his. I began to fantasize about what his erection might look like, and how he would stroke himself.

  Is he large?

  I’d read a lot about whether “size mattered,” and I’d found some pictures in ads for penis enlargement products that caused me to shiver in fear that a young man might try to stuff something so big inside me. I inserted several fingers in myself as I contemplated this, rotating my hips to squirm them deeper inside while trying to stretch myself to accommodate the girth I imagined it to possess.

  Will I see him orgasm?

  I’d read about male ejaculation described in the torrid terms of a romance novel and the breathless gossip of Cosmopolitan magazine, but my mind was unable to assemble those strings of vowels and consonants into a visual suitable either for framing or fantasy. Finally, as I danced along the precipice between cognizance and sleep, I imagined what it must feel like to hold a man’s penis on one’s hand and feel it grow and spasm.

  These fantasies invaded almost every moment of every day for the next few weeks. Almost every night, I timed my bedtime around Mark’s and crouched at the door to watch my unwitting instructor as
he demonstrated the finer points of male masturbation. In the beginning I would remain at the door for only a few minutes. I was fascinated by the shape of his erect cock and the intensity with which he stroked it, but frightened I’d be discovered and embarrassed by the intensity of my own sexual feelings. Seldom did a night pass that I didn’t fall asleep with my fingers pressed against the ache and hunger between my thighs, and my fantasies wrapped around the image of what it would feel like to have one inside me.

  * * *

  Male orgasm had been described in strict textbook terms in my 9th grade Reproductive Science class, but it had looked clinical and boring on the classroom white board. Though I suspected it would be far more exciting in the flesh, I had peeled my eye away from the keyhole well in advance of that particular display until one memorable night. I had taken a shower while waiting for Mark to return from a date and had just slipped into a nightie when I heard him lock his bedroom door and and kick his shoes into the corner. I expected him to use the bathroom before getting into bed, and I was prepared for a knock at the door followed by a plea for access. Kneeling down and peeking through the keyhole, I was surprised to hear the bed creak and see him already naked, on his back, and stroking his erection.

  I made myself comfortable and slipped my hand between my thighs, shuddering with the intensity of feelings I experienced from masturbating my naked vulva. Within seconds my fingers were coated with my own juices and I began to rhythmically finger my clitoris. Mark cupped his balls in one hand and frantically stroked the shaft of his cock with the other. I could hear his breathing become more labored and I watched him lift his ass off the mattress while I stroked myself as enthusiastically as I had ever dared—tensing my own muscles and cupping a breast with my free hand. He grunted, exhaled loudly, and before I even realized what was happening I was watching spurts of semen shoot upward and settle over his hands and penis.

  It took a moment for the realization to hit me.

  I was watching him come!

  Then the excitement took hold, and I grew aware of a growing rush of energy in my own body. With my forehead pressed tightly against the door jam but my eyes tightly shut, I curled my toes and pushed myself over the edge of control—unable to stifle a whimper of delight and failing to stop myself from collapsing noisily against the door in a tremendous spasm of pleasure.

  We were both silent for a minute.

  “Are you okay, Meg?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Oh my God, he heard me!

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I blurted.

  What a stupid thing to say!

  We were both silent for a minute before he continued.

  “Did you have an orgasm?”

  Orgasm?

  “I guess I did.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  I huddled there a moment and though about what I had just experienced—and how I still felt—and decided I did.

  “I do now.” How long had he known I was watching him? “You’re not angry with me?”

  “No. I’ve known you were peeking through the keyhole for days.”

  “Weeks, actually.” I couldn’t help adding to myself.

  “It excited me to know someone was watching. Why don’t you open the door so we can talk easier.”

  I turned around so I could look through the keyhole again and saw that he had pulled the sheet over himself and was sitting upright. I suddenly wondered if he had been looking through my keyhole for those same weeks. Had he seen me naked? I stood, turned on the light, pulled my nightie down and checked the mirror to see that I looked decent before opening the door and looking into his room. I could feel myself blushing.

  “Did it feel good?” he asked with a smile.

  I leaned against the doorway and replied truthfully. “Damn good.”

  “So did mine. Is that the first time you watched me come?”

  “Yes.” I walked to his bed and sat on the edge. “Have you been watching me, too?”

  He shook his head immediately. “No. Somehow it wouldn’t have seemed right for me to be peeking into my step-sister’s bedroom.”

  “But it’s okay for her to be peeking at you?” I drew my legs up underneath myself—consciously tugging the nightie firmly between my thighs.

