Call Me Marie

 

Let me introduce myself. Call me Marie, which is my second, not quite so well known name. I’m 18 years old, I live in a subdivision in the Paranaque area, and I am currently enrolled in a high school in Quezon City. Among other talents, I am an honor student, and also a member of the cheerdance squad in my school. Furthermore, I am an accomplished model affiliated with a premier modeling agency here in the Philippines, and although I am not what you would call a household name, I’ve done a number of commercials, print ads, fashion shows, and appearances in magazines such as Preview, Meg, Candy, etc. Most notably, I am an endorser for a prominent, popular Filipino apparel brand, billboards of which you can see littered around the metro. So I’m sure pretty much everyone here has seen me at some point or another. You just don’t know it yet.

Yabang ko, noh?

I apologize for the inescapable air of arrogance, but the extolling of my personal virtues and the establishment of myself as a desirable, physically attractive, mentally capable, and accomplished individual is the central point of this story.

The point being: bilog ang mundo.

The world is round. Anything can happen.

Regardless of your social class, material wealth, and even regardless of looks and charm, anything can happen.

Anything.

Love and lust and need and want take you by surprise, you never know when and how its going to hit. We spend our lives with a preconceived notion of how it is supposed to play out, and then something happens that sets us off on a completely tangent course culminating in our ultimate happiness and sweet satisfaction.

And then, when you wake up in the morning bathing in the afterglow of love and lust and need and want, you don’t know what hit you.

But I digress. Let’s go to the story now. Allow me one last moment of deviation, if you please, to give the dear readers a promise: While the overbearing themes of this story will be themes of love and companionship and altogether sappy stuff, expect a lot of hot sex along the way, which I will describe to the most minute detail my poor talent will allow me. And also, let’s not forget. This story actually has a lesson. A point, aside from the release of pent-up sexual tensions and artful noypipages. Don’t forget, this story is out to tell you something.
So without further ado…

I met him when I was 10. Childhood friends? Maybe of a fashion. He was three years older than I was, short, fat, pimply, and dark-skinned, with a flat nose and hair that would make Ricky Reyes hang his scissors up for good in disgust. In short, he wouldn’t win any beauty pageants. Not exactly a fitting partner for a tall, beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, well-bred lady such as myself. Especially as he was our family driver’s son, and the boy of our household. His name was Jun.

He was nice enough, I suppose, but it ended up, as these things usually do, that he was considered more a piece of furniture than anything else. A fixture in the house, sort of life a light bulb or a sofa. One that talked, joked, ate, and slept, but a sofa nonetheless. I, on the other hand, seemed to have been blessed by the Greek muses themselves. I was beautiful. I first appeared in a magazine when I was 14. From then on, I was signed by an agency which I used as a springboard to land commercials, print ads, fashion shows, etc. I was at the top of my class, I ran with the popular kids, boys wanted to be with me, and girls wanted to be me. I was a golden child, in every sense of the world.

It was obvious early on that he had a huge crush on me. He’d give me flowers picked from our own garden. He’d always carry my things, make sure I was well cared for and all that. He was a sweet boy.

A sweet… sofa.

I’m ashamed to say that for most of the time I never even looked at him as a human being. Sure I was nice to him, I was never naturally rude, but I was nice to him in a condescending, patronizing kind of way. Sort of like a loyal, well-loved dog. But never, not in the least bit, at my level or even that of my friends. He crushed on me, and crushed on me hard, that much was obvious. But I dated the sons of politicians, the sons of celebrities, celebrities themselves, fellow models, all big names, all rich and fabulous, good-looking, talented, and intelligent. I was never superficial. I always dated the nice, smart guys. But they were the nice, smart, HOT guys.

When he turned 18, as soon as he was old enough to drive, he was assigned to be the personal driver at the disposal of myself and my siblings, so that his father could be on call with my parents 24/7. We would talk, sometimes, in the car, but it was all small talk. Shallow, meaningless. At least to me. Looking back now, I remember genuine, naked happiness painted on his homely face, the way his eyes sparkle and the way his lips part when he smiles betraying the unadulterated admiration he had for me. But I was too caught up in my glamorous little world to car about the petty attraction of the household help. I was 14, just entering adolescence, just discovering the world around me, all it could offer. And the boys. My God, I was discovering all new feelings. Love…and lust.

