4 comments/ 19843 views/ 5 favorites My Secret Diary By: leBonhomme Dear Diary! Now I really am a woman! We did it! You know the whole story – except for that, and I will tell you, but want first to recall it all from the beginning. When Mom suggested that I keep a diary and gave me a five year diary book for my twelfth birthday, I didn't know what to write, what to tell you. But when I had my first period a few months later, she told me that I was becoming a woman. I sure didn't feel like one and sure didn't have anything to look like one, like I told my diary the first day. That's when I got my idea to make it a diary about that: "On becoming a woman." My birthday is after Christmas, never got anything but a token birthday present after the Xmas ones. The diary was an original idea in that context, but as said, I didn't know what to do with it, until my first period. With that theme, I spent the rest of the year trying to have thoughts about the subject. What does a twelve year old think about "becoming a woman"? Nothing in that direction was happening, not like with a couple of girls, who really could wear bras. I told my diary all about that. By the end of the year, I gave up on daily postings, having calculated that if I was going to become a woman - by then I finally had related that to have had sex with a boy - it wasn't going to happen by my seventeenth birthday, a couple of days before the diary book would be full. Not much to tell for the rest of the first year. When Mom asked on my thirteenth birthday if I was using the diary, I blushed and admitted that her remark about my first period had given me a theme. She liked that, and I really like that she did, especially that she said that it was my private, secret diary. Did she have thoughts about how it could end: my becoming a woman? I didn't, not at thirteen, and still not needing a bra. Did Mom suggest a learner's bra? My diary would know. If she did, I must have blushed. But Mom was real good, suggesting that I could use junior tampons and helping me. Being thirteen wasn't much better, especially seeing classmates "blossom." And learning to play the clarinet didn't make me "one of the crowd," also not with my glasses. But, as I told my diary, I enjoyed music and playing, that I was apparently pretty good - local youth orchestra. Local youth orchestra: a bunch of nerds like me, but then I was fifteen, and - like I told my diary - could really fill an A-cup bra. By Christmas, maybe even a B-cup? Not really, after an embarrassing experiment in a store. But a guy in the orchestra said that he thought I was better than the other clarinetist, whose breasts were definitely bigger than mine. Of course, he was talking about my playing - not about our breasts. That was good, since I had been hung up about not having a cheerleader's figure. As I told my diary, I was hung up about a lot of other things. Girls' talk: were they just bragging, talking through the top of their hats?! It sounded like they knew a lot more about boys than I did. And then finally, at the dance at the end of junior high, I kissed a boy, not anything like a real kiss, as I later discovered, but as I told my diary, I thought it was another step towards becoming a woman. Someone had turned out the last lights, and we could hear others kissing, so we did. I don't think he had before either, and I had my glasses on. Then I had a scholarship to a prep school with a better music department, but a clarinet-playing girl with glasses was still a nerd on campus, like most of the other music students for the other students, and they all seemed more sophisticated, maybe stuck-up, at least towards me. First year wasn't good, except for the music. Second year was better, after I played something by Benny Goodman at a school dance. And the boys liked to dance close I even kissed a couple after the dances, like I told my diary. They wanted to kiss me! Well, by then, that they probably wanted to kiss anyone, like I did. Older girls, seniors, eighteen, were talking. Did they really go that far with their boyfriends back home? No guy had tried to hold my breast, much less, do even more, like some girls bragged. Senior year, I became lead clarinetist, and in the other sections a senior replaced the "first chair" of the year before. Then some students didn't think I was such a nerd, but maybe others thought I was a greater one - the jocks, male and female, especially those with cheerleader figures. The gymnasts had respect for our rehearsing, knowing from their training that it was necessary to do well. But the couple of those guys were, well, it seemed not interested in girls. On my eighteenth birthday, Dad surprised me by opening a bottle of champagne. I had been allowed to drink a glass or two of wine with festive meals for a couple of years, but this was the first time Mom and Dad were just celebrating with me. When he toasted me with nice words about becoming an adult, "now you are a young woman," I blushed, thinking about my diary, as I duly recorded that night, definitely another step to becoming a woman. I even felt a little like one, although by then I was certain that I wouldn't be one until I had lost my virginity. After Christmas, the music director suggested that the first violinist and I play a violin clarinet sonata. We were both surprised, didn't think we were that good, and I hardly knew him, another "four-eyed" musician, a real nerd on campus; a guy who plays violin. Worse, it was - is - for the graduation concert in a couple of weeks. At least we had a lot of time to rehearse, individually and together. The director gave us a tape recording of the piece and the music, telling us to tell him when we were familiar enough with it to let him hear us. That was sort of flattering, but left it to us to learn our parts and then rehearse together. That was a challenge, and forced us to see more of each other. For a couple of weeks, we just learned our notes, practicing individually in the rehearsal rooms, meeting to exchange the tape, which we could play in the rooms and compare with our own efforts. After another week of solo practice, we agreed to listen to each other. I hoped he was as embarrassed as I was about playing for each other, as I probably told my diary had ever visited my room, and I certainly hadn't visited any boy's, but girls who had a boyfriend told about the frustration. The student pamphlet was specific about no sexual activity When I heard the door close, I flinched and automatically asked if we should have permission. He shrugged and said that the director had told us to rehearse together, but then nodded and said that he knew what I meant. At least, he felt a little the same way, and he was nice enough to offer to play first. I was impressed. Then I had to play, and he said that he thought it was good. We listened to the tape, and then we joked that we certainly would sound like that, and began to play. We both made mistakes we hadn't made playing alone, sometimes having to start over a few bars back, but we got through it, laughing and agreeing that sometimes we almost sounded like we were trying to play the same piece. We could only reserve the room for one period - forty-five minutes - and reserved a room for the next day. When he closed the door again, he said that he had asked the director about our rehearsing together, saying that he had smiled with a nod, replying that he hadn't thought about that, but that, of course, we could. I said that I liked that he had asked, and we both smiled. This time our duet went a little better, and we had time to listen to the tape and then play again - with fewer mistakes. That went on for a week or two, till we got through