Eric

by Cassandra Lockheart

Copyright© 2018 by Cassandra Lockheart

Sex Story: I found a phone. My parents don't let me use the computer anymore, so I typed all this out on a phone I found and uploaded it from the library wifi. Sorry if there's any typos. It's about this boy I used to like at school. It's not a true story. But I wish it was.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft   Teenagers   Reluctant   School   Oral Sex   .

Sometimes boys are nice to you. Sometimes they’re mean. Sometimes they leave you crying all by yourself in a stairwell at school, like when they tell you “You have far too fine an ass to such a social outcast.” And you’re so mad, you can’t even muster up the breath to say fuck you.

I shouldn’t let that stuff get to me. Nathan wasn’t even wrong. I know I’m weird. I have no friends. All I do all day is read books in the library. All I do all night is fantasize about sex and masturbate until I can barely stand up. My mom thinks I suffer from depression. I’m just constantly fucking horny, but too socially awkward to do anything about it.

So there I was crying in the stairwell, when along comes this guy named Eric. Eric is kind of weird, just like me. He only has maybe one friend in the whole school, which is weird, because he’s not ugly or anything. At least I don’t think so. He’s skinny, though. No muscles. No abs. No strong jaw to make the girls squeal and fan themselves in the bathroom, like when Nathan walks by. Eric is just an average Joe.

But he noticed me sitting all by myself in the basement stairwell. I wiped my tears away when I heard somebody coming, so it looked like I was just sitting there. But he noticed. He slowed down. He stopped at the door. And then her turned around.

“You okay?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Well, nothing important I guess.”

“So what unimportant thing is wrong?” he says.

“Apparently, I’m a social outcast.”

Eric smirked. “You?” His eyes widened. “If you’re a social outcast, I’m completely doomed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re actually pretty hot. You could probably have any guy you wanted.”

I looked at him, puzzled. At first I thought he was just making fun of me. But he was apparently dead serious.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “I can barely talk to people without feeling like a complete babbling moron.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not hot.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

For some perverse reason, the compliment actually made me feel better. I know simply being hot isn’t supposed to be some trophy-winning achievement in life, but I couldn’t help feeling a tingle of comfort at the flattery. I knew he honestly meant it.

“If only being pretty could solve all your problems.”

“It’s definitely better than the alternative.”

“What alternative?”

“Well, you could be a pencil-neck, limp-wristed geek boy like me?”

“You’re not ugly, Eric.”

“Well, the dimes ain’t exactly lining up.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I said. “You’re saying you’re broke?”

He chuckled. “No. A dime is a pretty girl. A ten out of ten. Get it? Because a dime is ten cents?”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I just proved the point about me being socially awkward. That’s probably one of those things everybody on earth knows except me.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know it if nobody ever told you. You probably don’t know the Swahili word from sunshine either.”

“It’s Jua,” I told him. “Jua ni nzuri leo. The sunshine is beautiful today.”

“Okay, so that was a bad example.”

“I had a pen pal from Kenya when I was little. I taught myself some basic phrases.”

“That’s pretty cool, actually,” he said.

“Asante,” I replied. He gave me a blank stare. “It means thanks,” I told him.

“Oh. Well then, how do you say no problem?”

“Hakuna matata.”

He slapped himself in the forehead. “Right. Everybody on earth should know that one.”

“Just like everybody should know what a dime is. But I didn’t.”

“So you’re just sitting all alone down here feeling like a social outcast, instead of, say, going out and making friends?”

“I’m too weird. All I do is sit there and smile and feel like everybody wishes I would go away.”

“Nobody wishes a pretty girl would go away. Except for maybe a girl who’s standing there with her boyfriend.”

There it was, another compliment subtly slipped in, and I soaked it up like a flower in the sunshine. I said nothing, though. I changed the subject. But I noticed.

“I wouldn’t know about that either. Are girls really so petty and jealous?”

“They can be downright vicious. Maybe you’re better off not having any girlfriends.”

“I don’t have any choice, really. In order to have friendships, you have to be able to hang out with people. All I do is go to school and go home again. I’m not allowed out.”

“You grounded? What did you do?”

“No. Not grounded. My parents are just weird. They have this strange idea that if I’m allowed to have a social life, the first thing I’m gonna do is suck and fuck every guy who points a hard on at me.”

He stared at me with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

“What?” I said, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

“I just never imagined I’d ever hear something like that come out of your mouth. I have this impression of you that you’re this delicate princess who’s waiting to be rescued from a tower or something.”

“I sort of am.”

“Your parents actually accuse you of that? In those words?”

“Of course not in those words. They’re too pure and holy. But I get regular lectures about how all boys want is sinful pleasure for a few minutes and then they’ll toss me away like so much trash. There’s no TV in our house. The internet is password protected. I’m not even allowed to put movie posters on my bedroom wall, if there’s a boy in it.”

He just stared at me, stunned for a moment. But he also looked like he was figuring out a lot of things about why I am the way I am.

