5 comments/  40840 views/  2 favorites

Taralee's First Time Ch. 01

By: cubalover



So. 

My name is Taralee. My story begins at the end of summer, 1964. 

Less than a year before, my city had been convulsed by the assassin's bullet that shattered our dream of the American Camelot: the unimaginable assassination of John F. Kennedy, followed by Jack Ruby's live-on-TV gunshot that created a generation's worth of conspiracy theories, then the awful drumbeat of the funeral procession as the gun-carriage rolled by JFK's black-veiled widow and our tears as little John-John saluted his father's coffin en route to its place under the eternal flame fluttering among the rows of military crosses in Arlington National Cemetery.

I was an 18-year-old junior in a D.C. high school. I lived in a huge old frame house, with squirrels in the attic, a basement crammed with boxes of books and dusty furniture, an older sister away at college, and an older brother with a bachelor pad downtown. 

My dad was a lusty 55, my mom a tired-but-happy 45. 

Photos of me show a happy, crooked smile, a few freckles across my nose, and long shining hair. I'd inherited my dad's light copper skin and my mom's light-brown mane, now sun-streaked after a summer hiking in the Green Mountains of Vermont. I think I inherited their love of sex, too. Hearing them at it most afternoons after dad got home stirred strong feelings in my belly.

Dad never talked about growing up; although he spoke unaccented American English, his buddies had nicknamed him Frenchie. I think he came from somewhere north of Vermont. 

In a drawer in the basement there was an old scrapbook, mostly of him and mom before we were born. There was one faded snapshot of him as a young man — he might have been eighteen or twenty — shirtless in jeans and moccasins. He was handsome then with black hair in a long ponytail tied at the nape of his neck. His skin was dark from the sun, and there was a canoe on the rocks at his feet, and in the background pine trees that looked like the ones in those Canadian paintings our high school art teacher liked to show us. 

Though he mostly had an easy banter with us kids — except when we were rascals and he had to play the stern dad, though even then he always had a twinkle in his eye — he clammed up if we asked about his family, and his expression changed as if a storm cloud had blown across the sun. After a while, we quit asking.

I think I inherited my love of the north woods from whatever mysterious place he came from; it's part of my very core. And the heat between my legs came from mom; she still got a goofy grin whenever dad walked in, and she didn't bother to hide the musical sighs and yips that rose as counterpoint to the rhythmic thumping of their afternoon delight.

Before the first tawny tendrils of hair sprouted down there my fingers had explored the folds between my legs, and I'd spent hours with my legs splayed wide and my bedroom mirror propped against a chair, trying to understand why the purplish folds down there looked to me like the ugliest things in the world, but created such wondrous sensations when I touched them. 

Mom had long ago explained sex in pretty clinical terms, so I wasn't totally uninformed. She'd also told me how she'd given her virginity to a 40-year-old German count with a Heidelberg saber scar, months after her parents — ironically — sent her to a Swiss boarding school to get her away from an unsuitable beau. It was a story she said explained the difference between sex and love. 

And my brother liked to sashay down the hall from the shower carrying his towel with his heavy penis swinging in front of him, making my sister and me go "eeewww!" 

One time a few years before, I was on my way to the shower and to tease him, let my towel slip. His eyes lighted briefly on my B-cup breasts and tiny rosebud nipples, then his dick sprang straight out in front of him. Without missing a step he dropped his folded towel over it like a wall peg, and his sashay became a swagger as he brushed past me. I blushed. But heat swirled in my belly, my nipples stiffened and when I got to the shower, my fingers probed between my legs, finding a hard clitoris and slippery, swollen labia.

But I hadn't really begun to put the sex thing all together until the previous summer in Vermont, when I met Danny. He wasn't handsome, exactly, but he was young and strong with wiry legs in ragged khaki shorts, tanned arms bursting from sand-colored army surplus shirts, and scruffy, well-used hiking boots. His curly dark hair was uncombed and a great, open smile crinkled his eyes when he looked at me. 

We met on a hiking trail near the home of the family I was babysitting for, and pretty soon we were spending most of our few days off together, wishing we had more free time. I couldn't help myself; I was wildly attracted to Danny and wanted to spend every possible minute with him. 

His neighbors had a couple of quiet horses, a mare and a gelding, that we were allowed to ride. After a few canters through the woods, he taught me to ride bareback. At one with a beautiful animal, my knees grasping its flank and my fingers knotted in its mane, surrounded by green and ducking low branches along the trail ... I felt freer than I ever had. And Danny had a summer job looking after some of the huts the state kept for hikers: A recipe for a girl to get into mischief! 

Our afternoons off he'd bring a couple of beers to a hardly-used hut and we'd sip them in the sunshine, then kiss and hug in the doorway and he'd slip his hands under my blouse and rub my back. I had a hard time getting over my shyness about my body, though, and wouldn't let him undo my brassiere. And no hands below the waist, no way! But the heat was growing between us. My thin summer bras couldn't hide my stiff nipples when he held me, and riding back I felt wetness between my legs. Watching him gallop away with both horses left my knees shaking. It took a long, cold shower to settle down after our parting.

Danny was a virgin too, and shy as well. So we didn't get beyond clothes-on petting that summer. But the fire didn't die out when he went back to college and I returned to high school. Even when I met a guy named Pierre, who was in my English and Biology classes.

He was Canadian, cute with way more freckles than me, and he won my mom over the first time she met him. She'd mother him outrageously (his parents seemed to be a generation older than mine). She'd feed him and soon he was coming to dinner a couple of times a week. Those days, mom and dad and whoever was at the house still sat down for supper in a dining room with no TV or other distractions.

Pierre and I would sit in a sunny courtyard beside school in our spare periods and talk. We hung out after school, playing on slides in a park and talking. We went to the library together and whispered. Pretty soon he was carrying my books and we were doing our homework together at my place and then holding hands, then walking in the woods, then engaging in some heavy petting.

He did seem to have great digital skills (in the pre-computing era, that meant his fingers were dexterous) and he applied them to my willing body every chance he got. We explored each other through our clothes then timidly, shyly, under them.

But there were love letters from Danny a couple of times a week, and I wrote passionate replies. I kept telling myself (and Pierre) that I had to break it off with Danny, let him get on with his life, find another love. I even wrote the letter, a dozen times. But I never mailed it.

One hazy fall afternoon when we were home alone I took Pierre down to the basement of our wonderful old house. It was full of furniture under drop-cloths, children's toys, overflowing bookshelves and my dad's pride and joy, a partly restored player piano which we kids weren't supposed to touch.

I was still wearing school duds, a Madras plaid knee-length skirt that hugged my hips, a white cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar and pearl buttons, sensible shoes, a plain white bra and thigh-length cotton pettipants.

I was still trying to sort out my boyfriend confusion and stopped beside the player piano, teasing Pierre with my arms around his waist. He took the hint and kissed me, then kissed me again, long and hard, and his tongue slipped between my lips and met mine. One hand roamed down my back, softly stroking my behind, gradually working the fabric of my skirt inch-by-inch up my thighs. I turned sideways so his hand moved to my front.

His fingers felt the flimsy elastic of my pettipants and tentatively slipped inside. I kissed him deeper. His fingers explored lower. I broke the kiss only to sigh, take a deep breath and kiss him again, hard. His left hand held my bottom as his right slid between my legs. I moaned, encouraging him. He found the hard little knob of my clit and began to massage it, quicker and quicker. Oh ... Ohh ... Ohhh! What an exquisite sensation! 

My pettipants were sopping. I could smell my musk and feel him inhaling great gasping breaths as he rubbed me and slipped a finger between my labia. Through his slacks I could feel his erection hard and hot against my leg. 

My eyes were tight shut and every muscle tensed. Fireworks began exploding across my vision. A trembling started in the muscles of my thighs. I felt as if I was soaring higher, higher, higher into darkness lit by swirling flashes of colored fireworks among the stars. 

My pulse roared in my ears. Suddenly my vagina clamped around his fingers in mighty spasms, I groaned and the world went black.

Seconds later, I came to. Or was it minutes? My breath came in slow, heaving sobs. I was slumped against Pierre whose worried face came slowly into focus. Was I okay, he asked? Had I fainted?

"Uhhh ... I think I just had a climax," I whispered. "And yes, I'm okay. I love you ... I love you. I don't think I've ever been this okay."

Looking back, I think that's where it all began.

The fall was a time of hand-holding, touching, kissing. There were romps in the magical estate behind my house, a hundred acres of disused meadow and ancient trees. There were excursions to rainy ponds to fill test tubes with microscopic critters to examine in biology class (though mostly those expeditions were excuses to carry out detailed examinations of mammalian anatomy by the braille method). We played in falling leaves along the C&O Canal towpath, and made weekend forays out to the rumbling Great Falls of the Potomac in Virginia, where huge rocks offered privacy and Pierre's magic fingers would slide under the waistband of my slacks, bringing me to gasping climaxes. 

An enlightened English teacher suggested we go see Albert Finney in Tom Jones; that was one of our first formal dates. The kindly teacher didn't send us to the movie to gain deeper understanding of the first, almost unreadable, English novel, we soon realized. She must've seen our glances and the notes we passed in class — well, who couldn't. Luckily the theatre was mostly empty, because the movie was a bedroom farce with rollicking music. Pierre's skilful fingers were soon wreaking havoc in the wetness between my legs while I rubbed the bulge in his trousers till he spurted into his pants.

I was ready for him to make me a woman for weeks before it finally happened. 

Our high school Homecoming dance was on a damp Friday night in late fall. The king and queen were crowned, the football jocks danced with cheerleaders in poodle skirts and saddle shoes. (Some of those girls had to leave school before graduation, when their bellies began to swell.) 

As soon as we could escape the chaperones, we slipped away from the garishly decorated gymnasium, out a side door into the cool, foggy parking lot. My dad had loaned us his ten-year-old Ford wagon; I've always wondered if he knew what was going to happen that night, on that wide bench seat.

We parked in the dark between streetlights a few blocks from my house, waiting to make sure no cars had noticed our brake lights. I'd chosen a pale salmon Empire-waisted silk prom dress specifically for this night of all nights. Pierre couldn't keep his eyes off me at the dance, or his hands off me while I was driving.

Now I was all his. 

We tumbled in a laughing bundle over the front seat into the back. Our hot breath condensed on the windows of the Ford and the streetlights turned every droplet into diamonds. 

As his hands slid the rustling silk dress and soft nylon slip up my slim body he gasped. He was already at third base ... I was naked below the high, tight waistband that ran just below my breasts! He kissed me deeply, intensely, caressing my belly and back and calves and thighs and the smooth fabric over my budding breasts. I unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, roughly pulling his hard penis out of his underwear.

It wasn't the greatest sex, I have to say, but it was tender and full of love. And some laughter. It was his first time too. Pierre had to fumble open the prophylactic an older friend had given him (in those days you had to ask an evil-eyed pharmacist for them — they were always kept behind the counter), then unroll it in the dark over his very stiff penis. It wasn't very romantic, and I had a hard time relaxing.

At last he was ready. I spread my legs, waiting for the stabbing pain girlfriends had warned me was coming. But I wanted him so badly I was dripping wet. His first thrust met some resistance. "Don't stop, please don't stop," I cried. It only hurt for a second — those Vermont horseback rides had stretched my hymen — and then Pierre was inside me, moving gently. In and out — oh ... oh ... oooh. I relaxed. Our rhythmic movements synchronized. 

Faster now, synocpation. I sank my nails into his buttocks as I pulled him into me. I squeezed my eyes shut and the fireworks shot across my vision. I raised my hips and clamped my legs around his thrusting as the trembling started and the waves overcame me. "Oh my God! Don't stop ... don't ever stop! Ohhhhhh!" 

He groaned as his penis throbbed inside me and his heavy balls spurted their load into the rubber receptacle. We lay for what seemed like an hour in each other's arms, breathing in unison. I sobbed softly with happiness and he held me tight as our racing heartbeats slowing to normal. I am a woman now, I thought.

Next day we talked for an hour on the phone. But Pierre's parents had something planned and he couldn't get away. I was disappointed, horny as hell and a bit miffed. 

Enter Ken.

He'd been a family friend for several years, since back when he was nineteen and sweet on my sister. He was in Washington working as a mechanic and doing the odd weekend construction job while he took a year off before his senior year at college. 

Easy-going and confident, he was handsome in a rough way. Every ten days or so he'd show up around dinner time and we'd throw on another plate and he'd eat heartily. That's what happened that Saturday night.

After dinner he asked if I'd like to see a movie. I shot a questioning look at mom, who nodded gently. "Sure," I said, skipped upstairs to change my jeans and sweatshirt for a skirt, blouse and sweater. I climbed into Ken's pickup truck and we went to see Zorba The Greek — still one of my favourite movies. We stopped for a soda and shot the breeze about Anthony Quinn's exuberant character and how we ought to shed our hang-ups about life and love.

Out in the parking lot, Ken put his hand on my knee as he started the truck. It sent shockwaves tingling through me and he must've noticed my sharp intake of breath. But I didn't push his hand away. Perhaps I should have; my life might have been different.

He took the long way home, pulling into a secluded parking area in Rock Creek Park and turning off the lights and engine. My heart was in my throat as he leaned towards me. He took my face in both hands and gently, ever so gently, kissed my nose. I sighed, and he slid his mouth slowly down to mine. 

He slid closer as my lips parted. I could smell his woodsy after-shave and feel the roughness of his whiskers. He put his hand gently on the inside of my knee and reflexively I opened my legs. As his tongue licked mine and his fingers probed my panties I slumped against the truck's door and slid down on the wide seat. He pulled the now-soaking crotch of my panties to one side and felt my hard clit. I gasped and my heart raced as two fingers, then three slid between the moist lips of my vagina.

My hand seemed to move of its own will, down his strong chest to the swelling in his jeans. I started to unbutton them. "Just a minute," he whispered, "I need two hands for this." 

Seconds later he guided my hand to his swollen member, already encased in thin rubber — no fumbling here — and sticking straight up. It felt like a huge mushroom, a thick rounded head on a short shaft, all growing out of an undergrowth of wiry hair.

Adroitly he slipped my panties off, and his strong arms gently lifted me so I was kneeling on the passenger side, face to face and straddling him. He wasn't about to force himself on me: The next move was all mine. 

Of course it was inevitable. My wetness was wide open just above him. As soon as I relaxed I felt him hard between my lips. I pushed down and — Ow! — I was still tender from yesterday. I rubbed back and forth and soon my natural lubricant gushed over the mushroom head and it stretched my willing opening and it was in me and I was riding and bucking and ... coming! and coming! and coming!

Ken stood hard as I climaxed three times until he couldn't hold it any more and with a yell he thrust up so hard my head banged on the roof of the truck and I collapsed laughing even as I felt his hot semen spurting into the prophylactic between my legs.

