My Confession Begins with the Girl I Used to Be

Before we begin, you should know who I am. Or rather, who I was before all this, because the woman sitting down to write these lines now, with her panties wet just from remembering, bears very little resemblance to the woman I used to be.

My name is Marina. I'm from Valencia, I'm twenty-seven years old, and until not so long ago, I would have sworn that my sex life was the most predictable thing in the world. In the stories to come, I want to tell you how, little by little, almost without realizing it, I stopped wanting what I was supposed to want and began seeking cocks very different from the ones I'd sucked until then.

So it doesn't get tedious, I'm going to divide it into several chapters. Each one will have its own moment, its own discovery, its own cumshot. What you're going to read is real, although I'll confess right now that I'll be changing some names. Not for my sake, but to protect the men who fucked me without knowing they'd end up on a page like this.

Let's start with the simplest thing: what I'm like.

I'm five foot eight and slim, the sort of girl who complained as a teenager about not having curves and who, over the years, learned to love herself just as she was. I have medium-sized breasts, a little saggy, with small nipples that are pale pink and grow hard and dark when I get excited, so much so that they show through any thin shirt. My eyes are green, almost gray depending on the light, and I've worn horn-rimmed glasses since I was sixteen. My hair is light brown and long, usually tied back in a loose ponytail that comes undone throughout the day and that, as you'll see, turns out to be very handy for someone to pull when I'm on my knees.

My skin is very pale. So pale that I blush at the slightest thing, and when I was a child, the kids at school called me “Strawberry” because my cheeks would flare bright red just from hearing my name. I've never outgrown that tendency to blush. Even today, when a guy stares at my mouth or cleavage for too long, I feel the heat rising up my neck and running straight down to my pussy. As you'll learn from reading these stories, that blush has given me away more than once, and it's also made more than one man's cock hard to see me red as a tomato while I sucked it.

***

There's nothing special about my childhood, and that's precisely why I like telling you about it: because it proves that any ordinary girl can end up where I did, with her knees spread and begging for more.

I was a good student, the kind who sat in the front rows and handed in assignments early. I wasn't the popular girl, but I wasn't the strange one at the back of the class either. I had my group of friends, my books, my routines. I lost my virginity at seventeen with my high-school boyfriend, a shy boy who trembled just as much as I did. He put a skinny, nervous cock inside me that came in two minutes, almost before he'd really started fucking me, and left my panties stained with a mixture of blood and semen that seemed like the end of the world to me. It was sweet, clumsy, and quick, and for a long time I believed that was all sex could give me: a trembling dick, a couple of thrusts, and sleep.

I've always gotten along well with my parents. They're quiet people with fixed habits, and even today they haven't the slightest idea what I write at night when they think I'm watching TV shows. I'm not ashamed of what I do, but there are things a daughter never tells her mother. For example, that her little girl came screaming with a stranger's cock buried all the way up her ass.

A year and a half ago, I passed a civil-service exam and started working as an administrative assistant in a city-hall office. A stable, gray job, with civil-servant hours and coworkers who've been sitting in the same chair for twenty years. I'm telling you because that contrast is everything in this story: on the outside, an orderly life, knee-length skirts, and a buttoned-up blouse; inside, a pussy that was becoming more and more urgent and specific, a desire to be fucked hard and without consideration that began to squeeze beneath the desk while I stamped paperwork.

And there's one more detail I can't keep quiet, because it marks the exact moment when I decided to write all this. Right now I'm on maternity leave because of my pregnancy. Yes, you read that correctly. I'm pregnant, and I'm using these weeks of rest, these long, quiet afternoons, to put my memories in order and finally put them into words. Who the father is, how much cum I had to swallow to get here, and why I smile every time I stroke my belly are things you'll understand later. Don't rush.

***

I never imagined where things would lead me. I really didn't.

If you'd met me at twenty, you'd have seen me dating perfectly normal guys: university classmates, friends of friends, the typical boyfriend who lasted a few months and disappeared without making much of an impression. They were good boys. Polite, like me, and like one another. They fucked me with the same propriety with which they spoke at their parents' dinner table: missionary position, five minutes of rocking, a kiss on the forehead, and on to something else. Sex was pleasant, and I'd forget it the next day. I thought that's how everything worked, that desire was that lukewarm thing I felt sometimes and that went out on its own with two quick fingers before bed.

Until something began to change.

It didn't happen all at once. It was like a fine crack opening in a wall, one that, by the time you realized it, you could no longer stop looking at. I began noticing a different kind of man. Men with dark skin, huge hands, thick arms, with that bulge outlined beneath their trousers, visible from a distance, that made me squeeze my thighs in my seat on the bus. At first I denied it to myself. I thought it was curiosity, a passing foolishness, something that would go away just as everything else had.

It didn't go away. On the contrary: it grew, and with it grew the nights when I fell asleep with my hand between my legs, imagining black, thick, long cocks entering me all the way while I moaned as I had never moaned in my life with any of my white, well-mannered boyfriends.

Every time one of them crossed my path on the street, on the subway, in the supermarket line, I felt that same jolt in my stomach and that gush of wetness between my pussy lips. And I began to realize that things no longer worked the same way with my usual partners. While some ordinary guy kissed me, I'd close my eyes and my mind would escape toward another body, another skin, another cock much bigger than the one inside me at that moment. I'd fake an orgasm so he would finish already, push him away with an excuse, and go into the bathroom to finish the job with my own fingers, biting my hand so I wouldn't scream a stranger's name.

