I was young when I was in college

My first time was easily taken by a senior from my hometown during my sophomore year.

A week after we met, on a stormy night, he lifted my feather-light body and placed me on the soft sofa in the research lab. The deep, boundless darkness couldn't hide his hands; he seemed familiar with every inch of my skin, familiar with every desire of my body and spirit.

His hands smoothed my trembling body like an iron, and his hard, burning penis pierced my virginity, completely releasing my suppressed impulses. Excitement diluted the pain, pleasure dispelled shyness, and the power of his penis moving in and out, throbbing and ejaculating inside me overwhelmed me. On my first night, I bravely took his heavy, drooping scrotum and gently parted my lips to take his thick penis into my mouth!

My handsome senior became my boyfriend, and we were the envy of my dormmates. Sex was practically our constant theme in our relationship. Our dorm room, the corner of campus, under the big tree behind the library, in the classroom after lights out, and late at night on the bleachers of the sports field—all witnessed our almost unbridled love.

Strangely, however, during each encounter, I was more like a spectator, watching my handsome boyfriend obsessively enjoy my body, feeling his hot, hard penis thrusting wildly in and out of me, waiting for him to tremble, moan, and collapse on top of me.

Back then, he always preferred black condoms, saying black aroused a woman's passion, while I seemed to prefer red. Even in safer situations, he would wear a condom, saying that loving me meant making me feel completely safe. Although I loved him deeply, in sex, I seemed to enjoy the pleasure of giving more than sex itself. For me, sex was merely an accessory to our most beautiful and genuine love!

Just before my senior graduated and stayed on at the university, news suddenly spread that he was having an affair with the daughter of a certain university leader, which led to his retention of the position. Our relationship abruptly froze. I was a junior then. I didn't throw a tantrum. I smiled, held my head high, and turned away, letting tears blur my vision. That's how I said goodbye to a love that had burned for less than a year—my first love! Love was gone, so what was the point of hate?

In front of everyone, I didn't wallow in despair. I was still cheerful and talkative, still a top student in my class. But deep down, I often couldn't suppress the dull pain. When I couldn't shake off the depression, I would sneak out and have one-night stands with online friends, punishing my naivety with wanton sex.

And it was during one of those one-night stands with a man 20 years older than me that I experienced my first orgasm as a woman! Then came the second and third times, with different men, each teaching me different sexual secrets.

One night before graduation, I booked a hotel room and invited my ex-boyfriend to spend the night together. That night, it was as if Aphrodite, the goddess of love, had possessed me. My near-perfect sexual performances overwhelmed the handsome guy who once thought he knew me like the back of his hand.

His eyes changed from excitement to fear and regret, from self-important riding to helpless moaning beneath me, from gushing forth to being unable to ejaculate. My ex-boyfriend, a senior from my university, finally broke down in tears at 3 a.m. and fled in panic. But I had no tears, no sobs. I was enveloped by a sense of relief rising from the bottom of my heart and slept exceptionally soundly.

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I was young when I was in college

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