He was kind and tender on the way home, making small talk as we drove and arriving just before my curfew. He didn't come in, but kissed me chastely before I got out. I skipped up the walk and turned and waved from the wide, old-fashioned porch. 

"Hi mom," I said when I saw her reading in her chair in the living room. "You didn't have to wait up." She smiled and bade me good night.

I showered quickly, then stretched luxuriously under my warm, comfy coverlet. Well Taralee, I thought sleepily, your cherry's well and truly popped now.

To be continued... 

Taralee's First Time Ch. 02



I woke up confused.

What had been, in my mind, a "simple love triangle" problem for a breezily confident eighteen-year-old girl — me, Danny, Pierre — was suddenly overlaid, pardon the pun, with lust. In one weekend my life had evolved from the girlhood rhyme when plucking the petals off a daisy — "he loves me ... he loves me not ... he loves me" — to a vertigo-inducing swirl of boys, sex, and sensations raging through my body like wildfire.

Last week I'd been a virgin; this week I was ... a slut?

I didn't feel like a slut, but I knew darn well that if the girls in my gym class found out I'd had my first two sexual adventures on two consecutive nights with two different boys, that's what they'd call me. I was in way over my head, and I was scared.

So a couple of days later, I 'fessed up.

Jess lived two houses down the street and had been my best friend since Grade 2, when her parents moved to D.C. from an Air Force posting in Germany. We'd soon started having sleepovers and by the time we were teenagers it felt like we were twins, sharing every thought and emotion. Till I started getting interested in boys, that is.

Jess was a head taller than me, slim with long dark hair, a swimmer's taught body, and smoldering eyes. 'Cause she grew tall early, she'd towered over most boys our age for the last five years, and she rarely got asked to school dances or the movies. She'd become a bit of a wallflower, and had built a shell around herself that didn't make getting dates any easier.

I took some homework to her house after school that Friday, had dinner with her folks, played with her dachshunds and ran up the street to tell my mom I was staying over. We went up to her cozy bedroom, with its dark, European-style furniture and old-fashioned eyelet bedspread and pillow covers, and changed into winter nightgowns. The talk turned to Pierre and Danny, and she asked whether I'd made up my mind. I blushed crimson and jumped on her bed face-down to hide my embarrassment. When she sat beside me and rubbed my back, my conflicted emotions flooded my body and I burst into silent tears. Jess kept stroking my back as I shook with sobs, totally misunderstanding my outburst until I was able to breathe quietly enough to tell her the story of Pierre and the Homecoming dance.

"Ohhhh," she said, "but you'd wanted that for so long ... those must be tears of happiness!" Her soothing tone helped me settle down, and we crawled under the covers the way we'd done since we were little. She held me in her arms and undid the row of buttons at the back of my nightgown so her cool, strong hands could massage my back while I told her about giving myself to Ken the night after I let Pierre take my virginity, and how confused I was, still, about loving Danny.

It was warm under the duvet, and pretty soon we shed the flannel nightgowns. With Jess's comforting arms around me I felt safe and free of the burden of what I'd started to think of as my dirty little secrets. I nestled against her, feeling her long, muscular legs against mine and the scent of the delicate cologne she wore. My hands rubbed her lower back, then wandered over the curves of her bottom. The flimsy cotton panties we wore seemed to heighten the sense of touch in the darkness of her attic room, as storm-tossed branches cast eerie dark-on-dark shadows on the weird angles of the ceiling.

I nuzzled the curved bottom of one of her exquisite, firm breasts as my head lay between her arms. I froze as a sigh escaped her, but she hugged me gently: no rejection there. Her hands were gliding softly across my bottom and when I turned slightly, they traced the elastic of my panties and finally, slowly, tentatively, the palm of her hand slipped down my belly inside the soft cotton, stroking the tufts of hair there then lightly pressing on my pubic bone.

I slid my hand between her legs, and she held it there for a moment then moved it away. But it was only to roll me on my back so her skilful hand could ever so gently tease its way to my now-hard clit. My God! She knew every sensitive spot intuitively, touching me now here, now there, rubbing with exquisite friction that spread my juices to all the places that wanted, that wanted, that wanted ... yes, yes, YES! That orgasm was stronger than the ones I'd experienced riding on Ken's mushroom-headed penis, equal to that exquisite climax when Pierre's magic fingers first found my clitoris when I was leaning against the player piano in the basement.

Waves of pleasure washed over me and I lay in a rosy glow of well-being. Jess held me close and I stroked her, fondling the mound of woman-hair under her panties and clumsily searching for her clit. It wasn't hard to find, as it was standing up like a miniature penis ordering me to touch it. She sighed with pleasure, encouraging me to spread her moisture up and down her labia then roll her adorable clit between my fingers as she opened her legs so I could rub up and down its shaft. I nibbled an erect nipple and ran my tongue around her dark areola (much sexier, I'd thought for a couple of years, than my pink ones) but she gently admonished me — "No, pay attention to the job at hand." And so she taught me to touch her till her strong thighs started to quiver and she reached her thrusting, shuddering climax and collapsed into my arms.

Before we fell asleep she expertly brought me to another peak, and I practised what she'd taught me until she too climaxed a second time and our bodies snuggled together as waves of love washed over us.

Bright mid-morning sunshine and the smell of frying German sausages finally woke us. We chatted as we cuddled and a Beatles song came on the radio: Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play. Now I need a place to hide away. Oh, I believe in yesterday ...

But there was no turning back for me. I was lucky to be in a safe place with people who loved me. I realized then that life was all about trusting. It was a small insight that would help me through good times and tough ones.

Soon it was Christmas. Two weeks off school meant two weeks without Pierre; he went to visit his grandma in Canada with his folks. And Ken headed back to Cape Cod to spend the holiday with his family. But though the nights were long and the streets dusted with early snow, our house was full of light and music and merriment — my sister was back from college with a boyfriend — soon to be her fiancé — in tow, my brother and his girlfriend were home most days for dinner, and friends of all ages dropped by to chat, snack and imbibe.

Christmas Eve the whole gang of us walked arm-in-arm down to Jess's house, where there was a ceiling-scraping fir tree laden with silver ornaments and on the end of each bough, a small white candle. The dachshunds were banished from the room and the candles were lit and the room lights turned off and we basked in the warm glow of an earlier time. This magical European ceremony, that we'd been invited to for years, always seemed like "real Christmas" to me.

All too soon the candles were snuffed lest they ignite the resinous branches of the tannenbaum. The moment the lights were extinguished always made me feel wistful, but there were bowls of punched lashed with strong liquor to cheer us, the piano had been tuned and guitars and a banjo were hauled out, the spirit of Good King Wenceslas was invoked and "the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even."

I slept over at Jess's to free up my bedroom for my sister's boyfriend, but we never repeated that amazing experience of a few weeks before, though even today I still get a warm glow in my belly thinking about it.

New Year's was a noisy affair, with neighbors dropping by our streamer-and-bunting decorated house for drinks and kids and dogs and cats wandering in and out (the squirrels wisely kept to the attic that night) and someone in the street shouting out the Times Square countdown to midnight from a television they could see through a window, and choruses of Auld Lang Syne as we welcomed 1965.

Ken had driven back to D.C. that afternoon, and after everyone had gone upstairs to bed, we were alone in the living room, with only a candle flickering in the corner to chaperone us. We started to neck. Literally: he pulled my long hair to the side and started nibbling my earlobe, then gently, ever so gently, nuzzled his way down my throat to my right breast, loosening my flimsy bra and nibbling the nipple. Ahhhh. Then he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

He came back carrying a thick towel. He folded it carefully, placed it on the couch, and motioned for me to sit on it. Ever the obedient high school girl, I did.

He slid his big strong hand, with its mechanic's broad nails, between my legs and gently pried them apart. I confess: it didn't take much effort on his part. He resumed licking my earlobe, which sent shivers up my spine, as ever so slowly he slid my skirt and slip up my thighs. When his fingers found the elastic of my pettipants my hips lifted involuntarily and he stretched the soft nylon and rolled them gently down past my knees, then pulled them off and stuffed them into a pocket of his jeans.

He stared briefly at my nakedness with a mischievous smile and lightly licked his lips. I didn't know what he was doing, but my body, at least, seemed willing. He knelt on the floor between my knees, lifted my ankles and lodged my calves on his shoulders. Very strange, I thought. But he was so gentle I didn't protest. Now his warm breath was blowing lightly on my belly, fanning the fire within as if he were blowing on the embers of a campfire. When his lips brushed the hair on my mound of Venus, I felt electric sparks. When his hot tongue slipped between my labia, the fire burst into flame. I closed my eyes as my belly tensed and shooting stars raced across my firmament. His stubbled cheeks chafed my legs but ... Oh. My. God. What ecstasy as his tongue licked up my inner lips!

When the tip of his tongue started circling my engorged clit and his hot breath caressed it and his lips closed over it, my thighs trembled, my toes curled, my legs locked his face in a crushing embrace, the fireworks exploded, and my hips bucked up and down and up and down in the best climax any girl ever, ever, ever had in the history of the world!

Gradually I became aware of the darkened living room, the stub of the candle still flickering. Ken, still kneeling, had a pleased smirk. His hand was encircling his penis, sliding back and forth rhythmically. I was still limp with ecstasy, panting to catch my breath. Gently he cupped my fingers under the great mushroom glans, its skin so smooth and warm and taught, and I felt it jump with every stroke till it jerked and spurted and and spurted, filling my cupped hand with hot, creamy semen. He dipped a finger and held it to my lips. I wrinkled my nose — he chuckled — but I touched my tongue to it. Not unpleasant at all, I thought, still wrapped in a warm miasma of post-climactic relaxation.

After some rather chaste cuddling, Ken, still grinning, strode out into the night. After I shut the door behind him I was grateful for his forethought in bringing the towel; it was soaked but I wouldn't have to explain a badly stained sofa to my mom in the morning.

What a way to bring in the New Year.

My dad had always said, "Candy's dandy, but liquor's quicker." Now I realized that candy's dandy, but lick her's way quicker!

Back at school the next week, I caught up with Pierre. Gosh, how he turned me on. He had freckles — everywhere — and though he hated them (he said he'd always wished he looked like Clark Gable, ha!) I think he came to terms with them when I told him they drove me wild, and proceeded to kiss them, everywhere my lips could reach. We must've been a sight to our classmates, though in the hallways, at least, we tried to avoid the dreaded PDA: public display of affection. We weren't very successful because we weren't having much luck finding time alone.

We read a lot, sometimes over the phone when his parents were out of their little apartment, sometimes together in the big old house with the flying squirrels in the attic and the dusty player piano — Oh, happy memories! — in the basement. Pierre was a cunning linguist (unlike Ken, who would show up randomly to remind me of his skill as a cunnilinguist) and together we read Lady Chatterley's Lover, reclaiming those wonderful old four-letter Saxon words — fuck, cunt, cock, titt, arse — that Connie and Mellors used when John Thomas was making love to Lady Jane.

We "groked" each other (Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land) on many levels, "gronked" when words were unnecessary (Johnny Hart's B.C. comic strip), and read the Kama Sutra for its eastern wisdom on unusual positions in which to satisfy each other's lust. Which we did as often as possible (which was never often enough).

Boccaccio's Decameron, with its tales told by randy youths fleeing the Black Death in Florence, provided us much entertainment — and an idea.

In a story the Florentines tell on the seventh day, a quick-thinking wife tells her cuckolded husband, who arrives home unexpectedly, that she has sold a big wine barrel to her handsome young lover, but the husband must scrape the interior clean. As she leans over the barrel directing her husband's work, her lover lifts her dress, enters her "as stallions, afire with love, assail the mares of Parthia" and achieves a second coming.

In the basement labyrinth beneath Pierre's parents' apartment there was a semi-secluded area with a waist-high wall overlooking a sunken room. When we got the chance we'd head down there after school and kiss and touch each other till I was so hot I'd unzip Pierre's chinos, pull my panties down to mid-thigh, lean my elbows on the wall and spread my legs as far as my panties would stretch. He'd slide his hands under my blouse to grab my breasts, lift my skirt and thrust into me from behind like those Parthian stallions. His pubic hair tickling my ass, his balls bouncing against my clit and his thick cock fucking me would light the fuse and in moments my thighs would start to tremble until my cunt clamped his penis tight and I'd feel him fill the rubber with his hot load, then he'd hold me tight, still bent over, until our hearts stopped pounding and his now-soft penis would slip out.

For Valentine's Day Pierre wrapped up a bottle of perfume for me, Wind Song by Prince Matchabelli. I was sitting in the living room with him and mom, and hot tears came when I opened it. Years later I got a postcard from him, saying he was walking down a street and a girl passed wearing it; the scent brought memories — happy and sad — flooding back.

Sadly, Pierre and I never seemed able to get enough time alone. I wrote impassioned love letters to him in italic penmanship and lurid colored ink. I mailed them till he warned me his mom was opening his mail, then passed them to him at school. Of course my life was complicated (and about to get way, way more complicated).

I was still writing to Danny, and he was counting down the days till summer arrived and I came back to the green mountains of Vermont. One day I'd received an anguished letter from him. When I slit the envelope, the first thing that landed in my hands was a color snapshot: Danny in the clearing we'd drunk beer in (and more) in the halcyon days of last summer. There were the shafts of sunlight stabbing through the lush foliage, one of the horses nibbling at the undergrowth in the background, Danny's broad shoulders in a scruffy army shirt, his strong legs and stained shorts, his shiny curls framing the big smile that scrunched up his eyes ... I could practically smell the fragrant piney woods in the heights above the hut and feel the warm sun, the gelding's broad back between my knees, his tentative touch when he kissed and caressed and held an oh-so-distant me. His scrawled words were like a knife to my heart. He missed me terribly, there was no one else for him, he dreamed of the day I'd come back North, and of the day we'd be finished college and our folks could meet and we could marry and live together as man and wife.

That photo, tucked into the frame of my bedroom mirror, reminded me twice a day — as I brushed my long hair the obligatory hundred strokes, morning and night, like the little girl I still was in spite of my years — that I had been unable bring myself to tell Danny how much I loved Pierre, though I did tell him we were good friends. I was wracked with guilt about stringing him along. And I couldn't tell Pierre I was writing to Danny a couple of times a week. Not to mention that neither of them knew that I was fucking my brains out with Ken every time he got his hands (or tongue!) anywhere near me.

I was one conflicted chick. Were the Beatles singing about me? It's only love, and that is all, why should I feel the way I do? It's only love, and that is all, but it's so hard, loving you ...

To be continued 



Taralee's First Time Ch. 03



Sex was my undoing.

I was desperately in love with two guys. I was fucking Pierre whenever he could get away from his over-vigilant mom. Danny, I was fantasizing having hot sex with. And I was regularly getting a good licking (usually followed by a rhythmic, legs-spread thumping, just to make sure) from Ken, a friend of my sister who was in his mid-twenties. 

