tagFirst TimeTaralee's First Time Ch. 06

Taralee's First Time Ch. 06

bycubalover©

College applications, courses, occasional babysitting: The daily grind of a high school senior in 1965.

There was one distraction, more of an annoyance really. A boy in a couple of my classes, Tony, seemed to have taken a shine to me. He'd chatted with me a couple of times last year, and flirted in the van on the way back from the beach last June — which in part precipitated my fight with Pierre. Now he'd started calling me after school once a week.

He was nineteen too, dark-hair cropped short, a bit taller than me, average weight. Not ugly but not a stand-out, either. And shy. Really shy. We'd talk about school, sometimes about what was going on in America and the world.

Once he took me to a movie and clumsily tried to feel my breasts.

After that he started calling a couple of times a week, then every other day. He was starting to bug me, and I told him to cool it. He backed off. For a while.

Amid the swirl of classes and the stress of college prep courses, the only thing that kept me sane was music. Jess was taking guitar lessons and lent me her old autoharp. I resolved to learn the complicated string instrument and got sheet music for some wonderful Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and Peter, Paul and Mary folk songs. The discipline of an hour practicing every day grounded me.

Everything seemed to be on an even keel when what I'd been dreading happened.

I'd been writing to Pierre three or four times a week. Events and emotion skittered all over the numbered pages in different sized letters and diverse colors of ink in my fanciful italic handwriting.

(I was getting mail from Danny, too, away at his Ivy League university, professing his rekindled affection and his regret at how badly he'd treated me all summer and would I forgive him and could I reconsider because he still loved me and wanted to marry me when we finished college ... I'm embarrassed to admit, looking back, that I answered most of those letters without ever working up the gumption to tell him how impossible his dream was, and how spectacularly unsuited I was to be his wife.)

Pierre's letters described his life on campus, the courses he liked and the few he didn't, how much he was enjoying a French reading course, how much he missed me, how he looked forward to Thanksgiving — he was saving up to take the bus to Washington to visit, and was there any chance I could come up there to visit him, too?

He was, in his words, rather "impecunious" so when the phone rang one evening and my mom beckoned me, silently mouthing the word "Pierre" with her hand over the mouthpiece, I knew it couldn't be good news.

He was in a cramped booth in the lobby of his impersonal freshman dorm, feeding quarters and dimes into the phone. He sounded over-excited, his words tumbling out. In a couple of minutes he'd run out of small talk. He told me how much he missed me. I said I missed him, too.

"I met someone at Orientation ..." There was a pause. She was cute, reminded him of me. She was sexy, reminded him of me. She was a virgin with long, dark hair and apple-shaped breasts ... she liked him, and they had sex in the woods one sunny afternoon. He regretted it. She regretted it. They did it again. And regretted it again. They hitchhiked together to visit her divorced mother in another Ohio college town. Since they couldn't sleep together at her mom's, they snuggled in a sleeping bag in the town's park. And fucked to keep warm ...

The night he called, they'd had sex under the stars in the college big quadrangle, he said, and he'd told her he was calling it quits. "I felt so empty, Taralee. Making love was okay, but the hollowness ... I felt as if I was somewhere far away, up among those distant blue stars looking down, watching our tiny figures go through the motions ... I miss you so much."

"Taralee?"

Cold fingers had wrapped themselves around my heart and my throat was so tight that when my words finally came out, they were only a tiny squeak into the phone.

"Pierre, I think you've learned the emptiness of sex without love ..."

I couldn't tell him how well I knew what that felt like. Ever.

There wasn't much more to say except goodbye. I didn't know whether I'd see him at Thanksgiving, or ever again. Mom knocked gently, and came back into the living room.

"Are you all right, Taralee?"

She glanced at the droplets running down my cheeks and hugged me, holding me until I let the tears flow. And after my sobbing subsided she walked me up to my attic room in that wonderful, warm old house, and sat on my bed rubbing my back until I fell asleep. My best friend in the world. Always.

I moped for a few days, but resumed my autoharp practice and cheered up before the week was out. I poured out my sadness and confusion in a letter to Pierre, and got a contrite, tear-spotted apology from him a few days later. He'd told me everything because we promised to be honest with each other, he said, and he was sorry he hurt me but would make it up to me at Thanksgiving ... if I'd still have him. Of course, I replied in a letter spattered with red-ink hearts. He was my once and future lover. For all time.

