Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
It has been more than four years since I’ve posted anything new here. I have a whole bunch of stories in various stages of completion, but this is the first one that I’ve finished in a while (I don’t publish anything until the whole story is completed). The idea for this two part story came to me when I was thinking about all of the people, mostly young women, who seem to be famous just for being famous without any discernable talent, and the ways that they manage to stay in the public eye. If you want to think “Kardashian,” I’m not going to disagree. I thought about what it would be like if you were a childhood friend of someone like that. And because this is Literotica, I thought about what it would be like if you had sex with someone like that, back in the day, and then met them, years later, after they were famous.
I put this into Erotic Coupling, but there isn’t a huge amount of sex, and I’ve made no attempt to try to make the lives or work of the two main characters at all realistic. If anything, it is satire, and, I hope, amusing.
To be abundantly clear—all persons in this story engaging in any sexual activity are over 18 years of age.
It was already a good day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. It’s not every day that you close a deal that pays you millions of dollars in exchange for a new app that you developed. Sometimes it still amazes me that I have a talent for coming up with ideas for popular apps, despite not having the ability to actually create them. I am, though, smart enough to surround myself with a team of incredibly talented coders and marketing experts to bring my ideas to fruition. Today’s deal related to my latest idea, Cityzenz. You may have heard about it—the idea came to me when I was driving, and some moron cut me off. Now, with Cityzenz, if you have your phone mounted and the camera facing out, it takes a picture of the idiot’s license plate, and sends it anonymously to local law enforcement with a brief explanation of their idiocy. And posts it across numerous social media platforms The police were pissed at first, but the politicians saw that it has made people drive more carefully, so they have started to sign on, and this momentum is what is making me richer. My goal was to get totally out before the inevitable litigation.
I’m the guy who came up with Turst, which I thought of in the shower—I mean, why not have a Yelp-like app, but focused not on restaurants, but on just rating the tourist attractions that you visit between meals, but more specific and robust than TripAdvisor, and less annoying? That one took me from couch surfing to my first millions when I sold it to a competitor which took my better guts and replaced the admittedly suboptimal interface. Then, sitting on the toilet one day, I thought that people might want to merge pictures of themselves with their pets. Yep, that turned into Smush. Which was kind of hot for a while, but I was able to cash in before it went cold. And my team and I also spat out Doink, Feldspar and Klobber, by which point, I had made so much money that even after paying my employees generously, I didn’t know what to do with it all. After buying a nice car, a fancy apartment, a few grown-up toys, and a small house upstate, I gave a bunch of it away, quietly, to various charities. So, while I’m still crazy rich, and have actually hung out with Bill and Melinda (once), I pretty much fly under the radar. No parties or openings, and my name isn’t on anything.
It was a beautiful day in New York, and I was feeling good as I left my lawyer’s office in midtown, so I decided to walk back to my apartment on the Upper West Side. I was in the revolving door, when I noticed a commotion on the street. When the door spat me out, I crashed immediately into the back of a photographer trying to take a picture of someone who seemed to be surrounded by a crowd of frenzied gawkers, an entourage and bodyguards. Although I had become a pretty blasé New Yorker since moving here, this level of hysteria piqued my interest, and I tried to see who, or what, was at the center of the maelstrom.
It took me nearly a block of walking to be able to get a clear view through the crowd, and when I saw who was causing the commotion, I felt a pit in my stomach. I pushed closer, trying to work my way through the crowd to get near her. She was still gorgeous. Too much makeup now for my taste, but it was definitely her. She was, of course, dressed to ostentatiously show off her substantial, famous assets, with her blond hair perfectly styled for her face. Normally, I would flee from a public situation like this, but seeing her after so long overrode my usual caution. I wedged my way in as close as I could, and when she turned my way, her eyes locked onto mine.
I yelled out, “Linzer!”
She stopped short, causing the crowd behind her to stumble into each other, and the crowd in front to stagger to a halt. A big, bodyguard type rammed into me, and I crashed into a photographer. Then she smiled and yelled, “Tater!” She nodded to the big guy next to me, and I found bostancı escort myself inside the perimeter.