I had no one I felt I could talk to about the details of these affairs, not even my best friend Jess. I found it impossible to share what, in my darkest moments, seemed sordid and dirty. And somehow I found it impossible to say No when opportunity (in the shape of stiff penis) arose. Even when my head said I should. 

All this confusion had the inevitable effect on my grades. I did okay on my PSATs, but I had to do something: second semester Grade 11 grades were the ones that counted for college admissions, and two months before my nineteenth birthday, mine were looking worse and worse. I knew I had to buckle down.

Luckily Ken got some work with a contractor out of town, so that cut out one temptation for a while. Then Pierre came down with mononucleosis, "mono." My school friends laughed that he'd caught what had a reputation as the "kissing disease" — that much they knew about what we were up to every day after school. But when his doctor condemned him to six weeks of bed rest, I missed him sorely. His mother and I really didn't get along (she'd figured out what was up between us, no surprise) and she barely tolerated brief, twice-weekly visits when I brought him his homework and picked up his completed assignments. 

He was going crazy too, and if I was at home when his folks went out he'd go into their bedroom, lie on their bed and phone me (no extensions in their little apartment), jerking himself off while I put the phone between my legs so he could hear the squishy sounds as I got myself hot with a couple of fingers and a vivid imagination. Once he said his parents came home unexpectedly and he nearly got caught wiping sperm off the picture that hung over their headboard because he'd shot four feet! I envied him like hell: although I could work myself into a frantic state of drenched horniness by massaging the hard nub of my clit and my reddened, swollen labia (oh yes, I still had that bedroom mirror propped against a wall and watched) I could never achieve a climax, collapsing instead in near-tears frustration, cursing Pierre's doctor and Ken's job.

Mostly, though, I hit the books, even when I was babysitting. I had a couple of neighborhood brats I looked after regularly, and half a block away from my house a lawyer, George, and his wife Virginia would hire me from time to time when they went out to the theater. Their four-year-old twins were little hellions, but they paid twice the going rate for four hours' work and once the twins were in bed, I could use his den to study, which started to bring my grades up. 

In March, George left a message with my mom: his wife was out of town looking after her sick mom for a couple of weeks, and could I mind the twins in the evenings after their housekeeper left for the day? The money would help my college fund and I'd be able go home at eleven and get a good night's rest before school the next day.

The first few days were uneventful, except for a couple of hair-pulling four-year-olds' tantrums. My study routine was working out, and I left a couple of books in the den so I didn't have to lug them back and forth.

One evening as I was grinding my way through a particularly boring chapter in my history text, George knocked gently, stuck his head in the door and asked if I'd like a Manhattan. I wasn't sure, but I didn't want to turn down friendly hospitality from a man who paid handsomely for me to make supper for his little darlings and put them to bed. I was mildly surprised when I saw he was wearing a stunning deep purple robe with black silk lapels; it looked like something I'd seen in movies. He was a handsome man with dark hair just graying at the temples, a square jaw, laugh lines and dancing gray eyes.

He moved confidently to a mahogany trolley that held decanters and a silver ice bucket. I hadn't noticed the condensation: it had been filled recently. Cubes clinked in two heavy glasses, George poured dark liquids and stirred gently with a long silver spoon, then dropped a cherry in each glass and handed me one. At the first sip I spluttered and coughed, my tongue burning and eyes watering, so he came over and patted my back gently, leaning against the desk. The second sip was better and by the third, the elixir was having an effect. 

His smile came into focus close beside me, and the world seemed like a warmer, better place. When he put his arm behind me, my inhibitions loosened and I snuggled into his shoulder. The silk of his robe rustled enticingly. His hand slid lightly up my back under my blouse, and expertly unclipped my bra, liberating my breasts and setting my heart a-flutter. 

My dad had been right about candy and liquor.

George's strong hands slowly drew my blouse over my head and pulled it off my arms. His lips ensnared my left nipple and his tongue, hot from the bourbon and cold from the ice, flicked it till it stood out hard. Weaving gently from the liquor, I stood unprotesting while he unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, slid his thumbs inside my panties and smoothly pulled everything down around my ankles.

I stepped out obediently.

His palms cupped my swelling breasts then slid down my belly. His fingers toyed with my pubic hair for a few moments, then, sensing no resistance on my part, he pushed me slowly, ever so slowly, down on the leather-topped desk and stepped out of his robe. 

George was no boy, he was a robust, supremely confident man. 

As I lay back he held my legs up in a wide V and I stared through them at his muscled chest and flat belly. In a large, dark mirror on the wall behind him I could see his tight buttocks and wide shoulders, his big hands holding my pale legs in the air. Looking down, I was mesmerized by the curly black hair around his rigid, uptilted cock. Its shaft was roped with thick veins and it was bobbing just above the light brown hair on my mound of Venus.

I could already feel juice dripping from my cunt, ready to welcome what I now wanted so urgently! He bent slightly forward, stretching my legs wide with his strong arms. 

But he just laid his rigid member between the swollen, wide open lips of my cunt and started sliding it up and down, ever so slowly. It was burning hot and felt as if it were lighting a fire in my belly. Every time its purplish head touched my clit I jerked, until all my muscles started to tremble. But he was careful not to stick it in me. He could feel my climax coming and leaned down on me, pressing his balls against me as his cock slid back and forth, as the old blues song said, like "a hotdog in my bun." 

"Put it in! Put ... It ... In," I begged. To no avail. His deep, ragged bass said, "No, Taralee, not now." 

Suddenly my vision went dark, fireworks blasted across my eyes and my juices flowed and he felt me shuddering at my climax and his weight sagged on top of me. I felt his thick, iron-hard penis jerking and hot jism spurting again and again and again and again onto my belly.

Panting heavily, he slowly pulled back, kissing my now-tender nipples and spreading the puddle of semen across my belly with his fingers. Afterwards he brought a steaming hot Turkish towel and cleaned me up, then helped me back into my clothes. It was eleven, time to go home. He watched as I walked down the street, standing on his porch till I was safely inside.

In my bedroom I counted my babysitting money and found a tip four times what I'd earned. 

Was I now a prostitute, I wondered? 

No, I rationalized, I enjoyed that way too much.

George and I had several more assignations before Virginia got back. He'd make me a Manhattan then slowly undress me. Dropping his robe he'd wrap his hand around his stiffening cock and stroke it till it stood up proud with its purplish head swollen and glistening, then pull on a Forex prophylactic. They were made out of "lambskin" he said, and the sensation was like wearing nothing at all. He assured me I needn't worry about pregnancy — a good thing, because he'd ejaculate a few tablespoonfuls each time— and to me they felt so much better than the slippery rubbers Pierre and Ken used. The extra heat and friction, and that network of hard veins that roped around George's cock, brought me to several climaxes each time we made love. 

I tried some of those Kama Sutra positions Pierre and I had used: George specially seemed to enjoy the view of an eighteen-year-old girl kneeling on his desk as his erection slid in and out between the cheeks of her ass. I'd turn around and watch him watching me, and get hotter and hotter the more I saw his pleasure as his rhythm built up speed. Once I thought I saw movement in that mirror behind him, but it must've been my long hair swinging with my movements.

A few weeks later, after Virginia returned, she phoned to say they had tickets to the ballet and would I mind the twins? Pierre had just been sprung from his six-week sentence for mono, and was randy as hell. I invited him to "study" with me.

Not only had George given me explicit permission for him to visit, but he'd said to celebrate Pierre's return, let him wear a Forex, he'll love it. They were a very expensive luxury, and Pierre shot me a quizzical look when I went over to George's desk, opened the box and took out the blue plastic cylinder. 

But if he was suspicious, he didn't ask. And I didn't tell.

Pierre was thrilled by the Forex experience, though he did mention it had a slight formaldehyde smell (he was, after all, planning to major in science in college). The sensation, he said, was the best. And I agreed. We actually used two lambskins. The second time, I got Pierre to lean between my spread legs as I sat on the edge of George's desk, straddling him, kissing him, feeling my breasts mashed against his chest and our breaths coming in unison as that lovely penis slid so far into me it touched my cervix, sending sent electric shocks through my whole body. 

I opened my eyes to watch us in that dark mirror and this time I really did see a glimmer of movement beyond our thrusting, straining bodies. Awareness dawned: a two-way mirror. George must've come home and was watching us. I could see a shadowy movement and suddenly realized he was stroking his cock in rhythm with us. The idea of him whacking off watching Pierre fuck me made my muscles clench and sent us into a simultaneous quivering, shuddering, fireworks-exploding climax. 

Around this time my mom surprised me by offering to take me to her gynecologist. I'd been plagued by irregular periods, which often gave me cramps so bad I'd be doubled over in the nurse's office at school, moaning and rocking myself in agony. (Secretly I'd hoped that losing my virginity would help, but that turned out to be an old wives' tale.) 

I took an afternoon off from school and with some trepidation sat with mom in the waiting room. When the nurse handed me a gown and told me to disrobe, my discomfort grew. But mom had assured me that the obligatory Pap smear wouldn't hurt anything more than my dignity. So moments later I was lying back, my legs spread and ankles in ice-cold metal stirrups, with my vagina wide open under glare of an examination-room lamp. It was the unsexiest moment of my life.

The gynecologist was a woman (thank God!) and empathetic, and the procedure didn't take long. But I was acutely uncomfortable lying there with my legs apart and a stranger fingering my labia and clitoris, inserting a freezing cold speculum, and talking about my sexual health. I admitted to her that I was "sexually active" and had a steady boyfriend, but let's just say I kept to a rather censored version of my sex life so far.

Then I sat nervously in the waiting room for a quarter-hour, while she consulted with my mom in her office. She returned with a prescription. 

For ... The Pill.

Welcome to the Swinging Sixties! 

I was elated but disturbed, too. Would there be side effects? Could it make me more promiscuous (was that possible)? Would I gain weight?

The doctor's instructions, relayed by my embarrassingly clinical mother, were clear: The Pill had to be taken at the same time every day for twenty-one days, then started again a week later, presumably after my period. No forgotten pills, no skipped days. 

And wait a month before having unprotected sex.

This was not a conversation I enjoyed, but at least my mom was patient, kind and non-judgmental. I was pretty quiet on the bus ride home, but mom held my hand and I felt secure, though my mind was a whirl of images — Pierre, Ken, George, and yes, Danny — my secrets fizzed inside me until I felt I could burst with from untold secrets.

As spring rushed into Washington with cherry blossoms around the Tidal Basin and the first sultry nights, the benighted administration at our high school moved to censor the annual poetry magazine. That brought one of my first experiences with 1960s collective activism: A bunch of us got together to publish our own, uncensored literary zine. In a couple of weeks we had as many submissions as we could publish, had raised enough money to buy paper and had secured the loan of a Gestetner duplicator. Pierre and a couple of other students with access to electric typewriters beavered away making the stencils, while a couple of art students decorated the inside pages and came up with a cover design.

Production night was memorable. Maybe twenty high schoolers crowded into the second floor of a small, ink-scented downtown industrial space that the Gestetner shared with a couple of larger printing presses. A petite, curvy girl who was finishing high school part-time, after dropping out a couple of years earlier, welcomed us. It was warm in the place, and she had on a flimsy top and the shortest skirt I'd ever seen (except for the micro-minis that were starting to show up in English magazines). We didn't know Cathy well, but she'd arranged the printing for us. She lived on the third floor with two tall guys whom we didn't know at all.

The guys showed us how to set up the machinery and mount the stencils for each page. The room was filled with a cheerful cacophony of the clattering duplicator, the chatter of the crew collating the pages, the thump of the stapling machine and the excited shouts of students carrying boxes of finished magazines down to the cars waiting in the street. 

Cathy oversaw the production, giving tips here and there, showing us where the ink and supplies were, and generally being helpful and kind. She tended to distract the guys — and some of us girls: It was obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. Her large round breasts bounced as she walked, her prominent nipples poked through the thin fabric of her top and the globes of her ass swayed seductively as she walked. She didn't seem to mind our stares.

About an hour later the printing was done, leaving just the collating, stapling and boxing of the last couple of hundred of magazines. "Okay," she shouted, "y'all finish up and lock the door on your way out. 

"Time to mount the stairs, boys," she said, grabbing both of the tall guys, one in each hand, and leading them to the ladder-like steps that led up to a hatch in the ceiling. I felt Pierre's grip on my hand tighten as the trio got halfway up the steps and she turned toward us with a broad smile to bid us goodnight. Not only was she braless, but she was wearing nothing under her skirt, either, and we all got a sumptuous flash of the dark bush between her shapely legs as she led her two paramours up to bed.

Fortunately Pierre had managed to loosen his mother's apron strings and had permission to stay out all night. Once the last box of zines was packed, we locked Cathy's street door and jumped in the old Ford wagon. He had his fingers between my legs in seconds. I was sopping wet, thinking of Cathy in bed with her two tall guys and imagining what it would feel like to have then take me turn and turn about, each one getting hornier when the other came. 

But I made Pierre wait: I had a surprise for him. My brother was out of town and he'd left me the keys to his loft, just a five-minute drive from Cathy's place. We parked the Ford and raced up the stairs. It was our first night sleeping together.

"Imagine that I'm Cathy," I said, sliding my panties off and lying back with my skirt pulled up just high enough to show a tease of pubic hair. Beside the big bed there was a bowl full of prophylactics — thank you, dear brother! — and Pierre dropped his jeans, tore one open and unrolled it over his delicious, stiff cock. I lifted my knees to open my dripping cunt. He pulled me to him and we fucked like animals, urgently, sideways on the bed, my skirt rumpled around my waist and his jeans around his ankles. 

Oh God, how I loved his penis ... his smooth, perfect glans slid into me and then the hard, wide part of his shaft stretched my G-spot and sent the fireworks exploding through my brain. He pumped me like a madman and we came in unison after only a couple of minutes, then lay there gasping and laughing till we caught our breath.

Our lovemaking seemed to go all night and too soon the morning sun flooded the little apartment. I awoke first, Pierre's arms around me, and moved softly so I could stare at his face and his beautiful eyelashes and perfect ears and the quadrillion freckles sprayed across his face and neck like the stars in the Milky Way. My heart beat in unison with his and I wanted so much for that moment to last. At least it was Saturday, and we didn't have to get to school by nine o'clock. 

For my birthday — my last as a teenager — my brother, ever the funny guy, got me an expensive pair of black fishnet stockings. Which I loved; Pierre, too, needless to say. They were sexy as hell, but my ego took a battering every time my sardonic dad saw me come down the stairs wearing them: he couldn't resist calling them (with a wicked grin), "whore stockings." 

Pierre's gift was a gorgeous leopard-print bathing suit. Stretchy, with daringly high cut legs and a scoop back, it sure maximized my assets, such as they were. I didn't think I'd dare wear it at the beach, and I wasn't going to let it anywhere near the over-chlorinated high school pool — or the bitchy girls who hung around it with falsies stretching the tops of their heavy knit one-pieces.

