tagFirst TimeMy Secret Diary

My Secret Diary

byleBonhomme©

Dear Diary!

Now I really am a woman! We did it! You know the whole story – except for that, and I will tell you, but want first to recall it all from the beginning.

When Mom suggested that I keep a diary and gave me a five year diary book for my twelfth birthday, I didn't know what to write, what to tell you. But when I had my first period a few months later, she told me that I was becoming a woman. I sure didn't feel like one and sure didn't have anything to look like one, like I told my diary the first day. That's when I got my idea to make it a diary about that: "On becoming a woman."

My birthday is after Christmas, never got anything but a token birthday present after the Xmas ones. The diary was an original idea in that context, but as said, I didn't know what to do with it, until my first period. With that theme, I spent the rest of the year trying to have thoughts about the subject. What does a twelve year old think about "becoming a woman"? Nothing in that direction was happening, not like with a couple of girls, who really could wear bras.

I told my diary all about that. By the end of the year, I gave up on daily postings, having calculated that if I was going to become a woman - by then I finally had related that to have had sex with a boy - it wasn't going to happen by my seventeenth birthday, a couple of days before the diary book would be full.

Not much to tell for the rest of the first year. When Mom asked on my thirteenth birthday if I was using the diary, I blushed and admitted that her remark about my first period had given me a theme. She liked that, and I really like that she did, especially that she said that it was my private, secret diary. Did she have thoughts about how it could end: my becoming a woman?

I didn't, not at thirteen, and still not needing a bra. Did Mom suggest a learner's bra? My diary would know. If she did, I must have blushed. But Mom was real good, suggesting that I could use junior tampons and helping me.

Being thirteen wasn't much better, especially seeing classmates "blossom." And learning to play the clarinet didn't make me "one of the crowd," also not with my glasses. But, as I told my diary, I enjoyed music and playing, that I was apparently pretty good - local youth orchestra.

Local youth orchestra: a bunch of nerds like me, but then I was fifteen, and - like I told my diary - could really fill an A-cup bra. By Christmas, maybe even a B-cup? Not really, after an embarrassing experiment in a store. But a guy in the orchestra said that he thought I was better than the other clarinetist, whose breasts were definitely bigger than mine. Of course, he was talking about my playing - not about our breasts. That was good, since I had been hung up about not having a cheerleader's figure.

As I told my diary, I was hung up about a lot of other things. Girls' talk: were they just bragging, talking through the top of their hats?! It sounded like they knew a lot more about boys than I did.

And then finally, at the dance at the end of junior high, I kissed a boy, not anything like a real kiss, as I later discovered, but as I told my diary, I thought it was another step towards becoming a woman. Someone had turned out the last lights, and we could hear others kissing, so we did. I don't think he had before either, and I had my glasses on.

Then I had a scholarship to a prep school with a better music department, but a clarinet-playing girl with glasses was still a nerd on campus, like most of the other music students for the other students, and they all seemed more sophisticated, maybe stuck-up, at least towards me. First year wasn't good, except for the music. Second year was better, after I played something by Benny Goodman at a school dance. And the boys liked to dance close I even kissed a couple after the dances, like I told my diary. They wanted to kiss me! Well, by then, that they probably wanted to kiss anyone, like I did. Older girls, seniors, eighteen, were talking. Did they really go that far with their boyfriends back home? No guy had tried to hold my breast, much less, do even more, like some girls bragged.

Senior year, I became lead clarinetist, and in the other sections a senior replaced the "first chair" of the year before. Then some students didn't think I was such a nerd, but maybe others thought I was a greater one - the jocks, male and female, especially those with cheerleader figures. The gymnasts had respect for our rehearsing, knowing from their training that it was necessary to do well. But the couple of those guys were, well, it seemed not interested in girls.

On my eighteenth birthday, Dad surprised me by opening a bottle of champagne. I had been allowed to drink a glass or two of wine with festive meals for a couple of years, but this was the first time Mom and Dad were just celebrating with me. When he toasted me with nice words about becoming an adult, "now you are a young woman," I blushed, thinking about my diary, as I duly recorded that night, definitely another step to becoming a woman. I even felt a little like one, although by then I was certain that I wouldn't be one until I had lost my virginity.

