Taralee's First Time Ch. 04bycubalover©
Summer arrived, and Washington was in a ferment. Civil rights protests in the South were in the news and Lyndon Johnson was taking on the Ku Klux Klan, while antiwar professors were taking on the President over his escalation of the Vietnam conflict. And dog lovers were still up in arms over the photo of him the year before, lifting his beagle Him by the ears.
I finished packing for my six weeks as a mother's helper in Vermont, and dreamed of Danny.
Mom was gently angling to have me make up with Pierre, with whom I'd had a terrible fight days after our trip to the beach in Delaware, but I wasn't biting. I knew she adored him, and even my gruff, sardonic dad had warmed to him. The same dad whose rules and rough manner had driven off any number of my older sister's would-be boyfriends (she was now engaged, after three years away at college) and who had terrified most of the high school boys who'd ever even considered dating me. My grumpy dad liked Pierre so much that he lent him the '54 Ford for a couple of weeks while he got settled into his summer job, at a lab in Bethesda, Maryland.
I sulked in my room when Pierre came over, talking excitedly about his job. I could hear my parents laughing out loud when he talked about how he got to wear a white lab coat — with a pocket protector, for crying out loud. He thanked my dad profusely for the loan of the car. The station wagon in which Pierre and I had surrendered our virginity to each other. That seemed so long ago to me, pouting in the attic.
A couple of days later I was on the Greyhound, grinding its way through the Appalachian Mountains on the twenty-hour trip to Burlington, where I'd be picked up by the family I was working for.
Danny! Just the thought that he was close by fired my imagination, and my wanting him burned in my belly and moistened my panties.
I was crazy about that boy.
I was so distracted that after a few days the mother I was working for sat me down for a "serious talk." My work was sloppy, the floors barely mopped, the dishes were piling up in the sink, the toilets weren't cleaned and the beds weren't made. What was the matter with me? The children were unkempt, their laundry piling up in the hampers. Was I feeling alright?
Frankly, no. I was lovesick.
I had cold sweats. I had hot sweats. I could literally taste how badly I wanted Danny — the salt of his skin after he'd worked up a sweat hauling logs to build corduroy roads through swampy stretches of the trail, the metallic taste of the heavy-duty mosquito repellent he used, the smokiness of the palm of his hand I kissed after he'd built a campfire ... Every moment of every day my nerves were jangling. Gone were any thoughts of Pierre. Who? Gone was my lust for Ken. What? Gone was any memory of George. What old guy?
My period came and I was doubled over with cramps. My employer got so worried by my lackadaisical manner that she called my mom. Long distance! (That was a big, big deal in those days. Such calls were usually reserved for deaths in the family, emergency hospitalizations, that sort of stuff.) They chatted for a while, and I heard a lot of, "Yes. I see ... Really? Ahhhh."
Then I was beckoned to the phone. Mom's orders: Shape up, Taralee. But she was understanding. She'd figured out pretty quickly that I was nineteen so it must be a boy problem. But she misdiagnosed it as regret over my break-up with Pierre — she did her best to console me over the phone with minor news about how well his job was going and that he was helping my dad restore an old canoe that had sat for years in our yard. Jeesh; like I wanted to know all that. But I promised her I'd buckle down to work, and I did.
I became the household drudge I was hired to be. I washed and cleaned and minded the kids and did the laundry ... and finally, I had a whole day off, the same day Danny did.
I hiked up to last summer's hut, to the clearing where he'd stood in that photo that had teased me from the frame of my mirror in my wonderful old house with squirrels in the attic, the picture with lush greenery surrounding him that thawed the bitter winds of the Washington winter whistling in the eaves outside my room, while my heart yearned for summer, and Vermont, and him.
I broke into the clearing and whistled, low and sweet ...
And there he was, in the flesh! Just as I'd pictured him all winter: dark curly hair, shaggier than last summer, big white smile, shadow of a beard, tan a bit deeper than I remembered, shoulders a bit broader in a sweat-stained army shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, wide leather belt holding up khaki shorts (very short, ooooh!) that were a size too large, strong thighs, a bit of black hair on his calves disappearing into gray woolen work socks, scuffed tan work boots. He'd just turned twenty, a year older than me.
