2 comments/ 15932 views/ 1 favorites My First Crush By: My First Crush I'm so emotional tears come to my eyes. Why can't we stay hooked up like this for the rest of our lives? She mistakes my tears and thinks I'm having trouble coming. Apparently she knows about sphincter muscles. Before I can assure her I can come at any time, she thrusts her fist slowly but firmly up my ass, and I surge with delirium and a feverish mission to keep giving and giving and giving until I'm empty, reluctant to separate from her, but knowing I must withdraw for her sake. Out of curiosity, I ask her what she would have done if someone sneaked up and caught us. Her words chill me: "What do you mean, 'we'? I would have yelled, 'Rape!'" *** I don't see Mrs. Hipps again until Mrs. Johnson's party during Thanksgiving break, and even then she acts distant. She finally consents to meet me at the park, where no one we know will see us—just to talk. When we meet, she tells me she's visiting another state for a month to look for a new house. She'll be back for Mom's holiday party in December. She tells me to keep a secret: At the party, she plans to clean out the women's pocketbooks. She pauses to see if I'll volunteer to help her, and like a sap, I say I'll do anything she tells me to do. But she tantalizes me. She's not sure she'll let me assist her or reward me. I shamelessly beg. If she decides to let me join her, she says, we'll divide the money before we leave. If one of us gets caught, we must vow not to tell on the other. Mrs. Hipps tells me goodbye. She'll let me know during the holiday party if she plans to enfold me in the sanctuary of her arms during her next caper, or abandon me. The same dilemma: Taking me in her arms gives me the sweetest nectar I know, just letting me belong to her. Her sexual prowess makes a magnificent dessert. But when she embraces me, with her arms or with her spirit, her nourishing inclusion provides the rich banquet that feeds me. If she turns me down, a thousand winter nights couldn't match the coldness of her rejection. It's the holiday season, the night of the party. I spot Mrs. Hipps in our living room, wearing Mom's pearl necklace! She stands beside a mirror—the better to admire herself—in another shiny, black dress. I crave a hug from her, to nestle into her softness and inhale her marshmallow and lavender perfume. She nods at me. I feel like dancing on the furniture! She picks her moment. Our main bathroom is full. She excuses herself to use the bathroom in the guest bedroom. Minutes later I manage to slip in to join Mrs. Hipps. Her dress, glimmering in the dim light, summons me like a beacon. I long to copulate with her right there. But we systematically move from pocketbook to pocketbook, emptying cash as we go. My cock stiffens and threatens to ejaculate each time Mrs. Hipps stuffs a wad of money in her garterbelt or stockings. She lets me slide most of my dollar bills into her enchanted zone of flesh and latex. Lust rages through me. She's all business. She hands me two hundred dollars or so to put in my pockets. She's crammed about five times that amount inside her lingerie. She offers a different plan this time. Meet her at the town's most exclusive ladies' shoe store at ten forty-five. She leaves first. I tell Mom I'm meeting friends at the mall. She shakes her head as if I don't have friends. She's nearly correct. I go to the mall but hang out by myself, mostly to keep warm. About ten thirty, I drive over to the store Mrs. Hipps mentioned. It's a street front store, not in a mall. Punctually, at ten forty-five, Mrs. Hipps parks behind me on the street and rolls her window down. I follow suit, and she tells me to get in. She's wearing one of her slick, shiny black dresses and a fur coat—not hers. Warmth and excitement light up her face. Her arms enfold me. I confess my desperate need for her acceptance. She knows. That's what she likes about me. We sit there, trying to hold our embrace, despite the steering wheel, before we move to the back seat. Much better. We hug each other for a long time without speaking. She sends shivers through my body and comforts me at the same time. Our body heat fogs up the windows. We're in our private world. Mrs. Hipps abruptly slides her gloved hand inside the front of my pants. She tells me she wants a beautiful pair of high-heeled boots. I nod. Squeezing my cock, she starts pumping. She tells me the exclusive ladies' shoe store has them. I nod again. She kisses me and pumps me harder and harder until I come in my pants. Then she tells me to go buy the boots for her. The store is about to close. The boots, over-the-knee style, cost more than my share of the stolen money. The clerk snickers at my stained pants while I search my pockets. I catch her giggling when I add some of my Christmas shopping money to the two hundred I've already put on the counter. When I get back to the car, Mrs. Hipps commands me to slip her new boots on her. She scrunches up in the corner of the back seat. I