First Skinny Dip Becomes Afloat Suck!

Early June was delicious at the Academy. Exams over, papers in. Going home soon, to eager, abusively bossy parents. Nothing to occupy the mind but erotic fantasies. All those boys in shorts and T-shirts, sometimes not even T-shirts, sunning or playing Frisbee on the campus green.

That was the spring that the Academy confiscated my brand new, specially printed T-shirt, which said, "Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement."

What was the bloody fuss if an 18-year-old poetess wants to quote William Butler Yeats! Remember? Junior year British and Irish Poets? "Crazy Jane Talks to the Bishop?"

They merely repeated that they would have to call my parents to come get me—pick me up with tongs and load me into the car, like the dirty like thing I was. Maybe I could get away with Dante. "Abandon hope all ye who enter here..." with a little black arrow pointing down to my snatch.

All forgotten, when a couple guys asked me to come swimming at the infamous "River Bend." Not sure about my history here, but I believe that is where the "Rape of the Sabine Women" may have taken place. The Indian burial mound of hymens of generations of Academy girls. I had wondered what I was going to do with my silly thing. How come I'd never even seen it?

SO thrilling! They probably hoped to see little me skinny dipping. Maybe gang rape if we had time after picnic.

Four of us, two nice boys, Landor Longworth and Damien Freshwater-I mean, this was an elite prep school in Golden Gnome, Connecticut. And then, there was "Dennis" Bradbury and me. Dennis's parents would not have been eccentric enough to saddle her with a boy's name if they had any idea how big her rack would be. She looked like big trouble, and I mean big, on this excursion.

"No bathing suits," Landor said. "Won't need 'em."

What did you say, Landor, you rake? What? You are openly telling me this is skinny dipping? I don't get tricked or seduced or anything? Exactly what kind of girl do you think I am?

Oh. That's exactly right.

We toiled along a country road, turned onto a path well-worn by the ancestral feet of virgins led to sacrifice, a path watered with their tears and other fluids. I like New England old-growth forests. You can tell that they are because there are no stone walls deep in the woods. This is not new forest grown over old New England farm fields. The big trees aren't only by the stonewalls, where the farmers let them grow for a little shade that wouldn't hurt the crops but make for a nice hump when Hester Prynne brought down the corn bread and herring and a nice jug of hard cider.

Ellen, you have run right off the rails. You are supposed to be telling readers about your naked pale body, stripped bare by callous boys and plunged into Connecticut's chill June waters, and you are discussing the decline of New England agriculture. If you have and readers left, that is...

I had seen it, this picturesque curve where the Housatonic River widened into a long pool hedged about by boulders baking in the sun. Every Academy girl and her buddies had snuck here to see it, but I not been "asked" here by our nasty, beautiful boys who wanted to see if I shaved my pussy. Oh, spring of love, inviting a maiden's soul!

We four stood on a rock broad as the back of a brontosaurus that had lain down in the river. "Going in?" asked Landor with a big grin, turning—of course—to Dennis. "Oh, Landor, honey, what about me? Am I just the au pair? If so, where is the baby?"

"Sure," says this tart—sorry, envy, she's a very nice girl—and she whips open the buttons of her blouse and tosses it down. Is this fucking hopeless? She's got a perfect oval face, with wide green eyes, generous mouth, straight nose, exquisite jawline, all framed in the heavy chestnut hair, now shining in the sun. The little whore—sorry, sorry—reaches behind her back to let slip the dogs of war, as Shakespeare wrote.

Would you excuse me, please? I think I will wander through the woods awhile and maybe eat some poisonous mushrooms. Maybe pick a few violets, so when I lie down to die, I can place them on my virginal bosom between two barely perceptible 32-B titties. You guys have a GREAT life. Don't think about me. Sniff.

