SEASONS OF SEX, Part 1

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.