slide one foot in and rest her booted foot on my shoulder while I smooth the boot along her ankle, calf, and knee and then zip it up. She pats me on my head, unmistakably putting me in my place. Her haughty attitude fits me comfortably, as if she's riding my shoulders with her thighs against my neck and cheeks. While I'm slipping Mrs. Hipps's second boot onto her foot and leg, I notice her unadorned beaver. She says she felt safe taking off her underwear since she unloaded my gun. With both boots fitted snugly, she spreads her legs and offers me a new treat, a special way to show my love for her. After instructing me briefly, she tells me to come and get it. I lick her vagina, too stunned to know what to make of this novel experience. My eagerness to please her spurs me to explore her crevices thoroughly with my tongue, fearful of displeasing her, and encouraged by her soft moans and the way she jiggles her body. I move gently to her clitoris. Her legs scissor my neck. My anxiety drives me to lap her clit faster, and she snorts and gasps her way to her climax. I keep licking until she finishes. She pats me on the head, like she's petting a dog. We return to the front seat and talk while she smokes a few cigarettes. She reminds me that we vowed not to betray each other if one of us gets caught. She tells me I'd better get home and gives me another deep, wet kiss. The cigarettes on her breath become part of my olfactory memory of Mrs. Hipps—decidedly inferior to her marshmallow and lavender perfume. Walking me to my car, she wishes we had a camera. She poses for me, anyway, standing on the sidewalk in her slick black dress, kick-ass boots, stolen fur coat, and long, shiny leather gloves. I'll never be able to eat licorice again without visualizing Mrs. Hipps in her shiny black dress. She cocks her hip in a saucy pose. But her face! Blonde hair and green eyes, served with an arrogant expression, will always be my ideal of beauty. The next day all hell breaks loose. The women from the party report they've been robbed. The police fingerprint the room, the pocketbooks, and the guests. Fortunately, they don't get many good prints. And my fingerprints don't attract attention since I live there. But the clerk at the ladies' shoe store remembers me after she hears news reports of the theft. My frantic purchase—a large amount of money for a teenager to spend on women's boots—was too conspicuous. Mom hasn't said a word about her stolen necklace, but the stolen money grieves her. She advises me to confess. As if to clinch it, some anonymous tipster advised many of the women to mark their bills before attending the party. No one is sure, but they think Greta Hipps provided that timely, valuable hint. And the police go to the bank where the store deposited its receipts, identify the deposit bag, and find many of the marked bills in the deposit bag. Of course, Mrs. Hipps has disappeared after cleaning out the joint banking account she had with her husband and driving off with all of the valuables she could stuff into the former family van, conveniently registered in her name. The women tut-tut Mrs. Hipps's domestic behavior but doubt that she robbed them. If she planned to steal their money, would she tell them to mark their bills? And she knows I'll keep my vow to remain silent because I'm an idealistic—hopelessly infatuated—no, downright sex-crazed—teen. I irrationally entertain the quixotic hope that she'll come back and make love to me. So, I sacrifice myself to Mrs. Hipps. I tell everyone I don't know where the rest of the money went, but I don't have it. The judge is lenient since I have no prior arrests. I get "prayer for judgment continued" instead of jail. That means, roughly, You didn't do it, but don't do it again. I deplete most of my college savings to pay restitution to the women who lost their money and to Mom for a new necklace. I drop out of college for a year to work and replenish my savings account. Maybe the sobering experience made me a better student, but I didn't have as much fun in college as my friends. My fiasco creates favorable buzz. Many people in town read between the lines and realize I took the fall for Mrs. Hipps. My friends call me a sucker but admire my courage. Some of the coeds at my college regard me as a romantic hero—but that brief attention from the opposite sex ends when I have to drop out. My quick fame, or infamy, puffs up my ego. Until Greta calls me one Saturday morning—long distance, collect, of course. She wishes we could have another tryst. But another robbery charge would put me straight in jail. And she refuses to screw me again, double meaning intended, unless I steal for her. So, she gives me another bit of advice that I'll remember forever. "Now that I've hooked you on kinky sex, you'll have dirty laundry the rest of your life—things you don't want to air in public. But don't worry about your dirty laundry, Kurt. You'll always find a beautiful woman who'll take you to the cleaners." Click. The End