Seasons of Sex 1: Fall 1967
Introduction:
First in a series
FALL, 1967
Sexually, I was a late bloomer. Not that I had no sexual feelings: I had been masturbating (to a dry orgasm for the first few years) since the age of 5. My practical experience with girls was, however, almost nonexistent. But from the first time Annabelle Lee sneaked away from the church picnic with me and kissed me under the big tree at City Park, flicking her slick tongue in to mine and running a knowing finger along the stiffening bulge in my crotch, I was in love with her and hooked on sexual pleasure. I was a virgin at the time, and as far as I know she was too, though her experience with foreplay was far greater than mine. I was barely seventeen; she was an older woman: seventeen and a half.
It wasn’t long before she was letting me touch her tiny breasts and granting me enticing glimpses up her miniskirts. The evening we parked in a darkened neighborhood and she let my hands run up her bare thighs to her damp cotton panties was also the first day I witnessed a female orgasm. I was thrilled to place my palm over her crotch and feel the soft female nothingness there where I was accustomed to feeling my own prominent male plumbing. Pressing inward, I felt her vaginal slit and heard her gasp of pleasure. As our mouths licked at each other, I let my fingers do by instinct what they had never done by practice. Writhing on the end of my finger, legs spread wide, gasping and stiffening as her panties slid around her slippery cuntlips, she was an object of such passion and beauty that I almost came in my own jeans. In fact, I did just that when, grateful for the pleasure I had almost unwittingly given her, she stroked my cock gently for about three seconds. My gasps of ecstasy, the dark stain down my leg and the musky aroma which filled the car left no doubt what had happened. We were a contented couple for at least five minutes, at which time we started in again. We remained virgins, though, technically, for a good three months more, jacking each other off, fingering each other to orgasm, or rubbing our clothed crotches together until we came, panting and moaning and filling our underwear with sexjuice.
Annabelle was not that sexy to look at at first glance. She looked about 11 or 12 with tiny tits, pigtailed red hair, and skinny legs. There was hardly any hair on her cunt. But she longed to spread those legs, and have those tits sucked, and have that cunt licked and fingered. When she took my hand and called me “Daddy,” I wanted to hold her in a most unfatherly way.
About the same time I met Annabelle at church, I met Belinda Carr at school. She too was petite, just a little taller and fuller-figured than Annabelle. We both sang in a group of select singers who specialized in madrigals. We dressed in Scottish attire, the boys wearing kilts and sportcoats, the girls wearing short peasant dresses with low ruffled necklines. Belinda didn’t have much in the way of cleavage, but she wasn’t embarrassed at showing off what she did have, as were some of the better-endowed girls. When Belinda had to lean forward for some reason, there was none of this business of demurely shielding her bosom from view by a strategically placed hand; she just let her blouse fall away and let her breasts, such as they were, hang as they would. The braless look was not in fashion yet, and wouldn’t have been allowed at our school anyhow. But since her tits weren’t all that big, her bra did fall away from time to time, revealing the edges of tight brown nipples. And to school she usually wore form-fitting slacks which showed off a nice round ass and a sweet, plump, indented pubis.
Belinda’s face was not beautiful, and as far as I was concerned, that was her saving grace. Had she been a knockout, I would have been too shy to talk to her. But her nose was a bit big, her chin a bit small, her lips a bit thin. Her eyes got to me, though. Big, gorgeous, expressive blue eyes. And her face was framed by the long, straight, parted-in-the middle hair that was in style then. She was smart, and sexy, and even though I had a hard-on whenever I was in her presence, I was not rendered mute by my attraction. To the contrary, I was moved to speak to her, to befriend her, to woo her.
But then on the weekends, when I saw Annabelle, I was confused. She clearly thought of me as her one and only, and when we were fingering and slobbering over each other in the back seat of the car, I didn’t see the need for another girl in my life. Except—well, when I was sucking and mauling Annabelle’s tiny titties, I wondered what it might be like to play with some slightly bigger boobs—say, Belinda’s, for instance. And would Belinda’s cunt–supposedly covered with dark, curly hair–taste different from Annabelle’s sweet red slit, sparsely covered with bright orange? Did Belinda moan when she came? Did her pussy squirt juices, or contract and pulsate, as did Annabelle’s?
In short, I was a teenage boy. Still, I was a teenage boy with a sense of honor, if not commitment, so for a long time I remained faithful to Annabelle. Especially after she and I actually started fucking.
Our first time was, as it seemed to be for so many of our generation, in a parked car. Annabelle’s father was a high-powered lawyer, and he had a gorgeous Buick Electra that would probably seat eight people. It would sleep two, anyway, in the back seat, though we never did much sleeping. So of course, it was only a matter of time before we “went all the way.” We were lying in the back seat kissing. She wore a light short cotton dress with cotton panties and nothing else underneath it. I soon had my head up under the dress sucking her nipples, my hand inside her tiny panties.
“Guess what,” she hissed, pulling my shirttail out and caressing my bare back.
“What?” I asked, as I flicked away at one stiff little nipplenub.
“I’m on the Pill.”
