Dutch lessons: Ch.1: Free at last

Chapter 1: Free at last

Swirling around me is a vibrant, pulsing, teenage party. It’s loud and dark and steamy. The music pumps, surges and shudders with a deeply pounding, bass reverb. I feel confused; almost dizzy. My head spins. These Dutch kids certainly know how to do it … whatever “it” might mean around here, in my weird and wonderful new world. To be honest, I’ve only a vague idea what “it” may be, once you get past kissing. And I’m pretty well starved of even that. I gave up Jenna’s deep, wet caresses almost a year ago, and I’m missing her.

I’d better confess. I’ve never actually been past kissing, and even that had only been a one-girl special. Ok, yes, I know that “the penis of the male is inserted into the vagina of the female,” and that “sperm in the seminal fluid passes from the testicles to the …” err, hmm, somewhere deep inside a girl’s body. And I know – more or less – where that somewhere is, at least on the biology and sex-ed diagrams that seem to eliminate flesh. But how do my “Sex and Relationship” classes connect with all these horny kids, feeding off one another like gaggles of gaping, hungry trolls?

These throbbing Dutch teens, party-wrapped around each other’s bodies, seem to know a lot more about “it” than I do. That, of course, is not difficult, I blush to myself. Let’s hope that none of this embarrassment can be seen on my face. Inside my head, I squirm that I’ve no friends yet, no-one to hang out with, no-one to observe my potential coolness. Yet I also dread being spoken to … perhaps even more than I’m ashamed of being alone. I’m the new boy at my school, a new kid in a new country. Before tonight I’ve been made to stay in school with the younger boarders, ever since I first arrived from the UK. Thank you, Dad, for faxing school my get-out-of-jail card.

To tell you the truth, I’ve never even been to a real party before. Not since we’d had conjurors and jellies and blancmange, fluffy cupcakes, and little sausages on sticks, at my playmates’ parties in England. There were birthday cards adorned with sailing boats or trains; and cards with cats or horses for girls. I received gifts from mysterious aunts known only to my parents, wrapped packages from home or overseas tied up in red or blue ribbons. Boys like me got puzzles, handheld games, and adventure books. And the girls got … whatever.

None of us had porno magazines on our coffee tables, as is rumoured here in Holland. In fact, in England, we hardly ever saw porno at all, unless someone brought back magazines from Amsterdam or Hamburg. In my mother’s home, it was even rude to wonder why young girls liked horses, and why they went out with other girls of their age for weekend pony rides. I’d never really got any of my friends’ innuendo. Horses? Girls? WTF?

And now, despite months in Holland, the supposed porno capital of Europe, I’m still really none the wiser. School is a porno desert. And I mean a desert, not dessert. A desert … dusty, dry, and deadly. It’s a perfect metaphor for my social life.

So what’s happening at this fairly well-off family’s teen party? First of all, the cool Dutch parents have gone out for the night, leaving the partygoers to take care of themselves. “Awesome. Where’s the porn?” I think. Does hard porn really circulate freely among Dutch youth?

So far, the party seems more like performance art than glossy, sticky, torn pages. Is everyone bored with porn, except me? Will someone start some sexy direct action right here in the family playroom? And if they do, will I be cool enough to watch, stroke by stroke, blow by blow, and still manage to look slightly bored? Would I be able to pass it off as just some more routine, same-old-same-old crap?

I’ll soon find out. I can’t avoid the growing party action. Horny kids are all around me on the furniture and floors. As the night heats up, so do the party animals. In Amsterdam, my brother says the pimps shout “Real live fucky-fucky” and “really disgusting show” to pull sex tourists into their live theatres. You pay money and get to watch people really doing it, right up there on stage in front of a crowd of curious customers. This thought simply blows my mind.

That’s not for me, of course. My permissions didn’t extend as far as Amsterdam. Me, I’ve never even been to a party like this, where all the kids get off with one another; where boys and girls spread themselves over sofas, smooch in stairwells, drape their bodies across beds and expose their flesh in darkened upstairs rooms. Some couples lock themselves in the crowded co-ed bathrooms for way too long. Would their favourite party gifts be condoms? Or are condoms just too retro for this crowd? To me, it all seems supremely scary, yet more than halfway hot.

I want to pee, but I’m afraid for my privacy; worried about teen trolls lurking in dark corners, necking, listening, observing my dick in silhouette, or otherwise breaking basic rules of polite society. I can’t relax and let it flow when I fear I’m being watched, or overheard. I only need to imagine a single voyeur, whether behind a door, inside the shower cubicle or peeking through a darkened window, and I’m paralyzed. So I head back to the punch bowls – big glass urns full of brightly coloured, questionable liquids – refill my cup and wonder what’s been added to that mélange of unsweetened juices and slippery fruit.

I’m one of those boys with a continual hard-on. Perhaps that’s why I find it hard to pee tonight. We boys are not designed to act as garden sprinkler systems, shooting yellow spray high in the air like obscene fountains. We come with an automatic shut-off valve that prevents peeing when aroused.

When I see classmates necking, French-style, I become short of breath, and my dick throbs rudely. Under my jeans, right now, I’m wearing stretch briefs whose task it is to hold my penis straight up and vertical, pressed flat against my body with minimum bulge. Sometimes, I’ve even stuffed socks around my balls to hide the fact that I’m almost always totally erect, especially if I manage to watch a cute classmate getting off with a hot girl. Ok, with any girl, hot or not; I confess.

That, at least, was my recent life as a sex-starved school student in England. But now these Dutch kinderen make my English school friends look like prudes. Even the type of young man who snogged a girlfriend on school bus trips back from the ice rink never exposed what Dutch youth flaunts openly. Americans call snogging making out. Tonight, I’m continually trying to spy on the snoggers, without staring. Or so it seems to my swirling, steamy boy brain, filled with my superheated, sweaty, hard-on sexual urges.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” I’m suddenly awakened from my pornographic reverie. I wipe the lustful smirk off my face and swiftly turn away from the floor show, as if I’ve seen it all before. One of two, near-identically dressed girls in front of me has an accent from my homeland, though I can’t say from exactly where. I hear her question, though she makes it sound more like a statement. “New?” she repeats, in case I’m deaf as well as dumb.

