The first time I was offered poppers, I was like, “Eww, drugs, no.”
Granted, I was barely 20, I was having my first threesome, so I was already pretty nervous. But at that particular time the only thing my nose was doing was sticking up in the air at the thought of substances.
But then I had my first experience with them and I never looked back. Well, I did, at the guy who was fucking me – but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The guy was wearing denims and a tight muscle tee, sporting a bulge I swear I could see pulsating under the cloth. I asked him to keep the denims on as he mounted me. He obliged, but was having difficulty pushing in. He fumbled briefly in his pocket until he brought out a brown bottle with a vivid blue label. “Here,” he said, squeezing my ass.
I hesitated. “It’s okay. Just start slow.” I’d known him for awhile now so I trusted him. I unscrewed the vial and had a quick sniff.
“Now close your eyes and relax,” he said. I did, and within seconds I felt a prickly heat wash over me. I moaned, and in a split second, he’d hilted me. “Holy fuck,” I breathed.
A few minutes later, after some hefty thrusting, the high died down. “Can I go again?” I asked. My answer was the sound of a prolonged inhale followed by the press of the bottle into my palm. I hit it again, longer than the first. His jeans had come off, and I could feel every inch of him. Inside me, outside, and all around. Balls slapped noisily; sweat dripped onto my back, and I begged for more and more. It was bliss.
Over the span of about three hours, we had contorted our bodies in every angle imaginable, kissing deeply, groaning, grunting and moaning, and by the time it was over, he’d dumped four loads into me.
Hell of an introduction. I’m forever indebted to that fuckbuddy for letting me in on a secret I wasn’t allowing myself to know.