  “I could have turned out the light if I didn’t want you to be able to see.” He studied me for a minute before continuing. “You can watch me any time.”

  I thought about that for a moment before realizing I had wrung my hands into a tight little ball. “I doubt if I’ll be able to. Now that I know you know I’m doing it.”

  He frowned, and looked almost hurt. “I’m sorry I ruined it for you.”

  It was my turn to frown, and I took a moment to think through the implications of what I was about to say before launching. “You haven’t ruined anything, Mark. I’ve been desperate to learn.”

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

  * * *

  “Can I watch you?” I asked with my heart pounding.

  “You mean you want to see my penis, or you want to see me come again?” He was smiling and watching me blush again.

  “Well, at least see it up close?” Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call it anything but “it”.

  Mark pulled the sheet aside and I smelled his semen and saw his penis simultaneously. It was already semi-erect and he touched it with his finger and showed me how he could make it bob and jump as it grew hard. After a minute or so of gentle touching and stroking it was stiff. I looked up and he was staring at me, making me feel a little uncomfortable for the first time.

  “Should I leave now?” I asked, though I made no move to get up.

  “Not unless you want to” His breathing becoming harsher and he continued with some difficulty. “You want to touch it? I’d really like that.”

  There was nothing I could want more. I put my hand out immediately and brushed my fingertips along the shaft before pushing his hand aside and beginning to stroke it myself, amazed at how hard yet so soft something could be. I loved the feeling of holding it and rubbing it.

  After a couple of minutes, I moved so that I could kneel next to him and get both hands around his cock and balls. Mark put his hand on my thigh, and I thought he might try to touch my—now fully exposed—privates. I tried to concentrate on moving my hands up and down over the full length of his penis while wondering what it was going to feel like to have someone touch me there for the first time.

  I was so incredibly horny, I think I actually wanted him put his fingers inside me. But he pulled the hem of the nightgown down to cover me and gripped my inner thigh instead. He arched his back, thrusting his penis up into my hands as I felt him spasm and watched semen squirt from the tip of his cock and cover my hands.

  * * *

  “Be more gentle once I’ve come,” Mark said quietly as he caught his breath and began to drift asleep. “Thank you, Meg. It felt good.”

  I released my grip on his penis and laid it gently between his thighs before I stretched out on the bed beside him and watched him drift to sleep. After a while, I returned to my room and slept soundly until Mark woke me early the next morning with a gentle nudge.

  “Wake up Meg,” he said almost in a whisper.

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  “No. Just wake up.” He sat on the edge of the bed while I pulled myself to a sitting position and rubbed my eyes. “I think we should talk about last night.”

  Last night!

  As he began speaking, the images of his erection and his orgasm began bombarding my conscious mind. I could feel a tingle of excitement grow between my legs even as the blood ran to my face.

  “It felt good for you to watch me...and touch me last night, but I don’t think we should allow that to happen again.” He was sitting with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes cast downward. I realized he, too, was blushing as he looked up into my eyes before continuing. “It’s not right, Meg—you being my step-sister and all. I shouldn�
��t have encouraged you.”

  “Encourage me!” I was speaking quickly now, any arousal replaced by feelings I couldn’t separate. Guilt? Anger? Fear? Embarrassment? “You didn’t have to ‘encourage’ me to do anything,” I blurted. “I’d been watching you for weeks and I wanted to touch you. You think I would have come in your room if I wasn’t curious?” I paused only long enough to take a breath and remember how excited I had been. “I wanted you to touch me, but you didn’t take advantage of that opportunity.”

  Tears filled Mark’s eyes and he tugged the sleeve of his t-shirt to his eyes to dry them before saying what was really on his mind. “But I feel like a pervert, Meg. It’s not right for a guy to...” he searched for the words, “...to expose himself to a family member and let her masturbate him.”

  His eyes pleaded for understanding. “I feel dirty, Meg, and I think we should try to pretend it never happened.”

  “Okay, Mark,” I said when he finished and leaned back against the foot board as punctuation. “But please remember that you don’t have anything to feel guilty about. I was a willing participant.”

  He sat quietly, and for a moment I half expected him to change his mind. He instead stood up, moved closer and leaned down to kiss me on the top of my head as he had for as long as I could remember before thanking me and disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  I tried to look through the old lock that very same night, but Mark had stuffed something into the hole, preventing me from seeing but not from remembering. I masturbated to the images for months, though after a while I began to understand the ‘dirty’ feeling Mark had tried to explain.