Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume One

"Lick me, Pal! Lick me," she chanted ceaselessly through her passion-contorted lips as her buttocks twisted and smacked with wild uncontrolled abandon down into the soft mat of grass beneath her. She did not know what the outcome would be, but she instinctively felt through her lust-dimmed mind that there was an end, some end, and that this was the way to it. Her hand dropped from his ear and she pressed it to the other side of the split of her cunt, pulling the tight, tiny lips as far apart as she could get them until she almost felt herself screaming from the pain that she felt as though she were splitting her own self apart there between her legs. His tongue lapped deeper, a hard painful pressure against her virginity so that she squirmed up with a hopeless desperation, knowing that on the other side of that thin unyielding membrane inside her lay a happiness and sensation that was beyond imagination and she bucked and twisted with all her strength, praying his tongue would break through and satiate this wild need goading her back on and on into wilder and wilder gyrations.

And then – as quickly as the feeling had begun, it burst!

She cried out into the hot summer air and then suddenly all her muscles relaxed, her legs jerking in one last spasmodic quiver out to the sides of the still licking dog's body. She continued to rotate her pelvis up against the wetness of his tongue, but more softly and slowly now, as the burning fire quickly ebbed.

She breathed out deeply and reaching up with both hands, firmly pushed his panting head away from her still wide-spread loins. He backed begrudgingly away, a protesting whine singing from his throat and she lay drained of all strength panting and perspiring on her back.

She still did not understand exactly what had happened. But it had happened and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever known. It would come again now, and often, she had tasted it and there would he no escape when it occurred again – no matter what the circumstances.

As the months and years passed, she found many new ways of fulfilling the ache which periodically filled her groin and crept down her legs and through her body. Instead of Pal, she used books, the arm of an overstuffed chair, the edge of her bed, or a pillow stuffed between her legs as she lay face down on her bed in the quiet of the night. The small, rosy bud mounted high between the lips of her sex became more and more the center of her attentions. With one or two of her fingers she would rub its fleshy swelling, gently and rhythmically, or smoke the soft length of the path leading up to it, terminating her stroke against it until the familiar rising flood of pleasure would swell up sharply and spill over. Or she would use her whole hand to apply moving and steady pressure over these warm responsive areas. And sometimes she tugged at her sex with her hand, finding that the pull on her muscles stimulated the pink bud to which they were connected.

By the time she was fifteen Cynthia was strongly desirous of a full sexual experience. But the farming community in which she lived was so small and closely knit she was afraid of the possible consequences of being discovered, punished severely by her parents and talked about by all the gossips, her reputation ruined and her parents ashamed. Then, too, she still felt lagging remnants of guilt about her own masturbation and was uneasily reluctant to take the next step. True, she had been kissed, and deeply, by many of her boy friends, had allowed a few of them to handle her young, swelling breasts, and permitted one to finger her sex with his rough, chapped hand, making her sex juices flow and her desire mount almost unbearably, but she had gone no further.

That June, when the winter-bare, plowed fields were covered with emerald green stalks of corn, rapidly inching their way upward to be knee-high by the Fourth of July, a square dance was held to celebrate the end of the school year. Johnny, as well as Paul Dawson and another friend named Mike, were home from the state agricultural school. Mike had become engaged to Betty Sorenson, who had blossomed into a dark-haired, ripely-rounded beauty with a saucy pair of blue eyes and a dimple in her right cheek.

The dance was to be held at a meeting house a few miles down the road. All the girls had new skirts, full-belled and brightly colored. The fiddlers in the area tuned up their fiddles and practiced the songs, the callers reviewed their patter and tried not to overstrain their voices during the preceding days, and all the wives and mothers cooked their treasured specialties, pecan pies, double-fudge cakes, fruit bread jeweled with red and green candied fruit, succulent hams studded with cloves, all to be eaten at midnight by the leg-weary crowd. For everyone was going, everyone who could still shake a leg or scrape a fiddle, or even just sit along the sidelines and gossip and urge on the dancers.

There was a full moon that fourteenth night of June, an orb glowing like an opal which lit the countryside almost like day and covered the rolling hills with a sinuous cloth of silver lame. Cynthia was dancing with Paul Dawson, now a tall, attractive lad of twenty with a lean face and a ready smile.

"My legs are about ready to give way," Paul said, as they finished a fast square dance and walked, breathing heavily, off the floor. "Let's get some fresh air."

They went outside and sat on the cool grass. With her arms behind her, propping her body, Cynthia tilted her flushed face toward the sky, in the moonlight her heavy, blond hair a rippling mass of silver sequins, and her eyes, dark and deep-set under the winged brows, as quiet and mysterious as a Sphinx. Her blouse, cut low in a circle revealed the clean curve of her shoulders and the soft, rising mounds of her white breasts, the hollow between them a deepening shadow as it disappeared under her blouse. The firm, twin arches of her breasts rapidly rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath, perspiration gluing the cloth to her moist, hot body, sharply outlining under the thin material the molded, outward swelling curves, each tipped with a hard bud, jutting outward under the wet gauze, dark and swollen, and the round, cupped fullness below. From her small, nipped-in waist her full skirt billowed out, its hem lying above her knees, framing in firm, plump flesh of her thighs, white and glistening in the moonlight.

"You're growin' up pretty as a heifer, Cynthia," Paul said. "Pardon my buttin' my nose in where it has no business, but is there anyone you're particularly sweet on around here?"

She glanced sideways at him, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. She liked Paul. "No," she said slowly. "Not particularly." She waited quietly.

He started to move his arm as though to put it around her, but then picked up a stone instead and threw it with a brisk swing, the stone clinking on a rock when it fell. He seemed embarrassed and unsure of himself, his inexperience revealed in his husky voice and nervous manner.

"Well, look, Cynthia," he said, "I was wonderin' what you were thinkin' of doin' after high school. Going to get married? Or are your parents goin' to send you to college?"

"I don't really know, Paul. They've said I could go if I wanted to, but I don't want to much. Maybe I'll go to Chicago and get a job. My aunt lives there, you know."

Although she hadn't told anyone, she had already made up her mind. College was not for her. She was too anxious for a quick plunge into the complex morass of life where she could surrender herself to the myriad delights she knew it would offer. It was not for her to go to college, where the fetters of a college routine would bind and choke her like the restrictions she felt at home, where the boys would be replicas of Paul and others in her own community, young, hesitant, undeveloped, and where she would not be able to freely indulge in the kind of experimentation she knew her body was ready for and eagerly demanded. No, when the time came, she would go to Chicago, live with her aunt until she found a job, and then strike out on her own.