Taralee's First Time Ch. 01bycubalover©
My name is Taralee. My story begins at the end of summer, 1964.
Less than a year before, my city had been convulsed by the assassin's bullet that shattered our dream of the American Camelot: the unimaginable assassination of John F. Kennedy, followed by Jack Ruby's live-on-TV gunshot that created a generation's worth of conspiracy theories, then the awful drumbeat of the funeral procession as the gun-carriage rolled by JFK's black-veiled widow and our tears as little John-John saluted his father's coffin en route to its place under the eternal flame fluttering among the rows of military crosses in Arlington National Cemetery.
I was an 18-year-old junior in a D.C. high school. I lived in a huge old frame house, with squirrels in the attic, a basement crammed with boxes of books and dusty furniture, an older sister away at college, and an older brother with a bachelor pad downtown.
My dad was a lusty 55, my mom a tired-but-happy 45.
Photos of me show a happy, crooked smile, a few freckles across my nose, and long shining hair. I'd inherited my dad's light copper skin and my mom's light-brown mane, now sun-streaked after a summer hiking in the Green Mountains of Vermont. I think I inherited their love of sex, too. Hearing them at it most afternoons after dad got home stirred strong feelings in my belly.
Dad never talked about growing up; although he spoke unaccented American English, his buddies had nicknamed him Frenchie. I think he came from somewhere north of Vermont.
In a drawer in the basement there was an old scrapbook, mostly of him and mom before we were born. There was one faded snapshot of him as a young man — he might have been eighteen or twenty — shirtless in jeans and moccasins. He was handsome then with black hair in a long ponytail tied at the nape of his neck. His skin was dark from the sun, and there was a canoe on the rocks at his feet, and in the background pine trees that looked like the ones in those Canadian paintings our high school art teacher liked to show us.
Though he mostly had an easy banter with us kids — except when we were rascals and he had to play the stern dad, though even then he always had a twinkle in his eye — he clammed up if we asked about his family, and his expression changed as if a storm cloud had blown across the sun. After a while, we quit asking.
I think I inherited my love of the north woods from whatever mysterious place he came from; it's part of my very core. And the heat between my legs came from mom; she still got a goofy grin whenever dad walked in, and she didn't bother to hide the musical sighs and yips that rose as counterpoint to the rhythmic thumping of their afternoon delight.
Before the first tawny tendrils of hair sprouted down there my fingers had explored the folds between my legs, and I'd spent hours with my legs splayed wide and my bedroom mirror propped against a chair, trying to understand why the purplish folds down there looked to me like the ugliest things in the world, but created such wondrous sensations when I touched them.
Mom had long ago explained sex in pretty clinical terms, so I wasn't totally uninformed. She'd also told me how she'd given her virginity to a 40-year-old German count with a Heidelberg saber scar, months after her parents — ironically — sent her to a Swiss boarding school to get her away from an unsuitable beau. It was a story she said explained the difference between sex and love.
And my brother liked to sashay down the hall from the shower carrying his towel with his heavy penis swinging in front of him, making my sister and me go "eeewww!"
One time a few years before, I was on my way to the shower and to tease him, let my towel slip. His eyes lighted briefly on my B-cup breasts and tiny rosebud nipples, then his dick sprang straight out in front of him. Without missing a step he dropped his folded towel over it like a wall peg, and his sashay became a swagger as he brushed past me. I blushed. But heat swirled in my belly, my nipples stiffened and when I got to the shower, my fingers probed between my legs, finding a hard clitoris and slippery, swollen labia.
But I hadn't really begun to put the sex thing all together until the previous summer in Vermont, when I met Danny. He wasn't handsome, exactly, but he was young and strong with wiry legs in ragged khaki shorts, tanned arms bursting from sand-colored army surplus shirts, and scruffy, well-used hiking boots. His curly dark hair was uncombed and a great, open smile crinkled his eyes when he looked at me.