And so my attention returned to high school.

I hadn't been much of a Halloween girl since I'd outgrown my candy avarice as a youngster. But this year, friends in my school circle were angling to get me to their party. They'd picked an old-fashioned theme: there was even going to be apple-bobbing. Tony-the-pest bugged me for weeks to get a costume and come.

One evening I idly asked George what he thought I should wear for Halloween. He lifted an eyebrow, and said if I'd let him, he'd take care of it. I laughed, and thought nothing of it until ten days later, when my mom said Virginia had called and they'd like me to babysit while they went to an early Halloween party. When I arrived, George offered me his study to do my homework, as usual. Once the twins had their bath and bedtime story and had fallen asleep, I grabbed my books and opened the door. There on his leather-topped mahogany desk — oh, memories! — was a flat, wide box, wrapped in brown paper. A handwritten note on top said, "Taralee: Open me!"

Inside was black silk, red ribbon and white lace. When I held it up, it was a maid's outfit. A very, very, very short maid's outfit. But it was no cheesy, scratchy costume-shop garment; this was the real thing. Soft, slippery silk; rich, intricate lace. Inside it had a small, discreet label that said "Le Chabanais -- Paris" ... and there was a note, in George's handwriting, adding "Wear this, and nothing else."

The thought made me blush deeply, but my nipples and clitoris stiffened involuntarily.

My friends' Halloween party was a few days later. I'd spent hours in front of my mirror, planning how I could wear the French maid's outfit and be decent enough to get away with it. Finally I settled on an unadorned nude-beige bra and black pettipants over my fishnet "whore-stocking" tights. The pettipants' legs showed, but I decided they were enough of a tease with their black lace hems that they didn't detract from the beautiful short skirt and frilly white apron. At least my breasts weren't going to bounce out the sides of the skimpy halter and I wasn't going to be flashing ass and bush with every step. I covered up my costume with a discrete, navy blue trench coat and beret, and splurged (thanks to George's handsome tips) on a cab to the party.

I knocked on the door and was ushered in by someone's rather tipsy dad. He did a double-take when I handed him my trench coat, nearly spilling his drink down the front of his chinos. I smiled demurely, then stole a glance at the obvious bulge of hard cock sticking out below his beer belly and shivered slightly. He was red-faced and sweating and the thought of his erection grossed me out.

There were maybe twenty kids in the basement, the Beatles were blaring from the record player and each little knot of close friends was yelling louder than the next to be heard over the din. Tony, dressed in a Dracula costume, was talking to a guy I didn't know but when he saw me, he scuttled across the room, leering, and grabbed my arm. Yuck. I shook him off. I wasn't sure I wanted to be there. Especially close to him. But he got me a glass of hot cider from a crock pot and presented it to me with a flip of his black cape and an exaggerated, gentlemanly bow. The cider was spicy and laced with brandy. After a few sips, I felt more at ease.

"Where the hell did you get that?" he asked, eyeing my costume. "You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

I grinned. Flattery will get you everywhere. Except into my panties tonight, I promised myself.

I mingled, Dracula shadowing me at every step. A couple of guys came on strong but I laughed them off. Several girls complimented me on my sexy outfit, a couple actually oohing and aahing and fingering the soft silk and fancy workmanship. But others hung back, sneering enviously.

Their derision stung, but I forgot them soon enough: It was apple-bobbing time.

Funny how, when I leaned over the old galvanized washtub full of floating apples, trying to sink my teeth into the crisp, slippery spheres, all the boys in the room lined up behind me to watch. The clique bitches were getting angrier by the minute, and I overhead one: "My word! Just look at that ... isn't she just the sluttiest little cunt you've ever did see? I bet she sucks off that disgusting old physics teacher just to get a passing grade."

Finally I got an apple, and out of the line of fire. Tony got one too, and Dracula was back. We jived and someone put Chubby Checker on the record player. I did the twist with one of the jock types who'd obviously learnt to dance it, unlike Tony who stumbled spastically. My older sister had practised with me when she was home from college, so I didn't embarrass myself. But I sure was glad of those pettipants under the tiny maid's costume as my gyrating pelvis exposed everything to the gawkers who crowded around.

