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GROWING UP YOUNG
I liked Herb and Lianne–him for his smooth reserve and pride in his wife’s charms, her for her interest in others and her broad humor, and both for their mature beauty and abundant sexual energy. Angela and I look forward to their company on future occasions. Although we are young, my step-sister and I have had some unusual experiences ourselves; and our relationship with the Woods has been warm and rewarding.
My own interest in sex developed early and strong. Many of its mysteries were solved by Angela’s coming to live with us, which lasted only a brief few months because the thunderbolt of losing both parents sent us in different directions–me to a boys’ boarding school, Angela to live with her Aunt Louise through her early college years.
Imagine the loneliness of a seventeen-year-old boy, suddenly bereft of family, arriving at a strange new school in January! Although the campus was beautiful, the food excellent, and the masters nice, all my friends were two hundred miles away. It was a bleak few weeks before I got to know John Stanton, a lacrosse teammate who was also in my advanced placement classes. His father was something in the State Department. I liked him because he was loaded with energy–hustling on the field and making interesting comments in class. But best because he was friendly and kind of adopted me. Consequently I was overjoyed that he asked me to be his roommate senior year.
Perhaps I was idealizing this relationship, but from being devastated by personal loss, in six months I had become the best friend of a bright and attractive campus leader. He certainly was very good-looking. Let me speak the truth: I had a crush on John. On the other hand, I did not perceive myself as the minor partner: I got the better grades in class and my athletic skills were on a par with his.
Physically we were much alike–nearly mirrored figures–six feet tall, weighing 150 pounds. John was a dark-eyed brunette, though not hairy; I’m a blue-eyed blond. Our physical commonality did not stop there: in the locker room we suffered the embarrassment of having the largest penises. John took his hanging in stride; and his nonchalant carriage helped me–somewhat–to be at ease with my length. He told me the other guys were jealous.
John’s personal openness became more evident in our first weeks as roommates. Arising from bed one morning, he sauntered past me with a strong erection visible through his pajama bottoms. A spreading patch of fresh semen darkened the blue material just below the waist tie. This glimpse of his brimming sexual power and energy I found oddly thrilling. His letting me see reminded me of Angela’s casual nudity. In both cases I very much wanted to see more. John, like Angela, did not disappoint. Two or three more times, without trying, I got to see him bare with a hard on; and there was more evidence of morning masturbation. (I mean, wet dreams, like menstruation, are monthly phenomena—not nightly.)
I was surprised by the pleasure I got from his artless exhibitions. Realizing that he wanted me to admire those erections, I pondered the possibility that he’d like to be fondled and jerked off as realistic and attractive. In truth, I wanted to play with John’s handsome cock and perhaps jerk him off. I started to get erections myself thinking about John. My own arousals had been heretofore private affairs, but now I wanted my secret sharer to know the real me; and the next time I got a hard on in our shower I kept it and moved naked in front of John in the bedroom.
“Oh, wow, Bill, that’s a beauty! I bet you’d like to give it to some girl.”
“Oh, yeah,” I returned, not moving out of John’s view and in no way hurrying to dress–my full eight inches rock-hard, proud at John’s approval.
The floodgates were now open for confessions of our sexual experience: John’s frustrated virginity; my recent action with Angela, whom I had fucked all summer.
During that vacation period things progressed rapidly, practically as soon as I got home. Sometimes she’d come and sit on my bed with her pajama top three buttons open and tell me about some of her hot dates at college. She definitely wanted me to see her big boobs. I vividly recall her request for a towel from the linen closet and thanking me mid-floor in our bathroom, pink, dewy, and proud. “Do you like my tits?” she asked. She did have big swingers and their broad pink tips glowed and grew pointy to her touch.
And then it was my touch, and things progressed from there. We had fondling sessions, in which she showed me how to massage her “little-man-in-the-boat;” and I got so good at it that the next week we were fucking on the bathroom floor.
Consequently, in my bull sessions with John, I was the master teacher. I wanted to tell John all about everything, except I made a snap judgment to substitute the name of bostancı escort Sally Pew, my attractive hometown neighbor, for Angela. I luxuriated in describing for John Angela’s beauty and teachings–anonymously, as it were. God! I hoped he would never meet Sally Pew. As the weeks wore on, we practiced some of my learnings. He wanted to know how to kiss properly, and he got very good at it. I mean he was one passionate guy. “Your strong, deep tongue action,” I professed, “is symbolic of your desire to fuck the girl, and her sucking your tongue tells you she wants it.”