the sonata without having to restart, but we sure didn't sound like the recording. When we saw the director after an orchestra rehearsal, he asked how we were doing. We said "Better, but not yet for you to hear." "Lots of time, I know you both are good enough," he replied. When he asked a couple of weeks later, we looked at each other, shrugging, and then nodding. He liked us - like what he heard - at least, said that he did, suggesting that we not try to copy the phrasing of the recording: "just relax and play the music like you feel it." He left the room. I thought he almost winked before he closed the door. We looked at each other, smiling. He - his name is James - not just Jim. We played again, better than before. Why did I feel my nipples pop out, when James said that he thought we were getting better? I remember that they did, but I know that I didn't tell my diary back then. They did again, when we met for our next rehearsal. After playing, we agreed that we tape ourselves, and played again. I didn't think we were as good as before, nervous about really being able to hear ourselves. He reversed the tape and started it, nodding at the piano bench. I sat down, clutching my clarinet with my hands and knees, and he joined me on the bench. They did again, my nipples, and we sat there listening to ourselves, exchanging glances at mistakes, less often - with smiles - when for a few bars we sounded like we knew what we were doing. When the recording finished, he said something about it's being nice that we still had so much time together till graduation. Did he really say "together"? My nipples must have thought so, I did too. I don't think I told my diary about that; didn't tell everything, hadn't recognized that it was related to my theme: on becoming a wonan. They did again, whenever he smiled at me, while I was playing the lead during the next few rehearsals together. The director heard us again, quite pleased, asking us to play again with the recorder on, and then making suggestions about phrasing as we listened to it. Before he left us, he said that he would change the room for the person who had reserved it after us, and catch him or her to let us rehearse for another hour, while we remembered his suggestions. We did, pleased with ourselves, and pleased again the next rehearsal, when we were sitting listening to ourselves. Was I sitting closer to him on the bench, or had he sat down closer to me? Nipples. He always minded the tape record, laying his violin carefully aside, while I always clutched my clarinet. Funny! It never occurred to me till now that my hands were wrapped around something about the size of his ... yes, his "cock"! I can say that now! Was it that day or the next? He said something about really liking the way I played, and I said that I really liked how well he played. Nipples! The way he was smiling at me. I told my diary about it, not the nipples, what he had said. Could he see them? No, he was looking in my eyes, but I sure felt them, almost let go of my clarinet to brush an arm over them. The next time we were sitting together listening to our recording, I suddenly realized that he wasn't wearing his glasses, that he didn't look like a nerd. He never had been for me, but, well, without his glasses, looking at me like that. Nipples! I must also have looked at him "like that." I told my diary about it. He took my clarinet from me and put it on the piano. My thighs twitched together, missing it. Of course, not just missing it! My panties were all wet when I took them off that night. Did I tell my diary that? Probably, I usually told it what I did nights, when I did nights, and I sure did that one, but back on the piano bench. I knew what would happen when I took off my glasses. He nodded, and we kissed, before I could put my glasses somewhere. Whose tongue was first? I hope his was, since he had started to kiss. Or had he? His glasses were off first; he wanted to, but I did too. When our tongues met, we didn't stop until the recording had. By then our arms were around each other. It was more arousing than ever before. If the recording hadn't stopped, the way we were embracing, I was close to wanting to slid my leg over his and rub myself on his thigh. I had never done anything like that before, even imagined that I would want to. But the recording stopped, and we did, looking at each other with "naked" eyes, both a little surprised. We hugged each other. He says something about having wanted to for weeks, and I say that I just didn't know that I had wanted to, too, and we kiss again, but then he takes his tongue out of my mouth and murmurs that it has to sound like we are still rehearsing. In the corridor, one can hear softly that someone is in a rehearsal room - rehearsing. Our session is almost finished. Reluctantly, we separate and put away our instruments. At the door, we kiss again and promise to try to rehearse the next day. We do, but just to record ourselves and then play the recording. I was standing next to him without my glasses and clarinet, waiting for him to turn into my arms? I was, and he did. Gosh, I didn't know that people could kiss for so long! But we did, and a lot better: embracing, our bodies together from our thighs up; better than dancing close. I had told my diary about that: the first time I had felt a boy's cock between us that way. Told her every other time too, of course. ("Her?" I think of my diary as a good girlfriend.) His cock between us. Oh, not at first, but he loosened our embrace and shoved it around. I guess he just had to; hope he wasn't embarrassed about it, but I wanted to feel it. I hope that he understood that from my hum, when we pressed our hips together. Oh, I know later that he didn't mind, but just then I didn't know, but it was surging against me, and we were rocking our hips up together. When the recording stopped, we separated. He didn't hide the bulge in his pants, just nodding at the tape recorder. I nodded, and he reversed the tape and started it again, and then we were kissing again, his cock soon stiffer again. Had I used that word when telling her about dancing? I don't think so, just something about feeling that he was also aroused. The next day, we didn't rehearse together every day - but we then tried to. Good thing, since after that we didn't spent as much time playing each session. The next day, we rush through the piece and are kissing again. When the tape finishes - too soon, he whispers that I should practice a difficult passage while he restarts the tape. And then we're kissing again, his cock this time immediately stiff again. Took a minute or two, the first time. Probably not, but not as fast as I wanted to feel it. But now I was - we were - and he must have known that I was liking it - the way I was rocking my hips and humming when it surged. The suddenly, he jerked with a sharp moan, moaning again as his hips rocked up, and again, when they did again. He murmured: "Didn't want that to happen." It only took me a moment to understand. Women's intuition? Part of becoming a woman? Well, of course, but I was surprised at myself when I murmured: "You came?" That I could say that?! He nodded. I murmured: "You're lucky," surprising myself again; I was implying that I wanted to. I sure did, of course, and knew that my panties were all wet. The recording was almost finished, and we just kissed less intensely till it did. The next day we couldn't, but after the orchestra rehearsal, the director took us aside - our performance was - is - going to be a secret until the concert. We were, of course, a little apprehensive, for a couple of reasons: his wanting to hear us again; his maybe suspecting that we weren't just