Self Image
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Original - Misc › Non-Fiction/True Stories/Autobiographical
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,688
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › Non-Fiction/True Stories/Autobiographical
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,688
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of non fiction. Where possible - and where appropriate - permission has been granted from any people or their descendants to be included in this story. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited
Self Image
When I was fourteen, I had my first kiss. I was going for the tortured soul back then, with my hair dyed red and black, too much eyeliner, a heavy ring hanging from my eyebrow and way too much translucent powder on my blemished skin. I was quite small chested and had an embarrassingly round belly- something I'd not grown out of since I was a toddler. My best features were easily my legs and ass, but being a tortured soul I did all I could to hide my body. I wore oversized band tee-shirts and baggy men's pants with boxers underneath. I'd been asked a few times if I were actually a boy, so I took to wearing heavy-duty push up bras to create the illusion of budding breasts underneath my enormous tee-shirts.
My boyfriend at the time was the little brother of a friend of mine. He was 6 months younger than me and obviously not quite digging the look I had going on- the one that matched his older sister. His first kiss to me was quick and chaste, and in the company of my friend. He caught me off guard and his soft peach fuzz of a moustache turned my stomach. He whispered harshly in my ear, "Can I French kiss you?" The question it's self revolted me, but his hot breath grazing my ear and neck gave me a chilling thrill. I denied him, hoping for more attention on my neck and ear with his hot breath, but there was nothing doing. I broke up with him the next day, after a 2 week relationship. He still shoots me death stares, 6 years later.
When I was fifteen, I made out with someone for the first time. I was still trying too hard at looking hard core and punk ass, but my breasts were soon filling out and slowly outgrowing the push up bras I purchased in haste. My belly was slimming down- finally, and my legs seemed to be getting longer and longer. I would wear short skirts and three layers of stockings, a black leotard, a fluorescent pink fishnet and a green fishnet over that. My legs looked long and slim, if not overly textured. My ass would be hugged snugly by my skirts and my new found love of jeans. I found band tee-shirts that actually fit me, and found that cutting the neck out of them and scooping them down to my cleavage would give me that sexy look I'd been vying for.
The boy I made out with- James- was a terrific athlete with an intimidating sexy intelligence. His hair was longish, curly and unruly. His eyes were an intimate blue, and the whites became red the more and more turned on he became. He was 17. He was a man at 17, unlike most of the boys I knew at that age. His chest had a layer of hair that I could gently twirl between my fingers as he lay on top of me in his bed in his parents’ house. His lips were so beautiful and full, and his sculpted shoulders felt so gorgeous to scratch at as he bit at my lips, as he rubbed his stubble against my neck and bared chest. He breathed heavy on my neck and my ear as I rubbed his lower back and side and left my mark on his lean collar bone.
Deep within a kiss, I told him, “I’m keeping my pants on. I don’t care if you do or not, but the fly on my pants will not be touched.” I was astonished at my bold words, and I nearly immediately regretted them as he stripped off and became the first man I’d ever seen naked in real life. I felt his erection rubbing against my leg as he made the motions to make love, as I scratched up and down his back with my chipped black painted fingernails. He told me he could feel my wetness on his cock, through my underwear and my denim jeans. I was so close, just from having his naked form so near my body. He epitomised perfection to me, and to have such an unattainable, athletic and intelligent God sweating and moaning around my neck, simply from rubbing his groin against my own, seemed nearly like a fantasy. He asked me if he could finish. I asked him what he meant, as in would he finish on my pants? Would he masturbate in the bathroom, locked up and by himself? Or would he allow me to assist? He said that he’d like to masturbate, being the frank man he was. I told him, with shivers running up and down my spine, goosebumps prickling across my breasts and causing my nipples to harden more than his earlier ministrations, that I’d like to watch. I watched as he gripped his hand over it, sweeping away the pre-cum and lightly massaging it into his head. He gently began to stroke it and moaned even more than before. I felt my insides burning and I was astonished at his entire body’s reaction as he let go and ejaculated, his white seed shining in the air and landing on his hard abs and pectorals. He pulled me on top of him before he cleaned up, and I massaged it all between the two of us with my breasts and stomach.
