Girl Next Door First Session

Sheridy was the daughter of my mom's best friend. My mother and Sheridy's both seemed impossibly old to me, as I recall. But I was fascinated by the girl.

Coming of age on the coast of Maine in the early 1960's was difficult. All those strong urges and no outlets. Me, I did whatever I could to hide my confused but powerful feelings; any erotic antics I indulged in were saved for my clandestine collection of men's magazines and the privacy of my bedroom. Or the bathroom.

Sheridy was different, I came to learn.

She was tall, brunette, kind of skinny, and carried herself with an air of haughtiness. If I didn't know her from my mother's connection to Sheridy's family I'm sure I'd have been terrified to even speak to her at school, such was the impact of that strong persona, of being above-it-all, that she seemingly worked hard to project. Both of us being seniors and just turning 18 that year was about all we had in common.

Sheridy wasn't beautiful but she was pretty. A lot of it had to do with the time she spent making sure she looked just so. Her hair was done in Cher bangs before Cher thought to do it that way. Her clothes were Jane Asher before the British Invasion occurred. Things just worked out that way. Some people glide through life. She swished like a classy sex bomb down the school hallways, managing all the while to seem unaware of the effect she had on everyone.

She lived in the house down the street, the three story job with the tire swing lolling against a big old oak. The one that never seemed to need painting. Her folks weren't well-off but they seemed to do better than the rest of us on the street.

The first nudie mags I got to see were courtesy of Sheridy's father. Mr. Walker liked his beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon in the 16-ounce cans. I liked the way it smelled and how pleased he looked when taking a big old gulp. He had little hair by age thirty-five, but never seemed to mind. Good-natured sort, willing to talk to a young man without preaching.

I knew the Walker home practically as well as I knew my own. One weekday afternoon during winter school vacation I happened upon a Gent magazine in Sheridy's living room, its curled edge just peeping out from under a couch pillow. Maybe Mr. Walker had been sitting right there on that couch reading it when someone came in, causing him to stash it hurriedly. Or perhaps he'd passed out from the beer late one night and didn't know he was leaving it in such an obvious place. No matter.

Now, Gent is not exactly the classiest nudie rag in history. Even then the pictorials specialized in top-heavy women, no matter that from the neck up they might have the features of Ernest Borgnine. What they had was tits, pure and simple. To a young man who'd been making do with his own imagination, occasional naughtiness at the movies, and what little he could glean from newsstand covers, this was a small piece of the Holy Grail.

You need to understand that in that time a glimpse of forbidden female nudity was a lightning rod going right through the soul of any man. You would shake at the thought of it. That's hard to envision today, when one can see more exposed flesh in an afternoon's jaunt to the shopping mall than was evident to me in all my first eighteen years. Imagine it. Imagine jerking off to bra and panty ad line drawings in newspapers, 'cause that was all we had.

Anyway, I had that magazine under my shirt and into the cellar with me before you could think twice. The two moms were in the kitchen, so downstairs was better than sneaking past them to go upstairs.

Those B&W photos had me enthralled, all right. Here was a naked woman on an outdoor swing, breasts hanging low as she leered suggestively at the camera. No pubic hair, naturally (this wasn't 1971), but she had a nice smile. And, there was a young lady on a sofa, her legs folded under her in just such a way as to hide anything from the waist down. Her breasts were enormous, and she seemed to like getting her picture taken with them resting in the palms of her hands.

Not for the first time that afternoon did I bring myself to sexual climax, but it was the first occasion that it was accompanied by a guaranteed true representation of female pulchritude to spur me on. I hid the mag in an old trunk when I was done.

I mention all that part to help you understand how the next instances could happen. After that first discovery of Mr. Walker's penchant for one-handed reading, I was determined to search for more of his collection. After discreetly tossing the basement and finding nothing, I figured his bedroom closet or bureau sock drawer were the logical choices. Getting in there without being caught would be tough.