Finally, the weather turned summery, but with the change came exams at school. Pierre was studying really hard — though he'd already been accepted at a good college, he was taking advanced-credit courses that would give him a head start when he got there and he wanted high grades. And I was desperately trying to bring my grades up, haunted by forebodings of a miserable life in a suburban steno pool. We spent several weeks with no more intimacy than holding hands while we both studied in a sunny courtyard at school.

But eventually we reached the home stretch. Pierre rode the green D.C. Transit bus with me after school and carried my books as we walked down the well-treed street to the warm, wonderful old house with squirrels in the attic and so many memories. I threw together a stew and put it in the oven (my chores were to make the family's dinner while mom was at work) and Pierre and I each grabbed a book and headed across the little creek to the big hilly estate that was our teenage paradise.

Someone had mown the meadow and the warm air was full of the sweet scent of fresh-cut hay. Hand in hand we ran and laughed and, books forgotten, tripped and rolled over and over down the hill like two five-year-olds, ending up in each other's arms. "Roll me over, in the clover," I crooned, looking up into Pierre's freckle-framed blue eyes. "Roll me over, lay me down and do it again."




Taralee's First Time Ch. 03



So he did. And it was first-time wonderful. 

For the first time we romped in the warm grass having sex minus the hassles of prophylactics of any kind ... skin to skin at last! For both of us the sensation was sensuous, sexy, loving, languid, lasting, insanely erotic and beautifully blissful. No one could see us in the glade at the bottom of that hill unless they were skilled Peeping Toms, and somehow being outdoors naked and into each other (literally) naked, was the most exquisite lovemaking either of us ever experienced. My heart still leaps, just thinking about it today.

The last day of school came at last. Hot as Hades, as D.C. can be in early June. The seniors were collecting signatures on their yearbooks and the realization came like a bolt from the blue: my junior year was done and next fall I'd be a senior, on tenterhooks waiting for the hoped-for, longed-for — but so frightening — acceptance letter from "the college of my choice" ... or not. My grades had stayed resolutely lousy (I'd studied, yes, but George had been one hell of a distraction) and I'd be lucky to get into my "safety school," not the liberal arts college I'd had my heart set on.

To celebrate, the seniors and seniors-to-be arranged a trip to the beach. Rehoboth was on the Delaware coast, so we drove in a convoy of cars and vans across the old Chesapeake Bay Bridge and across the flatlands to the shore. A lazy Atlantic swell splashed onto the strand and as soon as we'd parked the van we dropped our towels and raced across the burning sand and into the warm, salty waves. 

I had Pierre's daring leopard-skin swimsuit under my cutoff jeans and shapeless t-shirt. The moment I shucked them I saw his eyes widen and the front of his red trunks bulge. A couple of guys in my class who'd never got past my absence of makeup and virginal white school blouses did double-takes and as I ran I heard a couple of wolf-whistles. My nipples responded to them, and the caresses of the stretchy leopard-print fabric, by jutting out hungrily. The suit fit like a second skin and the boys could see the outline of my bush between the high cutaway thighs, and I suddenly felt as if I were running across the sand nude. I could feel my blush spread from my face to my neck and down the plunging neckline between my bouncing breasts. 

My embarrassment eased when we got to the water. Pierre and I joined a long line of happy high schoolers holding hands as we ran until we were waist deep and dove in, splashing each other and laughing insanely.

It was heaven. After a few minutes the crowd spread out and we found ourselves a few yards from a group of girls squealing noisily ... we were alone in the crowd. Amid the melee Pierre grabbed me, lifted me in the buoyant salt water, and kissed me. Saltily. Our tongues met. My hand slid down his tight belly and into his swimsuit as he grabbed the cheeks of my ass — oh, that sleek, stretchy nylon felt soooo sexy as his hands glided over my curves in the warm waves.

I reached down, loosened his trunks and set his hard cock free. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled the crotch of my suit to one side and impaled myself on his gorgeous penis and let the buoyant rhythm of the waves slide him in and out, in and out, in and out. We had a lazy, long-lasting fuck, lolling in the waves as the other kids had noisy water fights around us. Neither of us climaxed, but goodness it felt wonderful, we were like two sea creatures gasping, kissing, making love in the bosom of the ocean. 

A couple of days later I picked a huge fight with Pierre. 

I hadn't meant to, but my emotions were swirling. Ken had gone away to the Cape and who knows when I'd see him again, my period had just started, and I was packing for Vermont. Pierre was insecure, angry at a bit of harmless flirting I'd done with another boy, Tony, in the van on the way back from the beach, worrying about what would happen this summer between us — and between Danny and me — and desperately afraid he'd lose me forever when he want away to college in September. 

I blew up. Though I was the one who secretly wanted security and to know that Pierre would always be there, I lit into him angrily, telling he needed to live his own life and not depend on me and I couldn't be his touchstone and if he was so goddam insecure he should just get the hell out of my life and stand on his own two fucking feet. 

Pale with shock, he backed toward the door, reached behind him and let himself out. I was still yelling, tears running down my cheeks, my face red with fury, anger choking my voice. 

"Get out! Now! Just get out!"

I slammed the door on him. And collapsed, wracked with regret so bitter it tasted like iron in my throat. When Mom got home from work she found me pounding my fists on the floor and sobbing, "No! No! No!"

God, what had I done?

Gently, she sat down beside me and gradually wormed the story out of me. She rocked me soothingly in her arms till the hysteria ebbed, and in her warm embrace I realized that she was still the lodestone of my life, my rudder through the treacherous shoals of teenagehood, the person I loved most in the world. How lucky I was!

To be continued...



Taralee's First Time Ch. 04



Summer arrived, and Washington was in a ferment. Civil rights protests in the South were in the news and Lyndon Johnson was taking on the Ku Klux Klan, while antiwar professors were taking on the President over his escalation of the Vietnam conflict. And dog lovers were still up in arms over the photo of him the year before, lifting his beagle Him by the ears.

I finished packing for my six weeks as a mother's helper in Vermont, and dreamed of Danny. 

Mom was gently angling to have me make up with Pierre, with whom I'd had a terrible fight days after our trip to the beach in Delaware, but I wasn't biting. I knew she adored him, and even my gruff, sardonic dad had warmed to him. The same dad whose rules and rough manner had driven off any number of my older sister's would-be boyfriends (she was now engaged, after three years away at college) and who had terrified most of the high school boys who'd ever even considered dating me. My grumpy dad liked Pierre so much that he lent him the '54 Ford for a couple of weeks while he got settled into his summer job, at a lab in Bethesda, Maryland.

I sulked in my room when Pierre came over, talking excitedly about his job. I could hear my parents laughing out loud when he talked about how he got to wear a white lab coat — with a pocket protector, for crying out loud. He thanked my dad profusely for the loan of the car. The station wagon in which Pierre and I had surrendered our virginity to each other. That seemed so long ago to me, pouting in the attic. 

A couple of days later I was on the Greyhound, grinding its way through the Appalachian Mountains on the twenty-hour trip to Burlington, where I'd be picked up by the family I was working for.

Danny! Just the thought that he was close by fired my imagination, and my wanting him burned in my belly and moistened my panties. 

I was crazy about that boy. 

I was so distracted that after a few days the mother I was working for sat me down for a "serious talk." My work was sloppy, the floors barely mopped, the dishes were piling up in the sink, the toilets weren't cleaned and the beds weren't made. What was the matter with me? The children were unkempt, their laundry piling up in the hampers. Was I feeling alright?

Frankly, no. I was lovesick. 

I had cold sweats. I had hot sweats. I could literally taste how badly I wanted Danny — the salt of his skin after he'd worked up a sweat hauling logs to build corduroy roads through swampy stretches of the trail, the metallic taste of the heavy-duty mosquito repellent he used, the smokiness of the palm of his hand I kissed after he'd built a campfire ... Every moment of every day my nerves were jangling. Gone were any thoughts of Pierre. Who? Gone was my lust for Ken. What? Gone was any memory of George. What old guy?

My period came and I was doubled over with cramps. My employer got so worried by my lackadaisical manner that she called my mom. Long distance! (That was a big, big deal in those days. Such calls were usually reserved for deaths in the family, emergency hospitalizations, that sort of stuff.) They chatted for a while, and I heard a lot of, "Yes. I see ... Really? Ahhhh." 

Then I was beckoned to the phone. Mom's orders: Shape up, Taralee. But she was understanding. She'd figured out pretty quickly that I was nineteen so it must be a boy problem. But she misdiagnosed it as regret over my break-up with Pierre — she did her best to console me over the phone with minor news about how well his job was going and that he was helping my dad restore an old canoe that had sat for years in our yard. Jeesh; like I wanted to know all that. But I promised her I'd buckle down to work, and I did.

I became the household drudge I was hired to be. I washed and cleaned and minded the kids and did the laundry ... and finally, I had a whole day off, the same day Danny did. 

I hiked up to last summer's hut, to the clearing where he'd stood in that photo that had teased me from the frame of my mirror in my wonderful old house with squirrels in the attic, the picture with lush greenery surrounding him that thawed the bitter winds of the Washington winter whistling in the eaves outside my room, while my heart yearned for summer, and Vermont, and him.

I broke into the clearing and whistled, low and sweet ...

And there he was, in the flesh! Just as I'd pictured him all winter: dark curly hair, shaggier than last summer, big white smile, shadow of a beard, tan a bit deeper than I remembered, shoulders a bit broader in a sweat-stained army shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, wide leather belt holding up khaki shorts (very short, ooooh!) that were a size too large, strong thighs, a bit of black hair on his calves disappearing into gray woolen work socks, scuffed tan work boots. He'd just turned twenty, a year older than me. 

I dashed across the clearing and threw myself, literally, into his arms. He caught me, laughing, and swept me off my feet, twirling round and round. My heart was racing.

This was the moment! Together. At last.

I nestled against him and he kissed me softly, slowly. His manly smell mingled with the pine spice floating in the air, with the wildflowers blooming in the glade, with the faint whiff of last weekend's campfire. My breasts, crushed against his chest, could feel his heartbeat. My belly thrummed against his, and my shorts were stretched tight between my hypersensitive labia. Revelling in the strength of his arms holding me, I slipped off a shoe and rubbed my foot up and down the flesh of his leg, marveling at how erotic the hair and skin and sinews and muscles were, warmed by the sun, and how they made me love him more with every touch. 

He put me down and held me away, his big hands on my shoulders, and gazed into my eyes.

"I love you," I croaked, my voice hoarse with desire. "I want to make love to you."

"Yes! But first, Taralee ... 

"I want you to be my wife."

My heart missed a beat. So much had happened since last summer's awkward puppy love. 

His words hung between us, like glittering icicles stubbornly refusing to melt in the summer heat. I shivered involuntarily.

My mouth was dry.

"No, Danny. There's no reason to wait. 

"You won't be my first ..." 

There. I'd said it. 

The hand that had been squeezing my heart for months loosened its grip. For a moment.

Then my heart sank. It was as if Danny's glow faded before my eyes. He was still smiling, but the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, those tiny creases that I'd dreamed of on lonely nights and in boring trigonometry classes, the happiness lines that told me he loved me ... vanished. 

Stunned, I realized those five little words, my self-serving honesty, had crushed the hopes and plans that had lived inside him, kept him warm during the long winter nights. They'd somehow erased from his mental blackboard a year's calculations of a life of happiness together.

"I'm sorry, Danny. So sorry ..."

His eyes glittered and he turned away. His shoulders tight, his fists clenched. Then slowly he rubbed his face with his palms.

Silence.

Clouds crossed the sun and the glade seemed suddenly cool. A summer shower spattered on the leaves and dripped through the verdant canopy overhead. He shrugged and led the way to the hut.

I didn't know what more to say. We sat inside, the rain drumming softly on the roof. I went over, put my arms around him, held him close. No reaction.

I told him I loved him. Nothing. 

"Do you want me to tell you?" 

"No."

I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, hug him, nuzzle my face in his neck, kiss him better. But his silence held me back.

After what seemed like an hour, he said he'd call the house in a couple of days, and we'd get together next time I had a day off. I nodded. He got up and shuffled into the misty afternoon, a picture of dejection.

There were no horseback rides that summer. Danny had bought an old Volkswagen convertible, and it rattled and coughed through the hills on his days off. True to his word, he came to pick me up the next week. We met up with four of his friends at one of the mountain huts and partied.

It was like that every week: There was always a campfire, a guitar, potato chips, and beer. Always beer.

The six of us would neck around the fire, then one couple and then the other would disappear quietly into the woods. In the circle of firelight Danny would kiss me hard, and crudely squeeze my chest. Sometimes he put his hands inside my shirt, and felt me up. Once or twice he nibbled my nipples, without any real enthusiasm. 

I'd be squirming by then, wanting so badly for him to touch my wetness, to caress my clit, to take me, no matter how roughly. Anything to show me he still loved me. 

I'd rub the bulge in his shorts, start to unbuckle his belt ... but he'd turn away with a shake of his head, walk round the fire and crack another beer. 

Danny seemed to be drinking more and more. Most nights I'd have to drive us back to the place I worked, with Danny humming in the passenger seat, or slumped over morosely, or passed out. I'd park out on the quiet dirt road in front of the house, leave the keys in the Beetle, and wake up at dawn hearing it start up, idle roughly for a few moments, and lurch away spinning its tires as he popped the clutch angrily.

Later on I got so frustrated I'd yank open my tan army shirt, pull down my khaki shorts in the driver's seat, spread my knees and expose my breasts and boiling cunt to the cool night air. I'd grab Danny's hand and use it to rub my bush and my clitoris. But he was oblivious, passed out drunk, and I just got hornier and hornier without reaching anywhere near a climax. 

I nearly cried the night Mick Jagger came on the Beetle's crackly radio, singing I can't get no satisfaction as I frictioned myself futilely with my erstwhile lover's limp fingers.

Anger was surging inside me: at Danny's drinking — I started to hate the smell of beer — at my inability to melt through the frosty shell he'd built — he froze me out whenever I tried to make friends or apologize — at his friends off fucking merrily in the woods within earshot, the goddam girls yelping like foxes and the boys groaning like bears as they spurted their hot semen. While I wasn't getting a drop of action. 

I worked my hands raw scouring my employer's pots and pans, down on my hands and knees scrubbing the old cottage's bare wood floors, dressing the kids (toddler to eight-year-old), doing the laundry ... hell, I even started gardening, for crying out loud. Anything to blank out my fury and frustration. 

This summer — Danny, goddamit — wasn't supposed to turn out like this.

At least in my fantasies.

There were a couple more nights around the fire with the gang, but they all ended the same way: me driving home, Danny more or less dead drunk, and me frustrated and furious. 

And suddenly, time was up. In a few days, I'd be on the bus back to D.C. I hadn't been able to get through to Danny, to make amends. I knew I'd stabbed him deeply by admitting that I was no longer a virgin, but I hadn't known, in 1965, that it still mattered so much — at least to some men.

