The First Surrender

I was eighteen, inexperienced, and overflowing with curiosity. My desires had long been bottled up — not from lack of want, but lack of opportunity. When I met him online, a 45-year-old retired sailor, I wasn’t just looking for sex. I wanted to feel something theatrical. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet confidence and eyes that suggested he’d seen a lot of the world — and would know how to handle someone like me.

He invited me over, and I went, heart racing. When he opened the door, I was hit by the scent of cologne and something warmer, earthier — a lived-in kind of masculinity. We sat on the couch, but it wasn’t long before I told him the truth: that I was a virgin. He paused, surprised but kind, telling me we didn’t have to do anything. But I didn’t want gentleness in words. I desired it in touch, in action. So I kissed him.

His lips were firm, slow, guiding. I pulled his shirt over his head, running my hands over the hard lines of his chest, exploring the silver hair on his skin, learning the feel of the muscle beneath. He let me take the lead, watching me with something between amusement and awe, as if remembering his own first time. I worked my way down his body, intoxicated by his scent, by the heat radiating off him. When I unzipped his pants, it felt like unveiling something sacred. I touched him, tasted him — eager, clumsy, but devoted. 

I got onto my knees in front of him. I traced my tongue on the outline of his cock (7 inches in length with a perfect width). I couldn’t believe I finally had a man cock in my mouth. Then I started to put his cock into my mouth, first the head, the shaft, and before I knew it, I was deep throating all the way to the base. He was both shocked and delighted. I sucked and sucked while twisting the shaft with my hand, like what I had seen in porn. 

Suddenly, he stopped me roughly and picked me up, carrying me upstairs. There, he undressed me with care. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, trailing his fingers over my chest, down my sides. He found the places that made me shiver — my neck, the insides of my thighs, my nipples. Every moan I made seemed to guide him deeper into me. He kissed me slowly, and then lower, until his tongue was on my virgin hole — opening me, worshipping me.

By the time he asked if I was ready, my body was aching for him. He took his time, lube slick on his fingers, coaxing me open. The first push of him was overwhelming — a stretch, a burn — but he held me, whispered into my ear, kissed my lips until my body softened around him. He moved with care, then rhythm, until pain melted into something else. Something sweet, aching, and electric.

I moaned loudly, begging him not to stop. Our bodies were merging into one. He turned me to face the mirror. “Look at us,” he said. I did — and saw myself, reflecting on what was happening. The imagery of the reflection was a work of art. We fucked and fucked, he fucked me in all kinds of positions: doggy, missionary, lotus...etc. I completely let myself go and moaned at the top of my lungs. The feelings were pure ecstasy.  

He came inside me with a deep, trembling moan — and didn’t stop until I had come too, my body shaking, my heart racing. He kissed me, held me close.

And in that quiet after, I felt it — not just pleasure, but connection. We were not just having sex, we were making love.