R Finch - No longer virgin

"Oh, come on, Wendy!" he responded almost peevishly, raised up on one elbow. "Christ, we've gone together for over two months now. I love you. You say you love me. What's a finger going to hurt?"

"You know how I feel about that," she said. She was acutely aware of the oily-slick wetness that so completely filled the area Alan wanted access to, worried it would actually seep through her jeans. She could just barely detect the warm passion smell of herself and hoped unreasonably that Alan couldn't. It embarrassed her.

He had not yet removed his hand, but now inched his fingers forward and touched the finely curled hair that began on the gentle slope of her groin.

"Stop it, Alan!" She would have stamped her foot had she been standing. "I mean it!"

"Damn it, Wendy! What's it going to hurt? Tell me."

She finally took his hand firmly, pulled it away, wrapped her arms around his neck. She began kissing at his face wetly. He moved away from her.

"Wendy, you don't understand what you're doing to me! Look at me! I'm going to burst through these jeans any second!"

She wouldn't look, but shook her pretty head.

"Alan, behave yourself. Besides, if I let you touch me there, it would only make things worse for you."

He ignored her logic. "Let me just touch it once. Just with my finger. Just once. I promise."

She felt her resolve weaken slightly, still held firm.

"Honey, I love you, but I just can't. Try to understand."

"But you'll like it, Wendy. You will. Besides, all the other girls let their boy friends do it."

"And just how do you know that?" she asked. "The guys all talk about that sort of thing," he answered vaguely, suddenly defensive. "You know, just talk."

"I know. Just talk. Like talk about that whore Lucinda Krell and how many different boys have pulled her pants down. I've heard that talk. And you just want something to talk about, too! Well, I'm not Lucinda Krell and I wouldn't want to be!"

Alan blurted, "I would never say anything about you! I love you!"

Wendy suddenly smiled then, kissed him on the mouth impulsively. They looked at each other for a moment without speaking.

Finally Alan said, "Let me touch it through your underwear. I'll stop the second you tell me. I swear."

"My parents are right upstairs," she said.

"What's that got to do with it? We're not going to be throwing the furniture around or anything."

She was silent and looked away from him, unsure of what exactly to do. After all, she did love him.

"Do you promise, on our love, you'll stop the instant I tell you to? Do you promise?"

She glanced almost shyly at him, saw in his eyes his anticipation was even greater than her own.

"I promise," his voice cracked.

"Be gentle. I'm very sensitive down there."

"I would hope so," he laughed nervously, his fingers already under the front of her jeans, moving cautiously along her lace panties toward the center of her young womanhood.

Wendy bent her knees, raised them, parted her legs slightly to afford him more room within the tightness of her denims. She could tell her underwear was already soaked, could feel the wetly clinging fabric riding up in the back between the cheeks of her bottom.

Alan couldn't quite seem to reach her, the area just too confining.

"Undo the snap," she suggested finally in a tiny voice.

Alan fumbled with the front of her jeans, flipped open the snap, pulled down her zipper, exposed a large triangle of white panty. He slipped his fingers past the elastic, when she didn't protest, moved down through her damp, curly hair. He searched.

Wendy cried out with a barely stifled sob when he found the slick opening of her cunt, caught her breath with a sharp little whimper when his fingers discovered the fleshy covering protecting the exquisite sensitivity of her faintly trembling clit.

He probed gently, lit on the quivering, distended stub, enclosed it. He tugged at it.

"Don't!" Wendy barely managed to gasp brokenly, twisted away from his touch. "What's wrong?"

"I want you to stop. You promised." She removed his hand, pulled up her zipper, re-snapped her jeans. She was trembling.

"Let me make you come at least!" he almost cried.

"No," she breathed in a small voice, felt her face flush, turned away. "That's enough."

"Why?"

"Alan, don't start again. You promised."

"Just tell me why."

"Alan, please…"

"There's nothing to worry about," he persisted. "Even if we did end u-uh – anyway, I have a – uh – a rubber."

"What!" she turned back to him. "Where'd you get it?"

"Tyrone gave it to me so you wouldn't get pregnant."

"You told your creepy brother about what we do together!" she suddenly flared.

"Calm down. It's no big deal. It's just a rubber."

"What did you tell him?" she wanted to know. "Nothing. Forget about it. I didn't say anything."

"Then why would he give you a rubber? He must think I'm like that dopey slut Lucinda!" She paused, looked at Alan keenly. "Or maybe he gave it to you for Lucinda!"

"You're crazy."

"Don't think I miss the way that little bitch rubs all over you in school," she continued heatedly. "I know she'd love to add you to her list."

"I don't give a damn about her," Alan said angrily.

"Then why did Tyrone give you the rubber? You must have said something about us."

"I didn't," Alan insisted. "He just assumed, well, you know. And, anyhow," suddenly louder, "what's the big fucking deal? People do have sex together. It's, not unheard of. I'm human, you know. I'll bet Lucinda never got a guy all worked up and sent him home ready to explode in his pants!"

"Ohhhh, then go find Lucinda!" Wendy blurted, tears burning her eyes. "If that's all you want, go get it from her! You'll probably get something else, too."

"You're impossible," Alan shook his head disgustedly. "I mean, you're really out of your Goddamned mind!"

"I'm sorry I'm not like your precious Lucinda," Wendy said sarcastically, turned her back to him. She didn't want him to see her crying.

"So am I!" Alan said. He stood suddenly. "At least Lucinda's not some Goddamned tease!"

He stormed up the stairs, slammed the back door behind him.

"Good for her," Wendy said quietly, bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling.

The bell signaling the start of eleven o'clock classes rang through the halls of Westmont High School, echoed down near-empty, locker lined corridors, could be heard even in the rest rooms. Wendy ignored it. She was not going to her class, was not going anywhere, in fact. She just wasn't up to it, could not face being confined in another class, not even for the one hour until lunch.

She sat alone in the girls' rest room, enclosed in one small, gray, metal stall, perched on the toilet. Her short skirt, the blue one Alan liked so much, was bunched behind her, her pale lace panties pushed down to her knees, dangling over the tops of her white knee socks. She merely killed time.

She had sat through her first three classes without the least interest in anything her teachers had said, hadn't bothered taking notes, hadn't bothered even to jot down her homework assignments. As yet today, she had not once seen Alan. She knew that he was obviously avoiding her, was pained by the thought, but knew, also, that he would get aver his anger of the previous evening once he saw her again. At least, he always had before.

Wendy glanced around the stall indifferently, looked at the few obscene comments and drawings etched into the paint. She smiled at one rendering in particular of a fat boy with a huge balloon penis covered with porcupine-like quills, thought to herself, "God, that would hurt!" She wondered who it was supposed to be, decided Jerry "Chub" Parks, maybe. It kind of looked like him for some reason, though Wendy couldn't be too sure about the quills. She wouldn't want to be, for that matter.