We met on a hiking trail near the home of the family I was babysitting for, and pretty soon we were spending most of our few days off together, wishing we had more free time. I couldn't help myself; I was wildly attracted to Danny and wanted to spend every possible minute with him.
His neighbors had a couple of quiet horses, a mare and a gelding, that we were allowed to ride. After a few canters through the woods, he taught me to ride bareback. At one with a beautiful animal, my knees grasping its flank and my fingers knotted in its mane, surrounded by green and ducking low branches along the trail ... I felt freer than I ever had. And Danny had a summer job looking after some of the huts the state kept for hikers: A recipe for a girl to get into mischief!
Our afternoons off he'd bring a couple of beers to a hardly-used hut and we'd sip them in the sunshine, then kiss and hug in the doorway and he'd slip his hands under my blouse and rub my back. I had a hard time getting over my shyness about my body, though, and wouldn't let him undo my brassiere. And no hands below the waist, no way! But the heat was growing between us. My thin summer bras couldn't hide my stiff nipples when he held me, and riding back I felt wetness between my legs. Watching him gallop away with both horses left my knees shaking. It took a long, cold shower to settle down after our parting.
Danny was a virgin too, and shy as well. So we didn't get beyond clothes-on petting that summer. But the fire didn't die out when he went back to college and I returned to high school. Even when I met a guy named Pierre, who was in my English and Biology classes.
He was Canadian, cute with way more freckles than me, and he won my mom over the first time she met him. She'd mother him outrageously (his parents seemed to be a generation older than mine). She'd feed him and soon he was coming to dinner a couple of times a week. Those days, mom and dad and whoever was at the house still sat down for supper in a dining room with no TV or other distractions.
Pierre and I would sit in a sunny courtyard beside school in our spare periods and talk. We hung out after school, playing on slides in a park and talking. We went to the library together and whispered. Pretty soon he was carrying my books and we were doing our homework together at my place and then holding hands, then walking in the woods, then engaging in some heavy petting.
He did seem to have great digital skills (in the pre-computing era, that meant his fingers were dexterous) and he applied them to my willing body every chance he got. We explored each other through our clothes then timidly, shyly, under them.
But there were love letters from Danny a couple of times a week, and I wrote passionate replies. I kept telling myself (and Pierre) that I had to break it off with Danny, let him get on with his life, find another love. I even wrote the letter, a dozen times. But I never mailed it.
One hazy fall afternoon when we were home alone I took Pierre down to the basement of our wonderful old house. It was full of furniture under drop-cloths, children's toys, overflowing bookshelves and my dad's pride and joy, a partly restored player piano which we kids weren't supposed to touch.
I was still wearing school duds, a Madras plaid knee-length skirt that hugged my hips, a white cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar and pearl buttons, sensible shoes, a plain white bra and thigh-length cotton pettipants.
I was still trying to sort out my boyfriend confusion and stopped beside the player piano, teasing Pierre with my arms around his waist. He took the hint and kissed me, then kissed me again, long and hard, and his tongue slipped between my lips and met mine. One hand roamed down my back, softly stroking my behind, gradually working the fabric of my skirt inch-by-inch up my thighs. I turned sideways so his hand moved to my front.
His fingers felt the flimsy elastic of my pettipants and tentatively slipped inside. I kissed him deeper. His fingers explored lower. I broke the kiss only to sigh, take a deep breath and kiss him again, hard. His left hand held my bottom as his right slid between my legs. I moaned, encouraging him. He found the hard little knob of my clit and began to massage it, quicker and quicker. Oh ... Ohh ... Ohhh! What an exquisite sensation!
My pettipants were sopping. I could smell my musk and feel him inhaling great gasping breaths as he rubbed me and slipped a finger between my labia. Through his slacks I could feel his erection hard and hot against my leg.