I dashed across the clearing and threw myself, literally, into his arms. He caught me, laughing, and swept me off my feet, twirling round and round. My heart was racing.
This was the moment! Together. At last.
I nestled against him and he kissed me softly, slowly. His manly smell mingled with the pine spice floating in the air, with the wildflowers blooming in the glade, with the faint whiff of last weekend's campfire. My breasts, crushed against his chest, could feel his heartbeat. My belly thrummed against his, and my shorts were stretched tight between my hypersensitive labia. Revelling in the strength of his arms holding me, I slipped off a shoe and rubbed my foot up and down the flesh of his leg, marveling at how erotic the hair and skin and sinews and muscles were, warmed by the sun, and how they made me love him more with every touch.
He put me down and held me away, his big hands on my shoulders, and gazed into my eyes.
"I love you," I croaked, my voice hoarse with desire. "I want to make love to you."
"Yes! But first, Taralee ...
"I want you to be my wife."
My heart missed a beat. So much had happened since last summer's awkward puppy love.
His words hung between us, like glittering icicles stubbornly refusing to melt in the summer heat. I shivered involuntarily.
My mouth was dry.
"No, Danny. There's no reason to wait.
"You won't be my first ..."
There. I'd said it.
The hand that had been squeezing my heart for months loosened its grip. For a moment.
Then my heart sank. It was as if Danny's glow faded before my eyes. He was still smiling, but the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, those tiny creases that I'd dreamed of on lonely nights and in boring trigonometry classes, the happiness lines that told me he loved me ... vanished.
Stunned, I realized those five little words, my self-serving honesty, had crushed the hopes and plans that had lived inside him, kept him warm during the long winter nights. They'd somehow erased from his mental blackboard a year's calculations of a life of happiness together.
"I'm sorry, Danny. So sorry ..."
His eyes glittered and he turned away. His shoulders tight, his fists clenched. Then slowly he rubbed his face with his palms.
Clouds crossed the sun and the glade seemed suddenly cool. A summer shower spattered on the leaves and dripped through the verdant canopy overhead. He shrugged and led the way to the hut.
I didn't know what more to say. We sat inside, the rain drumming softly on the roof. I went over, put my arms around him, held him close. No reaction.
I told him I loved him. Nothing.
"Do you want me to tell you?"
I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, hug him, nuzzle my face in his neck, kiss him better. But his silence held me back.
After what seemed like an hour, he said he'd call the house in a couple of days, and we'd get together next time I had a day off. I nodded. He got up and shuffled into the misty afternoon, a picture of dejection.
There were no horseback rides that summer. Danny had bought an old Volkswagen convertible, and it rattled and coughed through the hills on his days off. True to his word, he came to pick me up the next week. We met up with four of his friends at one of the mountain huts and partied.
It was like that every week: There was always a campfire, a guitar, potato chips, and beer. Always beer.
The six of us would neck around the fire, then one couple and then the other would disappear quietly into the woods. In the circle of firelight Danny would kiss me hard, and crudely squeeze my chest. Sometimes he put his hands inside my shirt, and felt me up. Once or twice he nibbled my nipples, without any real enthusiasm.
I'd be squirming by then, wanting so badly for him to touch my wetness, to caress my clit, to take me, no matter how roughly. Anything to show me he still loved me.
I'd rub the bulge in his shorts, start to unbuckle his belt ... but he'd turn away with a shake of his head, walk round the fire and crack another beer.
Danny seemed to be drinking more and more. Most nights I'd have to drive us back to the place I worked, with Danny humming in the passenger seat, or slumped over morosely, or passed out. I'd park out on the quiet dirt road in front of the house, leave the keys in the Beetle, and wake up at dawn hearing it start up, idle roughly for a few moments, and lurch away spinning its tires as he popped the clutch angrily.
Later on I got so frustrated I'd yank open my tan army shirt, pull down my khaki shorts in the driver's seat, spread my knees and expose my breasts and boiling cunt to the cool night air. I'd grab Danny's hand and use it to rub my bush and my clitoris. But he was oblivious, passed out drunk, and I just got hornier and hornier without reaching anywhere near a climax.
I nearly cried the night Mick Jagger came on the Beetle's crackly radio, singing I can't get no satisfaction as I frictioned myself futilely with my erstwhile lover's limp fingers.