“Oh my god, Tater. It’s been years!” She enveloped me in a hug, and I was pressed against her celebrated curves. She smelled, well, she smelled like cheap perfume trying heroically to smell like expensive perfume. I could hear cameras clicking and even flashes going off, and I realized that the anonymity which I had tried so hard to maintain was about to end. Because when the most famous woman in the world hugs you in the middle of midtown Manhattan in front of dozens of paparazzi and even more regular citizens with cell phones, your cover is definitely blown.
The next thing I knew, our scrum was moving again, and I was shoved, with Linzer and a few hangers on, into a limo which began to pull away. Before I could say anything, she said, “Tater, you need to come with me so we can catch up.”
I really had no options, and to be fair, it seemed like a better idea than going home to my empty apartment.
It took a series of unlikely events over a number of years for Lindsay Applewood to be my prom date. First, the Applewoods had to have moved three houses down the street from me when I was in fourth grade. Second, we were both the same age, only children, and became friends immediately, spending days traipsing in and out of each other’s houses as if we lived there. Third, by middle school, it became clear that Lindsay was extraordinarily beautiful. Fourth, I was incredibly shy with the opposite sex, and by the time we got to high school, Lindsay had left me behind, in what, in retrospect, was an early manifestation of her need to be the center of attention. I was with the nerdier kids, and she was with the popular ones. She was never great in school, but was precocious in the ways that seemed important back then. Fifth, my first real girlfriend, Angie Newton, decided to break up with me before Christmas break senior year, because, apparently, I wasn’t attentive enough to her needs. By which, she meant, I later found out, that I occasionally wanted to spend time playing video games with my male friends and even, sometimes, just wanted to watch TV or listen to music alone. That she wasn’t attentive to pretty much any of my teenage boy needs apparently didn’t matter.
But the two final events that found me, in a tuxedo, with the most beautiful girl in our class on prom night, were really unlikely. Todd Barrett, Lindsay’s college football star boyfriend, had left his phone in Lindsay’s car, days before prom. Idiot Todd didn’t have any password on the phone, and when Lindsay touched the screen it opened up to a picture of a very naked Todd engaged in some X-rated fun with two very naked girls in their college dorm room, neither of whom were Lindsay. This clear breach of trust gave her the not unjustifiable belief that she had every right to look through the rest of the moron’s pictures, which included a few other candid shots of his cock being put to work in the company of various not-Lindsay girls.
As she later told me, her first instinct was to smash the offending piece of electronic equipment, but instead, she decided to confront the lunkhead with the evidence, hoping, as she said, to have the opportunity to stick the thing so far up his ass that it came out of his mouth. Although that particular indignity did not befall the former All-State wide receiver, his clumsy excuses resulted in, one, a strong kick in the balls by an enraged Lindsay, who then stepped on the phone, breaking it, and two, being informed by his now former girlfriend that he was, contrary to her prior statements, not good in bed, a fact that she would be informing all of the other attractive girls in a three-state area, through the magic of her large social media following.
Heading home in tears, Lindsay retreated to her room until her mother returned home from work. After hearing a somewhat cleaned up version of the events, and commiserating with her daughter, the final unlikely step in the chain began to take shape. Lindsay’s mother called my mother, her best friend, about the events of the day, and it soon became clear to the mothers that the correct solution to the lack of prom dates for their respective children would be for me to escort Lindsay to the affair.
This suggestion was not an immediate hit with either of us. I was a bit intimidated by her at this point. OK, more than a bit. She was way, way out of my league—we weren’t even playing the same game. She was the acknowledged queen of the school, was doing some professional modelling, was rumored to have been with a significant number of guys, including some much older than us, before getting involved with Todd, and we had really not spent much time together over the past few years. Also, I was worried about getting the shit beaten out of me by some or all of the football team out of a misguided sense of loyalty to their teammate.
Lindsay later told me, a bit sheepishly, that she was also not keen on the plan initially, ümraniye escort bayan because of her concern that her reputation as the alpha girl of our class would be compromised by attending prom with someone who was, at best, a delta, and maybe even as low as a kappa. She had become, to my mind, overly concerned about her reputation, which was a main reason why our relationship had waned. But, she told me, she remembered our childhood friendship fondly, and realized that showing up with me would be worse than having no date at all, meaning that at least I was better than nothing.