I lost my virginity at age 15, to my then-boyfriend, an upperclassman I had met at a shoot for one of the local girls’ magazines. We did it in his car. It was good, for a first time. Not too much blood, not too much tears, and just enough pleasure to keep me coming back for more. Now, I was never a promiscuous girl. The only men I had ever slept with had been my boyfriends. Sex, I still maintain, is and should always be reserved for someone you love. But, I should also maintain, I love sex. I love the sweat, the tingle of skin on skin, the gasping, the moaning, and all that. I love sex. I enjoy sex. But only if there’s that special spark. Only with that special someone.

However, like every young and naïve girl, I was, of course, played. I was 18. He was a model five years my senior. I thought he loved me. He said he did. We had sex, and we had sex often. And by God, but it was good sex. But what I didn’t know was that he had sex a lot. And of those times, relatively few were with me. I confronted him. I cried. I screamed. I hit him. I left him. You know who was my confidante? Sweet Jun. Always there for me. As he drove me home that night from a club in the Taguig area, I was quite drunk. He parked the car by the side of the road and I threw up, and I cried and I cried and I cried, hating myself, hating the pathetic wretch I was. He took me in his arms, held me while I cried, not saying a word. We must have been there, like that, for ten minutes. Then we got back into the car, and drove home. Not a word was said.
The next morning I had a pounding hangover, and 40 (yes 40) messages from the asshole, asking for me back. I couldn’t reply. I didn’t know what to do. What to say. Jun brought me medications for my headache. We talked. I asked him what I should do. He told me that if I loved him, I would fight for him. We spoke for a long time. From the morning, past afternoon, past lunch. We talked about love. It is probably because of Jun that I did not give up on love right then and there. I decided to give the asshole another chance.
It was good, for a while. Everything went back to normal. He treated me like a princess. Showered me with gifts. Made me believe I was the only woman in his world. I was happy.

It was good. For a while.

Prom night. Every girl’s most magical night. I was dressed to kill. Beautiful. Decked out in haute couture that would make Paris Hilton jealous, I was, quite effortlessly, prom queen. I danced in my boyfriend’s arms for the first dance of the night, and I thought to myself that things couldn’t possibly get any better.

I was right, they couldn’t. So things got much, much, much worse.

He said he’d go out for a smoke. I found him making out with a girl from my class. I fled. I was humiliated. I jumped into the car, and cried, cried for so long and so hard that my heart was threatening to climb out of my chest, squeeze my throat, and kill me on the spot. I couldn’t breathe. I was sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. Sobbing.
And Jun? Jun was there for me. No, he didn’t do anything dramatic like jump out of the car and plant his fist in the asshole’s face. He comforted me. Weathered my storm. Bitch that I am, I let out all my pain and frustration on him. I was pounding on his chest. Screaming at him. And he watched me, patiently, through it all.

You know what melted my heart then and there?

He was crying. With me, for me, and for himself. The tears were streaming down his face even as my tears streamed down mine. Jun and I stared into each other’s eyes. I noticed, as if for the first time, his round, flat face. His pockmarked skin. His messed up hair. His dark, dark skin. I looked into his eyes, and for the first time saw how love looked.

Remember how I said love takes you by surprise?
I fell for him, right then and there. I leaned over and kissed him on his thick lips. Long and deep. Our mouths just against each other, feeling each other just being there. We didn’t hug. We just leaned over the stick shift, pressed our lips together, and drank in each other’s love.

Remember how I said lust takes you by surprise?

