The summer of 1993 was a magical time full of the joys of sexual awakening. I was seventeen, as was she, and we'd been seeing each other for more than a year. We'd progressively enjoyed kisses and cuddles, massages, fumbles and fondles, mutual masturbation and the adventures of oral sex. We both knew the time was fast approaching when we'd take our respective virginities and lose them with each other.
I spent a lot of time at her house; her parents were very welcoming and thought the world of me. It actually makes me blush thinking of the number of times, places and positions their daughter and I boinked each other insensible, whether they were at home or not, but that was all to come. For now, we're talking about the first time.
With her parents at home most of the time, we'd started taking long walks in the countryside with a picnic, finding a nice sheltered spot to eat our lunch and get down to sweet, moist but entirely non-penetrative action for dessert. On the occasion previous to the walk in question, we'd ended up with her rubbing against me until we both came, but still with no penetration. Without a word spoken, we both knew next time would be the main event.
With the sun shining wonderfully on the north Buckinghamshire countryside, we packed-up our lunch and blanket and walked out of her village for an hour, without a final destination. We eventually found a secluded field full of ripening wheat that came up to our hips, and started off along the tractor lines toward the middle of the field to find ourselves some privacy.
We spread out the blanket and unpacked our lunch, which was devoured as a starter for our main course.
We were kissing and caressing then undressing and warming up then touching and rubbing then the condom's on and I'm lying down and she's on top and we're trying to find the right angle and we're there and I'm in and she's on and Christ this is really actually pretty fucking good actually.
Things were going pretty well for a few minutes. I'd heard that the first time was usually rubbish but despite our rhythm being a bit awkward I was really enjoying myself and, from the noises emanating from my companion, I think she was too. Enjoying ourselves, that is, until we heard the tractor.
With a wall of yellow-green wheat around us, it took a little repositioning for her to sit up and quickly scan the perimeter of the field. The tractor, she informed me, was making its way along the other side of the hedge towards the gate we'd come in. We lay there, joined together, blushing, twitching, squeezing and giggling at each other while we waited for the tractor to decide where it was going.
The noise got quieter, then louder, then the engine idled, and there was a jangling of chains and latches being thrown, then a revving. She looked up again and an expression of distress washed across her face. The tractor had crossed into our field.
We separated and rushed like hell to get the right clothes on in the right order, threw the remains of lunch and the blanket into the rucksack and belted off down the tramlines toward the gate. With shoes and socks in one hand and her bra in the other, we passed the farmer in his tractor. He scowled, rolled his eyes, and deluged us with tiny, painful solid fertiliser pellets from the hopper on the back of his vehicle.
Neither of us had come.
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