Anger was surging inside me: at Danny's drinking — I started to hate the smell of beer — at my inability to melt through the frosty shell he'd built — he froze me out whenever I tried to make friends or apologize — at his friends off fucking merrily in the woods within earshot, the goddam girls yelping like foxes and the boys groaning like bears as they spurted their hot semen. While I wasn't getting a drop of action.
I worked my hands raw scouring my employer's pots and pans, down on my hands and knees scrubbing the old cottage's bare wood floors, dressing the kids (toddler to eight-year-old), doing the laundry ... hell, I even started gardening, for crying out loud. Anything to blank out my fury and frustration.
This summer — Danny, goddamit — wasn't supposed to turn out like this.
At least in my fantasies.
There were a couple more nights around the fire with the gang, but they all ended the same way: me driving home, Danny more or less dead drunk, and me frustrated and furious.
And suddenly, time was up. In a few days, I'd be on the bus back to D.C. I hadn't been able to get through to Danny, to make amends. I knew I'd stabbed him deeply by admitting that I was no longer a virgin, but I hadn't known, in 1965, that it still mattered so much — at least to some men.
But I wasn't going to let the summer go by without ... Well.
It was our last night in the woods. Boxes of beer were stacked beside the hut. The six of us sat around the fire, admiring the column of flame soaring into the clearing and watching the sparks dance with the few stars that shone through the eclipsing mist. A shower soon soaked us but no one cared. Conversation faded into contemplation, then the first couple disappeared into the shadows. Then the second.
I'd brought a sleeping bag, which I unrolled just beyond the radius of the firelight. Gently I enticed Danny into the shadows. He sat, hugging his knees. Sulking. I whispered, as best I could, "sweet nothings" into his ear. He grabbed me and ripped open my canvas shirt — hell, those were a few buttons well spent, I thought — but after a quick feel he jumped up and disappeared. I heard him urinating like a horse close by (god, even that got my cunt juices flowing) then his unsteady footsteps headed back to the hut and he returned with three open beers.
I took a couple of sips of the one he handed me while he guzzled one in a single gulp, then started on the second. I put my hand on his arm but he angrily pushed it away, finished the second beer, then jumped to his feet and lurched toward the cases stacked beside the hut.
From the darkness I could see him down another beer and another, then a third — most of which dribbled down the front of his shirt. Fury and despair chased each other across my emotions, until he staggered back and sat heavily on my sleeping bag. He had two more beers in each hand. Open.
His side of the ensuing conversation was monosyllabic at best.
"Our last night ..." "Yeah, s'what?" "You don't want me to remember you like this ..." "S'matter?" "I love you, remember? Once, you said you wanted to marry me ..." "Yeah?" "Do you really hate me so much?" "Dunno. Drunk, I guess."
Then he passed out.
At first, my mothering instincts kicked in. I was about to roll his inert form into the sleeping bag when he peed himself. Jesus, I thought. But I undid his belt and peeled off his shorts and underwear and, what the hell, his shirt. Unzipped the sleeping bag and rolled him onto it. Naked. Covered him up.
What now? I wondered. I was too angry to leave him here, though that was the best he deserved. Nope. Adrenaline-driven, I knew what I was going to do.
I returned to the circle of firelight, but both the other couples were still in the woods. I warmed myself by the fire, still furious, and returned to Danny, snoring in the sleeping bag.
Sonofabitch, I said to myself (it was one of my dad's favourite epithets when things weren't going well). I shook him. Groans. Snoring again.
I ripped away the cover and looked at him. And melted: His dark curls were wet with sweat. His strong arms lay akimbo. His flat, muscled belly led my eyes down to the black curls around his flaccid penis, its thick head dark in the dim light. His strong, muscled legs were splayed.
My body reacted instantly: nipples erect, clitoris hard, labia swollen, vagina dripping.
I was helpless: how was I going to achieve this?
I leaned over, closing my hand around his cock, and squeezed. Nothing.
Tentatively, I kissed his penis. I opened my lips. I touched my tongue to the tip.
Overcoming my initial aversion, I took his glans in my mouth. I ran my tongue down his soft shaft, and felt a tiny shiver of life. I lifted his balls ... another shiver. I licked the underside of his cockhead, then closed my lips around his shaft and sucked gently. Another shiver. I sucked harder, and there was a bit more life.