Funny: today, an 18-year-old boy would no more waste time surveying his dad's adult stash than he would delivering newspapers for extra cash. By 18 he'd have been experienced with the real thing: girls. But, I digress.

The next Saturday I snuck into the Walker home after mowing my lawn. I'd seen Mrs. Walker leave with my mother to go shopping, and Mr. Walker's car wasn't in the driveway. Sheridy, who normally would have been heard loudly talking on the phone to one of her girlfriends, seemed also to be absent.

I was in the master bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, a just-discovered collection of nudist magazines spread over the comforter. Hungrily perusing the 1950's "camp sunshine" layout style (healthy naked people leading healthy naked lives), I had the sudden, odd feeling that I wasn't alone.

I remember I'd been looking at what appeared to be a young lady devoid of hair between her legs, stretching to punch a volleyball, when I felt the back of my neck twitching. Today I know that the pubic hair of that girl and all the rest of the folks in the mag had been airbrushed out because some districts and states had laws against showing hair down there (the theory being that then no publisher would try to show the genital area), but that's another subject entirely.

I also recall how thankful I was that my erection wasn't out in the open. I was stiff as a board and my fingers were pleasuring myself through my Anderson-Little Young Men's slacks, but, thank goodness I hadn't yet taken it out! Somehow I thought that having the good taste not to be exposed would make my crime less venal, I suppose.

Despite the dread I was feeling, I turned to meet my fate. It wasn't bravery, just the feeling of inevitability. Sooner or later I knew I'd be caught looking at naked women. I fully expected to hear the gasp of Mrs. Walker, or the surprised but knowing chuckle of her husband.

It was Sheridy, and I think my face must have blanched. I remember it felt immediately drained, like all the blood in my body needed to be moving south in a hurry. She was in a bathrobe, a towel draped over her arm, and a Prell bottle in her hand. I had looked briefly into her room when I'd crept upstairs a short time ago on my way to her parents' room, and I could have sworn there was no sign of her then. Oops.

Her eyes took in my presence, the magazines strewn over the bed, and no doubt my state of arousal, all in one sweep. I was amazed that the expression on her face betrayed no outrage or anger or surprise. She looked, well, sort of like things were as expected. Like it was no shock to find me lolling on her mom and dad's bed. Neither of us spoke for seconds.

"I was going to take a shower", she simply said, after eons.

"Oh."

"You like looking at those? My dad has tons of them."

The robe wasn't revealing, but just being in Sheridy's presence was always a strange, erotic thrill. My fear and shame fought toe to toe with my arousal. Neither side was winning. I nodded quickly in reply to her question. I really hadn't remembered what she'd asked, to be truthful.

"Mom knows he has 'em. I suppose all men buy that stuff. Crazy, really. When they could get to see the real thing anytime." Before I knew it she was at the foot of the bed and looking over the open pages of the cheaply-made magazines with their B&W displays of families gardening, farming and even grocery shopping in the raw. Phony captions under the stills related how fresh air and family activities were the mainstay of the nudist colonies. Me, I was studying Sheridy's jawline and her sensual neck.

As I say, she was not beautiful. Yet every movement she made exuded sex appeal. I liken it to how some people thought Barbra Streisand was hot when she was just coming up on the national scene. In a funny way, she was. It was some kind of inner confidence thing, I believe, that gave Sheridy that command over the libidos of her classmates. Not that her thin, lithe figure was anything special, but you just loved to hear her clothes rustle when she walked.

My eyes had made it down to the hollow of her neck when she asked me "Do you play with yourself when you look at these?"

Well, the blood that had deserted my face flowed back at a ferocious pace when I heard that! She was standing at the foot of the bed with that damned average shampoo bottle in her hand, looking for all the world like an everyday American girl, but asking me a question that might as well have been beamed from outer space. That was how outrageous it was, to me, to hear a girl say such a thing. Totally alien.

