The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

Dropping my foot to the bed, he ran a hand through his hair. “Um … what?”

I sat up and crisscrossed my legs, covering my breasts in my cupped hands. “My grandma used to say that not having your virginity to give your husband was like borrowing someone’s used sanitary napkin on your wedding night.”

Fisher blinked slowly for several silent seconds. “I … I don’t even know how to respond to that. Were you … raised in a cult? What the fuck? Who says that?”

I winced, feeling a little defensive. It wasn’t that I believed my grandma, but I didn’t like him insinuating that she was crazy or some cult member.

“Listen …” He sighed and took a seat next to me on the bed with his legs dangling off the end. “I haven’t walked in your shoes. So I don’t know what’s been planted into your brain. I liked what just happened in the doorway. It’s that simple for me. I liked it. I’d like to do it again. And I don’t want to feel guilty for being a consenting adult with you. My opinion should mean nothing to you. So while I’d like to tell you to spend more time touching yourself than worrying about going to Hell, it’s not my place.”

After letting his words resonate for a moment, I released my breasts and stood on my knees, swinging one leg over his lap. “Fisher …” I laced my fingers together behind his neck while positioning myself so his cock (covered by his briefs and shorts) was pressed between my legs again, much like the previous night.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, eyeing my mouth while his hands gripped my hips.

“I like how you feel between my legs, naked fisherman.”

“Fuuuck …” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, gripping my hips tighter while pushing me down a fraction—pushing into me a fraction.

Cock.

Briefs.

Shorts.

“Yes …” I closed my eyes.

“Don’t say that,” he said with a strained voice and lines of tension along his forehead.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

He prodded me like he, too, knew that point of no return was a mile behind us in a foggy rearview mirror.

My hands ghosted down his back. His hands gripped my butt.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

I spread my legs wider, allowing him to push into me a fraction more.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Each move a little harder.

Each breath a little more ragged, just like his next words.

“I.” Thrust.

“Want.” Thrust.

“Inside of you.” Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

“So fucking bad.”

I did too. And while I knew it would be different, that it would be painful the first time, I still wanted it. I wanted it with Fisher. Instead, we were dry humping harder than two people had probably ever dry humped. I swore his cock, briefs, and shorts were halfway in by that point—like a clothes condom—and soaking wet from me … and maybe a little from him too.

“Fisher!” I seethed when he ducked his head and bit my nipple and tugged it like he was trying to rip it off.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

“No.” He released my nipple and grabbed my hand when I reached between us, sliding my hand down the front of his shorts and briefs. “Not a good idea.”

I kissed his neck. “I promise I won’t. I just want to feel you.”

He groaned or grumbled, clearly warring with the decision to stop me or trust me to not cross the next line.

Releasing me, he rested that hand on the bed behind him, chin dipped, watching me slide down the front of his shorts and briefs.

“Make it feel good,” he whispered while a grin stole his lips.

My teeth scraped along my bottom lip as I gathered up as much confidence as I could find. My hand wrapped around the top half of his cock while I rubbed myself along the bottom part. It was so much better than the scratchy fabric.

That day, the naked fisherman taught me how to make it feel good for me and for him at the same time while keeping that eighty percent of my virginity.

I knew it was wrong. I just started to care a little less about its wrongness.

While Fisher showered, I ran downstairs to get my computer. I had several important searches to do.

Is oral sex as morally wrong as intercourse?

What does the Bible say about masturbation?

Can a woman get pregnant if a man ejaculates between her legs without penetration?

That last search sent me into a frenzy. I peed.

Prayed.

Jumped into the shower and put the handheld head between my legs to rid myself of any residual semen.

Prayed again.

Checked my phone for my monthly cycle app to see if I was anywhere near ovulation.

Prayed again.

Dressed.

Sprinted up the stairs.

“YOU CAN GET PREGNANT WITHOUT PENETRATION!”

Fisher closed the refrigerator door, popping the top of a beer and taking a swig, eyeing me intently the whole time. “I’m a guy. I can’t get pregnant.”

“Ugh! Shut up! I’m talking about me.”