A fire took hold of me. It coursed through my veins. Ignited my senses. As if on cue, we pulled ourselves towards each other. I climbed onto the driver’s side of the car even as he fumbled with the backrest adjuster to lower the seat to a horizontal position. I straddled his legs, pressing my body against his, our mouths never disengaging. From the pure, chaste kiss we shared just moments before now our tongue danced in a sexy, sultry ballet, sliding against each other, sliding over each other’s lips, filled with need and lust and love and want. His hands wandered my body, caressing the bare skin of my back, clutching at my neck, exploring everything that had been, for so long, just a fantasy. I could feel his breathing coming faster from under me. His chest was heaving. We were both sweating. I wrapped my arms around his wide, soft body, so different from the chiseled abs I was so used to having. And you know what? I liked it. I felt secure in his arms. I felt secure…and horny as hell. My lips disengaged from his. We were breathing hard. Panting. Our faces were flushed. I could feel him, hard and ready, right under me. I unbuttoned his shorts and pulled his cock out, big and hard and throbbing. Big. Big. Big. My God, I nearly fell on my knees and worshipped it right then and there. It was the most beautiful penis I had ever seen. The perfect mushroom shape. The perfect length. The perfect width. I couldn’t wait. I was wet, and hot, and horny. I gathered my skirts around my waist and pulled my panty to the side. I was waxed that night. I knew I was going to get laid. I just didn’t know that it would be like this. He positioned his cock against my whole and I slid down onto it, impaling myself on that massive member with increasingly loud and high moans and gasps. It filled me completely. It was a missing piece returned to complete me. I sat like that for some time, with his cock inside me, reveling in the feeling of that god-like penis inside me. Filling me. Completing me. We looked again into each other’s eyes, no longer two but one being sharing two bodies. My God. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I placed my hands on his chest for balance (I also remember idly thinking that his man-boobs were almost as big as mine) and I started gyrating on his cock. Grinding my crotch into his, sliding it back and forth and clockwise and counterclockwise. He had his eyes closed tight and he was clutching at the seat covers, HARD. Clawing at them while I took him inside me completely, rubbing and fucking and making love. I didn’t care about my own pleasure. I wanted to make him cum. I wanted to make this man I was so in love with cum. Inside me. I wanted it inside me. I wanted to feel his hot cum firing deep into my womb. Baptize my pussy in love and in lust. He was starting to pump into me from below, making small thrusts upwards, spiking my pussy with his cock. My God. It was so good. I closed my eyes as well. Savoring the feeling. Enjoying it. Enjoying the best sex I had ever had in my entire God damned life. He nearly screamed when he came. His hands flew from the seat covers to grasp me by the hips and push me down onto his cock even as his hips rose upwards to stab his penis inside me as deep as it would go. I felt thick, hot ropes of cum fill me, firing into my womb, into my pussy, into my very being.

He was the first to ever cum inside me. He left his mark on me that night, staking a claim on his territory, making me, my body and my heart, his, now and forever.

I didn’t cum myself. My pussy was unsatisfied, but my heart was so full it would nearly burst. I had never felt so emotionally satisfied in my entire life. I was…Happy.

I climbed off of him, reclined the passenger’s seat, and lie down there, facing him. Watching him come down from the throes of orgasm. His cock was still hanging out of his pants, limp now, no longer a vision of beauty but one I loved nonetheless. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking straight up, at the ceiling of the car, breathing hard, breathing fast, breathing heavy. His sando was soaked through with sweat. I remember realizing how ugly he was. Imagine a very dark Filipino version of fat bastard from Austin Powers. But at the same time, I remember loving him more and more with every moment that passed. Cliché? Very much. But clichés gain their power from centuries of human experience reinforcing their truth. Yes, I love him more with every passing moment. He reached for my hand. I grasped it firmly.

And that’s how we got together. Naturally, nobody knew about it except me and him. Not even my friends. Not even his father. Especially not my parents. I even had a new boyfriend. Another model. But he was just a front. We never had sex. We never kissed. At most, we held hands, and he seemed happy with that. But he knew I didn’t love him. He said he was happy being my boyfriend even in name only. He knew my heart belonged to someone else.

I didn’t cum that night, in the car. But it was the best sex I had ever had.

That was just lat year. We’ve been together for almost a year now.

So remember guys, bilog ang mundo. Truthfully? Everybody, even the most beautiful people in the world, will realize at some point that looks don’t matter. Be there when they do. Anything can happen. I fell in love that night, without meaning to. Without wanting to. But now, I’m happy, and in love. So don’t ever think that anyone’s out of your league. You’ll be surprised at how little the superficial counts in the greater scheme of things.

And that is my true story. I hope that you enjoyed it, and I hope that you take the lesson in it to heart. More stories to come. Less morals, less love, more sex.=)

Note: Repost story, credits to the original author

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