But I wasn't going to let the summer go by without ... Well.

It was our last night in the woods. Boxes of beer were stacked beside the hut. The six of us sat around the fire, admiring the column of flame soaring into the clearing and watching the sparks dance with the few stars that shone through the eclipsing mist. A shower soon soaked us but no one cared. Conversation faded into contemplation, then the first couple disappeared into the shadows. Then the second.

I'd brought a sleeping bag, which I unrolled just beyond the radius of the firelight. Gently I enticed Danny into the shadows. He sat, hugging his knees. Sulking. I whispered, as best I could, "sweet nothings" into his ear. He grabbed me and ripped open my canvas shirt — hell, those were a few buttons well spent, I thought — but after a quick feel he jumped up and disappeared. I heard him urinating like a horse close by (god, even that got my cunt juices flowing) then his unsteady footsteps headed back to the hut and he returned with three open beers. 

I took a couple of sips of the one he handed me while he guzzled one in a single gulp, then started on the second. I put my hand on his arm but he angrily pushed it away, finished the second beer, then jumped to his feet and lurched toward the cases stacked beside the hut.

From the darkness I could see him down another beer and another, then a third — most of which dribbled down the front of his shirt. Fury and despair chased each other across my emotions, until he staggered back and sat heavily on my sleeping bag. He had two more beers in each hand. Open.

His side of the ensuing conversation was monosyllabic at best. 

"Our last night ..." "Yeah, s'what?" "You don't want me to remember you like this ..." "S'matter?" "I love you, remember? Once, you said you wanted to marry me ..." "Yeah?" "Do you really hate me so much?" "Dunno. Drunk, I guess."

Then he passed out.

At first, my mothering instincts kicked in. I was about to roll his inert form into the sleeping bag when he peed himself. Jesus, I thought. But I undid his belt and peeled off his shorts and underwear and, what the hell, his shirt. Unzipped the sleeping bag and rolled him onto it. Naked. Covered him up.

What now? I wondered. I was too angry to leave him here, though that was the best he deserved. Nope. Adrenaline-driven, I knew what I was going to do. 

I returned to the circle of firelight, but both the other couples were still in the woods. I warmed myself by the fire, still furious, and returned to Danny, snoring in the sleeping bag.

Sonofabitch, I said to myself (it was one of my dad's favourite epithets when things weren't going well). I shook him. Groans. Snoring again.

I ripped away the cover and looked at him. And melted: His dark curls were wet with sweat. His strong arms lay akimbo. His flat, muscled belly led my eyes down to the black curls around his flaccid penis, its thick head dark in the dim light. His strong, muscled legs were splayed. 

My body reacted instantly: nipples erect, clitoris hard, labia swollen, vagina dripping.

I was helpless: how was I going to achieve this?

I leaned over, closing my hand around his cock, and squeezed. Nothing. 

Tentatively, I kissed his penis. I opened my lips. I touched my tongue to the tip. 

Overcoming my initial aversion, I took his glans in my mouth. I ran my tongue down his soft shaft, and felt a tiny shiver of life. I lifted his balls ... another shiver. I licked the underside of his cockhead, then closed my lips around his shaft and sucked gently. Another shiver. I sucked harder, and there was a bit more life.

After a few minutes of resuscitation, I thought I was making progress.

I took a breath and shook him awake. 

"Whaaa ...?"

Fuelled by anger now, I held his face in my hands and glared at him: "Danny? Danny? Do you like this? Do you like having your cock sucked? Do you?

"Tell me now: Are you queer? Do you like boys better than girls? — tell me now and I'll walk right out of your goddam life and you'll never hear from me again, okay?"

"No. Nooo ..." His eyes rolled back and his head lolled and he flopped on the sleeping bag.

"Goddamit, Danny!" I realized he'd passed out again.

Shit! I stood over him, shed my now buttonless shirt, pulled off my shorts and panties (leaving my hiking boots on) and — in my fury — wrapped the flimsy cotton panties around his cock and balls, knotted them tight and stomped away nude, to see if any of his buddies were still fucking in the woods. 

'Cuz I wanted a hard cock right now — any cock, girlfriends be damned.

No luck.

My search proving fruitless, I came back to Danny's inert form just as the soft rain started again. Ditching my boots, I crawled naked and shivering into the sleeping bag and zipped it up. 

Peeking out, I could see the rain-soaked bag steaming in the last of the firelight. Danny was passed out, but Taralee was wide awake and horny as hell. I turned to face him, rubbing my breasts against him and pulling his inert cock. Nothing.

Okay. I unzipped the bag to give me room and crouched over his cock. Suck. Suck more. Suck even more ... ahhh, he's not dead. I licked and sucked, licked and sucked, licked and sucked, and finally, after an hour's hard work: The Resurrection of the Flesh!

His penis wasn't unusually long or thick, but it had a lovely, triangular head: totally sufficient for my needs. Though he was still only semi-conscious, I was raring to go and rolled him onto his back and jumped aboard. Ow! I was by now so angry my cunt was dry and the blunt head of his cock hurt when I tried to push it in.

I spat in my hand several times and rubbed my spittle roughly over his glans to moisten it. 

I had to keep rubbing his shaft to keep him hard but once I straddled him and got his phallus into me, although he was semi-conscious, his autonomic nervous system was ready to make babies (thank goodness for The Pill). 

And just as the first blush of dawn lit the eastern sky, I finally made a man of Danny.

It was my first angry sex.

He groaned, semi-conscious, as his penis fountained gouts of hot ejaculate into my willing cunt.

"Wait ... wait! Not yet, goddam you!" I yelled to the heavens as he started to soften. I clamped my hand around his cock and balls, squeezing them in a vise grip to keep him erect as I rode him hard, sliding back and forth with my stone-hard clit clawing against his virgin stiffness as it pushed in and out of me. He hardened again till I reached a shuddering, fireworks-spouting climax. I could feel him still growing and quivering until he matched the continuing spasms of my tight cunt with another huge load spurting into me, on and on and on until I felt that my spread legs astride his balls were swimming in an ocean of our mingled fragrant fluids ... and I finally collapsed on his chest. 

We slept in each others arms, soggy sleeping bag be damned, until the sun was high in the sky and the brush was steaming around us. 

I woke, groggy, to Danny staring into my eyes. "Shhhsh," he said. "Don't say a word."

I didn't, but I could see the love in his eyes. 

I felt inadequate: His love to my lust; such an unequal equation.

We untangled ourselves, grabbed our sopping clothes. Embarrassed, we got dressed and rolled up the sleeping bag, reeking with our mingled juices; we left it in the campsite garbage can. 

"I'll drive you to the bus next week," he said; I nodded and headed downhill. At the first turn in the trail, I looked back. He stood, framed in the golden glow of a Green Mountain morning mist. My heart leapt. He waved.

I trudged down the trail.

That evening, the phone rang at the cottage. "Danny says he'll drive you to Burlington?" my employer asked. Okay, I nodded.

A couple of days later, my suitcases packed, he picked me up in the Beetle.

It was an hour's drive. We held hands but hardly talked. At the bus station, he stared deep into my eyes. After the trivialities of parting — I was headed back to high school, he to his freshman year at an Ivy League university — he started to talk about us ...

"Don't," I said, laying my finger softly across his lips. "Don't make promises you can't keep. 

"And I won't make promises I can't keep."

I could see the pain in his eyes.

To be continued 



Taralee's First Time Ch. 05



I dozed fitfully on the 20-hour overnight bus ride home from Vermont to D.C., disturbed by scary dreams I couldn't remember when a bump would jerk me awake, and tears of regret about how I'd let Danny down. Mom picked me up from the bus depot, fed me warm soup and put me to bed, where I stayed pretty well round the clock. She was always my best friend.

Pierre phoned the next afternoon and I agreed, reluctantly, to him coming over. Truthfully, I dreaded seeing him. The last night with Danny at the hut was a raw memory, and I was still distraught about the hurt I'd caused both of them. I just couldn't face the sadness or anger I was sure was coming: my obsession with Danny had been so all-consuming that I'd barely thought of Pierre the entire summer. 

An hour later I called him back, fibbed that I was unwell and made vague promises to see him in a couple of days.

Mom kept me busy shopping. At nineteen, I was too old to have my mom buy me school clothes, but I was grateful that she took a half day from her busy work schedule so I could spend it with the person I loved most in the world. Though I was mortified when she took me to the women's undergarments department at Woodward and Lothrop's, she was firm. I'd put on weight, and a lot of it was in the bust (I breathed a silent thank-you to The Pill) and my B-cup bras were not only worn out, they were, in her words, "indecent, with you spilling out all over the place." She bought me five pretty brassieres, 34C. Looking back, they lasted me right through the bra-burning years of the late Sixties!

We got home late on the humid summer D.C. afternoon, made a quick meal and took it out on the shady front porch to eat. Mom smiled when a snazzy Mustang pulled up in front of the house just as we finished. 

My jaw dropped when Pierre got out!

He grinned, leapt up the steps to the porch, bent down and kissed my mom and shyly took my hand. My heart was thudding in my throat. I didn't know whether I was ecstatically happy or furious, specially when I looked at mom and realized she was part of the conspiracy. Pierre sat down, and mom went into the house to rustle up dessert. 

Awkward silence. 

I was tongue-tied. Emotions raged through me — happiness at seeing him, regret for our fight in June, sorrow for not writing him even him a postcard all summer, guilt for my transgressions with Danny, realization that I was still in love with Pierre, and a despairing hope that somehow he could mend things between us. 

My face must've reflected what I was feeling; he watched me in silence, concern knitting his brow.

Mom came back in the nick of time, carrying three bowls of vanilla ice cream laced with Hershey's syrup, Pierre's favorite, and brightened up the moment. Gradually the ice between us thawed and I asked him about the shiny car, the hottest, sexiest ride of the time. He chuckled: A friend at the lab where he'd worked was out of town for a few days, and to Pierre's delight, had lent him the Mustang. He'd been tooling around town enjoying the girls' stares and hoots. 

"Want a ride?" he asked. 

"Really? May I?"

I practically skipped to the sidewalk and caressed the bodywork, its rosy beige paint glowing incandescent in the setting sun. He held the door and I sank into the cream-color bucket seat. Who said girls can't fall for sexy cars?

We drove off into the warm dusk, windows open, radio blaring "Ticket to Ride," "California Girls," "Mr. Tambourine Man" ... when the Stones' "Satisfaction" came on, Pierre reached past the shifter and lightly caressed my knee, laughing. The effect was electric. The memory of the summer's frustration boiled up and I burst into tears. At the same time, I was suddenly aware that my nipples were hard and my panties were wet. I wasn't ready for this, and instinctively clamped my legs shut. Pierre pulled his hand away with a frown and concentrated hard on his driving, though there wasn't much traffic.

As it got dark, the radio filled in our silence. Then I reached down and turned it off.

I'd been thinking of the words of Kahil Gibran — one of Pierre's advanced-placement teachers had given him The Prophet in June, and back then (it seemed like a lifetime ago) we'd read the poems together, he from his new volume, I from the dog-eared copy I'd had for as long as I could remember.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

... let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

I knew the words by heart, and murmured them into the warm darkness as Pierre wheeled the Mustang around and drove slowly, reluctantly home. Tears burned down my cheeks and he stared straight ahead, wordless in the powerful presence of poetry.

He pulled up in front of my house.

Thank goodness he had the sense to shut the engine off and wait. When he walked around to open my door, I was shaking. He reached down and helped me up, and stood close. I looked up into his eyes, dark in the wan streetlight. They glittered with unshed tears. I leaned into him and he wrapped his arms around me. Our lips brushed lightly.

"Come inside," I whispered. 

Mom was reading in the living room. She smiled, closed her book, said a quiet goodnight and climbed the creaky stairs of that warm, wonderful house with the squirrels in the attic that meant so much to me, offered me so much security in a storm-tossed world. 

We were both feeling fragile, I think. I sat on the couch; Pierre sidled over to the easy chair till I patted the seat beside me. He sat down. Stiff, remote, looking uncomfortable.

There was no easy small talk to make. 

"Danny?" It was more statement than question.

I nodded. He sighed, slump-shouldered, and looked away. 

"But ..." What could I say? Unburdening myself to Danny had been disastrous. Would telling Pierre result in the same thing? I'd ruined my dream, my summer idyll. Should I risk repeating that mistake?

I'd been brought up that "honesty is the best policy." But the repercussions now seemed more complex than I could handle. And this wasn't a situation I was prepared to ask my mom to untangle. How much had she told my dad about that count with the Heidelberg saber scar, anyway? And how had he reacted? I wish I'd asked.

"... Do you really want to know?"

"No ... But tell me anyway. We're going to be apart this fall and who knows what will happen."

So I told him, as gently as I could. 

His jaw tightened. Clouds of pain crossed his face as I whispered. And afterward, his tears mingled with mine as he held my face in both hands and kissed me softly.

He moved away, as if to go.

"Don't leave now, on this note," I pleaded.

We held each other there on the couch, shivering, and warming each other with our bodies.

Eventually the inevitable happened. Our tongues touched. Our hunger grew. 

Before I knew it my blouse was open, the shoulder straps of my bra — one of the new, pretty ones — slipped off. Pierre was nuzzling my breasts, suckling my nipples, licking my belly, lifting my skirt. I pulled my panties off and fumbled with his belt and yanked off his pants and gasped as he spread my lips and entered my willing wetness. We wrestled for the right position, falling off the couch, laughing as quietly as we could. I straddled his glorious hardness, his palms reached up to fondle my breasts. He rolled me over and thrust into me, pounding me hard. I bucked and he moved up, his balls between my breasts as I slurped on his cock, then rolled him over and legs wide spread, slid up to give him his first real taste of my cunt. 

"Sorry," he gasped as he fished a couple of hairs from between his teeth, then slid his tongue back into me and licked — he was a quick learner — then closed his lips round my erect clitoris and sucked me till the fireworks began to explode and I slid myself back and impaled myself on his gorgeous cock and it hit my special spot and we gasped together in the throes of our simultaneous spasms.

"Oh shit," he said, chuckling, as our breathing slowed. There was a wet spot the size of Chesapeake Bay on the carpet. Trying not to wake mom and dad in the room above us, we giggled as we mopped up my juice and his jizz as best we could with towels.

I tucked him into bed in the guest room at the other end of the hall from mom and dad's room. "Oh Taralee, I do love you so much." I held him tight, my heart nearly bursting with happiness, then leaned over for a last, sleepy goodnight kiss before creeping up the creaky stairs to my attic room. I woke up as soon as I heard mom moving around, and told her Pierre was in the guest room so she steered dad straight down to breakfast and off to work. She went with him.