I remember perfectly the first time desire caught me by surprise. It was an ordinary Tuesday, on the bus home from work. I was standing, holding the rail, half asleep with my headphones on, when a man got on at a stop in the city center and stood right beside me. He was incredibly tall, much taller than I was, with broad shoulders and dark, clear skin that smelled of something warm, wood or spices—I couldn't have told you which. He was wearing tight jeans, and when I glanced down, there was such a thick bulge between his legs that my mouth went dry. We didn't speak. We didn't even look at each other. But for the ten minutes the journey lasted, I couldn't think about anything except the heat coming off his arm a few inches from mine, and the size of the cock he was hiding a few inches from my hand.

I began squeezing my thighs together, discreetly, seeking friction against the seam of my panties. I could feel my nipples hardening beneath my bra, my pussy throbbing with every jolt of the bus, the wetness soaking through the fabric until I was embarrassed he might be able to smell me. On a sharp turn I lost my balance and my hip brushed against his thigh, for one second, maybe two. One second was enough for me to almost come right there, standing up, my glasses fogged and my face burning.

I got off at my stop with trembling legs and panties soaked through. I got home, kicked the door shut, threw my bag on the floor, and locked myself in the bathroom without even taking off my coat. I yanked down my trousers and panties, sat on the toilet, and touched myself while thinking about that stranger whose name I would never know. I ran two fingers over my clitoris and was startled by how swollen it was, how much it protruded between my lips. I was so wet that my fingers slipped, so wet that I could hear the squelching every time I pushed them into my pussy.

I closed my eyes and imagined him. I imagined him getting off with me at my stop, following me to the entrance without a word, cornering me against the elevator wall and pushing his tongue into my mouth while I fumbled for his fly. I pulled out his cock, and it was exactly as I'd imagined: thick, dark, long, throbbing hot in my hand. I knelt on the landing and put it in my mouth, unable to take all of it, letting a string of saliva fall from my chin while he held me by my ponytail and drove it down my throat.

I put in a third finger. With my other hand I squeezed one nipple through my bra and let out a moan that bounced off the bathroom tiles. I no longer cared whether the neighbors heard me. I imagined him turning me around against the elevator wall, lifting my skirt, ripping off my panties, and thrusting his cock into me all at once, all the way, without asking. I imagined the stretch, that sweet sting of being too full, the sensation that a man like that would split me in two.

I imagined his huge hands gripping my hips, his hard thrusts against my ass, the sound of his thighs slamming against mine, his fingers squeezing my neck without hurting me, just enough to remind me who was in charge there. I imagined him whispering filthy things in my ear in a language I didn't understand and that nevertheless made me squeeze my pussy around him.

I sped up my fingers over my clitoris. My ponytail came loose, my glasses slid down my nose, and my legs tensed until they cramped. When I came, I covered my mouth with the sleeve of my coat so I wouldn't scream, my belly contracting in waves and a small gush of wetness soaking my hand and the rim of the toilet. It was a long, dirty orgasm, unlike any climax all my boyfriends together had ever wrung from me.

When I finished, I sat on the edge of the bathtub, trembling, my panties hanging from one ankle and my fingers still glistening with sticky fluid. Frightened and excited in equal measure, I understood for the first time that this wasn't a phase, that I'd been fucking badly for more than twenty years and my pussy had always known it before my head did.

What's happening to me? I asked myself some nights, staring at my bedroom ceiling with my hand between my legs and my fingers still tasting of myself.

The answer took time to arrive, and when it did, it came with the first real cock I'd ever tasted and the first of the experiences I'm going to tell you about. But that's another story, and I'd rather tell it slowly, with every detail, every moan, and every drop of semen in its place, in the chapter to come.

***

I want to be honest with you about something, because I think that's only fair.

For a long time I felt guilty about my own desires. It seemed to me that there was something wrong with knowing so exactly what I wanted, with becoming a woman whose pussy only got wet for one very specific kind of man. I wondered whether it was a phase, a whim, whether I should be ashamed of coming while always thinking about the same thing. It took me a long time to accept that desire isn't a choice, that it's simply there, and denying it only made me unhappy and left me lying awake at night with my hand in my panties.

The day I stopped fighting myself, everything changed. I began to look, to try, to dare. To spread my legs without asking forgiveness. And I discovered a pleasure I hadn't even known existed, a pleasure that has taken me to places I never would have imagined—strangers' beds, roadside hotels, parked cars, bar bathrooms—and brought me to this moment, pregnant and happy, writing to you.

I don't regret anything. Let that be clear from the first line. Every decision, every night, every cock, every load of cum swallowed, every mistake: all of it has made me who I am. And I like who I am now much more than the predictable twenty-year-old girl who faked orgasms with boyfriends who didn't even know how to find her clitoris.

***

Now that we've been introduced, let me ask you for a couple of things.

If you like what you're reading, leave me your comments and ratings. They help me know whether I'm doing this right, whether it's worth continuing to tell it, whether what was so intense for me means something to someone else. I'll also leave an email address here, in case you want to ask me anything, tell me about your own experiences, chat, or simply let off steam—or jerk off—with someone who won't judge you. I'll be happy to read your messages.

And I have one last request, with all my affection. Everything you're going to read really happened. It's not a fantasy invented to arouse you for a while, although I hope it gets your cock hard or your pussy soaking wet too. It's my life. So if, at any point, an opinion occurs to you that you think might offend me or another reader, I ask you to keep it to yourself. This is a place to enjoy, not to hurt anyone.

That said, make yourself comfortable. Get yourself something to drink. Turn off your phone. Pull down your trousers if you feel like it—no one's watching you here.

Because from the next chapter on, I'm going to tell you everything without filters, without shame, and without skipping a single detail: not one blowjob, not one position, not one moan, not one drop of semen. I'm going to tell you how an ordinary girl from Valencia, with her glasses and her strawberry blush, discovered exactly what cock she wanted inside her and went looking for it.

Thank you so much for being here. I sincerely hope you enjoy my story as much as I enjoyed fucking it.