We would take turns being the girl, and play with our lovers’ cocks as we’d like our girls to do. John made me so horny that I told him a good girl would suck too! And he willingly became my first guy. I loved him so much I said he could come in my mouth. I could anticipate his gift by his arching back, tightening buttocks, and fierce cradling of my head. There was no more morning masturbation. I guess I had been jealous of the blue pajama bottoms.
The truth is I’m not homosexual with generic men. Guys can strike me as so-so attractive, but it stops there. With John, on the other hand, I was sexually his, I rationalized, because, as my best friend and confidant, he was an aspect of myself. I wanted his pleasure as my own. This line of thinking generated my deep desire that Angela herself enjoy the strong virgin spurts of John’s beautiful cock and that he, as a part of me, the moist, sweet warmth of her ready pussy. That she was now on the pill meant that she could accommodate the pent-up lust of his godlike body. It would be a couple of years before I told him I was in love with Angela; so I sidled into my fantasy with the information that my nineteen-year-old step-sister, who had big melons and had become sexually active, might be talked into having a date with him. He became decidedly interested. The windows of opportunity were Christmas and Easter vacations; and, with John’s family in Turkey, I inveigled an invitation from Angela’s aunt for him to come along with me to The Buttonwoods.
It happened perfectly. Angela was game, although we agreed that they should play it by ear and that I should hold my brotherly love in check while John was visiting. Holy smokes, how I would have loved to watch, unseen! At any rate, Auntie assigned John to the guest bedroom so that their privacy was assured. Shortly it became clear that they were much taken with each other. Angela was refreshed and uplifted by John’s exuberance as I continued to be.
After graduation John, Angela, and I remained lovers for the next three years–until John’s sudden death in November of our junior year at Princeton. Returning from Thanksgiving Break, he was killed in a senseless car accident. The horror of it still haunts us.
Besides John, I made two other wonderful friends at school: they were my lacrosse coach, Reggie Pope, and his wife Becky, who later became my English teacher. They welcomed me into their home shortly after I went out for lacrosse. As “Uncle Herman,” my godfather, really didn’t have much time for me, this young couple became the chief adults in my life. The dynamic Becky, who honed my writing skills and massaged my manhood, was twenty-eight years old when, with Reggie’s blessings, she took me as her “co-marital lover,” as she called it. She combined English instruction with our sex. In helping me to forestall ejaculation, she said that I should keep my poise as Robert Frost’s swinger of birches climbed to the topmost branches toward heaven, carefully without spilling. Then at the very top we could both go down together.
After graduation I continued to send Becky the stuff I had written, and we’ve continued to meet for cultural and sexual events, which have been more frequent since I attained my majority. They’ve even welcomed Angela at our get-togethers to keep Reggie company.
II THE BEST MAN
My college English profs encouraged my bent for writing, and upon graduation I got an assistantship at a Big 10 university to work toward a Master of Fine Arts degree. After I had two stories published, my advisor wanted me to help him put on a series of summer seminars for young writers up in Michigan. That was my first paying job, and it coincided with Angela’s research year in Africa. John, snatched from us forever; Angela, half a world away; and the Popes two states removed–I had been willingly celibate for four months. But settling into the “campus” on the shore of Big Beaver Pond with forty lightly clad high school boys and girls drifting joyously about, my sap began to rise again.
During the first week I made the blessed acquaintance of Marie, a petite redhead–serving mashed potatoes in the chow line. She was a cook there during the six-week series. Younger than the rest of the kitchen staff, she was convivial with the students büyükçekmece escort and faculty, and her wide smile and good humor got the meals off to a pleasant start.