“Yes, I am,” I admit, wishing I could dream up a dozen witty ripostes in place of my usual limp, wet lameness. “Are you from England, too?”

Duh – ok. Shit, people, give me a break. I’ve no clue how to flirt, as you can see without reading my confession. I’ll be asking this pretty girl about her exam grades next.

“We’re both … well, we’re from Bath. I’m Liz,” bounces Liz, “and this is Becca.” Liz continues to chatter without pause, bobbling her head like a wind-up doll, as if she’s some kind of string-puppet impersonator. It doesn’t occur to me that she’s as nervous as I am.

They’re both cute, Liz and Becca. Maybe they’re even hot. They look a bit young and freckled, but who am I to judge? At least they’re English. It’s not that I don’t like talking to other nationals – we’re an International School, after all; but very few students share my background. Perhaps these two cuties will have some things in common with me that might make talking easier. Maybe the bands they follow, or the TV shows they used to like … or are they still young enough to watch some of the teen TV that I secretly enjoy? In no way will you start by asking them about TV shows, Paul, I sternly remind myself. Don’t assume that they’ll be into violent video games, either.

Liz continues to pull others into the conversation … to my great relief. That means I can get away with mostly smiling at people, which I’m good at. Smiling and nodding; laughing pathetically or even half hysterically at any excuse. It’s so much easier to cheer for Liz than have people hanging on my every word – not that this would ever happen, of course. Not unless I’m with my very closest of friends, a few mates in England with whom I’ve lost all trace of shyness.

“Err … my name’s Paul,” I offer, continuing my campaign to be classified as a dumbo erectus. I can see my poster on the biology lab wall, munching on a huge Triassic fern. Liz ignores me; she’s already flirting with two other boys I don’t recognize. I can tell from these guys’ accents that they’re Dutch, though as ever in this country, they are speaking near-perfect English. Are they my age? Maybe they’re younger? No, probably older. Will they pick Liz up? Did I already blow it?

Becca is still standing very close. I notice her straight white teeth as she smiles, and I wonder what she tastes like. “You’re Paul Williams. We already know about you. Liz wanted to get to chat with you.”

“And you didn’t?” I smile, hoping that my teasing doesn’t upset this fair-haired, freckled pixie, whose nose seems so perfectly tapered. I start to consider whether I like her, now that I’ve had the courage to grin at her directly. She seems natural and fresh-faced, with little or no makeup. We’re standing very close, and I can smell her spearmint gum. I wonder what she smells of me.

“Yes, I want to hang out with you, too,” she confides without shyness, apparently unfazed by my verbal poke. Becca smiles, too. “I’ve been watching you ever since you joined your boarding house, actually. Liz and I like it when there’s a new English student in school.” There follows what some novels would describe as a pregnant pause.

The pixie continues, still exuding spearmint: “Not, of course, that they have to be English.” Becca holds my gaze steadily, her clear blue eyes framed by pale skin and freckles. I wonder if she’s weighing the potential benefits of gene pool diversity, but wisely I say nothing of the sort.

“So long as they are boys?” I tease, keeping it simple, almost at the primary school level.

Naturally I’m thrilled by the idea that she’s been “watching” me. I was afraid that I’d turned into the Invisible Man since I moved to my new school. I feel my cheeks flush self-consciously – am I being too edgy with her? – and hope that Becca isn’t put off by my directness.

“Boys? Oh, totally,” she rejoins, with no hint of shame. I feel myself starting to be interested in Becca. I look her over. Will people think she’s good looking? She’s about 5’ 3”, or 1.6 metres as the Dutch would have it. Like her friend Liz, she is very slim and slight; almost skinny. Her hair is fair, but it’s not obviously blonde or in any way artificial. She’s much quieter than the similar-looking Liz, who’s still holding forth for the flock of boys who’ve wrapped themselves around us, loud and jostling.

Meanwhile Becca and I seem to be buffered inside our own secret bubble, part of the group but hiding inside it in our own private space. I find the two of us standing too close, almost whispering shy secrets to one another, and my permanent erection is starting to throb more than ever. I sweat a little. I’m afraid to move away in case she sees what’s happening at the waistband of my underpants.

We share stories about our family backgrounds. Attending an international school in the Netherlands isn’t exactly the ho-hum background of your average English teen, so I already know we’ll both be weird. I explain that my Dad’s in the Foreign Service, on assignment in the Middle East.

“Oh, you mean he’s a spook? How exciting!” she laughs. I’m not sure whether she’s taking the piss. How old is she, anyway? If I correct her, will she immediately dump on me for taking her literally?

“He’s with the Foreign Office,” I continue, much too pompously. “He might be an ambassador one day.” Shit, that was dumb; she’s sure to think I’m just another eikel. Eikel means dickhead, one of my latest Dutch words. Most of the Dutch are more fluent in English obscenities than I am, let alone Dutch ones. It’s not hard.

“That’s brilliant,” she murmurs quietly. “My dad’s with …” She names a large, multinational company headquartered in The Netherlands. I’ve not written its name, to protect Becca’s privacy. By the way, in case you’re wondering, her real name’s not Becca, either. I’ve changed all the names to protect the innocent – and to help disguise the guilty.

Becca and I discover that we’re both scholarship students at our insanely expensive school; her fees paid by Euro-business, and mine by Her Majesty’s Government. Now we pause, nervously. I wonder – always hopeful – if she’s the kind of girl that prefers snogging to chatter. My kind of girl, that is. Is Becca quiet and hot; or – better still – dirty and sweet? My penis throbs and tenses at the thought. How will I drape her over a sofa, or get her down in some dark corner? How far do girls of her age go at their Dutch school friends’ parties? It’s got to be further than I’ve ever been. What age is this pixie, anyway? Dare I ask?

Wait a minute, Paul. You hardly know her, and if it weren’t for her friend Liz you’d never have dared to talk. Cool it, our kid! Don’t get a bad reputation at your very first weekend party. Haven’t you heard that too many girls say boys are only after one thing?

“Can I get you some more punch?” I ask, tangentially, wondering if I can get her drunk.

“Oh yes. I’ll come with you,” volunteers Becca, keeping close by. “I’d better check what you put in with it,” she teases. I balk at the fear that she could be reading my mind.