As soon as the house was quiet I dashed upstairs, stripped off my nightgown and crept onto the bed where Pierre was sleeping. Straddling him gently, I kissed him awake. As our tongues twined, I pushed my hips down across his belly. Shared breath. Morning light in an east-facing room. Humid late-summer air. Bodies glistening with sweat. Him inside me. The rhythm of life. His hips making small, powerful circles. Who did he learn that from? Hell, who cares? Don't stop. Please don't stop! Now! I'm getting close! His calves pin my ankles to the mattress as he lifts his hips up. My clit, his pubic hair. Yes! Indescribably delicious friction. Yes, yes! My cunt clamps around his cock. His hands seize my hips. He thrusts up ... again ... again ... fireworks and ... Oh shit! Oh yes! Oh! Oh! Oh! ... Ahhhhhhhh! 

The sun was high in the sky when we woke up. Pierre headed home to pack and I threw the fragrant sheets and last night's towel into the wash: even my very liberal mom didn't need to know those details.

On Saturday, my dad helped Pierre load our old canoe, with her fresh green paint and new varnish, on top of the '54 Ford, and we set off for her maiden voyage. She was blooming, sort of like our affair. Forgiveness and love can be like new paint, repairing — or at least masking — the scratches and dings of wear and tear and bad decisions.

A couple of hours drive and we stopped beside a quiet meander of the Shenandoah River. I stripped off my cutoffs; I still felt daring in the leopard-skin bathing suit Pierre had given me for my birthday. I filled the top out better now, and the stretchy fabric felt sexy and made my nipples stuck out. Pierre wore a soft old tan army shirt my dad had given him (yes, they always turned me on) and faded Bermuda shorts. We launched the canoe, crawled aboard and paddled away. 

It was a glorious late-August day, hot and humid with the sun beating down through a light haze. I squealed when he splashed me with his paddle, though the water was almost blood-warm. We paddled upstream against the lazy current for a while, then let the old canoe drift when we started to make out. 

"A real Canadian knows how to make love in a canoe," Pierre boasted with broad grin. "Why d'ya think I helped your dad with this every weekend?" 

"Yeah? Ever fuck in a canoe then, wise guy?"

"Not yet ..."

I popped my breasts out of the stretchy suit and turned sideways on the bow seat, cupping them in my hands and pushing up to tease him with my already stiff nipples. He lay on his back in the middle of the canoe, unzipped his shorts and pulled them to his knees. No underwear. Handsome hard-on. 

"Spoons?" I wriggled under the thwarts to lie with my ass against him, pulled the leopard-skin nylon crotch to one side, grabbed his cock and guided it between my slippery lips. 

"Mmmm!" He slipped in almost all the way. A couple of strokes and I felt his balls slap the backs of my thighs.

The sun beat down lazily. Little ripples splashed against the stern of the canoe, propelling us downstream. We fucked languidly, his cock pulling almost all the way out so the bottom lip of his head tweaked my clit, then sliding in, stretching my G-spot and reaching all the way to touch my cervix. I quivered with anticipation. Every stroke sent electric shocks surging through me. "Slowly, slowly," I gasped as his hands gripped my waist tighter and mine tightened involuntarily on the gunwale.

We moved faster, urgently. The canoe rocked dangerously.

"Wait ..." I pulled away, reluctantly. There was just space between us to pop his rod out of my dripping cunt. "On top." I wriggled under him in the unstable boat: there was barely room under the thwarts for our chests, but with my legs spread wide in missionary position and my ankles on the gunwales his ass was free to move up and down in the space between the thwarts. 

I stared up at his blue eyes, just inches from mine, closed my eyes and kissed him. He was moving inside me, quicker now, my climax starting as he slammed into me ...

Then ... laughter. Men's. A cool shadow on my skin. My eyes jerked open in horror.

Omigod! 

We were drifting under the metal lattice of a bridge. Three leering rednecks stood a few feet above us.

"Give it to 'er, boy!" "Fuck that bitch good!" "Maybe that tight cunt would like this here pecker after your'n!" "Mine too! I'll show yuh a good time, baby!" "This here big'un would stretch that young pussy of her'n but good!" "Pull over t' the side of th' river an' us three'll fill that college cunt with strong hillbilly spunk!"

Their dungarees were open and they were jerking their cocks as they watched us drift helplessly. One held an enormous engorged penis, bigger than I'd imagined possible; my vagina spasmed uncontrollably around Pierre's and I climaxed with a gasp of fear, horror and — dare I say it? — lust. As the canoe floated on, the one with the huge hard-on dashed to the downstream side of the bridge, jerking furiously and shooting gobs of ropy semen that splashed in the water inches from my wide-spread legs. 

The good ole' boys laughed so hard they doubled over as we extricated ourselves from our tangle beneath the thwarts, grabbed our paddles and sent the canoe shooting toward the next bend. Pierre kept us in the middle of the Shenandoah, well away from the banks. But we realized we'd drifted way past the car, and would have to paddle upstream and beneath the bridge to get back.

I was shivering with fright, and something else, at the thought of being raped by those yahoos. But as we turned the canoe around there was a crunch of tires on gravel and a short honk. As we peeked round the bend we saw a state trooper's blue-and-grey Ford with its slowly flashing cherry on top, stopped on the bridge. He was out of the car, Stetson at a jaunty angle, talking to the good ole' boys. All four waved cheerfully as we paddled underneath.

We hoisted the canoe onto the Ford, tied it down and hightailed it out of there. Distance diluted the adrenaline and by the time we got back to D.C. we were snorting hysterically at our adventure. 

"You two obviously had fun — amazing what a couple of scrapers, a coat of paint and a pot of fresh varnish can do to an old canoe, isn't it?" My gruff old dad seemed genuinely pleased that his summer project seemed to have lifted his daughter's post-Vermont blues and brought her so much laughter. 

And then the inevitable day came: Pierre was off to college. 

His mom was kind enough to drive past my house in her Ford Falcon wagon, groaning with suitcases, boxes and a trunk in the back and a rolled-up carpet on the roof, before they lit out for the Midwest. (Apparently the dorm rules required students to provide a rug to keep the noise down in the rooms.) It was a bright, warm morning, and Pierre was wearing tan slacks and a white, short-sleeved shirt for the all-day drive. He got out and hugged me tight for a long time, gave me a very genteel — mom-approved — kiss, got in the car and waved gaily as they pulled away. I stood waving as he looked back, trying to smile through the tears coursing down my face.

I was late for the first day of my senior year at high school.

There was the usual rush: trying to find our new homeroom, checking out books, checking in with the guidance counsellor, figuring out our schedules, meeting new teachers, reuniting with old acquaintances, catching up on summer adventures, realizing that the clique of bitchy girls was in my gym class and I'd have to shower with them, ogling the senior football team jogging around the field, riding the bus home with my best friend Jess, hearing about her summer romance, telling her about the disaster with Danny in Vermont.

The first couple of weeks was a blur, then the grind set in. 

Not only was I struggling with calculus, home-ec, physics, civics and history (thank goodness for the one period of sanity I had, courtesy of the fantastic teacher in my advanced English class), but I was really feeling the pressure of getting into college. Mom drove me to visit the campus where my sister was now a junior, and I ordered admissions packages from Pierre's college (oh please yes, please!) and a couple of "safety schools" — good colleges with less famous names and easier admission standards.

My mom spent an hour with me most nights, first sifting through the brochures, then helping me choose and rank my choices, deciding which teachers to ask for recommendation letters, helping fill out the applications and proof-reading my admissions forms and essays (and writing the checks that went with them), and finally stuffing the four big brown envelopes to which I entrusted my future.

Now all I had to do was wait ... three months for early admissions results, another six weeks for regular admissions, then if I hadn't been accepted — God forbid — an indefinite, nail-biting period to see if a waiting-list spot opened up.

After that flurry, I had time to babysit George's kids a couple of evenings when he took Virginia out to the symphony or ballet — well paid work, but nothing more. 

I admit I tried to peer through the dark mirror I'd noticed last spring, but I couldn't see anything. And I snuck a look at the big square box of Fourex prophylactics in their little blue plastic containers. It was more than half-empty. 

Which made me horny.

To be continued ...



Taralee's First Time Ch. 06



College applications, courses, occasional babysitting: The daily grind of a high school senior in 1965.

There was one distraction, more of an annoyance really. A boy in a couple of my classes, Tony, seemed to have taken a shine to me. He'd chatted with me a couple of times last year, and flirted in the van on the way back from the beach last June — which in part precipitated my fight with Pierre. Now he'd started calling me after school once a week.

He was nineteen too, dark-hair cropped short, a bit taller than me, average weight. Not ugly but not a stand-out, either. And shy. Really shy. We'd talk about school, sometimes about what was going on in America and the world.

Once he took me to a movie and clumsily tried to feel my breasts.

After that he started calling a couple of times a week, then every other day. He was starting to bug me, and I told him to cool it. He backed off. For a while.

Amid the swirl of classes and the stress of college prep courses, the only thing that kept me sane was music. Jess was taking guitar lessons and lent me her old autoharp. I resolved to learn the complicated string instrument and got sheet music for some wonderful Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and Peter, Paul and Mary folk songs. The discipline of an hour practicing every day grounded me.

Everything seemed to be on an even keel when what I'd been dreading happened.

I'd been writing to Pierre three or four times a week. Events and emotion skittered all over the numbered pages in different sized letters and diverse colors of ink in my fanciful italic handwriting.

(I was getting mail from Danny, too, away at his Ivy League university, professing his rekindled affection and his regret at how badly he'd treated me all summer and would I forgive him and could I reconsider because he still loved me and wanted to marry me when we finished college ... I'm embarrassed to admit, looking back, that I answered most of those letters without ever working up the gumption to tell him how impossible his dream was, and how spectacularly unsuited I was to be his wife.)

Pierre's letters described his life on campus, the courses he liked and the few he didn't, how much he was enjoying a French reading course, how much he missed me, how he looked forward to Thanksgiving — he was saving up to take the bus to Washington to visit, and was there any chance I could come up there to visit him, too?

He was, in his words, rather "impecunious" so when the phone rang one evening and my mom beckoned me, silently mouthing the word "Pierre" with her hand over the mouthpiece, I knew it couldn't be good news.

He was in a cramped booth in the lobby of his impersonal freshman dorm, feeding quarters and dimes into the phone. He sounded over-excited, his words tumbling out. In a couple of minutes he'd run out of small talk. He told me how much he missed me. I said I missed him, too.

"I met someone at Orientation ..." There was a pause. She was cute, reminded him of me. She was sexy, reminded him of me. She was a virgin with long, dark hair and apple-shaped breasts ... she liked him, and they had sex in the woods one sunny afternoon. He regretted it. She regretted it. They did it again. And regretted it again. They hitchhiked together to visit her divorced mother in another Ohio college town. Since they couldn't sleep together at her mom's, they snuggled in a sleeping bag in the town's park. And fucked to keep warm ...

The night he called, they'd had sex under the stars in the college big quadrangle, he said, and he'd told her he was calling it quits. "I felt so empty, Taralee. Making love was okay, but the hollowness ... I felt as if I was somewhere far away, up among those distant blue stars looking down, watching our tiny figures go through the motions ... I miss you so much."

"Taralee?"

Cold fingers had wrapped themselves around my heart and my throat was so tight that when my words finally came out, they were only a tiny squeak into the phone.

"Pierre, I think you've learned the emptiness of sex without love ..."

I couldn't tell him how well I knew what that felt like. Ever.

There wasn't much more to say except goodbye. I didn't know whether I'd see him at Thanksgiving, or ever again. Mom knocked gently, and came back into the living room.

"Are you all right, Taralee?"

She glanced at the droplets running down my cheeks and hugged me, holding me until I let the tears flow. And after my sobbing subsided she walked me up to my attic room in that wonderful, warm old house, and sat on my bed rubbing my back until I fell asleep. My best friend in the world. Always.

I moped for a few days, but resumed my autoharp practice and cheered up before the week was out. I poured out my sadness and confusion in a letter to Pierre, and got a contrite, tear-spotted apology from him a few days later. He'd told me everything because we promised to be honest with each other, he said, and he was sorry he hurt me but would make it up to me at Thanksgiving ... if I'd still have him. Of course, I replied in a letter spattered with red-ink hearts. He was my once and future lover. For all time.

And so my attention returned to high school.

I hadn't been much of a Halloween girl since I'd outgrown my candy avarice as a youngster. But this year, friends in my school circle were angling to get me to their party. They'd picked an old-fashioned theme: there was even going to be apple-bobbing. Tony-the-pest bugged me for weeks to get a costume and come.

One evening I idly asked George what he thought I should wear for Halloween. He lifted an eyebrow, and said if I'd let him, he'd take care of it. I laughed, and thought nothing of it until ten days later, when my mom said Virginia had called and they'd like me to babysit while they went to an early Halloween party. When I arrived, George offered me his study to do my homework, as usual. Once the twins had their bath and bedtime story and had fallen asleep, I grabbed my books and opened the door. There on his leather-topped mahogany desk — oh, memories! — was a flat, wide box, wrapped in brown paper. A handwritten note on top said, "Taralee: Open me!"

Inside was black silk, red ribbon and white lace. When I held it up, it was a maid's outfit. A very, very, very short maid's outfit. But it was no cheesy, scratchy costume-shop garment; this was the real thing. Soft, slippery silk; rich, intricate lace. Inside it had a small, discreet label that said "Le Chabanais -- Paris" ... and there was a note, in George's handwriting, adding "Wear this, and nothing else."

The thought made me blush deeply, but my nipples and clitoris stiffened involuntarily.

My friends' Halloween party was a few days later. I'd spent hours in front of my mirror, planning how I could wear the French maid's outfit and be decent enough to get away with it. Finally I settled on an unadorned nude-beige bra and black pettipants over my fishnet "whore-stocking" tights. The pettipants' legs showed, but I decided they were enough of a tease with their black lace hems that they didn't detract from the beautiful short skirt and frilly white apron. At least my breasts weren't going to bounce out the sides of the skimpy halter and I wasn't going to be flashing ass and bush with every step. I covered up my costume with a discrete, navy blue trench coat and beret, and splurged (thanks to George's handsome tips) on a cab to the party.  

I knocked on the door and was ushered in by someone's rather tipsy dad. He did a double-take when I handed him my trench coat, nearly spilling his drink down the front of his chinos. I smiled demurely, then stole a glance at the obvious bulge of hard cock sticking out below his beer belly and shivered slightly. He was red-faced and sweating and the thought of his erection grossed me out.

There were maybe twenty kids in the basement, the Beatles were blaring from the record player and each little knot of close friends was yelling louder than the next to be heard over the din. Tony, dressed in a Dracula costume, was talking to a guy I didn't know but when he saw me, he scuttled across the room, leering, and grabbed my arm. Yuck. I shook him off. I wasn't sure I wanted to be there. Especially close to him. But he got me a glass of hot cider from a crock pot and presented it to me with a flip of his black cape and an exaggerated, gentlemanly bow. The cider was spicy and laced with brandy. After a few sips, I felt more at ease.