He drove me home in silence, and turned away as I leant in for a kiss good-bye.
---------------------------------------------------------
Please review. This is NOT a work of fiction, and I am writing in a detail I have never done before and I am quite uncomfortable doing so- but it is to strengthen myself as a writer. Please respect my former choices and experiences.
Much love, thanks for reading. :)
My boyfriend at the time was the little brother of a friend of mine. He was 6 months younger than me and obviously not quite digging the look I had going on- the one that matched his older sister. His first kiss to me was quick and chaste, and in the company of my friend. He caught me off guard and his soft peach fuzz of a moustache turned my stomach. He whispered harshly in my ear, "Can I French kiss you?" The question it's self revolted me, but his hot breath grazing my ear and neck gave me a chilling thrill. I denied him, hoping for more attention on my neck and ear with his hot breath, but there was nothing doing. I broke up with him the next day, after a 2 week relationship. He still shoots me death stares, 6 years later.
When I was fifteen, I made out with someone for the first time. I was still trying too hard at looking hard core and punk ass, but my breasts were soon filling out and slowly outgrowing the push up bras I purchased in haste. My belly was slimming down- finally, and my legs seemed to be getting longer and longer. I would wear short skirts and three layers of stockings, a black leotard, a fluorescent pink fishnet and a green fishnet over that. My legs looked long and slim, if not overly textured. My ass would be hugged snugly by my skirts and my new found love of jeans. I found band tee-shirts that actually fit me, and found that cutting the neck out of them and scooping them down to my cleavage would give me that sexy look I'd been vying for.
The boy I made out with- James- was a terrific athlete with an intimidating sexy intelligence. His hair was longish, curly and unruly. His eyes were an intimate blue, and the whites became red the more and more turned on he became. He was 17. He was a man at 17, unlike most of the boys I knew at that age. His chest had a layer of hair that I could gently twirl between my fingers as he lay on top of me in his bed in his parents’ house. His lips were so beautiful and full, and his sculpted shoulders felt so gorgeous to scratch at as he bit at my lips, as he rubbed his stubble against my neck and bared chest. He breathed heavy on my neck and my ear as I rubbed his lower back and side and left my mark on his lean collar bone.
Deep within a kiss, I told him, “I’m keeping my pants on. I don’t care if you do or not, but the fly on my pants will not be touched.” I was astonished at my bold words, and I nearly immediately regretted them as he stripped off and became the first man I’d ever seen naked in real life. I felt his erection rubbing against my leg as he made the motions to make love, as I scratched up and down his back with my chipped black painted fingernails. He told me he could feel my wetness on his cock, through my underwear and my denim jeans. I was so close, just from having his naked form so near my body. He epitomised perfection to me, and to have such an unattainable, athletic and intelligent God sweating and moaning around my neck, simply from rubbing his groin against my own, seemed nearly like a fantasy. He asked me if he could finish. I asked him what he meant, as in would he finish on my pants? Would he masturbate in the bathroom, locked up and by himself? Or would he allow me to assist? He said that he’d like to masturbate, being the frank man he was. I told him, with shivers running up and down my spine, goosebumps prickling across my breasts and causing my nipples to harden more than his earlier ministrations, that I’d like to watch. I watched as he gripped his hand over it, sweeping away the pre-cum and lightly massaging it into his head. He gently began to stroke it and moaned even more than before. I felt my insides burning and I was astonished at his entire body’s reaction as he let go and ejaculated, his white seed shining in the air and landing on his hard abs and pectorals. He pulled me on top of him before he cleaned up, and I massaged it all between the two of us with my breasts and stomach.
He drove me home in silence, and turned away as I leant in for a kiss good-bye.
---------------------------------------------------------
Please review. This is NOT a work of fiction, and I am writing in a detail I have never done before and I am quite uncomfortable doing so- but it is to strengthen myself as a writer. Please respect my former choices and experiences.
Much love, thanks for reading. :)