Chapter 16: First Experience

The week flew by in the blink of an eye. Friday came, and once again I followed my parents to Carl’s. This time, my heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed through the door, a wild, skittering beat that made my breath catch in my throat. Carl looked up from behind the counter, and his eyes locked onto mine with an unsettling precision. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, curling at the corners of his lips like he had been expecting me. It was the kind of smirk that said he knew exactly why I was there, that he had seen a thousand trembling girls just like me walk through that door. He didn’t say a word at first, just let that smug expression hang in the air, letting me squirm under his gaze. When I finally managed to ask him about using one of the gloryholes, my voice came out small and shaky, a pathetic little whisper that made his smirk widen. He gave me an inquisitive look, a flicker of something, amusement? Appraisal? dancing in his eyes, then told me which one was available, his voice dripping with a casual authority that made my skin prickle.

My fingers were trembling as I turned the handle, and I could still feel the ghost of that smirk on me, a silent promise of what awaited. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing the booth in silence, but the silence was a lie. My pulse was a frantic drum in my ears, a wild, trapped thing. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting everything in a pale yellow glow that felt too bright, too revealing. The room was small—maybe four feet wide, six feet deep. A bench bolted to the floor. A hole in the wall at waist height, roughly the size of a fist, the edges worn smooth by years of use. I stared at it, my mouth dry, my skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature. A dispenser with paper towels. A small bottle of hand sanitizer. The details swam before my eyes, but all I could truly feel was the frantic, terrified thump-thump-thump of my own heart.

I stood there, trembling, my purse hanging from my shoulder.

What am I doing?

The question echoed through my skull, a frantic, shrieking alarm that screamed at me to stop. What am I doing? But my hands, as if possessed by some will other than my own, began to move with a maddening slowness. My purse slipped from my shoulder, landing on the grimy floor with a soft thud that sounded deafening in the silence. I stared at it, my breath shallow, before my fingers crept, hesitating, to the hem of my shirt. I pinched the fabric, holding it for a long, agonizing moment, the cotton rough against my trembling fingertips. A shiver danced down my spine as I pulled it upward, inch by torturous inch, the air cool against the newly exposed skin of my stomach. The fabric whispered against my ribs, then my breasts, and I paused again, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might bruise my chest. Finally, I tugged it over my head, letting my arms linger in the air before folding it with painstaking care, placing it on top of my purse like a ritual offering.

My jeans were next. The button was a cold, metallic circle under my thumb. I pressed it, feeling the resistance, and then it popped open with a sharp click that made me flinch. The zipper’s rasp was a low growl in the quiet room as I pulled it down, one tooth at a time. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, but I couldn’t push them down. Not yet. I stood there, frozen, my knuckles white against the denim, my eyes fixed on the dark, waiting hole in the wall. A soft, strangled sound escaped my lips, half a sob, half a sigh, before I finally, finally, pushed the jeans over my hips. They slid down my thighs with a reluctant rustle, and I stepped out of them, one leg, then the other, feeling utterly naked even though I was still clad in my plain white bra and matching panties. The fabric clung to my skin, damp with nervous sweat, a fragile, last barrier against the unknown.

The air was cool against my skin. Goosebumps rose along my arms.

I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra. The straps slid down my shoulders. I let it fall, my breasts feeling heavy and exposed. Then my panties, pushing them down my thighs, stepping out of them, folding them on top of the pile.

Naked. I was completely naked in a stranger’s booth, about to put a stranger’s cock in my mouth.

The thought made my stomach flip. My thighs pressed together, and I felt the wetness there, the unmistakable proof that my body wanted this even if my mind was still racing.

I turned toward the hole in the wall.

And there it was.

I stared at it, and my mind went blank. Then it flooded, a tidal wave of sensation and terror and raw, gnawing want that made my knees weak. Oh God. Oh God, what am I doing? The thought screamed through my skull, a frantic, panicked mantra, but my eyes refused to look away from the thing that had appeared through the hole. It was a cock. Thick. Uncut. The head was a deep purplish-red, slick with a drop of pre-cum that glistened under the fluorescent light, a tiny, glistening pearl of proof that this was real, that this was happening. The shaft was veined, the skin stretched tight over the swollen flesh, and I could see the pulse in it, a faint, rhythmic throb that seemed to echo my own frantic heartbeat. It protruded through the hole maybe six inches, held in place by some invisible body on the other side, a stranger, a man I couldn’t see, a man who was waiting for me. This is insane. The voice in my head was shrieking now, a desperate, logical plea. You don’t know who that is. You don’t know what he looks like. He could be anyone. He could be...

But the thought died, strangled by a different feeling. A hot, shameful curl of arousal that twisted low in my belly. My breath hitched. My thighs pressed together, and I felt it again—the slick evidence of my own desire, a warm, wet betrayal that made my cheeks burn. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, my heart was a wild, trapped animal in my chest. But between my legs, I was aching. A deep, hollow, needy ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. My nipples were tight, hard pebbles, and I could feel the cool air of the booth against them, a sensation that was almost too much, too sensitive. I can’t. I shook my head, a tiny, frantic motion. I can’t do this. But my body didn’t listen. My body was leaning forward, drawn by some invisible force, my lips parting, my tongue darting out to wet them. I could smell him now, a musky, masculine scent, mixed with the faint, clean smell of soap. It filled my nostrils, making my head swim. My gaze was locked on that single, glistening drop of pre-cum, and I imagined the taste of it, salty and male on my tongue. A shiver ran through me, violent and electric. What was wrong with me? Why did this feel so right? The panic and the desire were tangled together, a knot of sensation I couldn’t untie, and I stood there, frozen, caught between the screaming voice in my head and the aching, hungry silence of my own body.