"Where the hell did you get that?" he asked, eyeing my costume. "You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

I grinned. Flattery will get you everywhere. Except into my panties tonight, I promised myself.

I mingled, Dracula shadowing me at every step. A couple of guys came on strong but I laughed them off. Several girls complimented me on my sexy outfit, a couple actually oohing and aahing and fingering the soft silk and fancy workmanship. But others hung back, sneering enviously.

Their derision stung, but I forgot them soon enough: It was apple-bobbing time.

Funny how, when I leaned over the old galvanized washtub full of floating apples, trying to sink my teeth into the crisp, slippery spheres, all the boys in the room lined up behind me to watch. The clique bitches were getting angrier by the minute, and I overhead one: "My word! Just look at that ... isn't she just the sluttiest little cunt you've ever did see? I bet she sucks off that disgusting old physics teacher just to get a passing grade."

Finally I got an apple, and out of the line of fire. Tony got one too, and Dracula was back. We jived and someone put Chubby Checker on the record player. I did the twist with one of the jock types who'd obviously learnt to dance it, unlike Tony who stumbled spastically. My older sister had practised with me when she was home from college, so I didn't embarrass myself. But I sure was glad of those pettipants under the tiny maid's costume as my gyrating pelvis exposed everything to the gawkers who crowded around.

Hot, sweaty and happy, I decided I'd had enough. Tony offered a ride home. I was dubious — he was tipsy, but not sloppy drunk, and I decided I could trust him to drive. Of course we got a couple of blocks away and he parked and wanted to pet. I didn't want to make him crazy, so when he suggested going to his house, I agreed. We pulled up in front and he got out. The house was dark but I knew his parents were inside, so I figured if need be, I could raise hell loud enough to wake them.

Tony was drunk enough to be bold, even though I told him I just wasn't interested. When he grabbed my left tit and squeezed hard, I hissed and pushed him away. He looked mortified, and hung his head, saying I'd never liked him but I was the only girl he'd ever felt this way about and then ... the words I'd been hoping not to hear spilled out.

"Taralee, I love you. You're so beautiful. I really, really do love you."

Chills ran down my spine. I'd come to detest those three words after last summer's awfulness with Danny in Vermont. There were tears in Tony's eyes. After what felt like an eternity, I put my arm around him and hugged him gently, in what I hoped was a sisterly manner.

It didn't work. He turned, got me in a bear hug, kissed me sticking his tongue into my mouth — yuck! — and started rubbing his hand between my legs. He was hopelessly inexperienced and after a minute I broke away. I was breathing hard from the exertion of escaping him, which I guess he took for passion. He grabbed me again and actually got me onto my back on the couch, seizing my ass with both hands and pulling me to him, grinding his swollen member painfully between my legs.

"Stop that!!!

"Look, Tony, tell you what." He got off me and I sat up.

"I know you're a virgin and horny as hell. I tell you what: I'll suck your cock to relieve you.

"Now pay attention: There's a condition ... If I do this, you stop phoning me, you stop talking to me at school, you stop passing me notes in class. This is a one-time thing. If I do this, I never want to hear your voice again.

"Deal?"

He nodded mutely.

Note to self: Never trust what a guy says when he's rubbing his hard-on. The glans is doing the thinking, not the brain.

I pushed Dracula against the back of the couch, yanked his suspenders off the shoulders of his white, pleated-front shirt, unbuttoned his black wool trousers and freed his cock. Grownup but not huge, it pointed wantingly at the ceiling. His balls seemed the size of pomegranates.

As I wrapped my fingers around it, my cunt moistened, unbidden. I slipped my fingers under George's gorgeous silk skirt and into my pettipants. As I started to lick Tony's erection, my fingers danced through the soft hair on my mound and found my clit. I rubbed myself at the same rhythm that my lips, now rounded to an O, slipped up and down his cock. Faster now, as I tightened my lips, inhaled his scent and my musk rose. Faster still as I felt his thighs start to quiver. As his scrotum tightened and his balls jumped, my vision darkened and the fireworks of my climax raced across my personal firmament. I hadn't meant to swallow his semen but his penis exploded at the back of my throat and I gulped, then gulped again, and kept bobbing my head as his swollen balls unloaded jet after jet after jet into my mouth and I gulped them down as he came and came and came.

"Ohhhhhhh," he groaned, lying there quivering. I finally let his limp cock slip out of my mouth onto his jizz-stained trousers and pulled my fingers out of my dripping cunt, hoping he hadn't seen how I'd done myself. I needn't have worried: Self-absorbtion, thy name is Tony.

"God that was great, Taralee! When do we fuck?"

"Never! I told you this was a one-time thing. Nothing changes that. No phone calls. No notes. Remember, we're done. This is over."

I stalked over to the phone and dialed a cab. It came in minutes. Cloaked in my trench coat and beret, I let myself out.

At home, I gargled half a bottle of mouthwash. Sober now, I had a premonition that I hadn't seen the last of Tony, though I fervently hoped I had.

My torrid US Post Office affair with Pierre continued. His letters were restrained enough to pass a parental censor (something that would never happen at my house) but mine were flagrant. I spelled out exactly how I loved him and lusted for him, how he haunted my daydreams and how I wished he could be in my bed at night, licking my clit in languid foreplay, then massaging my G-spot with his hard penis and igniting my climax when its head touched my cervix and how I'd cross my ankles behind his thighs and tighten my legs to keep him deep inside me forever.

I'd get pretty worked up writing, but since I'd never learned to bring myself off — except that hateful time with Tony's cock gushing his virgin sperm in my mouth — I spent weeks on end in a state of frustrated randiness.

Of course from time to time, I babysat George and Virginia's kids. But they always came home from the theater or ballet or opera together, though that fall Virginia, a beautiful tall, slim brunette, seemed a bit fragile. Or maybe she was just high-strung. I couldn't tell.

Then one day after school my mom said George had called and could I babysit weeknights. Virginia had gone to look after her mother, he'd told mom, but I could see she had doubts. When I pressed her, she said she'd heard that Virginia had gone somewhere for a "rest cure" for some kind of "trouble" but she didn't have any details. She hoped she'd be better soon.

So I gathered up my books, nervously hiding my neatly folded Halloween costume in the bottom of my rucksack, and walked over to the house. George welcomed me with his big, open smile, closed the street door and took me into his strong arms for a huge, lingering hug. I inhaled his virile scent and was instantly, embarrassingly wet.

I made dinner for all of us, and when I'd put the twins to bed, George asked if I'd liked the costume he'd ordered from the most elite brothel in Paris. I grinned with anticipation.

"Want to see it?"

We went to his study and while he mixed Manhattans I went to the bathroom, shucked off my school clothes and put on the French maid's outfit. The way George wanted to see it ...

Walking down the hall to his study was so titillating. My breasts, larger now that I'd been on The Pill for six months, swayed as I walked in heels I'd bought for the purpose. As they rustled against the soft silk my nipples jumped to attention. The black skirt and white silk apron barely covered me. A glance over my shoulder at the hallway mirror revealed the tops of my thighs and the curves of my ass. I slid my hand up under the skirt and could feel the soft thatch of my pubic hair. I hoped George would approve.

No need to worry! His eyes lit up when I walked in, doing my best nineteen-year-old imitation of a streetwalker's swivel-hipped sway. He'd changed into that sexy purple silk gown with the black lapels that always made me feel as if I'd walked onto an old-time movie set, where the handsome star was about to make love to the young ingénue. (Except by now I might act the innocent, but in reality ...)

We kissed with lips cold from the ice in our glasses, and I tasted the sweet fire of the bourbon on his tongue as we twined. I could feel his erection pressing against me and backed up against his desk, pulling open his robe and stroking the ropework of veins around the delicious organ that I'd been panting for all fall.

He hoisted me onto the desk, opened the drawer and cracked open one of the little blue plastic vials. I watched, quivering with anticipation, as he pulled on the lambskin prophylactic. Always the strong, careful lawyer, he'd explained that though he trusted that I was on The Pill, he preferred there be no possibility of an unwanted pregnancy through his agency.

He undid the halter of the maid's outfit to nuzzle my breasts and tweak my already rock-hard nipples, biting them gently which sent a gush of liquid to my already moist vagina. He lifted the too-short skirt and apron, caressing my soft bush and spreading my swelling lips, then positioning the head of his cock at the opening of my ravenous cunt, he slid in, in, in ... in one long, slow thrust he was in me to the hilt. Oh joy!

He pulled out and asked me to bend over the desk and lift the little black silk skirt so he'd get a perfect view. He stood to one side and stroked my ass softly, rubbing my cunt and sliding a finger up then using it to gently paint my puckered opening with my generous lubrication. I groaned with rapture as yet unknown.

He stood behind me now and pounded his penis in and out of my willing cunt until I was squirming with sweet agony, then pulled out again and gently turned me around to sit on the desk once more. His thrusts were slow and powerful, and just before my vision darkened at my incipient climax, I stared at the dark mirror that I knew was one-way glass. I was sure I could see motion behind it.

Transfixed, I realized that its rhythm was synchronous to ours. Someone was watching, and evidently jerking off as we fucked. Initially appalled, I was suddenly overcome by uncontrollable exhibitionism. I pushed George away, lay back with my heels on the edge of the desk and my knees apart to give whomever it was a full view of the pink gash of my inflamed, wide-open cunt crowned with its light brown bush. George laughed and rammed back into me, thrusting at double speed until the exploding fireworks of my climax sprayed across my consciousness and all I could feel was the thrilling spasms as his cock spouted its load of hot semen into the Fourex deep inside me.

I lay langorously on the desk afterward, blissful, smiling at George. He chuckled and said in his deep voice, "You've figured out my little office secret, haven't you, my little sparrow?"




Taralee's First Time Ch. 06



I stared at the dark mirror. No movement. I thought I heard the front door close and the heavy clunk of a car door, but I couldn't be sure. The memory of exposing my sex in full heat to an unknown man drenched me in female hormones instead of kindling the burning hellfire of shame I'd expected to feel.

"I saw you staring when your boyfriend was making love to you after Christmas, and thought you must've caught on then. By the way, you two are not only romantic together, you are a wildly hot, sexy couple. Watching his muscular ass as he thrust deeply into you with your knees over his shoulders and your eyes peeking at me as I stood behind the mirror with my hard-on in my hand gave me the best jerking-off orgasm I've ever had. Bar none."

"So George, it was you I glimpsed pulling your prick when Pierre and I were fucking. But who was getting himself — or herself — off behind your magic mirror tonight?"

"Do want to know now? I'll tell you ... Or do you want to tease yourself some more? If you choose to wait, I promise I will tell you. When I think the time's right."

I was about to demand an answer right then, till I realized with a rush that not knowing for whom I was showing off was far more titillating than knowing who it might be. I nodded acquiescence.

George showered me with kisses, moving the silk aside where he needed to in order to reach every part of my body. By the third time he'd suckled my clit I was whimpering with desire and he unrolled another Fourex over his smoldering, iron-hard cock. It was his turn to sit on the desk as I rode him mercilessly, my breasts bouncing in his face, the black silk bunched around my waist. I could feel every surging vein of his penis as their friction on my clitoris skyrocketed me to a yelling, keening climax that brought him baying like a wolf to his own release. I sat on his half-hard penis afterward, for the eternity it took our racing heartbeats to return to normal. Sweat glued our bodies together and my head snuggled on his shoulder as my nostrils drank in the heady fragrance of our lust, libido and love.

The next few nights I managed to get some studying done; I had a slew of important exams coming up. Knowing I'd get to make love to George when my homework was done wasn't so much a distraction as an incentive; he wanted me to do well in my studies and told me he'd do whatever he needed to in order to help me. I assured him that my frustration all fall had hampered my work and his ministrations were just what the doctor ordered.

"Virginia?" I asked. "She'll be away till Christmas at least," he said, looking sincerely downcast. "Thank you so much for being here for the twins ... And for me, Taralee."

Several times over the next few weeks I saw movement behind the mirror when George and I were having sex, and once I got into a giggling fit and George had to wait patiently until I could catch my breath. But generally it just made me hornier and I'd display as much of my body as advantageously as I could. One afternoon I spent an hour with scissors, shaving foam and a safety razor, shaping my bush into a perfect heart, its tip pointing right at my clit — which stood out stiff and pink as I toweled myself dry in front of my mirror.

I couldn't wait to show it off in George's study.

To be continued ...



Taralee's First Time Ch. 07



Suddenly it was Thanksgiving. Pierre arrived back from college a day ahead of the family feast. I picked him at the bus station in the '54 Ford wagon, the same one in whose wide back seat we'd given (and taken) each other's maidenheads. So much had happened in between ... those eleven months seemed like two lifetimes.

We could hardly keep our hands off each other as we embraced, our tongues twining and searching and tasting, ignoring the stares and titters of other passengers in the crowded station. Pierre threw his small suitcase in the back and we drove home to the empty house, since mom and dad were both at work and my sister and brother wouldn't come till the day of. We raced up the stairs to the guest room at the far end of the hall from my parents' bedroom and tore each other's clothes off in a frenzy.

Pierre let out a wolf-whistle when he saw the heart I'd carved into my pubic hair — I hadn't done it for him, actually, but I was turned on by how much he appreciated it. I fell back on the bed, my knees apart, and he kissed his way around both sides of the heart till he reached the point, and went to work on my swollen clit with his tongue. I was dripping in seconds. He reached up and caressed my breasts with soft hands, blowing gently on my clit which aroused me even more if that were possible.

"Fuck me. Please." He obliged, sliding his gorgeous shaft into my welcoming cunt in one long, s-l-o-o-o-o-w thrust and holding still as he lay on me so we could feel our hearts beat in unison. Clasped together we rolled over on the bed.

On top, I adjusted the angle of my hips slightly so the thickest part of his penis pushed right against my G-spot ... the pulsing of his veins was enough to ignite the fireworks of my first climax, and I gasped and shuddered as it rocked me even as we lay still. Moaning and panting to catch my breath, I pushed myself up with my arms so my erect nipples brushed his lips and tongue, and he began to swivel his hips ever so slowly, so his rigid member stirred the honeypot between my legs. I ground down on him, mashing my clitoris against his pubic bone again and again till I felt his muscles stiffen and his legs quiver and I scrunched my eyes closed and Oh! Again! Oh! NOW! and he jerked upwards again and again and again with a mighty groan.

I collapsed on top of him and he held me in his arms as involuntary tears of pleasure shook me. I felt him soften and slip out as I lay in bliss. Then my practical side kicked in and I tickled him till he got up so I could run the sheets to the basement washer, and get dinner ready for when mom and dad got home.

They were happy to have Pierre stay, but mom said he had to phone his folks (at that point, he was really on the outs with his mother) and at least wish them a happy Thanksgiving, even if he neglected to tell them he was only a few blocks from their apartment. He complied, but kept the call short and sweet.