The kitchen is one of the better-lit rooms, but couples are still at it on every counter top. A few of them are showing how far they can climb down each other’s throats without drowning. It feels like some kind of recreational waterboarding. Is this the infamous European Black Site set up by the CIA? Is the party a form of torture, as kids are torn between drink and sex? I amuse myself, as usual, and stay silent.

Becca nods at me. Perhaps she’s seen me staring. “You have to get used to this at school parties, especially day-student parties. People don’t hold back,” she smiles. The school’s day pupils are the non-boarders, mostly Dutch. And, as everyone knows, Dutch teens are hot.

We pour ourselves more punch – which we’re told contains a little vodka. We see both full and empty bottles of spirits nearby, but I don’t suggest adding any more. As is true in many European countries, the Dutch have no law against young people drinking alcohol given for free in private homes. Only alcohol purchase is regulated, and even that is pretty flexible. And, as you’ll know, pot has been openly available in “coffee houses” for several decades.

I suddenly wonder if Becca is a day girl, since her dad works in this country. “Are you a boarder, like me? I ask, turning the thought around.

“Oh yes,” she grins. I wonder what’s in her mind. “Liz and I love the freedom of boarding. My parents are divorced, and my dad travels all over the place. Mum wanted me to go back to live with her in England, but I got Dad to let me stay here.”

“Awesome. How old are you?” I blurt out. Becca blushes. I can tell I’ve put my foot in it.

“Liz and I … we’re a couple of school years …” she mutters, telling me her year group. “I hope you don’t think we’re … err …”

Becca pauses. She’s apparently not sure what to say next. Her face turns red as she lifts it up toward mine. We’re both leaning against the kitchen sink, next to all the dirty plates and glasses. I swallow. Is she standing this far into my space because she wants to kiss me?

“I don’t think you’re anything,” I pause, “other than totally cool.”

I breathe in her delectable girlie smell, which makes my nose wrinkle. I’m captivated by the source of her scent, her hair or skin or who can guess? It’s so unlike the smell of boys. Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. I want to kiss her, but the kitchen sink seems unromantic, and the lights are too bright. Instead I’m suddenly overwhelmed, and I simply run away, muttering that I’ll see her soon. I somehow hope she’ll know that I’m need of a toilet, and that I didn’t just mean to dump her. I’m sweating with the stress of needing to pee, and not knowing what to do.

I escape from my mortification, my tangled thoughts, and from Becca, but each toilet and bathroom seems to have its own waiting crowd. I wonder how many couples are locked inside each one, and whether they all watch whatever it is their co-ed partners and the other couples locked in with them are actually doing. My fears are stoked by two couples emerging from one bathroom, and two more heading in. Are they really peeing one after another? Do they leave the lights on? Anyway, is that the light switch, outside the door? Would it be annoying if a person plunged them abruptly into darkness, or straight from darkness into sudden brilliance? Am I the only pathetic wanker who’s still shy about my body parts – and, worse, my bodily functions – when strangers, especially girls, are right there in the same room?

Americans should read “half bathroom” in place of toilet. I’m not looking for half a bath in this story, but I guess you guys are even shyer than I am about naming names. I saw an American ad the other day for “bath tissue.” Doesn’t toilet roll get all soggy when you float it in the bath? Do you use it to mop up floating spunk? Ok, people. Spunk is cum. Prick is cock. “Bath tissue” really cracked me up, especially as toilet is just a French word for “to wash yourself.” And lavatory just means “washroom.” Even a crap’s named after Thomas Crapper, who invented the ballcock … oh, just look it up.

I’ve no idea how to persuade these noisy groups that I should go in all alone. Perhaps I’ll need to slink around the back of the house, and pee into the rose garden? Suddenly my phone beeps as a text message comes in. It says “Hi Paul. This is Liz. Becca wants to know if you’ll go out with her. She wants to hang out with you.” So the pixie didn’t think I was a total idiot for running away like that – even though I know that I am.

“Definitely,” I type. “Ask if she’ll meet me by the front stairs.” I abandon the toilet challenge and put the rose garden pee behind me, too. I head back down to the front porch, and there right by the foot of the stairs is Becca. It’s hard to believe she’s heard from Liz so quickly, but she gives me a huge smile and stands really close, again, tilting her head up towards mine. I still think she wants to be kissed.

I chicken out again, but I give her a hug. She smells so delicious and girly. Becca says that it’ll be quieter if we go to a bedroom, where it’s easier to talk. Pulling my hand, she yanks me upstairs but then crashes on a couple of bean bags in a dark corner of the landing. I slump more or less on top of her.

The lights are off, except for the glow from downstairs. Most of the partygoers up here are clustered round another bathroom door, which is way off down the corridor. Couples emerge from and disappear into bedrooms, but mostly the lights stay off. I can feel my permanent hard-on pushing its stiff, rounded ridge against something uneven. Is it the bean bag, or Becca? She starts kissing me, opening her lips immediately. I do the same, entering her with my tongue. She starts to duel. I’m sweating again.

Becca moves much faster than did my first girlfriend, Jenna. With Jenna it took me a week to get to touch the bare skin of her tummy, as she’d kept her blouse tucked tightly into her skirt – and I’d been too cautious to go up between her legs. Jenna wore thick, woolly jumpers for protection. Sweaters, that is. Becca is wearing a tight mini-dress that doesn’t cover much, and it has this big ring-pull zip at the front. Wherever I touch her, she touches me. I want to slide my hand up her dress, but as with Jenna, I don’t dare.

We are kissing and tonguing each other much like the Dutch kids I’ve been staring at all night. Becca tastes like sex on a stick. She’s the hottest thing I’ve ever tasted. Probably the correct word is “hotter”, not “hottest”, given my new, lifelong quorum of two. By now I know it‘s Becca, not the bean bag, who is grinding her slim thighs and hard tummy against my erect penis, which is standing straight up above waistline of my jeans. Thankfully, it’s still inside my shirt.