Three nights a week we had readings or films, and on Saturday evenings there was dancing, which was well attended. Marie was an interested audience at the readings and a regular at the dances, which gave me a chance to enjoy her company out from under the white apron. As a matter of fact, she was brighter than most of the participants, having just graduated cum laude in biology from a prestigious Southern university, with plans to start medical school in September. Her sparkling personality was neatly wrapped in the twenty-two-year-old body of an athlete–her high breasts, small and pert; the supple legs, shaped for action. Close dancing, I would rest my chin on her sweet-smelling short-cropped head while her mons would urgently ride my high thigh. Under the circumstances I despaired of concealing her effect on me, and my hardness returned her hump of desire. Sometimes when the music stopped, I’d whisper, “Let’s keep dancing out onto the porch.” She’d know what was up, and the twinkle in her eyes and sexy smile signaled that we were kindred souls. Later we’d walk around by the lake, joke, and talk a while before some prolonged goodnight kissing by the door of her sleeping quarters. After that, I’d go back to my cabin, there to imagine her undisclosed charms and the joys of being her lover.
One Sunday afternoon we signed up for a canoe and, wearing bathing suits and carrying jackets against the northern breezes, set out across the lake. We had a wonderful time sharing our stories. Out there in the stillness of God’s world, my “round unvarnished tale” I told. I’d seen fit after two years to tell John about Angela and me, but how was it that here I was spilling everything to this colleen of two weeks acquaintance? Perhaps it was that, being from different worlds, we’d probably not see each other after that summer. Besides, Marie was an earnest listener–gentle in her understanding and sympathy. Her eyes would well up with tears at the sad parts of my story.
Of her past she told of a slow breakaway from the strictures of a Catholic girlhood. The innocence that she took to college was nearly complete. After dating the scion of well-known tobacco family her last two years, she became engaged. Their petting, she explained, was satisfactory in most respects, but a few questions lingered about their physical compatibility. She regularly brought the young man to orgasm by jerking, and he was good with her breasts, but his manual entry of her vagina, she explained, wasn’t enough. Good heavens, I thought, I was the navigator of a floating sex clinic! Being multi-orgasmic at her own touch, she went on, she strongly desired sexual intercourse–as a premarital precaution!
At this point in Marie’s story, I felt a cool breeze on the tip of my hardening cock: it had slipped past the slack elastic of my inner jock. A split-vision glance confirmed that two more inches of aspiring author were out and enjoying the afternoon on the lake. “Of course,” I said warmly and kept on paddling.
She went on the pill, she said, to encourage the consummation, but it never happened. After her visit to the plantation to meet the family, for some reason he called off the September wedding. “He just said he couldn’t go through with it,” she wailed and started to cry. To console the dear creature I shipped my paddle, remanded the wild bird to its cage, and clambered forward to kneel between her lovely white thighs and to hold her in my arms for nearly ten minutes.
“You’ve been so brave!” I acknowledged when I returned to the stern.
“I’ve told you all this, I guess, because of your honesty and sweetness,” she explained. “And because your kisses, Bill, have made me want more!” With that, she trippingly made her way aft to be with me. “I’ve felt your John Henry while dancing; I’ve seen it–canoeing. I want to touch it.” And she fished John Henry from his hiding place in the left leg of my trunks. She drew the foreskin back from the gleaming pink glans and jerked him gently. “It’s so beautiful!” she cooed. My mock-blissful reaction led her laughingly to cover up the evidence, and then we kissed. “May I finish the job tonight? Did you ever deflower a virgin girl? … Well? … And aren’t you ready for a summer romance? … How about nine o’clock? I’ll come to you.”
Sitting on the front step of my cabin, waiting for Marie to finish in the kitchen, I was a wreck. The night waxed very dark before she came. Inside the door we kissed searchingly–warm, wet, deep, and long–before I fumbled the buttons free down the front of her denim shirt. After Marie withdrew her arms and I’d flung the garment to a nearby chair, she reached for John Henry, hardening in my çağlayan escort jeans and gave him a tantalizing squeeze. She stood back then, and swung her shoulders and white-cradled breasts. “Want to see them?”
“Oh, yes, dear.” They were holy moments as she herself unfastened the hooks and dropped the bra atop the discarded shirt. Her boobs, the size of tennis balls, had nipples like small strawberries. I came behind her to knead the precious handfuls. When the sash of her slacks became another challenge, again Marie took over.