rehearsing. Oh, but it was great - told my diary - his saying that he had overheard us through the door and thought that it had been a good idea to try to play the piece faster than the composer's tempi, explaining that we made mistakes, of course, but that then at the slower tempi it would be easier for us to master the passages. Were we happy, lucky?! Told him that we would try to and then ask him to listen to us again. Afterwards, we agreed that it had been good to suggest that we ask him, rather than his asking us, maybe surprising us just before our rehearsing, also because it was apparent that he wouldn't surprise us, as he could have the day before. I don't know what James was thinking about before our next rehearsal together, but I wasn't think much about the music. I took off my bra and put on a sweater, hopefully one that did let my nipples show, since they were already aroused, but then thinking that it would be nice if he could see them. Couldn't have it both ways, but he would know, when his hands didn't feel my bra on my back; his fingers had rubbed over it before, moving it a little. Would he remember what I had implied? Want to ...? I put on jersey slacks with just an elastic waistband, and clean panties. Would he want to go that far? "Third base?" If he wanted too ... He didn't, but like I told you, if he didn't see my nipples, and they had popped out the moment we saw each other, before we were in the room, after we rushed through the piece again, his hands immediately discovered that I wasn't wearing a bra. When he hummed, I nodded slightly, and one hand slid down and played with the hem of my sweater. I nodded again, a finger slipped under it, touching my bare skin. The first time a boy had touched anything other than my hands and neck, like I had told my diary. Oh, his hand had rubbed the nape of my neck, while we had been kissing before, but this was just as arousing. Maybe not really, down on my back, but because I didn't want to feel his fingers only there. And they didn't want to be just there, sliding up under my sweater; his hand all over my naked skin, and his other one then too! Both of them exploring, more around to my sides. I had still been embracing him, but now loosened my hold, leaning back. Didn't he want to hold them, touch my aroused nipples? His hands slid a little further. Do I have to ask him to, I thought. I loosened my hold a little more. Okay, I couldn't feel his cock as much, but I wanted him to feel my breasts, wanted him to want to - as much as I wanted to feel his touching them. His hands slide further. Relief, aroused relief! I nod with a soft moan. His hands slide the little bit further, not just on my sides, feeling the swell of my breasts. I nod again, thinking: oh, please! His thumbs slide up under them. I moan again; his hands cupped around under them, squeezing them gently. A boy holding my breasts, naked breasts! Finally! Finally! His thumbs sliding up and over my hard nipples! I moan, his thumbs flipping back and forth over them. Wet panties! I crush his hands between us, thrusting my tongue in his mouth, and our hips hold his cock between us, but then the music stops. "Again," I murmur, releasing him. He glances at my clarinet, but I just shake my head; I can't play, feeling this aroused. As he rewinds the tape, he is standing so that I can see the bulge in his pants. I wonder if I am really seeing it move. Does he want me to, want me to hold it, his cock? How does it feel? Sh..! My hands are up under my sweater, holding my breasts! He smiles at me and restarts the tape. When he steps closer, I pull up my sweater. Just like that! Without thinking, showing him my naked breasts! Well, he had held them, may as well see them too. I must have wanted him to, but I never thought I would do that! But I had; why, what did I think he would do? What had I instinctively wanted him to do? Those questions only came to me later, when I was on the way back to my room, blushing. I hope I was when I did it. He wouldn't have seen if I were; he was staring at them. I knew my nipples were sticking out. For sure, I wanted him to hold them again, squeeze them, do what I did - when I didn't have both hands on my pussy. Never wrote that word before, either, just telling her that I had done it. So there I was, holding my sweater up, inviting him to do whatever he wanted to. He held them again, like I wanted him to, still holding my sweater up. What else could he do with them? Anything he wanted. He glanced up at me with a surprised, slightly quizzical expression, and murmured: "This is more than I ever did before." "Me too," I murmur, liking that we both haven't been this far before. My Secret Diary What else can he do? If he hasn't done more with a girl, I thought, he's not going to put his hand in my slacks, but I wouldn't have objected, if he had had so much experience that he wanted to whip them and my panties down to my knees. And do what?! I wanted to rub my wet pussy. If he wasn't going to, ...? I'm just trying to envisage the thoughts that I must have subconsciously had. I pushed him back towards the piano bench. When he sat down, I straddled one of his thighs, and my breasts were level with his mouth. I rocked my hips, rubbing my pussy on his thigh, hoping that I wasn't going to make a wet spot on my slacks, or on his. Yeah, I really thought that at the time. I must have told my diary in detail. Yes, I think I'm using about the same words. I looked down at his fingers, that were doing good things with my nipples, liking my breasts like never before. Why had I always thought that only cheerleaders had breasts that guys wanted? Another later thought. If he liked mine, they were perfect. Of course not, but adequate - very adequate, when he began to lick one, then sucking it. I held his head and moaned, and rubbed my wet pussy on him. His fault, if we got wet spots on our slacks, I thought. Probably thought that only after we did. The recording stopped again. He was sucking my other breast. He raised his head and murmured: "We shouldn't have played so fast." "We need a longer piece to play together," I reply, then wondering about my response. "Very much longer," he agrees. I lean down and kiss him - tongues - but only for a few moments. Reluctantly, I stand up and see the wet spot on his slacks. His eyes follow mine, and he murmurs: "That good?" "Very, but not 'that good'." "Wish it had been for you. At least, it's not where I would have made one." "Sorry about that. Wish you would have." We exchange wry smiles and pack away our instruments, kissing at the door. That night, I wished I had three or four hands to play with my pussy and also my breasts. After that I always used a panty liner. For the next couple of days together, we rehearsed more. I was having my period and think I indirectly suggested that. But suggesting that suggested that when it was over we could then do more. Third base? Would he notice that he could easily get his hand in my slacks? But first, we had to play for the director again. He liked it, giving us few more tips, but telling us not to over-train. When he left us, half way through a practice session, we grinned at each other and agreed that we wouldn't, doing what we liked to do more, making him come again. This time, he only moaned, enjoying it. We got good at that. It was only a couple of weeks till Easter break. As I told my diary, I was debating with myself if I really wanted to go all the way. Oh, I wanted to, but should I - morals and all that? Of course, he was then always holding and sucking my breasts. How did I get him to explore in my slacks? Oh, one day I wore a bra and blouse, tucked in the elastic waistband, and after we had been