My new friend continues thrusting with her hips, causing her short skirt to ride right up her tights, but she doesn’t try to touch my erection with her fingers — to my relief. Instead, wherever I run my hands, whether up her back, down her spine, or across her bum, she copies me like a bad girl. Being touched like this feels amazing. Why did I spend the last three years worrying about my hard-ons embarrassing some sweet girlie innocent? I’m suddenly over the moon. I like bad girls. My prick’s pushing into her; Becca surely knows it, yet she’s still squeezing my backside with an obvious passion.

The pressure of her lower body against my completely stiff boyhood is helping me hold back the pee, but my bladder is still seriously aching. I pull down her ring-pull zip a few inches down below her perfect breasts, and she doesn’t seem to mind at all. I wonder if she’ll be ok with me trying to unfasten her bra. The only trick I learned while undressing Jenna was a forefinger and thumb squeeze that would usually cause her bra’s two hooks to release.

In total, Jenna’s bras had four hooks arranged in a square, but she never seemed to fasten them all. I hadn’t known what to make of that. It’s so confusing being a girl. Should you come on for boys, or play hard to get? It took me years to realize that they want it as much as we do. That night, it seemed that Jenna and Becca follow very different strategies. Will Becca suddenly say “stop” at some point, or is my education heading for the stratosphere?

Instead of testing my only boyish skill on Becca’s bra, I slide a hand across the front of Becca’s breasts, leaving the thin lace covering in place. She is smaller and cuter than Jenna, a fact I like, and I can feel her nipples hardening the moment my fingers touch them through the fabric. I’ve never liked girls with medium or large tits as they remind me of my mother. The pixie closes her eyes and relaxes in my arms, kissing me deeper than ever. I take that as a “Yes,” and carry on exploring.

I reach around behind her back and try the finger and thumb squeeze on her bra strap. Becca gets it right away and murmurs that it opens at the front. I’ve no clue what she means, so she takes my fingers and guides them round to the space between her two small breasts. There she squeezes my fingers together. I suddenly remember the 1993 movie where the teenage hero takes an innocent kid’s virginity right there in the opening scene. The movie girl’s bra opened just like Becca’s trying to show me. I’ve replayed that scene again and again while soaking up all I can squeeze from that momentary glimpse of the innocent one’s pure, virgin nipples.

I turn my head and look at what I’m doing to Becca’s bra for the first time. It’s pretty dark, but now I finally get it. I squeeze the hooks and they pop out, letting the two cups fall away. My new friend’s tits are openly on show, only half an hour after we met. Ok, so we’re alone, and it’s no more than … in fact, a great deal less than couples are flaunting on some living-room sofas downstairs. But I’m in heaven.

I suddenly wonder if Becca’s a virgin, like me. Well if she’s not, she’ll soon discover that I’m clueless. Am I … could I be … the only virgin in the whole of my school? No; the day school pupils start at age five. Not even the Dutch are that precocious.

As soon as I start to stroke her hardening nipples, some boys walk by, all three from my year group. I’m concerned that Becca’s firm white tits and brown areola are fully exposed through the frontal zip of her mini-dress, as she sprawls back across the bean bags. I start to feel the surging warmth of my embarrassment. Should I roll on top, to hide her cute young breasts away? No, I can’t do that; suppose I were to pee on her. No way.

Meanwhile, Becca doesn’t seem fazed by the boys’ presence, if she’s noticed them at all. She keeps moaning softly even after I stop my stroking, and all three boys turn to look. I see one boy nudge another as they watch Becca continuing to writhe, nipples erect as she grinds against my leg. I cover and lightly squeeze both tits with my hands, feeling her nipples further swell to become peach stones. Her exposed girl parts are beautifully firm, with their points transformed into hard rubbers – that is, pencil erasers, for speakers of American English. (Hey, why not just steal our language instead of screwing with it? – Just kidding.)

One of the Dutch boys gives me a smile, and suddenly captures the moment with his mobile phone camera, its flash abrupt and startling in the gloom. I’m shocked, but I keep my palms over Becca’s peachy boobs. The second boy gestures for me to lift my hands for the photographer’s next snap, but I ignore him. Becca moans again, breathing more spearmint over me, and rolls over onto the top, the second flash catching her bare breasts from the side. I feel her weight on my bladder, way too much for me to handle. I lift her off me, her top now pretty much naked to the waist. The boys take one last flash and keep on moving. Becca’s not the only nude teen model they’ll enjoy on their school photo shoot tonight.

I start to mumble about my bladder crisis. How I’d come back to meet her instead of getting to pee. Waves of spearmint breath wash over me. The urgency is now so great that my story pours right out, just as my pee – please God – must not. I explain about the crowds, and how I’ve seen only couples sharing the bathrooms, for whatever reason. What should I do?

Becca laughs. “Yes, it’s usually couples only in the bathrooms at these parties. Don’t worry; you can come in with me,” she smiles. I look horrified. “I promise to look away … so long as you will, too,” she grins. “Or you can go in with those boys.”

“That bathroom’s just for foursomes,” I protest, waving along the corridor. “The animals go in two by two. It’s like Noah’s Ark,” I object, wondering what place pixies took in the bible story. “I don’t want to pee in a zoo.”

“Here,” says Becca. “I know this family. One of the daughters is in my class. We can use her parents’ bathroom, as long as no-one notices.”

Zipping up her dress a bit, while leaving her bra loose inside, she leads me to a bedroom bearing a note that says “Geen toegang” on the door. We slip inside, past a perfectly made double bed and into the parents’ private bathroom. Becca locks the door behind us. “After you,” she grins wickedly, standing staring at my shyness.

“Becca, I can’t do it with you watching. Please?’ I groan. “Or with you listening, either, come to that.”

“Then sit down and do it like a girl,” she teases. “Then I wouldn’t see anything, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s pointing at the ceiling … Push it down, and aim forward, and it’ll be quiet, too,” she adds helpfully. “Anyway, I want to watch,” she admits. “And I’ll let you watch me too. I promise.”

I’m pretty sure she expects to spectate as I stand straight in front of her, peeing like the famous statue of Manneken-Pis boy in Brussels. Instead I take her at her word, slip down my jeans and briefs and swiftly sit, hoping that my loose shirt will hide my boy parts from view.

