Wednesday, 16 December 2015

Crime Scene Sex

The first thing I did when I bloomed to the woman I was eagerly waiting for was to have a Crime Scene sex. I did not know that I would be waking up in the middle of a crime scene, bloodied. For the record, I was not to spend all of my teen years imagining sex as a passionate, transcendent melding of two souls till I was an adult, but I was not shocked when I found out that it was a kind of transcendent melding that incorporates stray bodily fluids, strange noises, and the occasional wayward butt crack hair.
There was blood on the bedsheets, on the floor trailing the path I had taken at night to the bathroom. I surveyed the scene evaluating, making mental notes of the biological evidence present. I hugged myself and pain shot through me from my boobs. I expected it.
I sat on the bed picturing myself seducing my classically handsome hunk of a boyfriend to having sex with me that day. I wanted to debunk the myths and prove menstrual sex naysayers wrong. It was the only time of the month I knew my womb would be baby-free.
I found him in his room revising for the biology test we were to do the following day. Just as always, he maintained my hugs-only-keep-hands-where-I-can-see-them policy but I surprised him when I kissed him. Well, it was not our first, but I never initiated it.
I was all over him, and before he could imagine a nut had loosened in my head and offer to tighten it, I pushed him on the bed. Tony had been waiting for the time he would lay his hands on me, but he never imagined I would do it before my eighteenth birthday. Poor chap, my pussy had had a fair share of my fingers long before mom and dad sat me down and gave me the story of the bees and what-have-you. The latest foreigner in me was a sex toy I stole from mom’s dress armoire.
Well, his skull wasn’t as thick as I had imagined. Being two years older than me probably he had experience with other girls in senior school. He read my mind like the back of his palm and dropped his pants with speed that startled even me.
On my way to him I had removed the tampon, and before I could start gushing again with Hollywood crime scene red dye I straddled him, pulled my skirt up and pushed my panties aside to leave a small leeway to expose the pudenda. His pink penis was erect, twitching, and ready. I was not up for menstrual foreplay. I just wanted him in me. The book had said I start in cowgirl before we went doggie to avoid getting all bloodied and spook him. That’s what I did. YouPorn video clips had given me enough theory, now it was practical.
He did it. Moved in and out of me rhythmically. Before he got excited and pulled my pants down, it happened. I squirted blood. He withdrew from me as though he had stepped on hot embers. I knew what was happening, but I did not care to explain.
Well, I had killed two birds with one stone—undergone transition to womanhood rite of passage and ‘broke my virginity’ with a human penis. I enjoyed my first crime scene, and I looked forward to it happening every month. I hate to think menopause will relieve me.

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