Hot, sweaty and happy, I decided I'd had enough. Tony offered a ride home. I was dubious — he was tipsy, but not sloppy drunk, and I decided I could trust him to drive. Of course we got a couple of blocks away and he parked and wanted to pet. I didn't want to make him crazy, so when he suggested going to his house, I agreed. We pulled up in front and he got out. The house was dark but I knew his parents were inside, so I figured if need be, I could raise hell loud enough to wake them.

Tony was drunk enough to be bold, even though I told him I just wasn't interested. When he grabbed my left tit and squeezed hard, I hissed and pushed him away. He looked mortified, and hung his head, saying I'd never liked him but I was the only girl he'd ever felt this way about and then ... the words I'd been hoping not to hear spilled out.

"Taralee, I love you. You're so beautiful. I really, really do love you."

Chills ran down my spine. I'd come to detest those three words after last summer's awfulness with Danny in Vermont. There were tears in Tony's eyes. After what felt like an eternity, I put my arm around him and hugged him gently, in what I hoped was a sisterly manner.

It didn't work. He turned, got me in a bear hug, kissed me sticking his tongue into my mouth — yuck! — and started rubbing his hand between my legs. He was hopelessly inexperienced and after a minute I broke away. I was breathing hard from the exertion of escaping him, which I guess he took for passion. He grabbed me again and actually got me onto my back on the couch, seizing my ass with both hands and pulling me to him, grinding his swollen member painfully between my legs.

"Stop that!!!

"Look, Tony, tell you what." He got off me and I sat up.

"I know you're a virgin and horny as hell. I tell you what: I'll suck your cock to relieve you.

"Now pay attention: There's a condition ... If I do this, you stop phoning me, you stop talking to me at school, you stop passing me notes in class. This is a one-time thing. If I do this, I never want to hear your voice again.

"Deal?"

He nodded mutely.

Note to self: Never trust what a guy says when he's rubbing his hard-on. The glans is doing the thinking, not the brain.

I pushed Dracula against the back of the couch, yanked his suspenders off the shoulders of his white, pleated-front shirt, unbuttoned his black wool trousers and freed his cock. Grownup but not huge, it pointed wantingly at the ceiling. His balls seemed the size of pomegranates.

As I wrapped my fingers around it, my cunt moistened, unbidden. I slipped my fingers under George's gorgeous silk skirt and into my pettipants. As I started to lick Tony's erection, my fingers danced through the soft hair on my mound and found my clit. I rubbed myself at the same rhythm that my lips, now rounded to an O, slipped up and down his cock. Faster now, as I tightened my lips, inhaled his scent and my musk rose. Faster still as I felt his thighs start to quiver. As his scrotum tightened and his balls jumped, my vision darkened and the fireworks of my climax raced across my personal firmament. I hadn't meant to swallow his semen but his penis exploded at the back of my throat and I gulped, then gulped again, and kept bobbing my head as his swollen balls unloaded jet after jet after jet into my mouth and I gulped them down as he came and came and came.

"Ohhhhhhh," he groaned, lying there quivering. I finally let his limp cock slip out of my mouth onto his jizz-stained trousers and pulled my fingers out of my dripping cunt, hoping he hadn't seen how I'd done myself. I needn't have worried: Self-absorbtion, thy name is Tony.

"God that was great, Taralee! When do we fuck?"

"Never! I told you this was a one-time thing. Nothing changes that. No phone calls. No notes. Remember, we're done. This is over."

I stalked over to the phone and dialed a cab. It came in minutes. Cloaked in my trench coat and beret, I let myself out.

At home, I gargled half a bottle of mouthwash. Sober now, I had a premonition that I hadn't seen the last of Tony, though I fervently hoped I had.

My torrid US Post Office affair with Pierre continued. His letters were restrained enough to pass a parental censor (something that would never happen at my house) but mine were flagrant. I spelled out exactly how I loved him and lusted for him, how he haunted my daydreams and how I wished he could be in my bed at night, licking my clit in languid foreplay, then massaging my G-spot with his hard penis and igniting my climax when its head touched my cervix and how I'd cross my ankles behind his thighs and tighten my legs to keep him deep inside me forever.

I'd get pretty worked up writing, but since I'd never learned to bring myself off — except that hateful time with Tony's cock gushing his virgin sperm in my mouth — I spent weeks on end in a state of frustrated randiness.