She didn’t have to say any more. I moved lower and pulled her panties down. She spread her boyish white thighs wide for me. As I licked her fragrant cunt, I undid my pants and pulled them down, freeing my rampant cock. Her cunt was wet, slippery, flowing, ready. “Fuck me,” she said. “Fuck me, sweet Ricky.”
I crawled up and kissed her. She licked my mouth, my face, loving her own creamy juices. I positioned my hard penis at her sweet little slit and rubbed the head up and down the juicy opening. I was ready, and she seemed to be. I slid my cock gently into her oozing cunt, and reveled in the tightness of her virgin vagina. Just the head was inside, and I thought I might come then and there. “Oh, shit, Ricky, just do it….Fuck me…Put it in….”
I did…slowly, surely, I pressed my thrilled cock into Annabelle’s tight, wet, juicy cunt. Her hymen gave way, she gasped in pain and held me closer, and I slid myself all the way inside.
She pulled her dress off over her head. “I want to see,” she gasped. She jutted her hips up as I slid my glistening rod in and out. “That looks so cool,” she moaned. There was some blood, but most of the liquid that oozed from her cunt and coated my cock was clear and slimy.
I pulled all the way out and slid all the way back in. “We’re not virgins anymore, baby.”
“But will you respect me in the morning?”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll fuck you right now.”
“Oh, yes…Oh, God…”
I slid in and out, faster and faster. It was an incredible sensation, far exceeding my wildest fantasies. Her tight little twat squeezed me and sucked at my hard, raging cock, and just when I knew I could hold out no longer, Annabelle came in huge, wrenching spasms, her skinny little body going rigid, her viselike pussy cutting off the circulation to my cock. Just as her thrashing began to subside, I came. I felt a thick jet of lumpy semen force its way through my cock and into her hot cunt. Then another, and then another, until she was so slick my stiff rod could move even faster and with almost no friction.
“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, uh huh—” Annabelle grunted softly in time with my thursts and her spasms. “Uh huh, huh, uh, huh, aaaaaaahhhhh aaaaaahhhhnnnnnnnnggggggggggggggggggg!!!!” and she came again, this time lifting herself off the seat and hanging by her arms from my neck and by her thighs from my hips. She tripled the speed of her fucking, moaned once more, and then slid off my cock and back down to the leather seat of the car. Thick strings of come still connected her oozing cunt to my throbbing cock, and fragrant juices pulsated from her pussy onto the expensive upholstery. I kissed her, and she hungrily tonguefucked my mouth. Then she went limp, murmuring, “Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.”
After that we made love wherever and whenever we could get away with it. In the Buick, on some discarded mattresses in the church attic, in her bedroom during those rare moments when neither her parents nor her brother were around, in the woods behind my house, on a picnic table at a deserted rest stop. Her skinny little legs would open, my horny little prick would rise, and we would be at it again. Once, seated in the back pew at church, we were simply holding hands, until Annabelle maneuvered my arm onto her lap, my elbow pressing against her crotch. She moved only a little, leaving me to stimulate her with my elbow. By the time she came, her legs were spread out, her minidress was up to her hips, and my elbow was slipping in quick little circles on the soaked crotch of her panties. I was hard as a rock, of course, but I managed to maintain myself until after lunch—which was with my parents!—when we took a quiet walk in the woods and she fished my aching cock out of my suit pants and milked me to a pulsating, satisfying orgasm, my rich white semen pumping out onto the footpath where we stood. “That will help the grass grow,” she said as she squeezed out the last drops and lifted them to her mouth.
And so the year progressed. By Christmas break, we considered ourselves sexual experts, so well had we memorized all the warm, wet, pulsating places on each other’s body.
Perhaps this familiarity was the problem. As much as I loved my intimate times with Annabelle, as much as I loved lying with her in slick, slimy, sweaty, satisfied afterglow, I always found myself wondering what it might be like to be in the same situation with Belinda.
And with the break from school, I didn’t see Belinda any more, and absence made the part grow firmer. It made me feel guilty to do it, but sometimes when I slid my hand into Annabelle’s panties, I wondered what it would feel like to be inside Belinda’s. And when Annabelle came, clenching and gasping and thrusting her crotch against mine, I wondered what Belinda would be like as she went through the throes of orgasm.
As adolescent problems go, it was a nice problem to have. But it was a genuine problem.
Annabelle and I exchanged Christmas presents on December 20, since her family was going to out of state for the holidays. We had the house to ourselves, thanks to Christmas parties that her parents and brother were attending. I gave her a leather necklace with a Native American motif; it was an inexpensive gift, but she was thrilled and kissed me deeply.
Then she made me go into the kitchen while she got my gift wrapped. She said to come into the living room in five minutes.
Five minutes later I went into the living room, and there under the tree was my gift: Annabelle stark naked, her legs wide open and facing me, with a sprig of mistletoe fastened to her orange pubic hair with a green ribbon.
“You have two more presents for me, I know,” she said seductively, tweaking one of her nipples with one hand. “One is that sweet cock between your legs, and the other is that sweet tongue in your mouth.”
“They are yours,” I agreed, kneeling between her legs and leaning in to kiss and lick her fragrant young cunt. “Merry Christmas.”
It wasn’t difficult at all to unwrap my present. And I certainly enjoyed helping her unwrap hers.