Dennis shoos them out of her bra with a coy smile on her heart-breakingly lovely face, and they are there in the sun, swelling even as we watch. Like about a foot long each, swooping down her chest, like ski jumps, then popping out like parachutes opening. These obnoxiously perfect gourds are frosted with nipples about three inches across and so stretched that a bump is barely perceivable in the center of each one. Self-satisfied knockers... Ellen, you will stop this, right now. They are only mammary glands. You will compliment Dennis on them. You are a lady.

Oh, Dennis, sweetie, isn't it time for you to get back to the dairy barn? Milking time, you know. I wouldn't mind at all seeing you hooked up to a milking machine... Stretch out your nipples say about five inches...

And by the time you get back, Landor and Damien may have come out of their trance. They seem pretty far gone, though. I tried running my hand between their eyes and your nipples and they didn't blink.

"Oh, Dennis, I love your boobs," I purr, manifesting virtually iron discipline. I am an Academy girl; I uphold a rigid superficial standard of classiness.

"Oh, you're sweet, Ellen. Can we see your little beauties, now?"

Oh, certainly, Dennis, when you have hauled your sorrowful ass out of the river, after I boot you off the rock with a kick to your beautifully defined abdomen where those mastiffs are snoozing.

I meditatively lower my small butt onto the brontosaur's back, wrap my arms around my knees, gaze out with that look of the imminent 'poetic encounter.' "You guys go ahead..."

"Ellen! Are you modest?" Oh, Damien, when did you regain consciousness? Do you know this is the first time in 10 minutes you have focused on anything but the bumps on Dennis's left areola?

Modest? How can you say that, Damien Freshwater? If you had a dink one-inch long wouldn't you be just ripping off your pants to show everyone?

I do not say that. I glance at him with my smoldering brown eyes beneath the pretty feathery black bangs, my wide but delicate mouth smiling, and shrugged my thin shoulders. Me?

Damien slithers down onto the warm rock, right beside me, and slips his arm around me. Holy shit, is this aggressive or what? He lays his cheek against mine. He murmurs, "You are for me, Ellen."

I knew it. He has a one-inch dick, maybe less. He's afraid to strip, too. I have found soul mate. I will do anything for him. Live my whole life with his darling dinky in my mouth. I am having the Perfect Nervous Breakdown.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," whispers Damien. Wow, this young man is fairly commanding; I had no idea. I am getting interested.

How about if I drag off your shorts and snap up your dick? I'm very experienced. Brucey Knickerbocker came in my mouth last year, when I was a sophomore. What do you say, Damien, give the little guy an outing?

I did not say that. I turned my face to him, my desirable lips speaking not one word. Mere inches from his own, mine part slightly into a demure smile, and I gazed into his Nordic blue eyes. If he keeps yapping like my therapist, though, I may toss him into the river but keep a grip on his balls. I was not then the refined young lady I have become now. I had active impulses to do shocking things to men.

He is kissing me, forcing me down against the warm rock, his hips half-thrown across mine. What nice long legs with blond hair. Yum! This looks like a promising scenario for date rape. And he is whispering, "Are you embarrassed about your tits, Ellen?"

What did you call them? Tits? "Breasts," to you, Damien Makewater.

I do not say that. "Tits" is way of getting sexy about small breasts. I murmur, "I love your hands on my titties, Damien," because that is where they suddenly are. "Do you feel my stiff nips? Eat my pink candies." Best diagnosis of this sudden collapse into Tourette's? Hormones had disabled my pre-frontal lobe functioning. I have the executive capacity of a Blue Point oyster. Slurp me up, Damien Freshwater.

"Can you swim, now?'

"Armanif conca"?"

"What did you say, Ellen? Landor and Dennis already are in." He gestures at two blondish bobbing heads.

So! This was all about getting me to strip! Monster! Okay, then! Who gives a shit? I stand up, whipping off my blouse and trainer bra (just kidding), shoving them into Damien's waiting open hands, followed by my shorts and slightly sweaty over-sized white panties. I square my shoulders, turn to him, perky knobs tilted up to the sun, firm as marble, sleek black pussy asserted, a smile of serene abandon on my bewildered adolescent face. This is it.