Damn it, she’s right. There is an aiming problem. I can’t get my prick even horizontal. It won’t fit inside the toilet bowl, and she’s still grinning at me, seeing everything. The room is fairly dark, but not completely. Car headlights and yellow street lights make moving shadows. I picture an engorged image of my dick chasing magnified shadows across the walls.

I bend it down so hard that I could nearly cry, and slide my bum rearwards off the seat in order to fit myself in. Becca walks right up to me to supervise my performance. In spite of this, the flow begins, and the ache slowly reduces. Eventually it also bends a little as the pain takes away my full hard-on, though I’m still pushing straight down on my dick with my right hand while my new friend watches how I do it.

Eventually I finish, and I ask her to turn and step away while I stand. To my surprise, she does. I slide up my underwear as I rise. If she weren’t there I might have sluiced my penis under the tap so it wouldn’t make my briefs smell of pee. I couldn’t bring myself to shake it off with Becca watching. My brother says that when you have your whole penis still intact, as do most Europeans, it’s a good idea to wash under your foreskin daily; and especially before going with a girl. I would have done that kind of hygiene check for my new friend’s benefit if she hadn’t been standing right there next to me, breathing in the smell of my pungent pee.

I’m about to pull up my jeans, but suddenly I quickly waddle away, pants around my ankles, horrified to see a pool of pee on the floor around the toilet. If Becca really does pee next, she’ll step right into it. When your dick’s stiffly horizontal, pee can hit the porcelain so hard that some flows up and over the rim, passes under the toilet seat and quietly runs down the outside, making a lake around the toilet’s base. And as my luck would have it, this bathroom has a hard, tiled floor instead of the pee-soaked carpet that would have made my disaster harder to spot … though easier to smell for months afterwards.

I kick off my jeans into the corner, well away from my tell-tale lake. Are they soaked in pee as well? OMG. This has to be the worst moment of my life. Becca turns to see me in my briefs, already tenting at the front as I become still harder in front of her, in spite of the horror.

“I’ve had an accident,” I mutter, like some four-year old boy with his nursery school teacher. “My … err … I was … it came too hard, and some pee leaked out at the front.”

Becca just smiles. “Oh Paul, I’m really sorry to have put you through this. I can help you clear it up, don’t worry.” She can see the lake as well as I can, and as she moves nearer, I’m certain that she smells it, too. She slips out of her dress easily, using its handy ring-pull zip. Now she’s wearing only tights and panties, plus a bra that’s hanging off her. She drops the bra onto her dress, well away from the lake. She looks so slender, with her perfect pointy tits, like some kind of waif or street urchin from a Mediterranean village with a flexible dress code.

“No, stay away, please,” I beg my waif, but to no avail. The nymphette grabs the spare toilet roll and kneels in front of my lake, making sure her knees stay on the dry tiles. I kneel beside her in my briefs and shirt, picking up the first clod of yellow, dripping bath tissue. She starts to giggle, uncontrollably, and soon I follow suit. Bath tissue … so it’s for mopping up your pee from the bathroom floor with a new girl, while you admire her amazingly firm naked tits lit with yellow sodium vapour and sweeping quartz halogen; tits placed on show for the very first time today, if truth is being told.

Becca’s much better at the clean-up than I am. Eventually she’s wetting clods of tissue under the tap, to substitute fresh water for my urine. We flush away all the yellow-stained toilet tissue evidence. “I hope you don’t mind me taking my top off,” she giggles. “I didn’t want to get my dress wet, or for my bra to drop off in the wrong place. I’m not trying to lead you on.” Presumably she cleans up after all her boys while dressed this way.

“You’re beautiful,” I say lamely but sincerely. She’s the hottest creature I’ve ever seen.

“I’m going to pee now,” she announces, slipping her tights down and sitting on the toilet seat, scene of my recent mortification. She holds her knees together, and I hear her girlie pee splashing straight down into the water. At the side, I can see her naked pixie torso, exposed from head to mid-thigh. She hunches over her front girlie parts, mostly hiding them.

“So this is how girls do it,” I think, without saying a word. I sort of knew, more or less, but this is still a Eureka moment. I want Becca to open her legs and sit straight upright so I can get a better view. Her pee smells reassuringly like mine, acrid and pungent. I could have sighed with relief. The familiar smell makes her helping clean up for me less weird somehow.

I am standing right beside her as her pee splatters into the toilet. She delicately brushes her fingers against my hard penis through the stretchy fabric. I hope she won’t feel a damp spot at the end – though, come to think of it, she may still have my pee spread across her fingers. If she wipes them on my briefs, I’ll have no room to complain.

Once she’s done she stands up without hiding, shakes herself off a little, and takes some toilet paper to dry her secret parts. I am glued to her every move, making no effort to turn away, though it’s too dark to see all the girlie details. I can tell she has some pubic hair, but not too much. It’s apparently a bit darker than the fair hair on her head. Then she pulls up her tights and grins at me again.

“Well, that’s one way to get over being shy together,” she laughs. “But you still owe me a look at you peeing standing up.”

“No way!” I assert. “You told me to pee like a girl, and that’s exactly what I did. You peed like a girl too, so we’re even.”

“If you like I’ll stand naked in the bath and pee like a boy,” she grins. “But only after you let me watch how you pee first.”

By now she’s bluffing, or at least that’s what I assume. Is it even possible for girls to pee without squatting? A new and startling image of Becca standing naked in the bath, shooting pee forward like a boy enters my head. It’s true that I’d love to see exactly where her pee comes out, just as she wants to see mine, but there are lots more basic things I need to learn before that becomes my top priority.

I’ve never touched a girl down there, or really seen how it all fits together. Are there separate cracks at the front and back, or is it one crack that wraps all the way around? Is her sexy girl-hole open, or covered up with something? How do you find it? Will I be allowed to hold her front folds open and look? Can I put my fingers in? One finger, two, or all? There’s no way I’m going to ask, but perhaps my new friend Becca plans to show me. If she insists on seeing my erect prick, I’ll surely press for my just desserts. “I will if you will” seems to be the slogan of today. Things could be worse.