I remember I got up off the bed and hurried to gather up the magazines in a frenzy. I suppose I meant to put them back in the drawer and run the hell out of there. I was filled with shame at what she had found out about me and just wanted to run away from it. While my autonomic nervous system was busy making my body gather up the forbidden evidence of my perversity, my mind was feverishly trying to deny that this neighborhood girl might in fact be aiming to bond with me, or maybe even something better than that.

She couldn't help but laugh at my spastic reaction to her question about jerking off. Anyone would have laughed, watching me. "What are you doing?!" she tittered, pointing as I comically crammed the magazines into the bottom drawer of her dad's bureau. "You don't have to do that. I'm sorry if I said something to make you upset."

I stopped and stared at her. There was a look in her fiery brown eyes that made me think of our biology teacher, Mr. Swinton, studying a bug with all-consuming interest as he tried to get us excited by the wonders of nature. Only, unlike with Mr. Swinton, I was paying attention here.

"Come on. I want to show you something." With that, Sheridy fairly bounced from the room. I was left with the opportunity to speed from this house and try to forget what had just happened or follow her. I wondered if we were going to her room.

I found her in the bathroom. It was larger than the one upstairs at my house, with plenty of space between the tub and the toilet. There was a large mirror behind the large sink. A thick, oval turquoise bathmat ran almost the length of the room. Sheridy's small feet (it was the first time I'd noticed that her feet were disproportionate to her height) were nearly lost in that rug.

"Come in. And close the door. My mom should be out for awhile, but just in case."

I wandered in and did as she asked, closing the door tightly. It was like a dream, really, and still seems that way. Not in the fantasy way but instead remaining to my mind an anomaly, like an event that may not have really happened. Except, I remember every detail.

Details like how it smelled in that bathroom. Beneath the everyday odors of Comet cleanser and Dove soap lay something earthy and unidentifiable. It wasn't unpleasant and it wasn't sweet. It was new to my senses. I would find out soon enough the source of this intriguing smell, and also discover that Sheridy was so wet she was literally dripping down her inner thigh.

"This is something my boyfriend and I do," she began.

"You have a boyfriend?" Now, there was a bright question, eh?

"Yes. Why not?"

"Oh, it was just....well, never mind." I wanted to meet her warm, amused gaze but still felt ashamed and rather useless. Part of me wondered how my erection had kept right on through this whole humiliation. Caught breaking in, rummaging through the house, and so on. Why would she want anything to do with me?

"We can't fuck," she started anew, drawing a drop-jawed look from me. "My boyfriend and me, I mean. That's for marriage, right? So let me show you one of the things we do." With that she excitedly moved to plop herself on the closed toilet, which I noted was covered with the same fabric as the rug. Her legs splayed immediately to either side, like she'd done this often. The robe parted to show me her legs. They were thin and white but elegant. Sheridy made hurried motions with her hand that I should come and stand in front of her.

I did so, awed by what was happening. One thing I feel now when remembering that day is it seems to have happened so fast. Like we were in a hurry. It's probably just the passage of time. One memory I have that IS crystal-clear: when I got in place before her and looked down at myself, I beheld a dark stain about the size of a nickel on the front of my pants, where the tent of my erection peaked.

Sheridy saw it too. My crotch was about at the level of her chest. She was untying the belt of her robe. "Take it out." That was all she said. It wasn't an order, but there was an assured sense of focus in her voice. I doubt that her boyfriend ever refused that request. Her eyes went from mine to my crotch and then back again.

When her somewhat conical breasts came into view I was all the way down with my zipper and struggling to get the head of my cock through the opening of my Fruit of the Looms. It felt like my penis had a temperature of 110. Her nipples were larger than I had guessed and a nice shade, in-between pink and brown. They were little nubs of arousal that I focused on as Sheridy shrugged the robe over her shoulders and bared herself completely to me.

Her breasts weren't like in Gent, but to me they looked pretty much like witnessing the hand of God. Proportionate to her thin frame, they descended gracefully from her neck in a natural line that gave way to soft flesh capped by those aforementioned nipples. I knew instictively that these twin beauties would respond strongly to caresses and kisses, despite never having so much as one minute's intimate contact with a girl in my life. Anyone would have seen the potential in that sweet bosom, it's that simple.