"Oh, God, you're perfection!" The young man might be starting to blubber over my body. I am a tomboy, very strong. I wrap my hands behind his sweet, curly-haired head, and haul his face and lips down to my nipples. Suck, preppy puppy. Too long on one nip and I drag him by his hair to the other.

I free one hand to seize his belt and jerk it open. He jumps back in alarm. I am trying to shove down his fucking shorts. Sorry about the fingernails, baby-I'm dragging down his Calvin Klein's, too. "Ouch, Ellen! Shit!"

Too strong for my own good. My hand has clamped his male apparatus. I am crazy hot. Whoops, possibly a little too hard! He is bent over, yelling, and clawing my hand away. Sensitive things in that little sack... I had no idea...

Dennis is calling from the water, "What's wrong, Damien?"

Through it all I have not released his head from my chest. "Wow!" calls Landor. "I see only one boob, but it's perfect!"

Yeah? What's holding you above water, Landor? Are those two white water wings in your hands?

Enough distraction. Clunk. My bare knees hit the hot rock. I want to see Damien close up. I grab his dick to examine it—wow, much more than an inch. He is groaning; he is a male, too, and therefore his hands grip my hair, holding on for dear life, trying to rip it out. Do I look like I'm going anywhere? Running back to cave?

He has inserted an inch between my lips, and I am tickling and nibbling around the head, as big as I can get into my mouth. In another second, his hands in my hair will be slamming down my face repeatedly onto this pulsing hot water pipe. Going to have to use my teeth unless I want my neck broken.

I risk a glance up. On the dark river bend is Landor Longworth, bobbing along with Dennis's head and boobs floating beside him like three friends. I am making like a bonobo matriarch while Dennis is managing a decorous spring fling. In two days, everyone will have heard the details of how I sodomized Damien Freshwater five minutes after we got to River Bend. My senior year at the Academy will be beset by stalkers. I will be elected "Class Cock Sucker" for the yearbook. I had been counting on "Class Poet."

I have an active imagination. I am panicking. Damien is hissing, "Ow, Ellen! Your teeth!" He is using my hair to try to drag my mouth off his imperiled pecker.

I can't take any more. I am nightmare ridden. I shoot to my feet, launching my virginal white body against his chest. "Go in!" I yelp.

Damien tumbles backward with a scream. I am clinging to him, still faithful to my man. His dick is pressed into my belly, from the top fringe of my pussy hair to above my navel. It is getting a little soft, now. Wonder why?

Yikes, this water is chilly. How deep is this pool? With a frantic thrashing of arms and legs, we have surfaced. My dark hair is like a sleek black helmet, my face an enchanting pale oval, mascara smeared down my cheeks, maybe my nose running, too... We turn to gaze at each other, my smile full of happiness.

"You are a fucking wild woman, you know!" sputters Damien. "Are you totally...?"

Of course, darling. Why are you bringing it up, now, though?

So romantic! I close with him, crushing my flinty peaks against his chest. I give him a tickling with my pussy mop, my slender fingers are seeking his pecker, which feels a little like a drowned mouse. He gives a sigh, wraps one arm around my neck, half drags me onto him as he starts to float on his back. This is beautiful, just beautiful.

"Fucking asshole," he sighs, but with little conviction.

I have worked out a side kick that keeps my bosom positioned over his legs and more important keeps my mouth...

Oh, there, got it! Jeez, this is like reversing cryologic preservation. Oh, well. Nothing that a quick flick under the head of the fat dick won't fix.

Wow! Resilient.

He's a floater, towing me with just his belaying pin shoved down my throat. All my hands have to do is paddle a little. Actually, one hand will do it, I hope.

Oh, spring! We are drifting merrily, merrily down the stream in tandem; he is hauling me like river salvage. My fingers have discovered a new life form between my pussy lips, which has awoken and started wiggling. It can't escape.

Somewhere to my left, I hear Dennis complaining to Landor: "Hey, look what they're doing!"

Big boobs aren't everything, darling.