My Collection: Girls I Claimed

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I’ve always seen others share their stories, so I decided to share mine too.
I’ve only had one poison in life — lust — and I definitely have enough adventures to write a book.
My idol is Jackie Chan

Here goes

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My first love was Rebecca
I met her at Temasek Poly—she was 17, I was 18—and she hit me like a lightning bolt. Short, neat dark hair that framed her face perfectly, fair skin with a subtle tan glow, lean athletic build from years of paddling—slim shoulders with quiet strength, gentle curves that showed even in simple tees. That effortless tomboy vibe was still there: no makeup, confident, relaxed in whatever she wore, always with that soft, genuine smile that lit up her whole face without trying. I’d always been weak for girls like her—sporty, natural, the kind who looked just as good holding a paddle. Rebecca was perfect.

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Everything with her drove me insane because I had zero experience. I was eighteen, awkward, and completely unprepared for the way she made my body react. The smallest things undid me—her fingers lacing through mine as we walked down the street, the accidental brush of her hair against my arm when she leaned in to whisper something, the way her voice softened into something warm and private when she said my name. Every one of those moments sent blood surging south, leaving me half-hard and breathless. I lived in a constant state of low-level ache around her, a sweet, unbearable tension that never quite eased.

That night in the cinema was one of the worst—or best, depending on how I looked at it. The theatre was half-empty, the darkness thick and intimate, the air cool and faintly scented with popcorn. We shared a large bucket, our hands occasionally colliding inside it, fingers grazing in the salty warmth. Each accidental touch felt deliberate, electric. I’d pull my hand back too slowly, hoping she’d notice how my skin burned where hers had been. By the time the trailers ended, I was already swelling against the seam of my jeans. By halfway through the film, I was rock-hard, throbbing with every heartbeat, terrified that if I shifted even slightly she’d hear the rustle of fabric or see the obvious ridge straining against my zipper.

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the darkness, the anonymity of the crowd, the months of pent-up need. I took her hand gently from the armrest and guided it—slowly, deliberately—to my lap. I pressed her palm down over the rigid line of my erection, letting her feel exactly how much she affected me. The heat of her hand through the denim was maddening. For one endless, breathless second she didn’t move. I felt the subtle tremor in her fingers as she registered the size of me, the heat, the unmistakable hardness. My pulse roared in my ears. I thought—prayed—that she might curl her fingers, explore, give even the smallest sign that she wanted to know more.
Instead, she went very still. A soft, shocked gasp escaped her lips. Then she tensed, her whole body stiffening beside me, and pulled her hand away as if she’d touched something scalding. In the flickering blue light from the screen I saw her face: eyes wide, brows drawn together in a small, confused frown, cheeks flushed a deep, burning pink that spread down her neck.
“We’re going too fast,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the film’s soundtrack, trembling just slightly.

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“I’m sorry,” I said, voice thick, mortified and desperately aroused at the same time. The ache didn’t ease; it only sharpened, pulsing relentlessly for the rest of the movie while I sat beside her burning with unspent need.
The real torment came later, on the evenings her parents were out. After walking her home I’d linger at the door until she smiled shyly and invited me in. We’d end up in her bedroom—soft lamplight, posters on the walls, the faint scent of her vanilla lotion everywhere. She’d sit on the edge of her bed in an oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts, legs tucked beneath her, talking easily about her day while I tried to concentrate on her words instead of the way the fabric clung to her breasts or the smooth expanse of her thighs.
Kissing her was allowed, and I took every opportunity. I’d lean in slowly, watching her eyes flutter closed, then claim her mouth with all the pent-up hunger I felt. Our kisses started gentle—soft presses, little catches of breath—but I always deepened them, tongue sliding against hers until she made those small, helpless sounds that drove me wild. My hands would roam carefully: up her arms, along her sides, finally settling over her breasts.
That was the limit she set, and I respected it, even as it tormented me. I’d cup her through her T-shirt and bra, feeling the lush weight of her, the way she filled my palms perfectly. I’d knead gently, reverently, thumbs brushing back and forth until her nipples stiffened into tight peaks beneath the layers of cotton and lace. Every time they did, she’d inhale sharply, arching just a fraction into my touch, and the knowledge that I could make her body respond like that nearly undid me.
I’d trail my mouth down her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, then bury my face in the warm curve of her neck. God, her scent—clean skin, faint salt from the day, floral shampoo, and something deeper, intoxicatingly her. I’d breathe her in like I was drowning, lips grazing her pulse point, feeling it race under my mouth. My hands never stopped moving over her breasts, squeezing softly, teasing those hard little nipples until she squirmed and let out the tiniest whimper.
But if my fingers ever drifted toward the hem of her shirt, seeking skin, she’d catch my wrists gently but firmly.
“Not yet,” she’d murmur, voice breathless, eyes dark but resolute.
So I stayed outside the clothes, memorising every detail through fabric: the soft give of her breasts, the way they rose and fell quicker under my touch, the heat radiating from her body. I’d press closer while we kissed, my chest against hers, feeling her hardened nipples drag against me through our shirts. My cock throbbed incessantly, trapped and leaking, but I kept my hips still, denying myself even the secret relief of grinding against her.
Eventually she’d pull back, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, that same shy little frown appearing as she smoothed her shirt down.

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“We should stop now,” she’d say softly, and I’d nod, throat tight, forcing myself to move away.
I’d apologise again on the walk home, voice rough with frustration, cock still aching painfully against my zipper. Alone in my room later I’d finally give in, stroking myself frantically to the memory of her breasts heavy in my hands, her nipples stiff under my thumbs, the intoxicating warmth of her neck against my mouth, the way she trembled just slightly when I touched her.
Every chaste encounter, every soft rejection, every inch of skin she kept from me only deepened the obsession. I was lost in the slow, exquisite torture of wanting her, knowing she wanted me too—just not yet. And that “not yet” was the sweetest, most maddening promise I’d ever known.

[oxeso]

Tlsf.. waiting for wat? :D