“Take your shirt and pants off, Bill. School’s over. Time to go to bed.” In seconds I was completely nude only to be transfixed by the teasy grace of Marie’s slow stripping. A few freckles besprinkled her arms and upper chest; otherwise her coloration was of the purest white. Her curves unmuffled by clothes took my breath away. The slim waist accentuated the flare of her hips and the jut of her rounded alabaster buns. The inviting heft of her upper thighs was consonant with the astonishing thrust of her mons, tufted with the dark red spray of her maidenhood. “I love your hair,” I volunteered.
“Thank you. Just a month ago it was long–nearly down to my waist. Had to chop it off. Sanitation, sanitation–we even wear hair-nets in the kitchen! You wouldn’t want to find one of my hairs in your mouth while eating!”
To myself I thought, “Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.” Aloud I said, “It’s beautiful!”
We embraced standing–Marie on tiptoe, yearning, working John Henry to a light froth with her slender fingers. And on to my hermit’s cot we moved for oral loving. Marie’s pussy was so unlike Angela’s and Becky’s, whose clitoral sheaths and labia major are fleshily palpable. Marie’s sex seemed girlishly interior. I wondered at our compatibility: could she accommodate me without pain? Nonetheless, the flow of her lubrication said, “Yes,” and my stiff tongue’s easy penetration of her vagina added hope. Also it found the invisible–the lips and tiny clit, which proved super-sensitive to my sucking. I continued my tongue action all through her bumping back into my teeth and lips to maximize my erotic play. Her rapid breathing became a rhythmic cooing, and then she cried out and contorted; and, tossed on the waves of her orgasm, she lost control of her urethral sphincter. The warm gush I took as love’s surrender, an ascent to a new level of intimacy.
“What happened, Bill?”
“You had an orgasm. I loved it!”
“Did I ever! You are too much!” We kissed, diddled, and sucked lovingly a while before Marie whispered, “I want you inside me, Bill. It’s safe for you to come in me, you know, I want you to. Okay? You’re awfully big now. I hope I can take it.”
Did she ever! Mother Nature be praised! My erections, a trifle longer than eight inches, have a circumference of seven inches. How my tiny virgin bride possessed it all is wondrous. After her warm, slippery clasp of my first half-strokes, my long barrel was halfway in. Then she smiled with tentative pride and said, “I like your big cock inside me. Are we fucking yet?”
“I’d say we’re off to a good start. Do you want a little more?”
“Oh, yes. Stick it way in.” And then we started slowly. She was rocking with me. “Come on!” she coached. We both wanted it, and I fucked strongly through the dear girl’s hymen. She cried out sharply. Tears spilled out of her eyes. Attempting to kiss them away, I tasted their salt. Then I noticed that she was smiling broadly. I lay quiet deeply immersed in the wet warmth of her cunt. “You are something big!” she exclaimed, and we both laughed. “ I say let’s keep on fucking.”
“You are so wonderful, Marie sweet,” I mused, doing a couple of slow “out-and-ins.” She was so clutchingly warm and responsive. And shortly we really “got with it.” She answered my thrusts, and I was all the way in and out and in and out and in… Her eyes closed; the smile of satisfaction became the grimace of lust as, midst groans and moans, our assault of the hill of ecstasy began. Marie was fucking beautifully and continued unto our peaks and over. After-play that sacred evening was special: in the glow of our achievement we each felt rich for the other’s gift.
So began our month of bliss. Secret lovers, we had been–soon to be off on diverging highways. At our parting I said, “It may be that in another season I shall marry and sire four little boys, but I shall never forget you, darling Marie–the bride of my life.”
Nor did she forget. Some three years later, during the weeks before Angela and I left for Martinique, the invitation arrived. Mailed from some town in Indiana, forwarded from grad school to our New York address–it was to the December wedding of “Marie Anne McPhail, M.D. to Garth Porter, M.D.” The enclosed note said, “I suppose you won’t be able to come, but I wanted you to know … I’ll be thinking of you. Love, M.A.M.”
Oh thank you, M.A.M. You’re always in my thoughts. I loved, honored, and obeyed you, putting our summer romance in the top drawer reserved for memories. I let you go, as we agreed I should. But I didn’t! Talk about “mixed emotions”–I guess they are a part of one’s growing up. Mine is clearly a work in progress.
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