Meanwhile, it’s back to hard reality. My jeans and socks are soaked in pee where they sat in my man-made lake. Becca and I agree that I can’t wear them. She asks if I want to swap into her tights, which are a kind of legging, but wearing girls’ clothes seems like a fate worse than death. So we pick up her dress, her bra and my smelly stuff, and she pulls me out of the parental suite, scurrying across the darkened hallway into another bedroom. She seems oblivious to the way her fresh tits bounce as we run, and I no longer care about slinking round the house clad only my shirt and contoured underwear. We dump our carried clothes into the corner of the room and scramble into bed together.

To my surprise, there’s already another couple in the bed. The handsome pair swiftly scoot sideways to make room. As Becca lifts the covers, a lot of tanned skin suggests that the other boy and girl might already be naked. Dutch teens can be pretty obliging, I muse. In most countries we’d have been told to get lost. “Let’s get undressed too,” suggests Becca, sweetly.

“Ok,” I murmur, as if this happens to me every day. I continue in a whisper: “I’ve never been this far before, you know, naked below the waist.” Even as my words emerge, I know I’ve blurted out too much. Jenna had taken months to let me remove all her top clothes, and she never did allow me into her panties. As my brother said, I’m not much of a boyfriend – I never seem to get a lot.

“I’ve never been naked, either,” replies Becca promptly. “I’ve only had my top off with a boy before. But somehow it seems right to go further tonight.” She smiles suggestively, as if I’m the boy of her dreams.

It will be a few years before I’d start to wonder whether Becca is lying to make me more comfortable. Did she actually have more experience than me, but wanted to hide this so I’d not freak out? Or, had she never been with a boy at all, but wanted me to think she was old enough, and with the right experience for a kid of my age?

Later, as we traded secrets, I asked her who’d stripped her to the waist, and she was totally evasive. I never did discover his identity, if he exists at all. But I did find out that the pixie lied about her age, pretending to be a year older than she actually was. It took me until a second repeat teen birthday to work this out.

Back in the moment, I don’t want the strangers in bed with us to see my hard-on, even if the good-looking boy is in exactly the same state. I decide that we’ll undress under the covers.

I run my hands over Becca’s breasts and tummy, causing her to shudder like a young girl groped by her doting uncle. Her stomach and back both spasm as my busy hands slip inside the waistband of her tights. Inside I can feel some lacy panties, and I decide we’ll leave those on for now while dispensing with her leggings. Becca conveniently lifts her bum off the bed so as to help me remove her tights. My brother had said that this is always a good sign, whenever it happens. Press ahead, youth, he’d say, and perhaps one day you’ll score.

As Becca’s tights come off, I smell a new kind of heat from my girl’s body that’s more raw and dirty than the spearmint and shampoo that’s turned me on so far. It smells more like my own boy parts, yet at the same time very different. Do girls get aroused, too? Is this pixie as turned-on as I am? My boy scent responds by surging in my underwear as waves of sweat sweep over me.

Soon, I become aware of similar heat and sex pumping under the covers from the naked couple next to us. I sit up and Becca helps me off with my shirt, while I pretend not to be watching the adjacent teens, both of whom are revealing lots of flesh above the bedclothes. The hot Dutch girl particularly catches my attention as I watch her sexy boy squeezing her plush and rounded tits while the two of them thrash around.

How should I finish undressing Becca in a way that makes our first naked sex experience really special? I’d read about James Bond removing his lover’s panties with his teeth, so I decide to go for it. First I slide down Becca’s front until her pointy tits are in my face. I take each quivering breast into my mouth and suck, thanking my prior girlfriend Jenna for letting me practice on her boobs just before she’d burst into tears. While I gently suck, I watch the cute boy next to me gnawing at his girlfriend’s breasts in an altogether more robust fashion. The two girls are now both moaning as their boys suckle, lips covering our teeth as we bite on eager flesh.

I slide further down Becca’s lean body, licking her flat tummy and kissing as I go. My girl starts bucking like a mule, kicking off the covers to reveal translucent, lemon lace panties. I take the elastic in my teeth and pull her undies down across sparse pixie pubic hair. I’d never known that pixies fuck. My girl again lifts her bum to help me slide them off while the Dutch couple openly watches.

I have to slip my fingers into the sides of her waistband to make the teeth-and-panty trick a complete success. Becca’s fine brown peachy fuzz comes into view, thinner and less obscuring than these other kids’ pubic hair. Through it, I can clearly see her private girlie slit at the base of the prominent mound. My very first naked cunny is on show, at least in part. I’ve seen nothing like it since I watched a naked four-year old playing in sand dunes when I was eight or nine. I feel suddenly strong, as if I were made to own and control hot girls.

Becca’s cunt “on show” is dead right, as the couple next to us turn to study my girl’s rude display. I’m now kneeling with our side of the bedcovers across my back, revealing all of Becca’s nudity. As the lean Dutch boy sits up, he similarly exposes his tanned young friend from head to toe. The two girls lie side by side on their backs, just a short way apart; ritual lambs prepared for the slaughter.

I have Becca’s lemon panties hanging from my mouth like a Golden Retriever eagerly offering its master a fragrant live duck. The boy decides to compete by burying his fingers in his girlfriend’s dark brown pubes. I can’t see what he’s doing down there, but whatever it is makes his girlfriend thrash and yell, opening her legs wide as a frog’s, while pulling on her boyfriend’s hair. Her squeals and yelps sound like a puppy being tickled without mercy.

I lie on top of Becca with the top end of my dick shyly poking up from the waistband of my briefs. The girl next to us has her face contorted and her eyes closed, so I’ve no real reason to hide. The boy’s face is still close to his girl’s thatch of dark hair. Becca moans as my stiff prick presses against her naked girlie mound, now separated only by a single, thin layer of stretchy fabric.

I pull the covers up and over us on our side of the bed, though the Dutch girl remains exposed, her larger breasts with nipples erect. I restrain my urge to touch them, creating some kind of crazy wild foursome; instead I squeeze on Becca’s tits. I’ve covered us over so that Becca can undress me without the other two sharing the spectacle.

My pixie, however, has other ideas. She seems to love to show off her slim body to the other couple, throwing back the covers and kneeling over me with her bare bum close to the handsome boy’s face. I’m jealous of what he sees between my girl’s thighs, especially as I’ve yet to see it for myself. He now has two girls’ cunnies within inches of his nose.