kissing, when he rewound the tape, I made a show of tucking my blouse in again. Well, I had planned that a little, but not that I would shove a hand inside to pull my blouse down. The Eve in every woman! And I was still as innocent as she had been. When I told my diary that night, I was blushing again: that I had unconsciously, but so blatantly shown him that he could get a hand in my pants! Had I also been suggesting that I wanted to keep my blouse tucked in, that his hands should go somewhere else? I embraced him again, so that he couldn't hold my breasts. If his hands wanted to feel my skin, they had at least to pull the back of my blouse up. His fingers explored just inside the waistband. Did I draw in my stomach to make it looser? I know that I did later - unnecessarily. I suddenly wished that I had tucked my blouse inside my panties, but then remembered that I had thought to wear low-cut ones. "Eve!" Ones that Mom didn't know I had, like she didn't know that I had a couple of bras from Victoria's Secret. Venturing to buy them had been another step to becoming a woman, at least for me and my diary. His fingers explored, and I nodded, sucking his tongue. When they extended down a little further, I hummed, maybe just an aroused hum, nodding, but I was thinking: please, further! One of my hands slid down and held his ass. I hadn't done that before. It was an unconscious reflex. He hadn't held mine before either. One of his hand slid down on my slacks. Was I going to have to tell him? How? He knew that I had wanted him to hold my bare breasts. I squeezed his ass and hummed again and murmured "better." His cock surged against me, and we held each other's hips closer. When his other fingers rubbed inside my slacks, I nodded again and repeated: "better." His cock surged again, and he nodded with a hum, and his fingers slid down past the hem of my blouse. "Um-hmm!" I responded, and his fingers slid back and forth on my skin, discovering the elastic of my panties. I squeezed his ass again, nodding with another hum, thinking: like my breasts. No, I had murmured that! He started, but then his fingers didn't hesitate, only checking that I wasn't wearing a thong and then sliding inside my panties. Wet pussy! His hand cupped down around my bare ass, holding it like his other one was on my slacks. We began to rock our hips together, like we now always did to make him come. His other hand slid up and then down inside my slacks and panties. Wetter pussy! Oh, we made him come! He grunted, luckily when we were both playing a climax together in our recording. Most appropriate, his climaxing when the music did, me moaning with him, wishing that I could. He squeezed my ass, leaning down slightly, so that his fingers could creep closer to my pussy. I murmured: "I want to too, want you to." He nodded with a hum, and the music finished. He drew his hands out of my slacks. So sweet; he tucked my blouse back in. "I'm all wet," I murmured. Somehow, we got our things together and left the room. The moment I was back in my room, I locked the door and stripped off my clothes and relived the experience, hoping his fingers would do what mine were. That ruined my homework before dinner. Doing it again after dinner, trying to think that I could concentrate better then, wasn't so successful. At least, when I did again, I slept well, until I started to dream. After he had come the first time, I had gotten up the nerve to look at a couple of websites. I just had to see a cock. Blushing, I saw several, shocked at seeing what they were doing - doing in shaven pussies and outside them. Oh, it was arousing, but I was embarrassed to watch, and embarrassed that I had dared to, and embarrassed that I found it arousing. Was it his cock in my dream? That big, right in front of my face?! Like in a couple of those videos, girls doing something with it, that I had never imagined? My dream faded. In the morning, I wasn't sure I had really dreamt that, that I had been in the dream, but the cock sure had been. Was his that big? I wanted him to touch me, had almost told him so; I wanted to hold it. He did first, sliding a hand around inside my panties, when I drew my hips back. A boy's - man's! - fingers on my pussy! Did he know what would felt good? What, where I wanted to feel them? Had he also looked at videos? Would he be able to make me come before we finished playing on the tape? Maybe it wasn't as good as I had hoped, as good as it sometimes was, when I did it, but it was so arousing that he was. Oh, it was very good! I told him. We agreed that we couldn't risk doing anything more, and rehearsed, badly. As we were packing up our instruments, I murmured that I wanted to do it to him. He wanted me to, but we agreed that I could just hold him through his pants, since he could never get it back in them as fast as he could get his hands out of mine. Just a few more days before Easter break. We had to play through our piece once, but then listened to the recording. We didn't listen. I told him not to do anything - a small sacrifice. He had thought to wear loose training pants with no fly. As soon as the recording started, I had my hand on his crotch. His cock knew what was going to happen, my hand finding it slanting off to one side in his underpants, and then standing up straight in my hand. Oooh, maybe it was as big as the one in my dream - the ones in the videos. It filled my hand; would it fit in my pussy?! I did what I had seen a girl do in a video - as best I could with it in his shorts and loose training pants. I knew what would happen when it started to twitch and surge in my hand. He moaned, his hips rocked, and then he came, then holding my hand still. He fondled my breast, and we kissed. We were standing behind the door, in case anyone surprised us. We still hadn't finished playing on the recording. I let go of his cock and quickly found the elastic of his training pants, shoving my hand inside them. Oooh! His shorts were all wet - that much?! - where his cock was holding them away from his body. Before the music stops, my hand is inside his wet shorts. He lets me, humming. My fingers find the head of his cock, all slippery. I am touching a man's cock! I want to hold it again, like I had before, but the music stops, and he pulls my hand out of his pants. My fingers pull loose skin up around the head of his cock. One like that, I think, recalling images from the videos. He draws my hand up to his mouth and licks my moist fingers. Oooh! He wants to taste it, has he tasted it before, when he did it to himself? I guess that I look very surprised. He remarks: "Tastes strange, but when you do it ... That was real good." "Never tasted myself." The music stops, and he drops my hand, murmuring: "Tell me if you liked it," and moves to stop the recorder. Of course, I liked it, what I had done, but understand that he is asking for a comment about our playing. I grin - he isn't looking - and reply: "I think we need to do it again." "Me or you?" he asks. "Think you could do it better." He is reversing the tape and grins at me, replying: "Yeah, maybe. I think you played very well; I was a little too early a couple of times." We grin and he restarts the recording. He joins me again, behind the closed door. I'm already holding out the front of my slacks, sort of like the way I pulled up my sweater, just an unconscious reflex to invite him to do something. Do something? I wanted him to rub my pussy! He grins, and his hand immediately slips in and then slips into my panties. "I'm all wet," I murmur, very superfluously. When I put my hand inside his pants and underpants, he just snorts, as my fingers reach down and find his soft cock. It isn't for long, and then