After Christmas, the music director suggested that the first violinist and I play a violin clarinet sonata. We were both surprised, didn't think we were that good, and I hardly knew him, another "four-eyed" musician, a real nerd on campus; a guy who plays violin. Worse, it was - is - for the graduation concert in a couple of weeks.

At least we had a lot of time to rehearse, individually and together. The director gave us a tape recording of the piece and the music, telling us to tell him when we were familiar enough with it to let him hear us. That was sort of flattering, but left it to us to learn our parts and then rehearse together. That was a challenge, and forced us to see more of each other.

For a couple of weeks, we just learned our notes, practicing individually in the rehearsal rooms, meeting to exchange the tape, which we could play in the rooms and compare with our own efforts. After another week of solo practice, we agreed to listen to each other. I hoped he was as embarrassed as I was about playing for each other, as I probably told my diary had ever visited my room, and I certainly hadn't visited any boy's, but girls who had a boyfriend told about the frustration. The student pamphlet was specific about no sexual activity

When I heard the door close, I flinched and automatically asked if we should have permission. He shrugged and said that the director had told us to rehearse together, but then nodded and said that he knew what I meant. At least, he felt a little the same way, and he was nice enough to offer to play first. I was impressed. Then I had to play, and he said that he thought it was good. We listened to the tape, and then we joked that we certainly would sound like that, and began to play.

We both made mistakes we hadn't made playing alone, sometimes having to start over a few bars back, but we got through it, laughing and agreeing that sometimes we almost sounded like we were trying to play the same piece. We could only reserve the room for one period - forty-five minutes - and reserved a room for the next day.

When he closed the door again, he said that he had asked the director about our rehearsing together, saying that he had smiled with a nod, replying that he hadn't thought about that, but that, of course, we could. I said that I liked that he had asked, and we both smiled. This time our duet went a little better, and we had time to listen to the tape and then play again - with fewer mistakes.

That went on for a week or two, till we got through the sonata without having to restart, but we sure didn't sound like the recording. When we saw the director after an orchestra rehearsal, he asked how we were doing. We said "Better, but not yet for you to hear." "Lots of time, I know you both are good enough," he replied. When he asked a couple of weeks later, we looked at each other, shrugging, and then nodding.

He liked us - like what he heard - at least, said that he did, suggesting that we not try to copy the phrasing of the recording: "just relax and play the music like you feel it." He left the room. I thought he almost winked before he closed the door. We looked at each other, smiling. He - his name is James - not just Jim. We played again, better than before. Why did I feel my nipples pop out, when James said that he thought we were getting better? I remember that they did, but I know that I didn't tell my diary back then.

They did again, when we met for our next rehearsal. After playing, we agreed that we tape ourselves, and played again. I didn't think we were as good as before, nervous about really being able to hear ourselves. He reversed the tape and started it, nodding at the piano bench. I sat down, clutching my clarinet with my hands and knees, and he joined me on the bench. They did again, my nipples, and we sat there listening to ourselves, exchanging glances at mistakes, less often - with smiles - when for a few bars we sounded like we knew what we were doing.

When the recording finished, he said something about it's being nice that we still had so much time together till graduation. Did he really say "together"? My nipples must have thought so, I did too. I don't think I told my diary about that; didn't tell everything, hadn't recognized that it was related to my theme: on becoming a wonan.

They did again, whenever he smiled at me, while I was playing the lead during the next few rehearsals together. The director heard us again, quite pleased, asking us to play again with the recorder on, and then making suggestions about phrasing as we listened to it. Before he left us, he said that he would change the room for the person who had reserved it after us, and catch him or her to let us rehearse for another hour, while we remembered his suggestions.

We did, pleased with ourselves, and pleased again the next rehearsal, when we were sitting listening to ourselves. Was I sitting closer to him on the bench, or had he sat down closer to me? Nipples.

