The Greatest Lie Part 1

If anyone could change me, it was Marta. She had an hourglass figure with well-formed breasts and pouty, full lips on a beautiful Latina face. She was a decent student and dressed nicely. Who cared if she had been with a few of the motorheads? She wanted me now.

I picked her up at her family's apartment, a modest walkup in West L.A. with sink full of dirty dishes, a harried mom, a screaming baby brother, and a hostile father who looked at me with the same contempt as the motorheads. Marta was bubbly and excited. She tongue kissed me as soon as she got in the front seat of my mom's Honda. I must have flinched, because she laughed, "Seventeen and never been kissed?" I blushed, and lied that it wasn't the first time for me.

We went to the auditorium and danced to Whitesnake and all the other shit music of that era. The motorheads glared, the jocks and their girls gawked in amazement. As I escorted Marta out of the dance, I felt like I was on the way to becoming a high school legend, my male reputation redeemed by my date with Marta.

I felt a stirring in my groin as we drove away. I pulled over at a local lover's lane and turned to Marta. "I'm not ready to go home yet," I started to say. Before I could finish, Marta had lunged at me, and we grappled and kissed across the bucket seats and console for the next half-hour. Finally, we crawled into the back seat, and as I kissed her swaying breasts she unzipped my pants and began to slurp, suck, claw, and pull at my cock.

I wriggled my hands into her lacy panties, and found her fragrant, swollen pussy. With a few strokes, my fingers found their mark and lit into her warm, wet cunt. I stroked, she sucked, we swayed in unison. But nothing happened to my skinny, shriveled and nearly hairless cock. It remained as flaccid as a deflated party balloon, impervious to Marta's efforts. Finally, admitting failure, we sat in the back seat and talked about ourselves. In the intimacy of a mutual failure, I let down my guard.