“At least they don’t make me dress up in floor-length skirts and bonnets, like it’s the 1850s or something. That would really suck.”

“So they’re religious?”

“Not really. Just intensely puritanical.”

“What does that mean?”

“Puritanical? Um ... I guess it means obsessed with purity.”

“Oh. Right. Like tyrannical people are obsessed with tyranny.”

“It’s sort of the same thing, except the puritans actually think they’re helping.”

“So all you do all day every day is ... what? Read? And write letters to Africa?”

Without thinking, I just blurted out the truth. “I masturbate all day every day, actually.” I regretted it before the sentence was even finished, but I couldn’t stop it.

His jaw dropped once again. His eyes widened. After a moment of soul-crushingly awkward silence, he spoke again.

“Wow. You really are socially ... weird.”

I was too embarrassed to reply. So he tried his best to smooth the tension over.

“I mean. Not weird. Just brutally honest. Not everybody would admit that so freely.”

“Yeah. Apparently that’s a bad thing. Sorry. Please don’t tell anybody I said that. Like ... ever.”

“I won’t. Honestly, I don’t think anybody would believe me.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, staring down at the floor.

“Hakuna matata,” he replied. I looked up at him and smiled. He went on, “So all day every day, huh? That’s even more than me.”

“You do that, too?” I asked. This question made him laugh out loud.

“You really don’t know very many teenage boys, do you?”

I shook my head. “Why? Is it normal for them to do that?”

He nodded. “My record is five times in a day. I shouldn’t be admitting that, but you started it.”

“Five times?” I said. “I can do that in ten minutes.”

He laughed. “I guess it’s different for girls. Took me several hours. But I had the house all to myself one day, so, you know...”

“Does stuff really shoot out all over when a guy finishes?” I asked him. “I mean, I read an erotic book once, and every time a guy finished there was copious amounts of white man cream covering her tits, her tummy, her neck, her face...” I made finger quotes in the air to let him know those weren’t my words.

“Um ... I don’t think it’s that much. I mean, at least it’s not for me. There’s just like three or four big squirts and then a few dribbles. From the porno videos I’ve seen, that’s pretty normal.”

“Okay, good. I can’t imagine having to spend an hour and a half cleaning up every single time you had sex with a guy. A yogurt cup exploded on me once when I accidentally threw my books down on the desk. Pow! All over my shirt, on my face, in my hair. Everywhere! I felt like one of those girls in that book as I slowly scooped it up with my fingers and licked up every single drop.”

He stared at me with a mixture of awe and what looked like fear.

“What?” I said again. “Too much details?”

“Well, on the bright side, I’m probably going to beat my record tonight.”

“You’re saying my yogurt story turned you on?”

He nodded.

“Why? It’s just yogurt.”

“It’s quite an image, the way you described it.”

“You mean saying my face and hair was splattered with white cream?”

“And the part about licking it all up. Wow.”

He shifted awkwardly. I stared at him, curious. Was it really so easy to get a boy excited? Perhaps my parents were right.

“Eric,” I whispered, looking up the stairwell to make sure nobody was coming.

“Huh?” he whispered back.

“Are you ... hard? Just from hearing my story?”

He flushed pink as a maiden, and turned away to face the glass door behind him.

“Is it that obvious?”

“I honestly didn’t look. That’s why I’m asking. I’m just curious if that part of the book was true, too. If guys get hard just from talking about sexy stuff.”

“It’s definitely true. I sometimes wish it wasn’t. Especially when I’m in a stairwell at school, talking to a beautiful girl.”

My heart jumped with fear and tried to stop me from the saying the next thing out of my mouth, but this time I forced it out, instead of forgetting to stop it.

“Can I ... see it?” I whispered again.

“You ... You want to see it?”

I nodded. He looked around to make sure nobody was coming, and he turned around. He moved his hands from in front of his pants. There was an elongated bulge from the left side of his zipper, and stretching diagonally upward. It wasn’t ripping right through his pants or anything dramatic like that, but you could definitely tell he had a dick in there.

“How big is it?” I whispered. “I can’t really see.”

He stared at me, nervously, but also subtly amused at my girlish curiosity.

“Why do you want to know that?”

“This is literally the longest conversation I’ve ever even had with a boy my entire life. I have a million questions.”

“It’s like you’re from another planet, and hear doing scientific research or something.”

I pouted. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“It was a joke,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry. I’m just feeling pretty socially outcast today. Jokes like that kind of ... Never mind.”

He held up a finger from each hand, about six inches apart.

“I don’t know what that means,” I told him. “Is that some sort of finger quote gesture I don’t know about?”

“You asked how big it was,” he told me.

My eyes widened. “Oh! Right. I forgot about that.” Then I added, “Is that ... a normal size? Every guy in the book had a huge ten-incher that made the ladies scream.”

“Sounds like a pretty terrible book,” he said. “You’re going to have to unlearn a lot of things when you start having sex for real.”

