A woman in her mid-twenties, her first experience with another woman. With time, caution, clarity. Explicit, 18+.
Carola was twenty-six when she told me she’d never slept with a woman and wanted to. She said it on a summer evening in Berlin, in a small bar in Kreuzberg, where we’d met through a mutual friend. We’d known each other for three weeks — we were both in Berlin for a few days, she from Hamburg, me from Cologne, both staying four days longer than planned because our friend was writing a book and we didn’t want to leave her.
We were in our third bar of the night. We’d talked a lot. Carola had told me she’d known since puberty that she found women attractive too — but she’d never acted on it. She’d had a boyfriend for three years, she’d never dared.
“Anna,” she said, “I find you attractive.” Her eyes searched for mine, as if she wanted to make sure I wouldn’t reject her. Her voice trembled slightly.
I was thirty-two, lesbian since I was fourteen, in a relationship with Mara for five years. Mara knew I occasionally slept with women when I was traveling — we had an open model, with clear rules.
One of the rules was: If someone’s having their first time with a woman, it’s not about me. It’s about her.
“Carola.”
“Yes.” Her breath was shallow, her chest rising and falling under the thin summer dress.
“I find you attractive too. I’m in an open relationship. I can sleep with you if you want. But let’s talk first.”
We talked. She told me what she wanted to know: whether she’d be too nervous, whether I’d be disappointed, whether it might hurt. I told her: probably nervous, definitely not disappointed, not if we’re careful. She laughed nervously and took a sip of her beer.
We went to my Airbnb apartment. It was midnight. Berlin was still warm, the air heavy with summer. I unlocked the door and let her enter first. She stood in the hallway, unsure, her hands buried in the pockets of her jeans.
“Carola.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll do this at your pace. You say stop if you want stop. You say what you don’t like. You ask if you don’t know something. Got it?”
“Got it.” She smiled, a shy smile that made her cheeks blush.
We sat on the couch. The light was dim, a single lamp in the corner. I turned to her and placed my hand on her cheek. She trembled under my touch. I leaned forward and kissed her for the first time. Her lips were soft, hesitant, then braver as she found my rhythm. She smelled of the lavender perfume she’d worn at the bar, and of summer night. I let my tongue glide over her lower lip, she opened her mouth, let me in. Her breath deepened, she pressed her body against mine.
I took my time. I kissed her long, let my hand rest on her neck, nothing more. I waited until she guided my hand. She hesitantly grasped my wrist and pulled it to her breast, over her T-shirt. Her nipples were already hard, I could feel them through the fabric.
I stroked gently. She breathed deeper, her chest rising under my palm. I pushed the T-shirt up, looked at her, questioning. She nodded. She took it off herself, with quick, nervous movements. She wore a white bra, soft fabric, not her best piece because she hadn’t expected this. I could see how her nipples pressed against the cloth.
“You don’t have to make yourself pretty, Carola.”
“I know.” She smiled, but her hands were still trembling.
I opened the bra. It fell to the side, revealing her breasts — full, round breasts, soft and heavy in my hands, with small, light nipples that stiffened under my gaze. A tiny freckle between them. I leaned forward and kissed her — very lightly, very unhurriedly. My lips closed around her left nipple, my tongue circled the tip slowly. She flinched a little, a soft moan escaping her. Then she placed her hand in my hair, gently pressing me to her.
I switched to the other breast, sucked softly, let my tongue glide over the hard tip. Her moans grew louder, her body began to move against me. She was wet, I could smell it — that sweet, heavy scent of an aroused woman, filling the air around us.
We went into the bedroom. She undressed, I did too. She stood naked before me, her hands shyly covering her breasts, then she let them fall. She looked at me, curious — a naked woman, nearly her age, with smaller breasts, with different shoulders, with dark pubic hair that glistened wetly. She touched me carefully, ran her fingers over my shoulders, my chest, my hips. She was learning me.
We lay next to each other. I let my hand glide over her belly — soft, warm skin that trembled under my fingers. Slowly, my hand wandered between her legs, stopped there, without pressing. She was wet. Her labia were swollen, moist, slippery under my fingers. The scent of her arousal rose to me — sweet and salty and unmistakably female.
“May I?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, hoarse with desire.
I stroked her with two fingers — over her wet labia, through the slick slit that opened under my touch. She closed her eyes, her head fell back, her mouth opened. I made it last, a quarter of an hour, varying the pressure, the direction, the rhythm. Her hips began to move, she wanted more, she pressed against my hand. I spread her labia with thumb and forefinger, saw her wet opening, her hard clitoris peeking out from under its hood.
She opened her legs wider, an invitation. I inserted one finger — slowly, centimeter by centimeter. She was tight, but wet, so wet that my finger slid in effortlessly. She gasped, a deep, throaty sound.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. It’s just different.” Her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Different from with your boyfriend?”
“Different because your hand is smaller. And because you’re slower.” She opened her eyes and looked at me, a smile on her lips. “It feels… warmer. Softer.”
I added a second finger, slowly, watching her reaction. She tensed briefly, then relaxed, letting me slide deeper. I leaned forward and began to lick her, simultaneously. My tongue found her
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