Which, even considering my lack of high social standing in high school, was still a bit of an insult. Objectively, I wasn’t bad looking. I was in pretty good shape, had nice hair, and could, if comfortable with my surroundings, carry on a reasonably intelligent and even witty conversation. It was just that I found it hard to talk to the girls who I was attracted to. It wasn’t all girls, because I had no problems talking physics with Jessica Forman, a very smart, friendly and plain girl. But with girls that I thought about in “that” way, I had little confidence, and even less game. My mouth felt full of cotton, and my usually nimble-ish brain slowed to a crawl. But I expected that my initial worries about being with Lindsay would dissipate when we spent time together, and our prior friendship resurfaced, all assuming there was no beat down by Todd and his teammates. Also, there would be alcohol, the great equalizer.
And that’s pretty much how it shook out. She was stunning in a dress that, trust me, was sexier than the more revealing stuff that she wears in public these days. I’m sure our moms have pictures. After an awkward beginning and a little tequila, we started to engage in the fun banter that had characterized our old friendship, and when she pressed against me during the slow dances, I couldn’t have been happier. Or hornier. The prom itself turned out to be pretty amazing, and even better when I saw that Angie had come with some guy who I found out from a plastered Linda Chavez, was her cousin. By the time the thing ended, Lindsay and I were casually holding hands, and it almost seemed as if we had magically become a couple.
Of course, Lindsay was invited to the best after party, being thrown in classic high school cliché style by a rich kid with parents stupid enough to leave the house to a bunch of drunk 18 year olds with raging hormones and little concern for others’ property. As her date, I got to experience this bacchanal, when I would otherwise likely have been with Angie at Calvin Munson’s house drinking Budweiser or worse and eating a 6 foot hero while his parents loomed annoyingly. Luckily, Todd had decided to pass on the prom and postgame festivities, so I avoided getting beaten up.
By about 2 a.m., I was feeling little pain, and had convinced myself that I belonged with both my date and her friends when I felt my arm being tugged. Realizing that it was the beautiful Lindsay, who had changed from her sexy prom dress into a sexy tight short dress that begged the question of how she was able to get into it, and how it didn’t simply tear from the strain of containing her (I was in definitely unsexy jeans and a t-shirt, like pretty much every male at the party), I allowed her to lead me away from the comfortable wall that I was leaning against. In my semi-inebriated haze, I realized that we were walking up a set of stairs, down a hallway that was much longer than private houses should have, and into an empty room whose furnishings were, as best I could tell under the circumstances, limited to a bed. Of course, there were other things in the room, but the bed was pretty much all that I focused on.
I stood there and watched as Lindsay closed the door. There was a pause where neither of us knew what to say. The muffled sounds of the party were still audible, but I was focused on the stunning girl in front of me. Yet I had no idea what she wanted. I mean, I had an idea about what I hoped she wanted, but I couldn’t be sure. Until she turned around and said, “Tater, can you get the zipper?”
Answer, “yes, yes I can.” Somehow, though, I didn’t actually say that out loud, and I found myself unzipping the dress from her neck, down to the curve where the band of her underwear sat on the top of her now world-famous butt. Past the straps and clasps of the engineering marvel that supported the breasts which currently have their own Facebook fan page, Instagram pages and more Tumblrs than are devoted to the President of the United States. Or so I hear. She turned around, peeled the dress from her shoulders, and it dropped to the ground and pooled at her feet. I was, admittedly, paralyzed by the sight, except for one increasingly hard part of my anatomy that seemed capable at that moment of independent action. And when she stepped out of the shockingly tiny pile of fabric, and stood in front of me, clad only in lace panties, the matching push up bra and heels, it became difficult for me to stand, as my blood kartal escort rushed from my head to support that stiffening part of my body.
Lindsay turned, giving me the full 360 degree view, and said with a smile, “You like?
I gathered a small portion of my wits, and nodded enthusiastically. Words, however, were not forthcoming.
“Tater, if you think that I’m not having sex on prom night, then you don’t know me.”