I can rub his skin up and down on it. Oh, I think we didn't both do it like that that time, think it was the last time before Easter. Yeah, just he made me come that time, taking turns, like we did the next time. But then before Easter, we did that: making him come and then both coming. Shit! Were we horny, risking doing that?! Even though I was still undecided about really doing it, I was considering what it could be like - a cock in my pussy. I didn't use those words when telling my diary: rather something like: "how it would feel with him in me." Till then, I was getting off - as best I could - mainly by rubbing myself. Oh, I sometimes had a finger in me, liking to feel it being squeezed, when my other hand was making it good. But if we were going to do it, or if we didn't, but whenever, shouldn't I be ready, know it would fit? It didn't seem like, from what I knew from holding him. I didn't need to embarrass myself again by looking at videos; that time I had seen a couple with girls doing something by themselves. I experimented with two fingers. They fit, but sure weren't as big as his cock, but felt good. After that, I always used two fingers. Use something else, like in the videos, my highlighter, one of those oval ones? It couldn't be a problem, not bigger than two fingers, but I could put it in further than my fingers reached. How long was his cock, could it fit all the way in me? The handle of my toothbrush could, right up to the bristles. The highlighter also fit, of course, but when I put the thicker end in, enjoying twisting it and rubbing myself, I almost lost it when my pussy began to squeeze, wanting to draw it in. That was a nice new recognition, however, that my aroused pussy would squeeze his cock like that, but it wasn't as big as his cock. Had I admitted to myself then, that I wanted to do it with him? Easter vacation at home, more thoughts about whether we should really do it. If not at the end of our senior year at prep school together, start all over? We weren't going on to the same college. What were other girls in our class doing? At school, at home with their boyfriends? We had to do it! And I had to know if his cock would fit. Three fingers did fit, very tightly, and when I held them with my other hand, seemed about as big as his cock, but not as long. Something else. A look in Mom's bathroom cabinet made me think that everything there was made to make women think about cocks: lipsticks - for beginners - tubes of crème, slender bottles, roll-on deodorant, especially her roll-on deodorant; it had a round cap and even sloping ridge around the bottle. Was his cock that big? I couldn't borrow anything to experiment. Oh, the metal cap to protect the mouthpiece of my clarinet. It seemed just right, smaller than the deodorant, but too short. But it fit, after I had aroused myself a lot, but only as far as my fingers could reach. Three of them fit in it; must be about right. When I was practicing at home, I suddenly recalled what I had seen in a couple of videos. Was my mouthpiece in my mouth like what those girls had been doing. Of course, the tip of it that was in my mouth was much smaller, but I was tonguing the reed like those girls had been licking. Not really, of course, but I couldn't help but think about it. Back together, we rehearsed, soon as proficient together as before, despite the time we spent in each others slacks, and he, with his head under my sweater, and I was certain that I wanted to do it. After I had held his cock, one evening I got the cap and rolled up some pages from the back of an old notebook and taped them in it, with a couple of strips of tape over the top of it and down on the paper. I sure didn't want to risk losing it in my pussy. Oooh! It fit! Was his cock going to be that big, and all the way in my pussy?! Doing it would feel like that?! The paper was all wet, soaked, when I finally pulled it out. I tried not to think about that and his cock when I was playing, that I was tonguing something like his cock. The next week, after we had like that, he murmurs: "Cosi fan tutte." "I haven't, we haven't" I murmur, recalling the translation of the Italian title of Mozart's opera: "Thus do all women," and that the full title continues: "or the school for lovers." "'We haven't'," he murmurs. "Yet," I find myself replying. "'Yet'; you want to?" "If you do?" "If you do?" We kiss, just a little one to seal our agreement. I murmur: "Where? Not here." "No. I think I know where, if the sun shines." "If we can't be caught." "Have a bike?" "Can borrow one. Outdoors, 'if the sun shines'?" I was wetting my pantyliner again. He nods, replying: Sunday, if the sun shines." I nod, counting the days to my next period - not the coming weekend, nor the next one - and we kiss again. The following Sunday the sun does not shine. My diary is full of my thoughts about what we have done, what we are doing, and what we want to do. But the weather is good the next week. Of course, we have rehearsed again and done as much as we can dare to do in rehearsal room. Saturday, we meet, grinning when he gestures at the clear sky. I tell him that I can borrow a bike, and that I have a stadium blanket, a gift from my uncle. He smiles and says that he'll take a sheet from his bed, suggesting that we both bring a bottle of water. Suddenly, I start and say that he knows ... He interrupts me and says that he has thought of that too. Relieved, I smile, and we agree to meet after breakfast - "if the sun shines." It does, and my panties are already moist when we meet with our bikes. We ride out of town, stopping at a forested area. He helps me hide my bike with his behind bushes, and then leads me along an overgrown path. When I ask him where we are going, how he knows where we are going, he tells me that the first violinist the year before had told him about it, that it was a secret of their first chair, that his predecessor had told him about it. Wet panties. We arrive at the far side of the woods, near a field of grain, but nowhere to spread my blanket and his sheet. He flattens down some of the grain, telling me that it's winter rye, and spreads out my blanket. I like that it won't get dirty, just lying on the stems of the grain, and liking that he brought his sheet to cover the scratchy blanket. We look at each other. He murmurs: "We don't have to." "After all we have done?" I find myself saying and start to pull up my polo shirt. We watch each other take off our clothes, finally together our underpants. His cock, seeing it finally, sticking out at me, like my nipples are at him. As I am about to embrace him, he stops me and reaches down, taking something from the pocket of his slacks, showing me a handful of small foil packets. Of course, I know that they are rubbers, not that I had ever seen any before. "How many?" I ask." "Enough, I hope." Oh, I want to see his cock, to look at it! Before he can embrace me, I drop to my knees. It's so beautiful, manly! How many times have I held it? And his balls. I've never held them, but now! So nice and round - being gentle, of course - moving them in his sack. I lean forward and rub my cheek on his cock. When it twitches, we both hum. Oh, I love it! Pushing it to the side until it slips past my mouth, and then pushing it the other way, until it slips back. I could kiss it - his cock, MY cock. He murmurs in a surprised tone: "You want to do that?" "What?" "With your mouth?" I hadn't thought about that, been thinking about that. But I knew what he meant, and I had sort of decided that I would do anything he wanted to do, even that, but first I wanted to see him come, to see all that stuff shoot out that had made my hand smell so funny. I shake my head and