Of course from time to time, I babysat George and Virginia's kids. But they always came home from the theater or ballet or opera together, though that fall Virginia, a beautiful tall, slim brunette, seemed a bit fragile. Or maybe she was just high-strung. I couldn't tell.

Then one day after school my mom said George had called and could I babysit weeknights. Virginia had gone to look after her mother, he'd told mom, but I could see she had doubts. When I pressed her, she said she'd heard that Virginia had gone somewhere for a "rest cure" for some kind of "trouble" but she didn't have any details. She hoped she'd be better soon.

So I gathered up my books, nervously hiding my neatly folded Halloween costume in the bottom of my rucksack, and walked over to the house. George welcomed me with his big, open smile, closed the street door and took me into his strong arms for a huge, lingering hug. I inhaled his virile scent and was instantly, embarrassingly wet.

I made dinner for all of us, and when I'd put the twins to bed, George asked if I'd liked the costume he'd ordered from the most elite brothel in Paris. I grinned with anticipation.

"Want to see it?"

We went to his study and while he mixed Manhattans I went to the bathroom, shucked off my school clothes and put on the French maid's outfit. The way George wanted to see it ...

Walking down the hall to his study was so titillating. My breasts, larger now that I'd been on The Pill for six months, swayed as I walked in heels I'd bought for the purpose. As they rustled against the soft silk my nipples jumped to attention. The black skirt and white silk apron barely covered me. A glance over my shoulder at the hallway mirror revealed the tops of my thighs and the curves of my ass. I slid my hand up under the skirt and could feel the soft thatch of my pubic hair. I hoped George would approve.

No need to worry! His eyes lit up when I walked in, doing my best nineteen-year-old imitation of a streetwalker's swivel-hipped sway. He'd changed into that sexy purple silk gown with the black lapels that always made me feel as if I'd walked onto an old-time movie set, where the handsome star was about to make love to the young ingénue. (Except by now I might act the innocent, but in reality ...)

We kissed with lips cold from the ice in our glasses, and I tasted the sweet fire of the bourbon on his tongue as we twined. I could feel his erection pressing against me and backed up against his desk, pulling open his robe and stroking the ropework of veins around the delicious organ that I'd been panting for all fall.

He hoisted me onto the desk, opened the drawer and cracked open one of the little blue plastic vials. I watched, quivering with anticipation, as he pulled on the lambskin prophylactic. Always the strong, careful lawyer, he'd explained that though he trusted that I was on The Pill, he preferred there be no possibility of an unwanted pregnancy through his agency.

He undid the halter of the maid's outfit to nuzzle my breasts and tweak my already rock-hard nipples, biting them gently which sent a gush of liquid to my already moist vagina. He lifted the too-short skirt and apron, caressing my soft bush and spreading my swelling lips, then positioning the head of his cock at the opening of my ravenous cunt, he slid in, in, in ... in one long, slow thrust he was in me to the hilt. Oh joy!

He pulled out and asked me to bend over the desk and lift the little black silk skirt so he'd get a perfect view. He stood to one side and stroked my ass softly, rubbing my cunt and sliding a finger up then using it to gently paint my puckered opening with my generous lubrication. I groaned with rapture as yet unknown.

He stood behind me now and pounded his penis in and out of my willing cunt until I was squirming with sweet agony, then pulled out again and gently turned me around to sit on the desk once more. His thrusts were slow and powerful, and just before my vision darkened at my incipient climax, I stared at the dark mirror that I knew was one-way glass. I was sure I could see motion behind it.

Transfixed, I realized that its rhythm was synchronous to ours. Someone was watching, and evidently jerking off as we fucked. Initially appalled, I was suddenly overcome by uncontrollable exhibitionism. I pushed George away, lay back with my heels on the edge of the desk and my knees apart to give whomever it was a full view of the pink gash of my inflamed, wide-open cunt crowned with its light brown bush. George laughed and rammed back into me, thrusting at double speed until the exploding fireworks of my climax sprayed across my consciousness and all I could feel was the thrilling spasms as his cock spouted its load of hot semen into the Fourex deep inside me.

I lay langorously on the desk afterward, blissful, smiling at George. He chuckled and said in his deep voice, "You've figured out my little office secret, haven't you, my little sparrow?"

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