Ancestors

Teenage Hormones

She hadn't meant to fuck him. Idly sitting on the edge of his bed, the dulling sensation of the numerous hits she'd taken of marijuana began to steal her wit. The room had seemed so clear to her premedication; the pungent stench of teenage ambitions and stale cigars, unsightly garments strewn throughout the chamber, all indicates of this boy's true nature. But she had disregarded these demeanors, all for the sake of being in his presence - this godly creature, mature in all senses of the word if her research had been thorough. Erudite and inquisitor, she had meticulously contracted every shred of information pertaining to her suitor. One facet of his seemed entirely too dependent on the term "hung", though her inadvertent discovery had only accentuated her shy disposition. Still, there she remained, reminiscence of music whispering against the sound of his voice.
"So, I know you want to fuck," he stated, catching her off guard. Her eyes grew wide, attempting to process this articulation with her lacking perception. Regrettably, she made eye contact, her hand notably placed on his knee. "What's stopping you?" he asked. The question hung in the air, a witty response on her lips - and then it vanished. Sighing, she averted her eyes. "She loves you," the quiet words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. He looked at her, indifferent to her opposition, unbuttoning the hem of his jeans. "She never has to know." She managed to blink in response before his pants were at his ankles, his large member greeting her like an old friend. No, she thought, this is wrong. Her first instinct surprisingly proved restraint, distancing herself from him by a few inches before summoning a retort. "We can't. We shouldn't, it would kill her," she attempted to declare, though her desires betrayed her and the time for words was past. From that point on, she couldn't remember the rest of their conversation. Couldn't remember the gentle warnings she gave him, the incessant reminders of their new formed stigma. His lips were upon her, carnal desire dismissing her inhibitions, demanding she submit with reticence as his hands caressed her body.
She didn't lack experience, though the thought of their union elicited her nerves. Confidence seemed difficult to grasp under the arduous task of self-restraint, that of which she possessed none of through the duration of their affair. Time was of the essence, though according to her memory the altercation lasted nearly an hour - though that couldn't be accurate. No, their descent in to Dante's lustful abode had to have occurred in less than half that time. Flashbacks of her lips across his body taunted her, the ease in which she performed her coitial duties. Her tongue across his shaft, the slight deviations of her routine - even the comforting feeling of his fingers through her hair as he watched her mastered fellacito. The rest had been a blur, their shared pleasure the only corporeal image she could conjure.
She hadn't meant to cause such harm, inadvertently offending the love of his life. She hadn't meant to plant seeds of malice in to that stranger's heart. She hadn't meant to fuck him. But all the same, she enjoyed every last bit of it.