murmur: "I want to see you come." He drops down, and we lie down. When I put my head on his shoulder, he puts his arm around me, and I turn my head down on his chest. Oh, it's going to be so nice finally to be able to watch my hand moving on his cock. After the first couple of times, he had told me that he was lucky that he wasn't circumcised, that I could move his skin like that. Now I could see it, see the way I could slide it up around the lovely round head of his cock. I do, enjoying the freedom of moving my hand without the constraint of his underpants, playing at holding it straight up and then letting it tilt forward, again, feeling it twitch, letting go of it for a moment to watch it twitch. Then I grasp it again, staring at the little slit in the head of his cock. Oooh, a clear drop oozes out of it. Did that happen before? I hadn't noticed in his pants. And he is holding my breast, squeezing it when his hips twitch, like they did when I had been doing it in his pants. Oh, it was so good: all naked together, me about to make him come! What was it going to be like? How far would it shoot? His hips twitch again, and I know he is about to. He murmurs that I should watch out, and then ...! My Secret Diary Wow! All the way up on his chest, just missing my nose, and again - almost as far - thick, white blobs; his hips thrusting his cock in my hand, shooting again and again, all over him, as he groans, clutching my breast. It's so good! And arousing; my thighs are twitching together. Then he grasps my hand, holding it still, and I watch more ooze out, running down on my thumb. I love it, seeing how good I have made it for him. When he lets go of my hand, I just have to smear it around, all over his chest and stomach. I want it on me too and roll over on him, rubbing my breasts and tummy on him. So good, feeling his sticky wet semen on me and feeling him hold my naked ass. Oooh, his cock between my thighs, almost touching my pussy. We could do it right now, but his hands pull me up on him, and we kiss, his tongue deep in my mouth, letting me suck it. Did he really think I would suck his cock? Want me to? If he did, I would - anything he wanted. Did he think of that because he wanted to do that to me, lick my pussy? He had said it smelled better than he did - and had licked his fingers. If he wanted to, he already knew how my wet pussy tasted, and it was already wet. He retrieves his tongue and pulls me further up on him, murmuring: "Now I want to see your pussy." He had never used that word before, so that surprised me, but I like that he had, and I wanted him to see it. I drew my legs up and helped him move my hips up further, sitting up, my pussy sliding up his sticky chest, his semen on my pussy. Would he taste that too - if he really wanted to lick my pussy? Or would he only want to look at it? He could now, I was straddling his face, looking down at him. I rose up a little to let him see it better - better than I could with my hand mirror. Did he like it, like I had liked seeing his cock? It looked like he had nodded slightly in response to my questions. Then he murmurs: "I want to," and draws my hips down. Right on his mouth! He is kissing my pussy, French kissing it! His tongue is exploring between my pussy lips. I moan, closing my eyes. It's so arousing, that he is, that he wants to, and that it feels so good. Especially there! I hadn't told him where it felt most arousing when he did it with his fingers, but he knew, from the way he had made me moan when his fingers rubbed me there. But this was so much better, his slippery tongue doing it, and that he was wanting to, the most intimate thing he could do to me - licking my pussy, wanting to taste it. Oh, I did want to suck his cock! I was going to, wanted to make him come again like that in my mouth - no matter how it tasted. Of course, we were also going to really do it - that four-letter word - but this was so much better than anything he had done before. Oh, I had had orgasms before, from his fingers, from my fingers, but they had never been like the one his tongue gave me. I was so aroused that it wasn't until it was over and I saw his wet face that I realized that my pussy had been so much wetter than ever before. When I moved my hips back, he was grinning, licking his lips. When our eyes met, he murmured: "I loved it!" "Not more than I did. I want to do it too." "Really? Now? You don't have to." "I want to." I move further back and drop down and kiss him: my tongue in his mouth, his in mine, letting me suck it again. Then, as I move further back, his stiff cock pokes against me. Already so stiff again?! And sliding up between the cheeks of my ass. (I didn't used to talk like that!) He snorts and murmurs: "If you want to, but not now." When I see his hand search for a rubber, I understand. Already, again?! I have just had the best orgasm ever. If he wants to, he must, if his cock is so stiff again. Anything he wants, his cock in my pussy, really - may as well write it, if I am thinking that word - really "fucking!" I raise my hips, feeling his cock slide back down - oooh! - on my pussy! I shift back a little, and it slides forward. I sit up, pressing my pussy down on it, holding it down on him, feeling it try to twitch. We both moan softly. Cock and pussy as close as they can be without really doing it - fucking! Now I have used the word. Oh, my pussy wants to, wants a cock in it for the first time, and his cock wants to, too, surging under my aroused pussy. My hips rock on it. I was about to write that I rocked my hips, but they had moved impulsively, a reflex to rub my pussy on his cock. Never had fucked before, but instinctively my loins were moving like that. Oh, I guess that only occurred to me afterwards, when his cock was in my pussy, and they did. No, not then, I wasn't thinking then, much later. I was watching him unwrap the rubber, wondering if he had seen one before. I hadn't, but somehow it looked like I expected it would. I slid back, and his cock sprang up. It looked even better than I remembered, and in a few moments it was going to be in my pussy. Oh, it wanted it, already trying to hold it. Well, that was also an afterthought, after it had; I was just aware that it was feeling like it did just before he had given me my orgasm. He rolled the rubber down his twitching cock. Funny, the little tip, of course, for all his semen. I rose up, he held his cock back. When he couldn't find my opening, I helped him, the head of his cock on it. I took a deep breath - about to fuck! - and lowered my hips. So big! For sure, I wasn't thinking about my experimenting at that moment, when his cock was wanting to get in my pussy, when my pussy was wanting to have it, my fingers spreading my pussy lips to help. So big! Maybe not bigger than the cover for my mouthpiece, but it felt so big. I moaned - not in pain - and held still, feeling his cock throb. It was in me, the head of his cock, not going to slip out. I removed my hand, and he took his away, and I slowly lowered my hips, just another inch or so. So big! And another inch or so, deeper in my pussy than my fingers had ever been. And it still wasn't all the way in me. Would my pussy really be able to hold the full length of his cock? I rose up a little, moving up and down a couple of times, feeling my pussy squeeze his twitching cock, both of us moaning. Only one way to find out. I took another deep breath and slowly lowered my hips, ready to stop, if his cock was too long to fit in my once virgin pussy - however that would feel. My hips were almost down on his. It felt like my pussy was trying to draw his cock deeper. (I could have remembered my highlighter, but didn't.) I exhale with a moan