I knew that I was supposed to say something, and I was able to croak out, “With me?”
Lindsay laughed, sexily. “That’s kind of why I brought you here and had you take off my dress.” Then, she smiled coyly. “Of course, if you’d rather not, I suspect I could find someone interested in this,” she said, gesturing at her body, which one day would be justifiably iconic.
Realizing that I needed to do something, I gathered another portion of my wits and replied, “Of course, I want to.” We were both 18, and there was nothing to stop us.
Lindsay smiled. “Then there’s no reason why we can’t have fun together.” She paused, reached behind herself, unclasped her bra and cast it aside. Now, all these years later, seeing Lindsay’s tits is pretty much one of the easiest things that you can do on the Internet. And I have to admit to having looked at them more than a few times over the years. For old time’s sake, of course. But seeing them live, on her 18 year old body, for the first time, was pretty incredible. Despite their size, they seemed to counteract gravity. “So, Tate, you know what to do, right?”
In retrospect, I think she was asking me to start getting undressed, but unfortunately, I misinterpreted her meaning, which is excusable considering the distracting sight of the topless Lindsay Applewood, the amount of booze I had drunk and the fact that the blood that normally would be in my brain had relocated somewhat to the south. So, instead of just getting naked and getting busy, I had to say, “Actually, no, I’ve never done this before.”
This time, Lindsay was speechless. She put one of her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh, or a gasp, or something, but all I noticed was the jiggling of her breasts and their swollen red nipples. “Never?”
“No, not once.”
“Why not? You’re a good looking, nice, funny guy.”
She thought that? All of a sudden, I didn’t feel like a total dweeb. “I guess the opportunity never presented itself. I’m kind of shy with girls, and no one really seemed interested.”
“You went out with Angie Newton, right? She wouldn’t?”
I shook my head.
“Did she at least suck your cock?”
Another head shake.
Another, sheepish head shake.
“What a fucking prude. You’re better off without her. I mean, Tate, I could think of at least 5 or 6 of my friends who would definitely have fucked you, if I only knew. You should have told me. We’re friends. I would have taken care of you.”
“I guess I was embarrassed.”
She came closer to me, those perfect breasts preceding her, and they pressed against my t-shirt as she hugged me. It was like we were dancing again, except for the part about the naked breasts and lace panties. My cock, which had flagged a bit during the embarrassing confession part of the evening, sprung back to full mast again, and Lindsay ground her crotch against it. “Then, Tate, as your oldest friend, I need to help you out.”
The next thing I knew, her tongue was in my mouth, and I found my hands resting on her now-legendary ass. She pulled back long enough to start taking my shirt off, and I decided to speed things up by virtually ripping it over my head and tossing it behind me.
Then, those full, warm and firm globes, pale white with their darker, large areolae and thick, hard nipples, were pressed against my smooth chest, and we were kissing again, while Lindsay moved us toward the bed.
When she reached the end, she sat down on the edge, undid my belt and pants button, pulling them down carefully, because of my protruding cock. She smiled again, before freeing it from my boxers, which also found their way to the floor. I stepped out of them, leaving me only in my socks, when Lindsay grabbed it. And, being an inexperienced, horny teenager, this was enough to send me over the edge. I shot a stream of cum onto her beautiful face, then a second onto those tits. I could see the surprised look in her eyes, but her hand never left my shaft, and she even gave it a couple of squeezes and pumps before my mortifying eruption ceased.
I was pretty sure that wasn’t the way sex was supposed to go, and was really pissed off at myself. But Lindsay seemed to be completely fine. She actually wiped some of my cum off her face and into her mouth, and seemed the opposite of grossed out. Standing up, cum dripping off her tits onto the floor, she said, “Good, I’m glad we got that out of the way. Now we both can have fun.” It turned out that this was the kind of house that had bathrooms in at least some of the bedrooms, and I watched Lindsay’s amazing butt walk into it, run some water and clean herself off. Despite the weakness in my knees, I just stood there, observing her as she turned and jiggled her way back to me. She wriggled out of her panties, displaying a neatly trimmed patch of blond pubic hair, and pulled back the covers.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32