My eyes were tight shut and every muscle tensed. Fireworks began exploding across my vision. A trembling started in the muscles of my thighs. I felt as if I was soaring higher, higher, higher into darkness lit by swirling flashes of colored fireworks among the stars.
My pulse roared in my ears. Suddenly my vagina clamped around his fingers in mighty spasms, I groaned and the world went black.
Seconds later, I came to. Or was it minutes? My breath came in slow, heaving sobs. I was slumped against Pierre whose worried face came slowly into focus. Was I okay, he asked? Had I fainted?
"Uhhh ... I think I just had a climax," I whispered. "And yes, I'm okay. I love you ... I love you. I don't think I've ever been this okay."
Looking back, I think that's where it all began.
The fall was a time of hand-holding, touching, kissing. There were romps in the magical estate behind my house, a hundred acres of disused meadow and ancient trees. There were excursions to rainy ponds to fill test tubes with microscopic critters to examine in biology class (though mostly those expeditions were excuses to carry out detailed examinations of mammalian anatomy by the braille method). We played in falling leaves along the C&O Canal towpath, and made weekend forays out to the rumbling Great Falls of the Potomac in Virginia, where huge rocks offered privacy and Pierre's magic fingers would slide under the waistband of my slacks, bringing me to gasping climaxes.
An enlightened English teacher suggested we go see Albert Finney in Tom Jones; that was one of our first formal dates. The kindly teacher didn't send us to the movie to gain deeper understanding of the first, almost unreadable, English novel, we soon realized. She must've seen our glances and the notes we passed in class — well, who couldn't. Luckily the theatre was mostly empty, because the movie was a bedroom farce with rollicking music. Pierre's skilful fingers were soon wreaking havoc in the wetness between my legs while I rubbed the bulge in his trousers till he spurted into his pants.
I was ready for him to make me a woman for weeks before it finally happened.
Our high school Homecoming dance was on a damp Friday night in late fall. The king and queen were crowned, the football jocks danced with cheerleaders in poodle skirts and saddle shoes. (Some of those girls had to leave school before graduation, when their bellies began to swell.)
As soon as we could escape the chaperones, we slipped away from the garishly decorated gymnasium, out a side door into the cool, foggy parking lot. My dad had loaned us his ten-year-old Ford wagon; I've always wondered if he knew what was going to happen that night, on that wide bench seat.
We parked in the dark between streetlights a few blocks from my house, waiting to make sure no cars had noticed our brake lights. I'd chosen a pale salmon Empire-waisted silk prom dress specifically for this night of all nights. Pierre couldn't keep his eyes off me at the dance, or his hands off me while I was driving.
Now I was all his.
We tumbled in a laughing bundle over the front seat into the back. Our hot breath condensed on the windows of the Ford and the streetlights turned every droplet into diamonds.
As his hands slid the rustling silk dress and soft nylon slip up my slim body he gasped. He was already at third base ... I was naked below the high, tight waistband that ran just below my breasts! He kissed me deeply, intensely, caressing my belly and back and calves and thighs and the smooth fabric over my budding breasts. I unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, roughly pulling his hard penis out of his underwear.
It wasn't the greatest sex, I have to say, but it was tender and full of love. And some laughter. It was his first time too. Pierre had to fumble open the prophylactic an older friend had given him (in those days you had to ask an evil-eyed pharmacist for them — they were always kept behind the counter), then unroll it in the dark over his very stiff penis. It wasn't very romantic, and I had a hard time relaxing.
At last he was ready. I spread my legs, waiting for the stabbing pain girlfriends had warned me was coming. But I wanted him so badly I was dripping wet. His first thrust met some resistance. "Don't stop, please don't stop," I cried. It only hurt for a second — those Vermont horseback rides had stretched my hymen — and then Pierre was inside me, moving gently. In and out — oh ... oh ... oooh. I relaxed. Our rhythmic movements synchronized.