and take another deep breath, and then my hips are resting on his. It's all the way in! And throbbing deep in the hold of my pussy, where a cock belonged. I just sat there on him, and we both moaned, feeling his cock surge. I realized that my eyes were closed and opened them, looking down at him. We smiled slightly. Then I really surprised myself, hearing myself murmur: "fucking." He looked very surprised, just nodding, but then replied: "But not yet." His cock surged again, and I nodded, understanding that he was too aroused, knowing that when his cock twitched like that, he was about to come. When I made him come with my hand, I could stop and let him recover, but I couldn't keep my pussy from squeezing his cock. Somehow, we managed to let his arousal subside a little. How long did we hold still like that? It seemed like a very long time. I was having all kinds of thoughts: that I wasn't a virgin; that it was a monumental event in my life - "becoming a woman" - the last threshold; that it was one for him too; that it was wonderful that it was the first time for both of us; that it was all so much better than what I had heard about other girls' first time. Did I think anything about morals: church and sex ed telling that we should wait till marriage? I doubt it, or I quickly buried those thoughts; it was just so good, felt so right! My eyes had closed again, while I was having these thoughts, trying to relax to let him relax. Then I felt his hands on my thighs, sliding towards my hips, and opened my eyes. He is barely smiling, nodding when our eyes meet again, and murmurs: "Almost too much too soon." I nod, and he adds: "Thanks for being able to hold still." "My pussy didn't want to." "Your sweet pussy - and breasts." My nipples pop out before his hands slid up and hold them. When he squeezes them, my pussy squeezes his cock, and we both chuckle with nods, and his cock twitches, and then my hips twitch - like before, just a reflexive response. He moans with a grin, nodding and twisting my nipples. Oh, I could go on, want to, but it would take longer to write in detail than it did. We fucked! Just briefly - but it wasn't brief - he came while I was still just rocking my hips, now intentionally and every way I could, churning his cock in my pussy. Gosh, it felt good! And - as I told my diary - I was a little proud that I could make him come in my pussy that way - come in the rubber. But I hadn't yet. While he was still moaning, I dropped down on him, kissing - fucking his mouth with my tongue - and fucking his cock with my pussy. It slipped out once, but then it was back in me, and his hips were rocking up, fucking my pussy with his cock, and I came, and he came again, both of us surprised but very pleased that he had - and pleased with ourselves. A great understatement! It was so fucking good! Shouldn't use that word so much, but how else to describe it? I just collapsed on him, our gasps moving me up and down on him. Eventually, we recovered, lying like that. I tried to squeeze his cock, but it slipped out. I guess I can do that intentionally now. We lay there, chuckling, he rubbing his hands all over my ass and back. Finally, I rolled off him, and he took the rubber of his wilted cock. It almost slipped off without his help. I had never seen his cock like that, its head so small and almost covered by his loose skin. And the rubber, full of his white juice. He held it up, letting it swing. Gosh, I must have been raunchy! I was, I am! I took it from him and murmured something about "If I'm going to do that too," and put the open end in my mouth and slid my fingers down it. I really wanted to do that?! I must have, all of it sliding down in my mouth. Oh, it tasted strange, real strange, but now I knew, and knew the taste wasn't going to keep me from sucking his cock until he came in my mouth. Raunchy! He was surprised, of course, but when I grinned at him - no, it was a wicked smirk - he hummed with a grin, and again, when I told him: "Now I know that I want to do it." For a long time, we lay there, my head on his shoulder again, hugging him, holding his thigh between mine, he holding my breast again. And the sun was shining down on us, on our naked bodies. Oh, it was so good, our first time all the way - too good to use that word for it - so good and easy, so intimate and without the furtiveness of having to do it like the couple of stories I had heard: doing it in a car after a date, maybe in lieu of what the date was supposed to be, but rushing to get home on time, and then having to face the parents and tell some kind of lie. Oh it was so good! And not like one girl had admitted, that she just hadn't wanted to say no, maybe not date-rape, but not so completely mutual like with James. And it still wasn't noon, we had all the rest of the day! It felt so good, just lying there like Adam and Eve in the sun, innocent of the tree of knowledge. Or hadn't they done it, before they ate the fruit of the tree? Hadn't "known" each other before they did? New twist to the story of Genesis. I chuckle, and he asks why I do. I tell him, fondling his cock and balls. That's so familiar and easy now. He laughs with me, and we joke about whether we can ask a theologian about our new interpretation of the Bible. We laugh again, ruling out the school's minister and ours back home, but agreeing that we like the idea, wondering if only men "knew" women in the bible. He snickers and says: "Probably, why Eve had to talk him into eating the fruit, 'cause she wanted him to 'know' her." "Like I did. It was you who said 'Cosi fan tutte'." "Um-hmm, all the women were doing it." "Like I want to?" "Don't think the libretto says, and certainly not on stage." "I hope not! But I want to," I reply, fondling his cock. "Mmmm! If they had both just done that, we probably wouldn't be here." "Good thing that they didn't, and didn't have rubbers." We chuckle, and I fondle his cock and balls, moving down from under his arm. His cock was in my mouth before it was stiff, but already wanting to be, like I wanted it to be, and then it was, as I was still resting my head on his stomach.. Bigger in my mouth than I had expected, but I was pleased that his cock was so big and stiff. What was I supposed to do? "Cocksucking?" Suck it? Fuck it with my mouth? Licking it's firm, smooth head felt so nice, feeling it twitch. Oh, the girls in videos had either crouched between his legs or straddled him and had their pussy licked. But he had done that already; I wanted just to do it to him, find out how it would be when he came in my mouth. And the girls doing it that way had licked the little ridge of skin at the base of his knob. He liked that, I knew, recalling how he had responded when my fingers rubbed there, moaning, his cock twitching. His fingers were rubbing my pussy, not just my pussy! Behind it, like I had seen in videos. Oooh, that also felt good! Surprise! Hadn't imagined that it would, that he would do that. If he wanted to, we could do that later. I would too, but right now, I wanted just to suck his cock. I moved around, getting between his legs, thinking that it had been good that I had dared to see that having sex wasn't just his being on top and fucking me. We already knew that that wasn't the only way to do it. I love it, licking him there, that I can make it feel so good for him, and hum. But don't make it twitch too much, like when we started fucking. I don't want him to come yet, want to do everything I can first. Suck. Of course, that draws my head further down on his cock, it deeper in my mouth. Fuck; moving my head up and down, his cock twitching in my mouth. "Uhnn," not too far back in my mouth. What do girls with more experience