Lying on my back, and exposed to all, I feel Becca grab my erect penis through my single undergarment, before sliding her right hand deep inside my briefs. She pops me out of my tight underwear, staring closely at my swollen boyhood in a way that’s totally new for me. She is inches away from my engorged dick, inhaling my raw, boyish sweat. My penis quivers and vibrates like a tuning fork, creating an overwhelming, deep, resonating thrill.

I feel Becca’s breath near my sensitive foreskin. She brushes her hair and soft cheek against the most delicate parts of my penis. All of this is utterly new to me, and I feel exposed, vulnerable; almost violated. I’m being used by a girl for the first time in my life. She greedily drinks in every square centimetre of my exposed genitalia, while freely sharing the view with the couple next to her. I feel like a rabbit being readied for dissection class, pinned out onto the wooden cutting board by some wicked schoolmaster.

Now I see that Becca’s not the only one giving me the eye. The cute boy has lifted his face from his girlfriend’s bush, releasing further waves of hormones from his partner’s dark pubic hair. His good looks now seem shiny and wet, though I don’t yet know why. He openly checks out my penis, without hiding, when Becca lifts her head to show it fully. For some reason I feel proud the he want to see me; proud and very turned on. This bed scene is by far the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

His girl, who no longer thrashes or moans, is also locked onto my exposed penis. She seems more than a little interested, too. I’m naked in front of two hot girls and an attractive boy, as if appearing in some kind of Japanese TV game show. I decide to study their naked privates too, which seems to worry them not one bit. My cock twitches and throbs as the three contestants stare, honest and sincere in their dirty-minded curiosity.

Suddenly the Dutch girl is seized by a great urgency, almost a deep passion. “I want you to do me in front of Becca and Paul, Stefan,” she demands. “Ik wil dat je mijn kutje neuken. Doe het nu.”

I thank my lucky stars that she’s talking to her boyfriend Stefan, and not to me. For my part, I’m not ready to “do” anyone, and certainly not to perform in front of a crowd. For one thing, I’m not exactly sure where I’m supposed to put my tool, and the last thing I need is to mess up with strangers laughing. Also, I’m still pretty hard, but if I’m made to take part in some kind of live show I’m not certain that my prick would stay that way.

I’m also fazed by way these kids know Becca, and that the Dutch girl already said my name. Is this some kind of ambush? Have I been set up? Should I shout rape? The four of us seem to be mates on first name terms, except that I’ve no clue who the Dutch kids are. Perhaps the boy’s in my school year? Or maybe they both are? Am I being a bit slow here?

Becca does nothing to allay my fears of a setup by chirping in with “Emma, that’s really sweet, but you don’t have to do that for us, honestly …”

Emma ignores her, lifting both her legs high in the air, opening them for Stefan to see right down into her body. I want to see what he sees, too, but the angle is wrong, and only her bush of nearly black hair is on show from our side of the bed. I don’t have the nerve to walk around and gaze over Stefan’s shoulder while my prick waves around for all to see. Anyway, will Becca also demand to be “done” at any moment now, to the mortal embarrassment of clueless me? What have I got myself into? I’m afraid to escalate anything given my lack of confidence in exactly where to put it, how hard to push, and how many thrusts it should take to come.

Stefan looks concerned, too. Is he as scared as I’d be? “Ik heb geen condoom,” he says in Dutch. “Zal ik neuk je toch ?”

“Ja, we gaan. Do it with no condom tonight. The time is good,” Emma replies. “Becca and Paul must view everything.”

“Ok!” Now Stefan grins rudely. “We will make a show.” He holds his penis out in front of him like a medieval jousting tool. Kneeling, Stefan points his boyhood between Emma’s open thighs. She lowers her elevated legs onto her boyfriend’s shoulders, partially blocking our view.

“Wait a minute,” calls Becca. “I want to see it all. You do, too, don’t you Paul?” It doesn’t occur to her that I might be terrified and freaking out.

My girl slides from under the covers and walks naked around the bed to lean on Stefan’s back, rubbing her body against him whilst looking over his left shoulder. I stay under the bedding, wishing I’d never persuaded Dad to let me out at weekends.

Becca looks at me. “C’mon, Paul,” she says. “Don’t miss the show. Emma’s been promising this for my sex-ed classes. I suppose you don’t need to watch, but I’m still a virgin.”

I don’t want to discuss my virginity at the moment, so I sheepishly obey. I walk round to stand beside her, prick swaying as I go. I’m standing further back than Becca, so my dick doesn’t touch Stefan’s tanned body. Becca is leaning the whole of her front against Stefan with a level of panache that I find disconcerting, though it excites me more than it annoys. She grasps my erect penis with her right hand and strokes me gently, lifting it right up against my belly, where it would be anyway if I weren’t half freaked. I find myself pulled forward, leaning into the action.

Now the three of us are gazing between the Dutch girl’s open thighs, and the smell of Emma’s raw sex is intense. Her dirty, dark scent makes me fully harden once more. I can smell my own pubes too, and Stefan’s, as he swirls his prick around in Emma’s glistening patch to slick up his tool for entry. I inhale all the confusing sex smells deeply, swept away by all these new and persuasive pheromones. These kids are just like animals mating in a farmyard, I think to myself, quietly saying nothing. But even farmyard sex is mysterious to me.

The Dutch boy’s foreskin partially covers the head of his penis, just like mine. Without rushing, he pulls his hood right back to fully wet himself in Emma’s open slit. Now Stefan pushes his sheath all the way forward to cover the head of his prick, ready for entry. He’s wet all over, inside and out. Years later, I know that this makes penetration easier on both him and his girl.

I slide my fingers down Becca’s belly into her thin mist of her baby pubes. My girl’s slit is leaking warm, slippery wet moisture that I’ve never touched before. I bring my fingers up to my mouth, breathing in a second powerful dirty scent. I start to explore my girl’s slim, sensitive, secret lips with the fingers of my left hand.

Suddenly Stefan plunges his sheathed manhood all the way into Emma’s tight young cunt. It disappears up to the hilt in just one second. Emma and Becca gasp. I want to gasp too, at the sight of that beautiful straight prick magically sinking into a hole that had seemed far too small to possibly work. The boy’s big balls slap against Emma’s splayed buttocks.

