Sex with Roxanne was scaring me. She was loud and forceful and aggressive, not so much having sex with me as trying to grind out my orgasm like a cigarette under foot. She was everything men dream of. I should have been ecstatic about being with her. She was stacked, fit, firm, with a long thick mane that she kept tossing back and forth with every bounce she made on me. She had bright blue eyes and full, suck-me lips. And she was on me, naked, bucking and grinding on my erection, making her flesh jiggle and bounce deliciously before my eyes.

And she was a screamer too. It was beautiful.

I couldn't come though. She'd been at it for a good half hour and was beginning to get a little self-concious. I had no idea what the problem was. I never did. It was always the same. It had been years since I'd gotten any sort of sexual attention, and it went suddenly from zero, to this. My erection was there, no problem. I just couldn't release.

"How much longer you gonna be?" she said finally, panting and moving us into the rear entry position. It was then I began to realize her exuberant action on me was mostly phony. She wasn't really enjoying it as much as she let on, and that made things even worse for me.

I'd known Roxanne for months, and she'd had a crush on me pretty much the entire time, possibly due to the fact that I wasn't constantly hitting on her like other men were. I just thought of her as a beautiful friend, and I'm sure that drove her female ego mad. We finally ended up in bed that night after she "accidentally" spilled wine on herself at my place, and insisted on stripping down to her underwear while I put her clothes through the laundry. Things heated up quickly after that and in spite of myself I took the bait.

She was wild and loud and aggressive, as I said, like she had something to prove, other than simply wanting to be with me. I think that was the snag, or at least part of it. She wasn't real.

After the rear-entry we switched back to cowgirl, and I just lied there while she pummeled my loins with hers, staring up at her wondering why I hadn't finished six times over already, like any normal man would under the enthusiastic attention of this blonde goddess. Roxanne was the most beautiful woman I'd ever been with, but for some reason, I couldn't come. It felt wonderful, being stuffed all the way up inside her grinding and gyrating pelvis, but that was it. There was no final ecstasy, no resolution to the tension. She'd already come a few times herself and was beginning to tire of waiting for me. Her frustration was beginning to show. The more frustrated she got, the more aggressive she became though, until she was working me over like a well-oiled machine; she was an absolute master of the carnal arts, and she was holding nothing back.

She wasn't Angela though. I realized that somewhere deep inside myself. The hypnotic jiggling of Roxanne's rhythm left me in a bit of a daze, and my mind wandered back to Angela — the only girl I'd ever been able to climax with.

Angela never spoke. She smiled, nodded, and followed us around simply because we let her. She was like a little sister to us, even though none of us were actually related to her. At the same time, she was a girlfriend to each and every one of us, and none of us. She was skinny, plain, and timid, a dirty-blonde-haired girl with sad, tired-looking eyes. But she was a girl, and she was easy. It started out with touching and petting and went from there. Soon we'd all lost our virginities to her on a sweaty summer afternoon behind some old hay bales on a farm near town. It quickly became routine after that.

She used to let us take her, one after another, me and my friends Mickey, Greg, and Dennis. We were all sixteen. She was fifteen. We never forced her. We were never insulting to her about it. We considered her our friend and she followed us around wherever we went, and when we wanted sex, she would lie down and let us have some. It was that simple. We did it in parks, in fields, in closets, in abandoned cars, anywhere with enough privacy for us to masturbate ourselves, using this voiceless young girl's parts. We did it whenever we wanted. She never said no.

She never spoke at all for that matter. Never moved. Never made a sound. She just lay there, staring upward with that funny little smile of hers, like she was seeing butterflies flitting around above her. And we thrust and grunted and bumped her, until our release when we would pull out and spray it across her stomach. (We never used condoms. They were too hard to get in our little town.) Then she'd clean it up and we'd simply go back to the group like nothing happened, and she'd still have that strange little smile on her face.

The only time she ever talked was when someone accidentally came inside her.

"Oh no!" was all she'd say. "Don't do that."

Her voice was actually very beautiful, soft and sullen, sweet, like a singer between songs.

On weekends, we used to climb the water tower. We'd sit up there, talk, and laugh, and tell stories, passing cigarettes around and taking swigs from stolen bottles. It was dark up there, dark enough that nobody could see us, and far enough into the outskirts of town that if we saw someone coming, we could scramble down the ladder and be lost in the woods before they got there.

That's where we took the most turns on Angela. She liked it up there under the stars. At least she told me so that one night, when she and I went up there all alone, without the rest of the guys.

I lay her down up there, right on the edge of the tower so that I could watch the road for anyone coming. With the other guys away, there was no look out. She held on tight to my body as I wiggled myself inside her. Her breathing deepened as it always did, her body tensed ever-so-slightly, and then I was in. She spread wider. Her breathing quickened. I worked my way down to the bottom, gathering her wetness as I advanced. I was too big for her, but she never complained. The only time she reacted at all was when I accidentally leaned my weight on one of her bruises.

"Ah. Ow," she said, and I apologized.

We never asked about the bruises, and she never said anything about them. We were happy just to be inside her.

I closed my eyes as our pelvises settled together into complete connection. Then I began moving, in and out, against the tension of her womanhood, and she breathed out little grunts of discomfort. She felt good, warm, and snug, and I buried my face in her neck as I worked myself up into a rhythm. When I opened my eyes I was startled to see her hanging her head over the edge of the tower. We'd shifted upward a bit and she hadn't made a peep.

"Aren't you afraid of heights?" I asked her, a little nervous about being so close to the edge.

She shook her head.

"Are you afraid of anything?" I asked her.