In the 80s I was a recording engineer in Los Angeles. It was here where I met Julie. She was the sister of one of the interns at a certain studio there. For both of us, it was hate at first site. Julie was a pretentious bitch whom I grew to lust. I was about 21, and she was 19—or something like that.
She was from New Mexico visiting her brother in LA for a few weeks in the summer. She came from money but didn’t have any of her own. She wasn’t working, but she lived off a stipend from her family—trust fund baby.
Several times she visited her brother at this studio. She thought I was gay, and I just thought she was a stuck up bitch, which she was—a typical gold digger. I won’t describe the arguments, but there were many, and the last one was the start of our year together, and then some.
Between sessions and toward the end of whatever we were arguing about, she made a reference to my being gay, and made some comment about her prospective idea of the size of my cock by making a finger gesture like calipers—something to the order of an inch. I rolled my eyes, and she widened her finger to show 3 inches, and then 4, and then bigger still. Finally, she got to some size, and I smirked. She saw this as an indication of my size, and she immediately leapt into my arms squeezing my body with her legs and said, “Prove it.” When I refused, she went back to calling me gay.
Hey, I’m a guy, and I wanted to defend myself, but I was working, and not sure what she was up to. Then she offered to show me her tits if I showed her my cock. She was about 5’3″ or so with a natural D cup. I could determine that with her shirt on. I am not particularly a breast freak, but I turned down the offer.
“No,” I said. “Take it all off, then I might be willing” or something as equally uncreative. She said, “Sure, lets go in the back,” an area where the studio did tape duplicating and had some video bays.
We both just stood there waiting for the other person to make the first move. Instead, neither of us moved, but she reached for my crotch—yes, I had an erection—, and I grabbed her breasts, crotch, and ass, not wanting to miss out on at least copping a feel, and we kissed, groping.
That was that. I had to get back into the session, and she—unbeknownst to me—waited in the lounge. I didn’t get out of the studio until daybreak or thereafter, and there she was still waiting for me.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says.
“Got? It’s morning. I’ve been awake for 20 hours or more. This will have to wait.”
Well, wait, she wouldn’t. “I’m leaving with you,” she says, and I acquiesce.
It was a frisky ride home, but I was beat. When we walked in the house and straight into the bedroom—using the term loosely because I had no bed, she wasted no time in stripping. It was even faster for her because she was not a girl to wear panties—a habit my wife has, too. Nice!
Yep. Those were Days all right, and she was completely shaven. I had never seen a shaven pussy up close and personal. I caressed it, and it was smooth, so I gave it a kiss. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of everything.
We both lay on the sheets on the floor. She grabbed my cock and took it into her mouth until I was even harder. She said, she would blow me later but she wanted me to fuck her. I’ll be honest here: between the teasing, and the blowjob, I didn’t last very long. She tried to hide her disappointment. She said it didn’t matter, but I felt bad. Acknowledging our fatigue, she said we cold eat each other when we awoke. We fell asleep and stayed together for a year, and then on and off for a while after that, but I’ll get to that later.