For the purposes of this narrative, my name is John. The events I relate occured almost a year and a half ago and only now can I write about them with a little perspective -- I think. It still leaves me emotionally drained however, and to be honest I may not finish this in one piece. Be that as it may, it's time now to try and sort it out. I just broke a date with my current lover and at some point she will want an explanation (as several other people in my life have, and deserve, one) so here it is. My hope is that by writing this --putting it down and then sending it out over the 'net -- I can find the words to describe a good, loving and ultimately physical relationship between myself and a sixteen year old girl.
(See buddy, there is a reason for the alias. The way things are now, one cannot be too careful. Also, this gets explicit. If that's not your cup of tea, better stop reading now. You have been warned.)
Where to start. Let's see, I'm 34 years old, stand 6' 2" and weigh about 190 lbs. I've got long brown hair which I sometimes keep in a ponytail, and brown eyes. I'm in good physical shape and aim to keep it that way. When you sit in front of a computer all day, it's real easy to let yourself go, so I set some goals. This year it's a climb up Mt. Rainier. Hey, it works, believe me. When I'm not working (see below) I read: Stephen King, John D. McDonald, that new lawyer guy -- good storytellers all. When I have the time I also play guitar.
I mentioned work and computers. No, I'm not a computer whiz, I'm an architect. Actually, an architect with a masters in civil engineering. Its a rare combination and mostly what I do is industrial buildings with very complicated requirements. Earthquake resistant semiconductor fabs with hundreds of miles of piping and 60 tons of equipment on the floor, stuff like that. I work for myself (yeah, I know, I like the boss) and pretty much name my own price. More often than not, I get it. Understand now; I'm not telling you this to impress you or anything, it just explains why I'm not tied to a 9 to 5 job. My arrangements also allow me the freedom to work at home, when and how I want. You see, I'm pretty much a loner. I have no family to speak of -- just a relatively small circle of close friends. And, while I am not celibate, not many lovers either. I make no apologies, it's just the way I am. Work and accomplishment have always dominated my life; I've made time for little else. As a consequence, I have money, and my freedom, and even (occasionally) the time to enjoy both. But I've missed a lot also; things that money can't buy. Perhaps as I tell this tale you will begin to understand.
One last thing. At the time I had just moved to a city on the West Coast, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and a disaster of a marriage. Now you may think that Michele (that was her name, and even now it rolls off my lips and tongue) caught me when I was emotionally vulnerable, and you very well may be right. But the fact remains: no one but her has been able to penetrate my emotional armor. And it still hurts.
Okay, thanks for your patience. I think you have the background.
I ran into Michele on the doorstep of my apartment one spring afternoon, and when I say 'ran into Michele' I mean that quite literally -- I was heading out the front door when I tripped over her feet. She had been standing off to the side of the entrance and as I grabbed the metal post supporting the overhead awning to keep from nose diving into the walkway she back-pedaled wildly, arms flailing like mad before finally catching herself on the porch railing.
"Jesus kid, are you alright!" I said, then broke into a bemused chuckle. It was really quite comical.
"Sorry, mister," she hastily apologized, "I was just gonna knock." She sounded flustered and defensive, the tone of her voice conveying more than simple embarrassment. My laughter quickly died. "Are you the guy who plays guitar?" she continued, "I heard you the other night and..."
And then I heard it, coming from the apartment two doors down. Yelling -- no, to be more accurate: screaming. An angry male voice, full of obscenities, it's owner obviously out of control. The voice was followed by a tearful female one. I couldn't quite make out the words but there was no need to; I knew what I was hearing. I looked down at Michele to get her reaction but she was staring at the flagstones in the porch as if the patterns they created were the most fascinating things in the world.
"Uh, hey kid--"
"--my name is Michele," she said quietly.
"Okay." I paused. "Michele, are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Ummmm...no," she answered. Her gaze never left the porch.
"Are those your parents?" I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. She said nothing, and I was about to repeat the question when she very slowly nodded yes.
For a long while I stood there, looking down at the top of her bowed head, at a total loss for what to do. I couldn't just leave her there on the doorstep. Should I take her in? Call the cops? Take her to the manager? I quickly dismissed the manager idea, but I was less willing to dismiss calling the police until I understood the seriousness of the situation. I cringed at the thought of what I was about to ask -- but I had to find out.
"Michele, look at me." I kept my voice calm, but I made sure she would not miss the seriousness in my tone. Slowly she raised her head. "If someone is getting...hurt in there, you need to say so. Now."
"No," she said very quietly, hesitating on each word, "He -- dad -just yells a lot." She stared right past me, avoiding my eyes, and I suddenly realized how very, very hard this must be for her. There she was; trying to hold a civil conversation with a total stranger while her parents fought so loud the entire complex could overhear them.
"You need a place to duck out to, right?" She closed her eyes and nodded.
What the hell, I thought, errands could wait.
"Alright," I sighed, "come on in."
We sat together in the corner of the kitchen, she on one side of the alcove with me on the other, eating PB&J's and talking. Music mostly, (I'm an unrepentant rock 'n roller and Michele shared my tastes) and gradually, as the awkwardness began to pass, I started to really *notice* her. Michele was not a big girl -- her slender body stood all of five feet tall while her breasts were no more than gentle swells rising from the flatness of her pullover shirt -- but there was no mistaking her blossoming beauty. Her face was so pretty; delicate nose, big soft eyes and a wide, full mouth. She wore shoulder length, thick, reddish-blond hair and every once in a while Michele would tilt her head back and sweep the bangs from her forehead -- a graceful, feminine gesture I never tired of watching. At first her pale gray/green eyes reflected a definite wariness; but behind the wariness was intelligence, humor, and a maturity I did not expect in one so young. After a while her good looks (and her constant, youthful energy) drew me in; there is no other way to describe it. When she got up to make another sandwich, I tracked every movement of her lithe, teen-girl body, unable to take my eyes from her.