“Hold my legs up, you two,” she pants. Becca lifts Emma’s right leg, rotating the eager girl’s body still further onto her back and shoulders. Becca needs both hands to do this, so she lets go of my prick, which slaps against Stefan’s sweaty body. I lift Emma’s left leg from Stefan’s right shoulder, and lean forwards to match Becca’s angle, forcing my erection still more firmly against Stefan’s naked back. I now have an amazing view of the porno teenage action, vertically down beneath my face.

I turn to Becca, watching her swollen tits above Stefan’s left shoulder. As he rides forward on his haunches to fully penetrate his girl for a second time, Stefan mashes his shoulder against Becca’s nipples from below. My girl gasps once more, while Emma shrieks louder as her boy rams his cock all the way in, entirely filling her cunt. The Dutch boy slides in and out with a slapping, sucking noise like a Wellington boot in a marshy swamp. Americans call their Wellies rain boots, perhaps because they fought with Napoleon in 1812. Becca and I drink down the odour of these uninhibited teens’ sweat and sex.

My girl runs her left hand around Stefan’s tummy as the eager boy continues to thrust deep into Emma. I want to grope both Dutch kids too, from my side of Stefan’s belly, but I daren’t. Instead I reach out and squeeze Emma’s left tit fairly hard, right in front of Stefan’s face. Now, Becca slips her right hand between Stefan’s clenched buttocks. The boy yelps with pleasure as my girl tickles his butt crack on his third stroke. Then Becca cups and cuddles the bottom of his balls, on his fourth – Stefan having given me the low down later, after we became close friends. I use my left hand to squeeze Becca’s nearer nipple, no longer caring that my prick is mashed up hard against Stefan’s right kidney.

Emma is yelling, and Stefan’s grunts grow ever more guttural. I’m not sure what Becca knows, but my sense is that the Dutch boy is about to explode. On his fifth, deep thrust, Stefan presses back hard against my prick as he arches and blasts boy cum deep into Emma’s tight cunny. I’d half expected him to pull out and spray his spunk into the girl’s dark public hair, for safety; but he stays deep inside her cunt during all three major spasms that rack his body.

Emma moans and whimpers like a kitten that just had a narrow escape in traffic. Becca continues to pleasure her own nipples against Stefan’s shoulder, and allows her left hand to slide down that boy’s tummy into his wet pubic hair. I know she wants to feel his slippery prick, and sure enough she takes the Dutch boy in hand, giving his engorged penis a gentle squeeze and not letting go. I step behind her, pushing my erection into the side of Becca’s bottom, fingering both her breasts to relieve them of their need for pleasure from the Dutch boy’s sweaty back.

Now it feels like someone just pressed pause on a video. We stand like statues, frozen in time. Then, as I continue to stare, a dollop of boy cum gradually globs from Emma’s cunny, like a flash flood in super slow motion. Stefan’s clotted cum looks pornographically white against his girlfriend’s blood-red vaginal passage, which holds the open shape of her boy’s big cock until it slowly closes. It’s the dirtiest and most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

My girl is so aroused from the feel of that stud’s slippery cock that some boyfriends might have lost it, storming off in some kind of megasulk. But I’m not that kind of boy. I’d have touched Stefan too if mainstream society had allowed it. Secretly, I want to rub the Dutch boy’s dick, and push my fingers into Emma’s cum-filled pussy, feeling his slimy spawn all over my hand. But neither Becca nor I seem to feel we can go any further, not even in super-liberal Holland. We’re just beginners; it’s all way too new. This may be the most awesome event I’ve ever witnessed; but, we need to play it cool for now.

So I guide my girl back into bed, where we soon get warm and snuggly. We squeeze our bodies against one another with all the intensity of our teenage, driven lust. But, when I eventually start to become a little bolder, pressing my prick against Becca’s slender tummy, she cries out, tearfully, “Oh Paul. I can’t, I can’t. I really want to, but if I get pregnant my dad will kill me.”

I make consoling noises, thanking my guardian angel for looking after me even while I watch two Dutch kids fornicate. The last thing I need is to have to try and put on a public show like Stefan’s and Emma’s, with the added challenge of it being a double virgin feature for Becca and me. I say none of this, and sigh, almost as if my girl owes me one. “Don’t worry, babe,” I murmur. “I’m not ready for a sex show, either. I promise I won’t try to go all the way.” This all seems safer than admitting that I’m not really ready for sex at all.

We feel each other’s nakedness while we roll around, and then we snuggle down deep into the bed. Soon, we’re watching the Dutch kids start their second show, this time with Emma riding on Stefan’s upright shaft. I quietly pleasure myself to orgasm under the covers without missing the second performance, thinking that more cum can’t add much to growing mess on the sheets. Becca doesn’t observe my private wank, and I’m too shy to try and recruit her as a helper. I add to the slime and wetness all around us, wondering whose bed it is that I’ve helped dirty up.

Emma picks up the scent of fresh boy cum in her nostrils soon after I come, and now she steadily holds my gaze while continuing to bounce on Stefan’s dick. Even to dumbo erectus, munching on his ferns, it feels as if this could be some kind of invitation. I dismiss the thought as a crazed product of my overheated brain. Stefan takes a lot longer to come the second time around, but eventually he holds his breath, eyes bulging, before he shouts out once again.

Now the four of us can sleep, lights still on, spread around the sweaty wet sheets like a Dutch Masters’ still life. Becca lies naked with her tits in my ample patches of semen, but she doesn’t say a word about it. I’m not sure if she knows where it came from, or even what it is. To me, my boy cum has the slight odour of fish, and my fingers smell more strongly of Becca’s wet cunny. I’m lying next to my pixie, sandwiched between the two girls, with Stefan on the far side of Emma towards the other edge of the king-sized bed. Emma, like Becca, is sprawled across boy cum, this time mixed with plenty of her own fluids. She seems content, breathing more lightly than her sleeping boyfriend. No longer quite as shy, I wonder how much of a gap I ought to leave between this hot Dutch girl and myself.

I learned a lot about the mechanics of sex that night. Perhaps Becca did, too. School is definitely looking up.

Chapter 1: END

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