After a few minutes of resuscitation, I thought I was making progress.
I took a breath and shook him awake.
Fuelled by anger now, I held his face in my hands and glared at him: "Danny? Danny? Do you like this? Do you like having your cock sucked? Do you?
"Tell me now: Are you queer? Do you like boys better than girls? — tell me now and I'll walk right out of your goddam life and you'll never hear from me again, okay?"
"No. Nooo ..." His eyes rolled back and his head lolled and he flopped on the sleeping bag.
"Goddamit, Danny!" I realized he'd passed out again.
Shit! I stood over him, shed my now buttonless shirt, pulled off my shorts and panties (leaving my hiking boots on) and — in my fury — wrapped the flimsy cotton panties around his cock and balls, knotted them tight and stomped away nude, to see if any of his buddies were still fucking in the woods.
'Cuz I wanted a hard cock right now — any cock, girlfriends be damned.
My search proving fruitless, I came back to Danny's inert form just as the soft rain started again. Ditching my boots, I crawled naked and shivering into the sleeping bag and zipped it up.
Peeking out, I could see the rain-soaked bag steaming in the last of the firelight. Danny was passed out, but Taralee was wide awake and horny as hell. I turned to face him, rubbing my breasts against him and pulling his inert cock. Nothing.
Okay. I unzipped the bag to give me room and crouched over his cock. Suck. Suck more. Suck even more ... ahhh, he's not dead. I licked and sucked, licked and sucked, licked and sucked, and finally, after an hour's hard work: The Resurrection of the Flesh!
His penis wasn't unusually long or thick, but it had a lovely, triangular head: totally sufficient for my needs. Though he was still only semi-conscious, I was raring to go and rolled him onto his back and jumped aboard. Ow! I was by now so angry my cunt was dry and the blunt head of his cock hurt when I tried to push it in.
I spat in my hand several times and rubbed my spittle roughly over his glans to moisten it.
I had to keep rubbing his shaft to keep him hard but once I straddled him and got his phallus into me, although he was semi-conscious, his autonomic nervous system was ready to make babies (thank goodness for The Pill).
And just as the first blush of dawn lit the eastern sky, I finally made a man of Danny.
It was my first angry sex.
He groaned, semi-conscious, as his penis fountained gouts of hot ejaculate into my willing cunt.
"Wait ... wait! Not yet, goddam you!" I yelled to the heavens as he started to soften. I clamped my hand around his cock and balls, squeezing them in a vise grip to keep him erect as I rode him hard, sliding back and forth with my stone-hard clit clawing against his virgin stiffness as it pushed in and out of me. He hardened again till I reached a shuddering, fireworks-spouting climax. I could feel him still growing and quivering until he matched the continuing spasms of my tight cunt with another huge load spurting into me, on and on and on until I felt that my spread legs astride his balls were swimming in an ocean of our mingled fragrant fluids ... and I finally collapsed on his chest.
We slept in each others arms, soggy sleeping bag be damned, until the sun was high in the sky and the brush was steaming around us.
I woke, groggy, to Danny staring into my eyes. "Shhhsh," he said. "Don't say a word."
I didn't, but I could see the love in his eyes.
I felt inadequate: His love to my lust; such an unequal equation.
We untangled ourselves, grabbed our sopping clothes. Embarrassed, we got dressed and rolled up the sleeping bag, reeking with our mingled juices; we left it in the campsite garbage can.
"I'll drive you to the bus next week," he said; I nodded and headed downhill. At the first turn in the trail, I looked back. He stood, framed in the golden glow of a Green Mountain morning mist. My heart leapt. He waved.
I trudged down the trail.
That evening, the phone rang at the cottage. "Danny says he'll drive you to Burlington?" my employer asked. Okay, I nodded.
A couple of days later, my suitcases packed, he picked me up in the Beetle.
It was an hour's drive. We held hands but hardly talked. At the bus station, he stared deep into my eyes. After the trivialities of parting — I was headed back to high school, he to his freshman year at an Ivy League university — he started to talk about us ...
"Don't," I said, laying my finger softly across his lips. "Don't make promises you can't keep.
"And I won't make promises I can't keep."
I could see the pain in his eyes.
To be continued