He always minded the tape record, laying his violin carefully aside, while I always clutched my clarinet. Funny! It never occurred to me till now that my hands were wrapped around something about the size of his ... yes, his "cock"! I can say that now!

Was it that day or the next? He said something about really liking the way I played, and I said that I really liked how well he played. Nipples! The way he was smiling at me. I told my diary about it, not the nipples, what he had said. Could he see them? No, he was looking in my eyes, but I sure felt them, almost let go of my clarinet to brush an arm over them.

The next time we were sitting together listening to our recording, I suddenly realized that he wasn't wearing his glasses, that he didn't look like a nerd. He never had been for me, but, well, without his glasses, looking at me like that. Nipples! I must also have looked at him "like that."

I told my diary about it. He took my clarinet from me and put it on the piano. My thighs twitched together, missing it. Of course, not just missing it! My panties were all wet when I took them off that night. Did I tell my diary that? Probably, I usually told it what I did nights, when I did nights, and I sure did that one, but back on the piano bench.

I knew what would happen when I took off my glasses. He nodded, and we kissed, before I could put my glasses somewhere. Whose tongue was first? I hope his was, since he had started to kiss. Or had he? His glasses were off first; he wanted to, but I did too. When our tongues met, we didn't stop until the recording had. By then our arms were around each other. It was more arousing than ever before. If the recording hadn't stopped, the way we were embracing, I was close to wanting to slid my leg over his and rub myself on his thigh. I had never done anything like that before, even imagined that I would want to.

But the recording stopped, and we did, looking at each other with "naked" eyes, both a little surprised. We hugged each other. He says something about having wanted to for weeks, and I say that I just didn't know that I had wanted to, too, and we kiss again, but then he takes his tongue out of my mouth and murmurs that it has to sound like we are still rehearsing.

In the corridor, one can hear softly that someone is in a rehearsal room - rehearsing. Our session is almost finished. Reluctantly, we separate and put away our instruments. At the door, we kiss again and promise to try to rehearse the next day.

We do, but just to record ourselves and then play the recording. I was standing next to him without my glasses and clarinet, waiting for him to turn into my arms? I was, and he did. Gosh, I didn't know that people could kiss for so long! But we did, and a lot better: embracing, our bodies together from our thighs up; better than dancing close.

I had told my diary about that: the first time I had felt a boy's cock between us that way. Told her every other time too, of course. ("Her?" I think of my diary as a good girlfriend.) His cock between us. Oh, not at first, but he loosened our embrace and shoved it around. I guess he just had to; hope he wasn't embarrassed about it, but I wanted to feel it.

I hope that he understood that from my hum, when we pressed our hips together. Oh, I know later that he didn't mind, but just then I didn't know, but it was surging against me, and we were rocking our hips up together. When the recording stopped, we separated. He didn't hide the bulge in his pants, just nodding at the tape recorder. I nodded, and he reversed the tape and started it again, and then we were kissing again, his cock soon stiffer again. Had I used that word when telling her about dancing? I don't think so, just something about feeling that he was also aroused.

The next day, we didn't rehearse together every day - but we then tried to. Good thing, since after that we didn't spent as much time playing each session. The next day, we rush through the piece and are kissing again. When the tape finishes - too soon, he whispers that I should practice a difficult passage while he restarts the tape. And then we're kissing again, his cock this time immediately stiff again. Took a minute or two, the first time. Probably not, but not as fast as I wanted to feel it.

But now I was - we were - and he must have known that I was liking it - the way I was rocking my hips and humming when it surged. The suddenly, he jerked with a sharp moan, moaning again as his hips rocked up, and again, when they did again. He murmured: "Didn't want that to happen."

It only took me a moment to understand. Women's intuition? Part of becoming a woman? Well, of course, but I was surprised at myself when I murmured: "You came?" That I could say that?!

He nodded. I murmured: "You're lucky," surprising myself again; I was implying that I wanted to. I sure did, of course, and knew that my panties were all wet. The recording was almost finished, and we just kissed less intensely till it did.

The next day we couldn't, but after the orchestra rehearsal, the director took us aside - our performance was - is - going to be a secret until the concert. We were, of course, a little apprehensive, for a couple of reasons: his wanting to hear us again; his maybe suspecting that we weren't just rehearsing.

