Virginia Ryder: Little Maureen_s Family Pleasures

To which he awkwardly looked away.

“We played 'spin the bottle' at a party last month,” he admitted. “And they put me in the closet with Janey Whitlock, a girl in my 6th grade class. We kissed in the dark a few times. But when they opened the door, she told everybody I wasn't any good at it.”

I had to laugh.

“She said that?” I asked him. “What a little bitch!”

Tim just shrugged again, clearly uncomfortable with the memory. It even looked to me like he might be blushing.

“It was really embarrassing,” he admitted. “Later, Janey told me she only said it so the other girls wouldn't want to kiss me. And she wanted me to kiss her again. But I wouldn't do it.”

I had to shake my head.

So this was the kind of romantic adventures going on a year ahead of me, with public school kids-preteen girls already using their feminine wiles to protect what they wanted, namely boys, from other girls.

Girls like me.

“Do you want to kiss me?” I asked, giving his hand a little squeeze. “We can find a bottle and spin it, if you want…”

The tall gawky boy next to me shrugged at the suggestion, but then clumsily leaned into me. I puckered up and he closed his eyes and pressed his warm lips against mine, giving me a quick smack and then pulling away.

He opened his big brown eyes and looked to me expectantly.

God, I thought, he was such a good-looking boy! That Janey girl was an idiot, not to justgo for itwhen she had the opportunity with him in the closet.

I'd have locked the door and kept him in there, party or no party.

“That was fun,” I assured him about the kiss, smiling encouragement and giving his hand another quick squeeze. “Let's do it again.”

So Tim leaned forward and kissed me again. And again. And still again.

Until I put my free hand lightly on his smooth face and kept him there, his soft lips pressed against mine. When I opened my mouth slightly and darted the tip of my tongue against his lips, he responded in kind, his tongue cautiously slipping into my mouth to find my own.

The two of us, at last, were making out.

“You're such a great kisser!” he exclaimed, when he finally pulled back. “You must have a lot of experience…”

But he didn't say it as if accusing me of anything. It was rather as if he was terrifically impressed. I smiled to him, knowing my blue eyes were shining with the pure attraction I felt for him.

“I've been kissed a few times before,” I admitted. “I guess boys like me. But I like kissing you the best, so far.”

And I meant it.

Of course, I'd already made out with many boys and girls, before, during and after sex, but I wasn't about to admit that to him. Ever. Some of it had even taken place on the very picnic table we were using.

At the beginning of summer, for instance, my father brought me down to the park late one night with several young boys from the club. And they'd taken turns on me. Fucking me. It was like a field trip, he'd said, which every one of their parents (all members, all who were with my mom that night, fuckingher!) approved.

He'd first put a blanket on the picnic table itself, but then finally moved it down onto the grass, where it was much easier on my back. Or my skinny knees, doing it doggy-style.

Then he and the boys all fucked me hard for over two hours. I'd also sucked every one of their young-boy cocks, of course, another fun activity for me. I'm absolutely addicted to dick, especially using my mouth.

My dad liked to fuck me first, 'heating up' my pussy, he said, and then again after all the boys were finished.

By then, with all of them taking two or three turns on me, the very young having that ability, my slippery little pink slit was so filled with their warm semen it splooshed wetly out of me with every stroke of my father's cock pumping into me.

It was messy but great fun for both of us.

And I always came my brains out on those nights, my gangbang nights, wanting every moment of pulsating pleasure I could get. All that non-stop fucking just made me want more. I'd also swallowed a lot of hot cum, like I said, sucking every single cock before we were through.

I'd even taken several boy's dicks straight into my puckered but eager little asshole. My dad always brought along plenty of that flavored lube.

And yet, with all the sexual experience I'd had at my young age, I found Tim to be the boy I most wanted to spend my time with. There was something about him I couldn't actually define, that made me want to be with him as much as possible.

“Really?” he asked, seeming not to believe it. “You like kissing me the best?”

I gave him a look.

“What's wrong with that?” I asked. “You're cute and smart and sweet and everything else a girl could want. I'd be your girlfriend in a minute. If I was, you could do more than kiss me.”

That sort of put the brakes on. He froze up, then looked into my eyes.

“Likewhatmore?” he wanted to know.

He was smiling, but seemed to be growing more tense by the moment. I think he was afraid of getting in too far over his head. “Have you already done more than kiss?” he asked.

I held onto his hand, then finally nodded.

“I've already had a boyfriend,” I told him, true enough. “An older boy. Because we were going steady, I let him do some stuff.” I gave him a worried little look. “Not like all the way, just some…stuff.”

I could tell my confession bothered him slightly.

But it also had him thinking we could do some stuff, too, he and I. If I was his girlfriend. But when he looked back to me, I suddenly shook my head and abruptly turned away from him.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said, not looking at him. “I shouldn't have said anything. I don't think I'm ready to do anything like that again. Anyway, I'm sorry I told you…”

We sat silently for several long, awkward moments, my back turned to him, until he finally said, “I didn't mean to upset you, Maureen. I like you a lot. And I'd love for you to be my girlfriend.”

I turned back to him, almost shyly, smiling slowly.

“Okay,” I nodded, then gave him another of my little shrugs. “But let's not do that other stuff yet. I'm not really ready for it, so soon.”

Tim nodded happily, glad to merely be getting along with me again. Boys or men. They're always so easy.

“But can we kiss some more?” he wanted to know. “Just kissing.”

“Sure.”

And so, sitting side-by-side on the picnic table two evenings ago as it grew steadily darker, we again began kissing. But this time it was as boyfriend and girlfriend, a time-honored commitment to romance that meant a little more was expected.

Sexually.

Tim was a fast learner, and I was an excellent teacher (I'd been told!), so before too long we were French kissing like we'd been doing it all our lives. And breathing so hard we were both shaky.

I could feel my heart pounding away in my thin chest and I knew his was doing exactly the same thing.

The rough top of the picnic table had grown hard against my skinny little butt, though, and then just as hard along my side when I lay back and pulled him down next to me. We kept kissing, slow wet kisses that had us both panting, the awkwardness of our position on the table virtually unnoticed in our excitement at being together.

But soon enough, I suggested, “Let's get down on the grass. It'll be softer.”

Tim needed no further prodding.

It was nearly dark by then, the bright full moon already overhead and providing all the light we needed. Without really disengaging, we slid off the table down onto the grass and kept at each other.

It was soft and sexy and somehow natural. It was also obvious the park was nearly deserted.