John Holmes - Porn King

She lathered my head, than dunked it underwater. Then she ran the cloth down my back and around my buttocks, lingering around the cleavage, fingering it deeply. Her breasts grazed my arm. The nipples were swollen and taut. “Stand up,” she barked.

I hesitated. I was not in any condition to stand; part of me was already up, anyway.

“Get on your feet!” Gloria said, with a strange look on her face. As she grabbed under my arms and pulled me out of the water, her eyes suddenly grew wide. “What’s that for?” she asked, stepping back a bit to get a better view of my stiffened appendage.

“I don’t know,” I said naively.

Gloria looked at me savagely. “You play with yourself, don’t you?”

“No,” I answered emphatically. “That’s a sin.”

“Have you ever touched a girl before?”

“No,” I said, discounting my earlier ‘stinky finger’ experience. She looked at me sternly while soaping her hand, then wrapping it around the hardened rod.

Then she began stroking it. I had my first orgasm that night.

As Gloria was tucking me back in bed, she asked, “Are you going to tell your mother I gave you a bath?”

“No,” I replied, definitely.

“Did you like the bath I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, whenever you have to have a babysitter, make sure you ask for me.”

“I will,” I replied. I had no say in the matter, but I promised anyway.

“And never tell anybody what we did. Swear?”

“I swear.”

A few months later, shortly after my ninth birthday, I discovered what it was really like to be with a girl. Mary Kay was the daughter of a neighbor, and we often walked to school together. I hadn’t seen her in weeks, but we met one hot, steamy afternoon on a county road. She was wearing a little cotton sun dress, and looked terrific. “Want to take a walk?” I asked. “We could let our feet dangle in the creek.”

She brushed a wisp of blond hair out of her face and smiled. “Sure, that would feel good.” We made it as far as the bridge that crossed the creek— actually, into the cool shadows beneath the bridge. There, nothing grew except the softest, greenest moss; it felt like a carpet of velour under our bare feet. I had known Mary Kay ever since we’d moved to the country. She was a good friend, nothing more, but suddenly I felt a stirring between my legs. I turned on my side to face her as she lay on her stomach, and ran my hand along the gentle curve of her back. Her body quivered, and she rolled over. I placed my hand on her stomach, making broad, sweeping, circular motions until my fingers rested in the damp folds between her thighs. I’d never played “stinky finger” with Mary Kay before, and she did not seem to mind my starting now, although she kept her legs firmly together. I was leaning over to kiss her cheek when she came up with the oddest remark. Looking up, she said, “I was watching my sister kiss her boyfriend the other night and they were sticking their tongues in each other’s mouths.” “You mean she stuck her tongue in his mouth?”

“No, he stuck his tongue in her mouth.” I looked at Mary Kay and made a face.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “but do you want to see what it feels like?” I wasn’t quite sure, but I nodded anyway. To kiss, seriously, we had to get close, and when we did my penis brushed against the softness of her leg. The feel of her body against mine brought on a feeling I’d never known before, and I thought: There cannot be anything better in the world than being this close to another human being.

Mary Kay pressed her lips to mine and we touched tongues. It felt and I backed away. “No,” she said, “you’re supposed to suck on my tongue.” “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, impatiently.

Again, we kissed and once again I felt her tongue in my mouth. “That’s awful,” I said, wiping my open mouth with the back of my hand. “No it isn’t! It’s OK—my sister does it.”

My interest in Mary Kay was slowly fading, but I didn’t want her mad at me. “All right,” I said, “we’ll do it.”

At that point I noticed a strange thing happening. As I worked on Mary Kay’s tongue, she began to spread her legs—like the unfolding of flower petals. Now my fingers could freely explore the soft, resilient flesh of her uncharted depths. Then I felt her hand. She had a death grip on my rod. “You’re squeezing too hard,” I said. It felt dead, but I still had an erection.

“Well, how do you want me to touch it?”

“Just hold it,” I said “but not so tight.”

“I saw my brother play with himself once,” Mary Kay whispered, “so I know how boys do it.” She loosened her grip slightly and began moving her hand slowly up and down. After only a few strokes, she stopped. Her eyes grew wide as she said, “I know an even better way. Want to try?”

“What do you mean?”

Mary Kay pushed my probing fingers away and spread her legs farther apart, lifting her knees into the air. “Closer,” she coaxed, “move closer.”

She pointed the object in her hand, guiding me inside. Then I was on top of her. And we kissed—with our tongues. I thought I’d gone to Heaven.

Our bodies locked tightly together for several moments, squirming unexpectedly at the wild and totally new sensation that gripped us. Then, suddenly and without warning, Mary Kay shoved me away. She was on her feet in an instant, reaching for her panties and sun dress and tugging awkwardly at the skimpy pieces in an almost desperate attempt to cover herself. She dressed with her back to me, without saying a word, and without so much as a parting glance she hastily departed the shadowy “scene of the crime” for the open spaces and sunlight.

Mary Kay’s quick departure didn’t bother me. In fact, I felt relieved to have her break away, and was grateful for her silence. Had she said anything, even in passing, I probably wouldn’t have answered; my mind was too filled with ugly, horrifying thoughts. The overwhelming joy that had raced through me at the height of our intimacy had turned to fear and shame. It was as if a dense, black cloud had rolled over me, smothering me with guilt. I had tasted Heaven. Now I was certain the Devil had taken me by the hand and was leading me straight to Hell. It was difficult for me to understand how something that felt so good could be considered so wrong, even evil. I needed desperately to talk to someone, anyone, but that was impossible. I couldn’t confide in my brothers or sister, and certainly not in my Mother or Harold. We were not allowed to think about sex, let alone discuss it. To admit that I had actually experienced sex would have been intolerable.

My feelings toward Mary Kay swayed from one extreme to the other. One moment, I wanted to see her again to try and make peace with her, and myself. The next moment, I blamed her for causing me so much pain, and pledged never to even mention her name. If it hadn’t been for that afternoon under the bridge, I kept telling myself, we’d still be best friends. Instead, we had become strangers. My guilt was so complete that I began to doubt whether I’d ever look at another girl (I was certain I’d never touch one). But, for reasons that were unknown to me at the time, whenever I thought of Mary Kay, which was almost constantly, I’d relive our few moments of innocent discovery and my body would throb with sexual tension. Once again, I’d be lifted sky-high with pleasure, only to come crashing down in despair that lingered long after the all-too-fleeting pleasure.

How could I ever be forgiven my sin? To my young mind, I had committed the greatest sin of all; one twenty times more deadly than masturbation. Mostly, I wanted to avoid Mary Kay. That was easy for a time, especially on week days. Because of summer vacation, there were no morning walks together to school, no sitting within glancing distance of each other in the same classroom.