Oh, but it was great - told my diary - his saying that he had overheard us through the door and thought that it had been a good idea to try to play the piece faster than the composer's tempi, explaining that we made mistakes, of course, but that then at the slower tempi it would be easier for us to master the passages. Were we happy, lucky?! Told him that we would try to and then ask him to listen to us again. Afterwards, we agreed that it had been good to suggest that we ask him, rather than his asking us, maybe surprising us just before our rehearsing, also because it was apparent that he wouldn't surprise us, as he could have the day before.

I don't know what James was thinking about before our next rehearsal together, but I wasn't think much about the music. I took off my bra and put on a sweater, hopefully one that did let my nipples show, since they were already aroused, but then thinking that it would be nice if he could see them. Couldn't have it both ways, but he would know, when his hands didn't feel my bra on my back; his fingers had rubbed over it before, moving it a little. Would he remember what I had implied? Want to ...? I put on jersey slacks with just an elastic waistband, and clean panties. Would he want to go that far? "Third base?" If he wanted too ...

He didn't, but like I told you, if he didn't see my nipples, and they had popped out the moment we saw each other, before we were in the room, after we rushed through the piece again, his hands immediately discovered that I wasn't wearing a bra. When he hummed, I nodded slightly, and one hand slid down and played with the hem of my sweater. I nodded again, a finger slipped under it, touching my bare skin. The first time a boy had touched anything other than my hands and neck, like I had told my diary.

Oh, his hand had rubbed the nape of my neck, while we had been kissing before, but this was just as arousing. Maybe not really, down on my back, but because I didn't want to feel his fingers only there. And they didn't want to be just there, sliding up under my sweater; his hand all over my naked skin, and his other one then too! Both of them exploring, more around to my sides.

I had still been embracing him, but now loosened my hold, leaning back. Didn't he want to hold them, touch my aroused nipples? His hands slid a little further. Do I have to ask him to, I thought. I loosened my hold a little more. Okay, I couldn't feel his cock as much, but I wanted him to feel my breasts, wanted him to want to - as much as I wanted to feel his touching them.

His hands slide further. Relief, aroused relief! I nod with a soft moan. His hands slide the little bit further, not just on my sides, feeling the swell of my breasts. I nod again, thinking: oh, please! His thumbs slide up under them. I moan again; his hands cupped around under them, squeezing them gently. A boy holding my breasts, naked breasts! Finally!

Finally! His thumbs sliding up and over my hard nipples! I moan, his thumbs flipping back and forth over them. Wet panties! I crush his hands between us, thrusting my tongue in his mouth, and our hips hold his cock between us, but then the music stops.

"Again," I murmur, releasing him. He glances at my clarinet, but I just shake my head; I can't play, feeling this aroused. As he rewinds the tape, he is standing so that I can see the bulge in his pants. I wonder if I am really seeing it move. Does he want me to, want me to hold it, his cock? How does it feel? Sh..! My hands are up under my sweater, holding my breasts! He smiles at me and restarts the tape.

When he steps closer, I pull up my sweater. Just like that! Without thinking, showing him my naked breasts! Well, he had held them, may as well see them too. I must have wanted him to, but I never thought I would do that! But I had; why, what did I think he would do? What had I instinctively wanted him to do?

Those questions only came to me later, when I was on the way back to my room, blushing. I hope I was when I did it.

He wouldn't have seen if I were; he was staring at them. I knew my nipples were sticking out. For sure, I wanted him to hold them again, squeeze them, do what I did - when I didn't have both hands on my pussy. Never wrote that word before, either, just telling her that I had done it.

So there I was, holding my sweater up, inviting him to do whatever he wanted to. He held them again, like I wanted him to, still holding my sweater up. What else could he do with them? Anything he wanted. He glanced up at me with a surprised, slightly quizzical expression, and murmured: "This is more than I ever did before." "Me too," I murmur, liking that we both haven't been this far before.

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byleBonhomme© 4 comments/ 16265 views/ 4 favorites

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