“I’ve read it like 432 times.”

His jaw dropped. “Literally?”

“Well, I found it in a recycle bin back on May 23 of last year. And since then, I’ve read through it at least once a day. So yeah, about 432 times.”

“You read a whole novel every day?”

“It’s only like 189 pages.”

“Wow. Maybe you really are secretly a robot from outer space. I can barely read 20 pages in a day.”

“I can write 20 pages in like ten minutes, never mind read them! Geeze. I really am a freak.”

“You’re not a freak. You’re just ... really, really smart, apparently.”

“And horny, apparently. Constantly fucking horny.”

“That’s no big deal either. Especially when your family is so ... repressive. All those natural urges gotta come out somehow.”

“So you’re saying I’m normal?”

“The only thing abnormal about you is that you admit being a sex-crazed wank monger. Everyone else does it, but pretends to be so pure.”

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Are you still hard?” I asked him.

“Yup,” he said, glancing down and giving his pelvis a little thrust of emphasis.

“Show me.”

“Ummm ... I thought I already did,” he said, swallowing nervously.

“No,” I whispered. “I mean ... show me...”

His eyes widened. “You mean whip it out? For real?”

I nodded, smiling with an insane combination of panic and elation.

“But why?” he asked.

“Because I’m a space robot doing research on human boys. Do it for science.”

He looked around, both up the stairs and down the hall beyond the glass doors behind him. Then, with agility and speed, I never imagined was even possible, he popped his button, yanked his fly down, and pulled his dick out, grabbing it in a fist and waving it up and down a couple of times.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen up until that point, mostly because it was so damn real. But I only saw it for less than five seconds. It was away again and his pants were zipped back up before I could even blink twice.

“Wow...” I murmured.

“Wow?” he said, blushing deeply once more. “I hope that’s not sarcasm.”

I shook my head. “I’ve never seen one for real before. I’ve never even seen pictures. Why would it be sarcasm?”

“I dunno. I’m just self-conscious, I guess.”

“Don’t be. It was beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” he said, looking puzzled.

“I don’t know a better word to describe it.”

“Beautiful is usually used for things like flowers and poems and sunsets. Not schlongs.”

“If you show me again, I’ll try to think of a better word.”

“You’re really serious.”

I nodded. “Except let me look a little longer than 3 seconds.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

“And maybe come a little closer.”

“Okay,” he said again, and he took two steps closer. Now he was standing right in front of me. I could have reached out and poked his bulge with a finger.

“Okay,” I told him, smiling insanely, and fighting off a maniacal little fit of nervous giggling.

With the same speed and agility, he whipped it out once more. Now he was so close, I could actually smell it. It smelled like a sweaty boy. Not bad or anything. Just very strong and masculine. I could have inhaled that scent all day. I wanted to memorize it somehow. It smelled like strength in a perverse sort of way. I guess my female instincts were kicking in somehow.

He was also so close, I could see the very texture of his flesh. It was smooth and shiny. It almost looked plastic in a way, but I think that’s just because he was so hard, and the skin was so stretched. I desperately wanted to touch it, to feel the satiny texture for myself. But that would have been really awkward.

He moved to put it away. But I shot up a hand and grabbed his wrist.

“No!” I whispered, hot and breathless. “Wait. Let me look a bit more!”

He squirmed, leaning to glance up the stairwell, and almost poked me in the cheek with it. I pulled back at the last moment. “Oh!” he said. “Sorry...”

“Can I ... touch it?” I asked. “What does it feel like?”

“Ummm ... you wanna touch it?”

I nodded. I reached up a hand again, but waited for permission. He swallowed, and then nodded, glancing up the stairs again, and back behind him to let me know to hurry.

“This is crazy,” he said.

I nodded, and then reached out to stroke a finger over its plum head. It was warm. It was soft, but beneath the skin, it was kind of spongy. Beneath that, it was stiff as wood. I know, because I poked it a little harder, out of sheer morbid curiosity. The thing bent downward a bit, and then rose again the moment I relaxed the pressure. I pushed down on it a few more times, curious. The words boing, boing, boing sounded in my head like we were in a cartoon universe or something.

“It’s like a little diving board,” I whispered, smiling with my own private amusement.

He was apparently too dazed to answer.

“How long does it take you?” I whispered.

“How long does what take me?”

“To ... finish?” I said. “Like if I were to start stroking it with my hand, how long would it take to... ?”

His voice was shaky now. He sounded like he was terrified. “If you did it? Probably about a minute or two. Maybe even less. If I did it, maybe five minutes. I dunno.”

“Really, it makes a difference if somebody else does it?”

“Of course!”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It also depends if I’ve already done it that day. If I have, it usually takes longer to finish the next time.”

“Have you?” I asked. When he looked confused, I added, “Done it today, I mean.”

He shook his head. No he hadn’t. That seemed to make him very nervous for some reason. I wasn’t sure why.

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