do? Doesn't matter; his cock is twitching, and he is moaning; he is liking it. And I am too, humming. He seems to like that too. Suck, fuck, lick; try to do what my pussy did. Oooh, it feels moist again. It is, my fingers discover. They want to do more, and my pussy wants them to, but this is for him, and for me; I want to know what it's like when he comes in my mouth. Suck, fuck, lick, and hum. Oooh, his hips are beginning to rock up, not twitching, just slowly, encouraging me to suck his cock deeper, when they do. I want his orgasm to be so good for him, want to make him shoot all his white semen in my mouth. Will it be as much as when I had done it with my hand? Oh, his hands are on my head, following it as it bobs up and down. Not just following it, wanting it to move further. Sure, of course, he wants it to be like when we were fucking, his whole cock in my pussy, but I can't do that. I grasp his cock, limiting how far it can go in my mouth, but then recognize that I can squeeze it, like my pussy had, and move my hand with my head, hand and mouth fucking him, and his hips rocking up, fucking his cock in my mouth. I want it, his orgasm, moaning with him, as his hips begin to move faster. "Fuck! Come!" I think, wanting it, hearing him groan - like he always did before he came. Then it happens: he grunts, his hands pressing my head down harder, as his hips thrust his cock deeper in my mouth, almost in my throat. I'm almost gagging, as I feel his spurt shoot through his cock and then hit the back of my throat. I have to swallow, almost biting his cock. His cock thrusts again, and another spurt shoots into my mouth, and another one, and still another one, not so strong now. It feels like my mouth is full of his semen, and another one. It's so good! I love it, that I have made him come so good. I love the strange taste. His hands relax, and I draw my head up, swilling it around in my mouth. When my tongue touches his cock there, it twitches and he gives a pained sounding moan. I try not to touch it there again, as I savor my mouthful of his semen. Pungent or piquant are the words that suddenly come to mind to describe its taste. I raise my head, trying not to lose any of it as his cock slips from between my lips, savoring it again. When I look up, I see that he has raised his head, staring at me. I swallow, and again, and murmur: "That was good." "It sure was. You really did it." "Just like I wanted to." "Come, kiss me." He holds out his hands, and I dive up on him. His tongue must want to taste it too; it is immediately deep in my mouth. If I had known that, I would have saved some for him - next time. I spent most of the night telling my diary everything in all the detail I could remember. We did it all again, not with my hand. He did it to me, and then, like before, we fucked. He only came once. And then - after resting in the sun - we both did it to each other. That was good and special too, taking lots of time, and then telling each other how much we loved the way each other tasted. I had to have his cock in my mouth again, lying with my head on him, it just soft, fondling his balls, but then we both dozed off. He must have woken up first, since I woke up feeling his fingers between my thighs - and feeling like I was sucking my thumb. I guess I had been gently sucking his cock; he murmured: "That feels good." I nodded, only then recognizing that I was sucking his cock - and then everything else! As I sucked again, I thought: I am a woman! It's over, just becoming a woman. Am I more of one for also having done this, doing this?! Doing this again, a third time? If his cock wanted me to. It was beginning to feel like it did, and his fingers were moving. My pussy could want to, too. Not just moving on my pussy, like before. If he wanted to do that, felt good. Must feel the same for him. He must know that it was feeling good, feel that my asshole was contracting. Would his? It did, when my fingers found it, and he had wanted them to, rocking his hips to make it easier for them to creep in his crack. We both hummed. More of a woman for also doing this, enjoying this too? Had he known, or just accidentally rubbed me there? No matter, we both were doing it, and our assholes - could never have thought that I would ever use that word! - were enjoying it. And his cock was too. Of course, we were going to do it again - some way - but what else could I do? Suck his balls? I had seen that. I wanted to do "everything"! Could I just tell him? Anything now. I drew my head back, and his cock sprang up. "I want to suck your balls." "Anything you want. ... How?" Yes, how? Good thing that he asked; we had to move around. I wanted them to hang over my mouth, for him to be kneeling over my face. I told him, and after a few moments he was. I drew his hips down and the first one, his left one - it hung lower - descended between my lips. My mouth closed gently around it. Nice, I hummed, but why did I want to do that? His hum and murmur: "Feels good," answered that. Did a woman just instinctively know what would feel good for a man? I had to use my fingers to help get his other one in my mouth, but that felt good too: his conformation and my enjoying sucking and caressing it with my tongue. Oooh! I was looking at his asshole. That's how one looks, mine too? And it liked to be rubbed? Oooh! It contracted. His cock had twitched, when it had before, and my pussy had too, when mine did. Had his cock just twitched, wanting to be sucked again? He just had to drop down and turn it back to my mouth, but not before I let his ball slip out, and then he could lick my pussy again, and if he wanted to, rub my asshole, and I would rub his. My Secret Diary Oooh, the warm sun felt good on my pussy. I released his ball and drew my feet up, letting my thighs flop open, the sun felt even better. Lick my pussy, I willed him, rocking my hips up. He did, dropping down on me, licking before I could pull his cock back to my mouth. Then I was sucking and licking it, and his hands were around my hips. "Mmmm," yes, his fingers finding my asshole again, and mine found his, making it and his cock twitch. We didn't do as much as a girl did in one video that I had found offensive, but now less offensive; it felt good, arousing, just his rubbing it, and he moaned when I rubbed his. And then we both were moaning in response to even more arousing sensations. I wanted to taste him again, to have my mouth full of his semen, but it all went right down in my throat, but I knew that it had been good for him again, and it was at least as good for me, liking that he could taste me better. We rolled on our sides, gasping and sighing, holding each other's hips. Maybe we didn't really have to fuck again, but we did. We just didn't want the day to end, so I sucked his cock again, and when it was stiff, we fucked, kissing, and he sucking my breasts. My nipples were sore, even the next morning, but that was just a pleasant reminder. Finally the sun was sinking, and we had to get back for supper. How were we going to be able to face others after all that? Somehow we did, telling that we had been rehearsing. If they had only known how! I sure hope not, but with our glasses on - and all our clothes - we look like the nerds others think we are. But we're not; probably the best fucking couple in the school. But we've both got wicked sunburns, and where we shouldn't have one - there especially! Maybe we can be excused from sports to rehearse, and not have to shower in the gym, where others can so my red breasts and our rosy fannies. I have told my diary everything - in even more detail. What did I forget here? Will I tell her more? What? I have done it all; I have become a woman.