My cock protruding from my pants, the difficulty of extracting it now over, I stole a glance down Sheridy's flat belly to the juncture of her thighs. Her hair was shining, dark brown and plentiful there. I was not surprised to find she was fingering herself, but instead wishing her hand wasn't blocking my view. My disappointment went away immediately when I felt her other hand grasp my aching cock with nary so much as an introductory announcement, and then commence to expertly stroke me.

"Aaah" I think I cried as I gasped in breath. The unexpected sensation of her touch was like an electric shock. My eyes met hers questioningly even as my hands moved to paw at her chest. I was like some special needs person standing there before her, helpless to whatever might occur.

Sheridy laughed softly but it was a throaty, slutty sound and very self-satisfied in tone. It occurred to me she might like a bit of power over boys and men, but as I looked down at that aforementioned moisture clinging to Sheridy's inner thigh and realized that her cunt was the source of that heady aroma in the room, I ceased caring about her motivations. I was happy to be alive, my hands full of soft woman flesh and my stiff dick being kneaded like a cylindrical loaf of bread dough.

Her breathing was loud in the room, almost as loud as mine. My cock seemed to be longer than I'd ever known it to appear, probably due to my position standing over her. I was proud for a moment at how dangerous it looked, aimed at her as she ran it through her fist. It was my own sense of empowerment I felt, all a matter of perception. What was not a matter of perception was the fact that I was building toward orgasm like an express train.

"Too hard. Too hard." I thought stupidly that she meant my penis, but then saw from Sheridy's grimacing expression that she meant I was pinching her erect nipples too aggressively. I quickly let go, my hands instead reaching to caress her hair and the top of her head. She breathed relief and then started a slight writhing movement in her hips. I saw that her fingers were fairly grinding into her crotch now.

I don't know whether my hands on her hair and head beckoned Sheridy to impulsively take my penis into her mouth, or if this was part of the ritual with her boyfriend. No matter. I nearly whooped with delight at the sudden sensation of her warm and wet lips and tongue working my heated member. She made little sounds of pleasure as well, which was a revelation to me. In fact, the idea of any girl actually behaving with Sheridy's enthusiasm for sex was a new idea as far as my upbringing was concerned. I'll always be thankful she brought this possibility to my attention.

Of course I didn't last long with her sucking on my prick like that. I must have made some kind of warning to her because Sheridy let me slip from her lips and back into her fist just in time for me to spray her neck and tits with copious jets of thick white sperm. I remember looking down and seeing her hump against her fingers as my cum draped over one of her nipples, my glans inches from her mouth, her other hand milking my penis expertly, the semen drooling out of the sensitive tip as I stood there shaking in ecstasy.

"Oh. Look at it" she breathed, meaning my cum, and then shook and shuddered herself as her orgasm swept through her young frame. I caressed her head and face and she bit the heel of my hand in abandon as she hunched into the toilet cover and spasmed through her final pleasures. Jesus, I can remember the scent of her pussy as though it were yesterday. I recall that I was suddenly bone-weary with exhaustion, as though we'd just finished a fifty-mile hike.

Sheridy let me stay in her bathroom that day while she took her shower, with the curtain pulled back. We didn't say much but she also didn't mind that I took the opportunity to feel her up. I got hard again (something I didn't know I could do so soon) when I felt around her warm pussy opening and put a finger inside. She pointed at my renewed arousal and shook her head in mock surprise, then waited patiently for me to jerk myself off while getting into various positions at my request.

There, with the water raining down over her lithe form, Sheridy bent over and extended her bottom out of the shower so I could shoot my jism over her backside as I studied her parted cheeks, the crinkly hole within, and the luscious mouth of her pink sex below. Her smile as she craned her neck to peer over her shoulder at me is unforgettable. It's an image I use to pleasure myself even today.