Faster now, synocpation. I sank my nails into his buttocks as I pulled him into me. I squeezed my eyes shut and the fireworks shot across my vision. I raised my hips and clamped my legs around his thrusting as the trembling started and the waves overcame me. "Oh my God! Don't stop ... don't ever stop! Ohhhhhh!"
He groaned as his penis throbbed inside me and his heavy balls spurted their load into the rubber receptacle. We lay for what seemed like an hour in each other's arms, breathing in unison. I sobbed softly with happiness and he held me tight as our racing heartbeats slowing to normal. I am a woman now, I thought.
Next day we talked for an hour on the phone. But Pierre's parents had something planned and he couldn't get away. I was disappointed, horny as hell and a bit miffed.
He'd been a family friend for several years, since back when he was nineteen and sweet on my sister. He was in Washington working as a mechanic and doing the odd weekend construction job while he took a year off before his senior year at college.
Easy-going and confident, he was handsome in a rough way. Every ten days or so he'd show up around dinner time and we'd throw on another plate and he'd eat heartily. That's what happened that Saturday night.
After dinner he asked if I'd like to see a movie. I shot a questioning look at mom, who nodded gently. "Sure," I said, skipped upstairs to change my jeans and sweatshirt for a skirt, blouse and sweater. I climbed into Ken's pickup truck and we went to see Zorba The Greek — still one of my favourite movies. We stopped for a soda and shot the breeze about Anthony Quinn's exuberant character and how we ought to shed our hang-ups about life and love.
Out in the parking lot, Ken put his hand on my knee as he started the truck. It sent shockwaves tingling through me and he must've noticed my sharp intake of breath. But I didn't push his hand away. Perhaps I should have; my life might have been different.
He took the long way home, pulling into a secluded parking area in Rock Creek Park and turning off the lights and engine. My heart was in my throat as he leaned towards me. He took my face in both hands and gently, ever so gently, kissed my nose. I sighed, and he slid his mouth slowly down to mine.
He slid closer as my lips parted. I could smell his woodsy after-shave and feel the roughness of his whiskers. He put his hand gently on the inside of my knee and reflexively I opened my legs. As his tongue licked mine and his fingers probed my panties I slumped against the truck's door and slid down on the wide seat. He pulled the now-soaking crotch of my panties to one side and felt my hard clit. I gasped and my heart raced as two fingers, then three slid between the moist lips of my vagina.
My hand seemed to move of its own will, down his strong chest to the swelling in his jeans. I started to unbutton them. "Just a minute," he whispered, "I need two hands for this."
Seconds later he guided my hand to his swollen member, already encased in thin rubber — no fumbling here — and sticking straight up. It felt like a huge mushroom, a thick rounded head on a short shaft, all growing out of an undergrowth of wiry hair.
Adroitly he slipped my panties off, and his strong arms gently lifted me so I was kneeling on the passenger side, face to face and straddling him. He wasn't about to force himself on me: The next move was all mine.
Of course it was inevitable. My wetness was wide open just above him. As soon as I relaxed I felt him hard between my lips. I pushed down and — Ow! — I was still tender from yesterday. I rubbed back and forth and soon my natural lubricant gushed over the mushroom head and it stretched my willing opening and it was in me and I was riding and bucking and ... coming! and coming! and coming!
Ken stood hard as I climaxed three times until he couldn't hold it any more and with a yell he thrust up so hard my head banged on the roof of the truck and I collapsed laughing even as I felt his hot semen spurting into the prophylactic between my legs.
He was kind and tender on the way home, making small talk as we drove and arriving just before my curfew. He didn't come in, but kissed me chastely before I got out. I skipped up the walk and turned and waved from the wide, old-fashioned porch.
"Hi mom," I said when I saw her reading in her chair in the living room. "You didn't have to wait up." She smiled and bade me good night.
I showered quickly, then stretched luxuriously under my warm, comfy coverlet. Well Taralee, I thought sleepily, your cherry's well and truly popped now.
To be continued...