Being 18 sucks, big time. You're old enough to die for your country, but can't buy a beer. At least I can get into the porno theaters, even if the titty bars are closed to me. Of course, my buds and I have been renting xxxx-rated videos for years, so seeing booty on the screen isn't all that new, but it sure doesn't take the place of what it must feel like to have a nice warm pussy wrapped around your straining hardon.
Yeah, that's right. I don't know how it feels. I'm a fucking virgin. Not by choice, you understand, but from lack of opportunity. Ok, so there may have been opportunities to lose my cherry, but the conditions were never right. I may be a guy, but I still want my first time to be a little special, not just a fading memory of some old hag with missing teeth and holes in her stockings.
When I try to go to sleep, my dick is so painful it's hard to ignore it long enough to drop off. When I wake up, it's so hard there isn't enough loose skin left over on my body to close my eyelids. I'm dying for a little pussy, but do you think any girl or woman will give me any? Nooooooh. No, no, no. No and then no and no again.
What would it cost them to just let me dip my wick for a minute or two? As horny as I stay, it shouldn't take more than a few seconds of their time. Why should pussy be so hard to get?
I watch the girls in class, with their short skirts and long legs, flirting with the guys they are going to fuck after class and try to imagine one of them (or even two) saying, "Hey Roy! How about a quick fuck after class? Which one of us do you want first? Would you like a blow job and fries with that, sir?"
I watch my sister, running around the house in her underwear, teasing me beyond all reason, knowing that I dare not lay a hand on her. She's in college and is probably fucking the whole fucking team, but could she spare a little for her loving brother? You guessed it. She wouldn't miss it. The team wouldn't miss it and I would enjoy it so much, but nooooooh.
To make things worse, today is my 19th birthday and nobody has even acted like they give a flying fuck how old I am.
My mom is bending over the table, putting the dishes out for dinner. I watch her ass cheeks clutching her dress as she extends herself to reach the other side. Her dress gets caught in the crack of her ass and makes me want to run up behind her and throw a ten-second quickie into her before she can stand up, but something holds me back. Perhaps it is the expectation of instant death at the hands of my father when he gets home. "You little prick! This is my woman. I can fuck her any time I like, but you can't ever fuck her. I can bang her silly, till the pictures fall off the wall in your bedroom, from the hammering I'm giving your beautiful mother, but you don't even get to watch while you jack off your painfulerection.
"Painfulerection" has become one word in my dictionary. It seems that my prick is always erect and is always painful because all the blood in my body has gone there for a vacation. There certainly isn't enough left in my brain to allow me to think straight.
I actually approach my mother's waving ass cheeks with my hands spread to cup them before tearing my eyes away from them and going around the table to see if she is showing any skin down the top of her dress.
I almost trip as I get to the other end of the table. From the side, I can tell that the dress she is wearing today has a scoop neckline and is fairly low cut. I'm going to get to see her cleavage! Oh, lordy, lordy me! Maybe even a bit of aureole if the gods are truly smiling at me, but before I can round the corner to get a clear shot, she puts her fucking hand over her cleavage.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!!!!! What the fuck would it cost her to let me see just a tiny bit of skin? If she doesn't want me to look, why is she wearing that dress? Oh, I get it. It's ok for the rest of the world to see the tops of her tits, but not her loving son who would give anything to kiss and suck her nipples like he did 17 years ago.
"Oh, hi Roy. Did you want to set the table for me?"
Yeah, sure. I wanted to set the fucking table. I wanted to throw the fucking dishes on the floor and throw you back on the fucking table and throw a fucking fuck into your fucking ass. That's what I wanted. "Sure, Mom", I say, instead.
"What a nice son you are." She tousles my hair.
Why can't she tousle my fucking dick, instead?
Betsy comes flying into the room, dripping sex. "Is dinner ready yet, Mom?"
I'll give you dinner, toots. Munch on this for a while and see if you get any cream with your meat. "Hi Sis. Got a date?"
"Yeah!!!!", she breathes, real sexy. "Bill Withers is the captain of the football team and he is taking me to the movies. Ooooohh!" She squeals at the thought of so much honor being heaped on her blonde head. If her excitement didn't cause her tits to bounce around so wonderfully, it would make me sick, but I try to keep my focus on just one nipple at a time. My painfulerection tries to circumcise me on my zipper, so I shift it a tiny bit to ease the pain.
"Moooo-oom. Roy is staring at my tits and playing with himself again!"
Fuck! Can't even sneak a quick peek and prevent my foreskin from ripping without getting caught.
"Now, Roy. You know it isn't nice to gawk at your sister, or to rub yourself so openly. Are you completely forgetting your manners? I even saw you trying to look down my dress a few minutes ago. Can't you control yourself?"
Control! Control! Control! Something snapped in my mind. Something important happened to me right then. I have no idea what it was, but it was somehow connected with the science fiction story I had read last night and fantasized about the value of such a thing.
The book I was reading was "Dune", by Frank Herbert. They made a pretty good movie of it with Sting doing a helluva job and it seems like the kid was played by Kyle MacLaughlin or something like that. I apologize right now for not spelling his name right. Go look it up if you don't like my spelling.
Anyway, he was being trained by his mother and others to have unusual powers, one of which was the ability to pitch his voice in a certain way that caused others to do what he said, regardless. I don't remember the exact name right off, but it was something like, "The Voice of Command". In written form, it was easy to visualize. All you do is print it in italics and everybody knows what is happening.
In real life, I tried to imagine what it might sound like and if such a thing were truly possible or if it was merely a neat gimmick to help the story. I had tried several different ways of speaking to help me visualize what it would have to sound like, but my dad heard me practicing and beat on the wall to tell me to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. "Didn't I know that some people had to go to work early around there?"
.... There is more of this story ...