R Finch: No longer virgin

Wendy Winkler was nine years old when she climbed up on the back of the overstuffed couch in the basement playroom, balanced, one leg on each side as if astride a horse, and bumped across the coarse fabric. She wore only light cotton panties under her dress and was immediately arrested by the delightful sensation received from her action. She did it again, was rewarded with the same delicious twinge. She did it yet again. And again.

As sliding any distance at all proved awkward, Wendy soon discovered that by leaning forward, supporting herself with her hands, arms straight, elbows locked, and moving slowly back and forth, she could effect the same pleasurable tug. She was totally enchanted by it.

She pulled her feet up, crossed them behind her, frog-like, heels touching her small bottom, the smooth muscles in the backs of her legs tensed. She began rocking. The first steady, precise thrusts of her narrow hips gradually took on a mysterious urgency, quickened, until finally, her heart pounding in hex ears, her skinny arms and legs trembling uncontrollably, her tight, straining buttocks pumping feverishly, she gasped aloud at the flame suddenly licking through her insides, shuddered, surprised, as it consumed whole the delicate tissue between her damp thighs.

She immediately ran to tell her best girl friend.

Now, at the age of eighteen, Wendy Winkler was tallish, slim-hipped, and the possessor of huge, inquisitive brown eyes, a tousled tangle of tawny blonde hair, and an impish, as equally often sensitive, or even secretive, smile. Her firm breasts, though not overly large, were exquisitely round, heavy, poised high and distinctly separate. They tilted upward slightly, pointed outward. To the chagrin of her parents, she never bothered wearing a bra.

Wendy had, by this time, discovered another use for that same overstuffed couch in the basement playroom. She lay sprawled on her back in semi-darkness, the gentle curve of her slender body pressed deep into the battered cushions, her small, denimed bottom wedged into the space formed between them. Alan Stokes, Wendy's boy friend, her lover, her "steady" of two months, his muscular arms around her middle, the throbbing erection within the tight confines of his jeans poking obtrusively against her thigh, lingeringly explored the sugary warmth of her mouth with his tongue.

Wendy squirmed yet more tightly to him, sucked and bit at his lips eagerly, darted her pink tongue wetly against his own.

Alan pulled away slightly, murmured, "I love you, baby." He brushed his lips lightly across her apple smooth cheek, gently chewed at her ear. "I love you," he said again.

"I love you, too," Wendy breathed against him, entwined her fingers in his dark, curly hair. "Touch me."

She shifted position slightly, avoided a loosened spring jabbing at her, worried only briefly if her mother would come downstairs to see how the studying was going, decided she probably wouldn't. She had never yet, anyway.

"Touch me," Wendy coaxed again, almost child-like.

Trembling, Alan quickly unbuttoned her blouse, tugged it free from the waistband of her faded, beltless denims. He pushed it back off of her shoulders and reached for her.

Wendy stiffened with a muffled little gasp at the cool touch of his hands on her bare breasts, shivered almost imperceptibly when he squeezed one gently. Her dark plum nipples already rapidly hardened, swelled into taut erection out of sheer anticipation. She flicked lightly with her tongue at the corner of her mouth.

"Wendy, you have the most fantastic Goddamned tits!" Alan managed hoarsely, kissed wetly along the damp, round underside of one. "I mean, they're so damned perfect!"

"You always say that," Wendy giggled, pleased at his obvious delight with her. "They're just… breasts."

"I always say it because I mean it. They're flawless! Compared to you, every other girl in the seventh grade looks like she's wearing an iron board under her blouse."

"Oh, Alan!" she giggled again, softly, twisted slightly, closed her eyes. She was aware of his tongue teasing at one of her distended nipples, then the other. His breathing, as her own, grew by degrees more uneven.

"Alan, I love you," she said quietly. "I really love you."

And, of course, Wendy did love him, adored him. She was deliriously happy she had him, thought of him, in fact, as something she owned, much like her record player or the English racing bicycle she kept in the garage. Alan belonged to her, was hers, and she loved him as much as she was capable of loving anything. Or anyone, for that matter.

"Your nipples will burst if they get any bigger!" Alan laughed, covered one warmly with his mouth. He tugged at the rubbery flesh with his teeth.

"Well, don't bite it off!" Wendy breathed, shivered at the delicious tingling sensations, the delightfully electric miniature spasms sluicing down her body. She could almost believe that, somehow, through her breasts and nipples alone, she might achieve some form of partial relief, some form of orgasm.

She squirmed for even more body contact with this boy she loved, pulled him even more on top of herself. She felt his stiffness against her thigh again, was both excited, at the same time, frightened at the thought of it.

A brief fantasy, vague, confused, flitted through her mind, captured her, released her. A fantasy about his cock, about her in complete possession of it, touching it, holding it, putting it into her mouth, putting it, forcing it, into the slick passage between her legs, into the tight opening of her anus. She wanted it with a ravenous urgency, wanted it within her, throbbing, alive.

To Alan, she said nothing. Her relief, she knew, would only come later, after Alan had gone home, after the rest of her family was asleep, when Wendy was safe and alone in the darkness of her own bed. When all was still in the house, then would her relief come, quietly, and in the form of her own slender, probing fingers.

"How did you ever get your tits so firm?" Alan asked and squeezed one. He tweaked at a shiny damp tip with his fingers. "You do breast exercises or something?"

"No," Wendy answered awkwardly, thought she might be blushing. "I don't do those."

"You must do something," he insisted.

"Nothing. They're… they're just natural."

"They're just beautiful," Alan corrected her.

She loved it when he complimented her so extravagantly, felt somehow even more valuable to him, and he complimented her often, particularly about her breasts. She was lucky to be so endowed, she guessed, but if Wendy's wondrously round and uptilted breasts gave her reason for pride, then they certainly also gave her cause for concern, and even occasionally, as when the girls in her seventh grade gym class glanced at her with obvious curiosity and envy, cause her acute dismay and embarrassment.

Wendy, of course, was as curious about the other girls' tits as they about hers, and, twice a week when the entire class stood naked in the shower room together, toweling off or dashing in and out of the tilted shower stalls, she covertly compared herself to them and was always honestly amazed at the difference.

"I'm completely in love with your body," Alan announced, moved from sucking at her nipples to kissing her throat. He pushed her loosely-cut hair aside, chewed at her slender neck, ended at her bare shoulders.

"Only my body?" Wendy chided softly.

"Everything," he said. "I love everything that's part of you, all and everything that makes up you."

His hand moved down across the tips of her breasts, across the flat expanse of her tummy, lingered momentarily to toy with her navel.

Wendy giggled.

Alan reached out, through her denims squeezed the plump mound between her slightly parted thighs, caused her to start with a small, audible sigh. Quickly, he slipped his hand under the waistband of her jeans, managed to poke a finger under the elastic of her panties before Wendy said, "Man, please don't, baby."