After my folks went to bed, we crept quiet as mice to the basement. I was dressed like I did at school (with one small difference): white blouse with Peter Pan collar, one of the pretty bras mom bought me for senior year, Madras-plaid skirt, white socks and tennis shoes. When we embraced, Pierre's hands slid down my back, gripped my ass, and discovered I wasn't wearing panties ... I bent over an old, dust-cover shrouded armchair with my feet wide apart, gripping the back tight as he plunged roughly into my cunt, pulled back so the head of his cock teased the lips of my vagina, then worked me into a lather. Our joined sex made wet sucking noises with each stroke and his balls slapped loudly against my clit.

Couldn't have been more than three minutes before I felt his cock start to swell. I pushed back hard. He held my hips in a vise-like grip as he unloaded with shuddering spurts and my cunt clenched in rapid spasms and the fireworks came and my knees buckled and he held me like a rag doll and I loved being impaled on his young sword and I had to bite one fist hard to stop from yelling again and again and again how good it felt to have his weapon spurting deep inside me.

Panting, we chuckled as he unsheathed with a loud wet pop and rivulets of his hot jism ran down my legs.

"Step only where I do on the stairs, okay?"

He nodded, smiled, slid a hand to the wetness under my skirt and held it there as he crept behind me, skirting the creaks in the old staircase. With a silent kiss I sent him to the guest room and crept to my attic haven where I could hear the flying squirrels scratching in the attic, preparing for night flights down the darkened staircase.

In the morning before dawn I slipped into his bed, took his morning wood into my already lubricated vagina before he was half awake and brought him off as quietly as I could before cleaning up and heading down to the kitchen to help mom stuff the turkey.

The meal was a warm family affair, a crackling fire in the fireplace, my dad smiling benevolently down the long, stained-oak trestle table at my mom and my sister, my brother and me. He offered a toast to our smiling guest before we tucked into the turkey with roast carrots and yams, mashed potatoes, crisp-steamed broccoli and crunchy green salad. Pierre basked in the warm feelings. Face glowing in the candlelight, he produced a bottle of fine French brandy (he must've saved for weeks to buy that, even at D.C.'s bargain prices) to sip with dessert: pies, pumpkin and mince and apple, with ice cream.

It was a long, long weekend of family, food and fun. Pierre and I romped in the woods behind our old house, once with Jess and a trio of the long-haired dachshunds her family bred. We held hands like high school lovers and our trysts beneath the trees turned into wild love-making interspersed with deep silences that communicated more than any words were able to do. But it all ended too soon.

Tuesday morning I drove him to the bus. Hugged him hard. He kissed me and turned away, eyes glittering. Uncertainty was in the air as I waved to the Greyhound, grinding through the D.C. traffic in a cloud of blue diesel smoke. Who knew what was coming down the pike?

Schoolwork was a bore, except for an English class with a wonderful old, wise teacher who had us reading carefully selected passages from Shakespeare that alternately heightened and dampened her class full of raging teenage hormones. I tried my best to concentrate on schoolwork, but life was too much of a rollercoaster. It was all I could do to hang on.

Homework was a daily burden. College was like a sword of Damocles hanging over me: Would I get early admission? Have to wait until spring? Get in at all? The tension was almost unbearable.

But a couple of nights a week I got to babysit the twins. I hadn't learned much more about Virginia's absence, but George's house had begun to feel like a second home: warm, welcoming and safe. I looked forward to my time with the kids, who were less like little hellions now that they were used to me. Once they were in bed, I'd read them a story and they'd drop off to sleep. I'd move down the hall to George's study and bury myself in my schoolbooks.

Some nights I was just too engrossed in a project or nervous about the next day's test to respond with more than "Hi!" when George knocked softly on the door. But I was getting pretty randy and about a week after Pierre went back to college I changed into the silk maid's outfit after a futile hour and a half trying to parse French sentences. When the knock came a few minutes later, I was more than ready. George's Manhattan went right to my head and I sat on the mahogany desk, crossed my legs, flipped my hair and tipped my head to one side. My best imitation of a trollop's come-on.

Not that George needed an invitation. He stood close, his strong arms around me. Scent of soap and powerful man. I melted. Holding my shoulders, he gently laid me down and pulled my ankles onto the desk. He took a deep breath when he saw the heart I'd shaved into my bush, then ever so slowly moved to one side.

I was wide open to the mirror, my cunt dripping with nervous anticipation. In the dark glass, I could see faint movement.

George knelt in front of the desk. His tongue gently, tantalizingly tweaked my clit. Again. And again. I groaned and clamped my knees together, clasping his ears between my thighs. Clenched my buttocks. Pushed up.

Another liquid lick. Eyes closed, fireworks exploded in the night sky of my mind.

The climax rocked me. Left me soaked and quivering. My knees relaxed and George stood up. Smiling.

Stepping to one side.

After I caught me breath, I lifted my head and stared at the mirror. I touched the rosebud at the top of my cunt, unsheathing it to full view of whoever was behind the dark glass.

"Now, George. Now."

"You're sure, Taralee?" The concerned lawyer. "This could change your life."

"Now!"

A door creaked. In strode a very tall man. Thin. Shock of thick white hair. Craggy, tanned face, not exactly handsome but full of character. Memorable.

"Taralee, meet Eugene.

"Eugene, Taralee."

"Delighted to meet yuh at last, young lady." The slow southern drawl was warm, deep.

Suddenly I realized where I was. I clamped my knees together and tried to cover myself with the skimpy silk French maid's outfit.

This was no longer a shadow behind one-way glass, it was a man, a rich and powerful man, I surmised. (I was sure I'd heard that baritone drawl before ... where? Radio? TV?) Flesh and blood. Definitely flesh, I could see from the imposing tent in the front of his white terrycloth robe.

George, sensing my hesitation, took my hand in his. Warm, reassuring. His voice a caress.

"Taralee, nothing's going to happen without your consent. Eugene has been my friend and mentor since I was your age. No one outside this room knows, or will ever know, what happens or doesn't happen here."

Eugene smiled, bowed imperceptibly. "I am honored to have witnessed what I have these past weeks, young lady. You are a rare woman in your uninhibited enjoyment of your body. Should you decide to include me among your paramours, I would be delighted. If that is not your wish, I will leave immediately. The decision is yours ..."

That deep, warm drawl thrummed in my belly. His smile was gentle. When he put his hand on my ankle it was light as a feather but burned like fire.

I relaxed.

Eugene stroked my left calf, ever so softly. George trailed his fingertips over my right forearm, barely touching my skin.

Suddenly I was ablaze. As aroused — no, more so — than I'd been before Eugene came in. I was literally panting. Grabbed the tie around Gene's gown and pulled.

My God!

Pale skin, faintly sunburnt. Thin but muscular torso. Chest thatched with tight whorls of white hair. Narrow hips. Curly white pubic hair.

And the strangest penis I ever saw: it was the length and breadth of a dinner-table candle, the shiny purple head bulbous and slightly wider than the slim, pale shaft thickly netted with blue veins.

I gasped. Reached out. Touched it.

Hot! So hot ... my fingers circled it. My whole palm closed over the head and a bit of the shaft.

I rubbed gently.

"Mmmmm. Young lady, you are a delight."

The crooning Southern voice dripped of honeysuckle and magnolia. I pried my glance away from the peculiar penis and looked again at the man: tall, very tall; slender but muscular legs; wiry arms with wispy white hair; hard buttocks; heavy balls in a stretched sack; and that cock, its fiery head still encircled in my grasping fingers.

His hand stroked up my thigh, reached my dripping centre. Involuntarily my hand tightened on his cock and my knees spread wide. My buttocks lifted off the desk.

I presented myself to him, open for the taking.

"One moment, young lady ..." He pulled something from the pocket of his robe, ripped it open, and fitted a rubber prophylactic over his long, thin erection. It must've been a special kind because it fit his slender cock snugly and unrolled most of the way down its nearly foot-long length.

I touched him again. His heat was barely lessened by the rubber. Its nubbly surface promised pleasures I'd yet to experience. The strange conformation of his rod —it was more rod-like than I ever imagined possible — distracted me briefly. I thought of Ken's thick mushroom head: my fingers hadn't come near closing around it.

Eugene bent over me, nibbling my ear. George continued to stroke my arm. The sensations jerked me back to the present as Eugene leaned forward, lightly brushing my parted lips with his, then rolled my left nipple between his teeth and tongue. Then my right. My heart was racing. He left a trail of kisses down my sternum, across my belly, to my heart-shaped bush. He inhaled deeply, appreciatively, then, exhaled, blowing my scent teasingly across my clit. Again. Again. Again.

I quivered with anticipation, pushing my hips upward. A single, barely perceptible lick brought me close to my climax, and I groaned when he stood up.

He looked down. A cherubic smile lit his craggy face. I gasped as that narrow, burning glans spread my labia and slid into my dripping cunt. I welcomed it, feeling the heat move up into me like red-hot iron.

Gently, inexorably, Eugene pushed. Further, further till the head lodged at my cervix. My muscles contracted, gripping his shaft tightly. He pulled partly out, thrust again, searching for rhythm. My eyes clenched shut to heighten the sensation, I could feel my juices running down my buttocks with every stroke as his heavy balls swung against my ass like a pendulum.

Then a new sensation: His finger. Softly, ever so softly, circling my anus. Probing gently.

I flinched and he stopped. Whispered. "You've never done this?" I nodded No.

He changed his angle of attack slightly and the head of his penis touched my G-spot. I gushed and sighed with pleasure. Relaxed as the finger, slick with my juices, slid in and out of my ass, keeping time with the friction of his cock on my G-spot.

His thumb brushed my clit. I groaned. His probing finger was relaxing my sphincter as the tension built up and my thighs began to vibrate.

"May I now take your nether virginity, young lady?" That voice, that mellifluous, well-known voice, overflowing with warmth. I nodded mutely. Yes. Please.

The slow rhythm of his thumb caressing my clit never stopped as I felt his long, thin penis pull out, my pussy lips grasping for a last kiss as the burning-hot head slid down an inch and pushed gently into my tight-puckered ass.

"Ow!" A moment of pain and it was inside. I could hardly breathe, the sensation was so new.

"Ow!" again, as he pulled out with a pop.

Yes, I thought, yes, yes, yes — I locked my legs around his thin thighs and pushed toward him. Relaxed.

No pain this time. I lifted and pushed, pushed, pushed. Wanting more. That long, thin, hard cock was my only focus now. I was barely aware of his finger inside my cunt massaging my G-spot while the other kept time on my clit.

"Do it Eugene! Do it ... Do me!!!"

Storm clouds gathered in the firmament of my mind. My knees jerked. My feet clenched. My thighs vibrated.

"NOWWWWW! Oh yes! Oh God yes! Oh yes, yes, yes, yes!!!"

Skyrockets burst as my climax overwhelmed me. I fainted.

I came to seconds later, limp on George's leather-topped desk. Eugene was cradling my face in his big hands, smiling beatifically at me. I sighed and smiled up at him, sated with pleasure.

His hands moved down, gently caressing the swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips, the still-taught muscles of my legs, massaging my feet. I raised my head and looked over my sodden bush. His peculiar penis was still fully erect, tipped upwards, its fiery swollen head nearly bursting its sheath of clear rubber.

My juices gushed at the sight, dribbling warm wetness between my buttocks. Languid as I was, I could feel the returning heat building in me. A gentle touch from Eugene and I rolled over.

Crouched on the desk face-down, I felt his big hands on my waist, his burning, raging hard-on sliding up and down in the crack of my buttocks. He plunged into my drenched cunt, pulled out and rammed into my ass, thrusting time after time like a pile-driver gone berserk. At each stroke his heavy balls thudded into my wide-spread pussy, teasing my unsheathed clit and driving me closer and closer to another climax.

I felt him tense up. Redouble the speed of his thrusts. The thudding of his balls on my clit pounded in my head, lighting the fireworks' fuse. One final mighty thrust ... we exploded simultaneously in synchronous spasms. Collapsed breathless and spent. I felt his rigid rod soften, and relaxed my sphincter as it slipped free, the prophylactic filled with a tablespoon of milky fluid, my ass gaping from the punishment it had endured — nay, welcomed. Wholly.

My head between my forearms, still crouched on the mahogany desk, I inhaled deep breaths of our lovemaking. Eugene's warmth cradled me as his breathing slowed. A warm hug. He stood slowly, reluctantly, peeling his hot skin from mine. Kissed along the sweat of my spine.

A last, light caress: my breasts, squashed against the slippery leather beneath me.

"You have honoured me, young lady, in a manner I shall never forget." That deep, honeyed drawl drew an involuntary sob from me. "Alas, I must depart. To quote the Bard, 'Parting is such sweet sorrow.'"

I shivered as his heat moved away, felt him cover me with his robe.

He was gone.

Moments later, a light touch on my shoulder: George.

Silence. No words. Just his breathing and mine. His warm palm under the rough terrycloth, calming me.

Nearby, a heavy, bass thunk: The door of a very expensive automobile closing. The quiet purr of a powerful engine and a flash of light on the bare, late-November branches outside. I peeked out the window: a long, low black car disappearing down the street.

George helped me wobble down the hall to the shower, steadied my hand as I stepped under the needles of steaming water. Wrapped me in a big, fluffy towel afterward.

"I ... I have to go, George." He smiled, hugged me wordlessly.

I dressed and hoisted my books. There was a crisp white envelope on top.

I didn't look inside.

I glanced up from the street, saw him silhouetted in the window of his office. He watched me safely home.

I crept up the stairs, avoiding the creaky boards. Heard the rustle of a flying squirrel, getting ready for its nocturnal aerobatics. I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.

Next day was Friday. I took the day off school; frankly, my butt was sore. I didn't dare think about last night; didn't want the memory to gross me out — or make me horny. I waited for the postman: Still no college-entrance news. Did homework. Made dinner for my folks.

After a dreary, rainy weekend it was back to the daily grind at school. One or two girls were all smiles: they'd got early-acceptance letters from their colleges. That didn't do much to lift my spirits.

The weather, teachers, crowded corridors — everything was getting under my skin.

Willie, the quarterback of the football team, bumped roughly into me in the hallway in front of my locker. I hissed at him as I felt his fingers shove a piece of paper down my tight polyester sweater. He grinned, his deep laugh dominant and assured. I shivered involuntarily.

My stomach churning, I fled to the girls' washroom. Fished the crinkled paper out of my bra and flattened it out.

A drawing in soft pencil. Crude but anatomically correct: a long-haired girl in a short checked skirt, on her knees, sucking the enormous erection of the first of a row of guys, all holding their stiff cocks. Our football team. Me.

Scrawled underneath: "Meet us under the bleachers after Friday afternoon's game, Taralee. We'll show you a real good time."




Taralee's First Time Ch. 07



The world spun around me. I felt like I'd been kicked in the solar plexus.

That sonofabitch Tony ... he'd told.

To be continued ...