After finishing the second sandwich, Michele turned the conversation to her parents. I found out that her Dad had been laid off from an auto plant back east. He moved the family to the west coast, chasing construction work, but none had materialized. Her Mom worked, but finances were tight. "And sometimes" she told me, very matter-of-factly "Dad just goes off the deep end."
"Michele," I explained, "a man puts a lot of self-esteem into providing for a family, so don't be..." She cut me off with a impatient sigh.
"I knooooow. I get the same lecture from Mom."
"I think she's right."
"But it doesn't give him the right to make everyone so miserable!" For the first time in our conversation, she seemed truly upset and I must have reacted automatically -- reaching for her hand -- because she immediately sat bolt upright and apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just -- well, I don't have very many friends I can talk about this with, you know?" She slumped down in her chair and for the longest time was silent, composing her thoughts. When she continued her voice was much softer. "It feels good to get this off my chest. You're a good listener. Thanks."
"I, uhhh...your welcome," I replied, trying to hide my embarrassment. (My former wife held just the opposite opinion of my listening skills -- and, I suppose, with good reason). I wasn't sure what to say next and didn't want to upset her further so I changed the subject. "I've got a stash of cookies around here somewhere, would you like some?"
"Oreos?" she asked hopefully. Surprised, I nodded yes.
"Alright!" she said with genuine enthusiasm, breaking into a wide smile as she jumped out of her chair. Right then and there I knew she had my heart. I mean, how could I *not* like this pretty, intelligent, well spoken sixteen year old who could discuss with authority the latest from Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots while unashamedly devouring a package of Oreos?
Over the next couple of weeks, Michele became an almost constant presence around the place, drifting into the apartment after school let out and staying until her Mom came home from work. (Early on I made a point of trying to introduce myself to Michele's parents. I never met Michele's father, but I did meet her Mom -- a pleasant, outgoing woman in her '30s. She and I immediately hit it off and it was not long before we came to an understanding; as long as her school work didn't suffer Michele was free to spend the afternoons at my place while waiting for her to return home from work. I think she may have been afraid of Michele's father in some way hurting Michele, but I don't know that for certain.) Anyway -- I'd be in the study/office, typing on the PC or talking on the phone, and Michele would let herself in. "Hi-ya John!" she'd call out, then I'd hear the refrigerator door open and the thud of a milk jug as she tossed it on the counter. A couple of minutes later Michele would appear in the doorway, glass of milk in one hand and a sandwich or cookie in the other, cheerfully asking me how my day was. We'd talk for a few minutes and then I'd tell her to get to her homework. She'd put on a pouty face (for about two seconds, max) then disappear back into the kitchen to study. It became a ritual; a simple, graceful routine that anchored my day.
I am not sure when I first became aware -- consciously aware, that is -- that I was physically attracted to her. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but DAMMIT! it wasn't like that. I had a deep and genuine affection for Michele -- far beyond simple sexual longing -- and I would not, *could not*, do anything to hurt her or mess up our friendship. But, as much as I wanted to deny it, I was fantasizing about her. Sexually. A lot. Imagining her small, lithe, body spread eagle beneath mine; day dreaming of wrapping my hands around her slender waist as I emptied my balls into her little quim. It was stupid, it was nuts, it was impossible -- and it left me feeling like shit. I mean, Michele looked to me for stability and security; my apartment had become her refuge. She trusted me to act like a mature, rational adult and yet when she stood next to me, it was all I could do not to start fantasizing about fucking her brains out!
I guess you could say Michele had become a very important part of my life.
I knew that things were not getting any better between her mom and dad, but we did not often talk about it, at least openly. Michele might make a casual comment about something that had happened the night before, but mostly she (and I) ignored her home life as much as possible. It wasn't always easy though. She did tell me she was not getting a lot of sleep and I remember one afternoon quite clearly; she simply zonked off while doing her homework. I found her leaning over the dining room table, textbook and papers shoved to one side, her head nestled in her folded arms. She looked so small and innocent; I had to consciously restrain myself from scooping her into my arms and holding her as I would a young child. I must have stood there for a good five minutes, just watching her before finally waking her up.
It was an evening in early June, just after school let out for the summer, when things finally came to a head. Out of the blue, Michele dropped by with a couple of brand new CDs. "Wanna listen?" she asked, and before I knew it, we were sitting on the floor in my apartment, CDs and tapes scattered all over the place, listening to Nirvana and Candelbox and Stevie Ray Vaughn. She was grinning and laughing at my dumb jokes and I was feeling mighty giddy myself --and when Stevie started into "Pride and Joy" Michele got up to dance. Oh man, I couldn't believe it! She twisted her tight teenage body into these incredibly sexy S-curves then started swaying to and fro -- hair swishing around her shoulders as she swung her small ass back and forth -- and I got hard. Really hard, really fast. It was a good thing her back was to me, there was no way I could hide the bulge. I got up and stumbled over to the couch; the intense sexual rush had left me weak and fluttery. I was trying desperately to think of a way to get five minutes alone in the bathroom with my cock when the song finished. Slowly, as if the music alone animated her, Michele stopped and relaxed, arms limp at her sides.
"Mom and I are gonna split," she said quietly.
"Huh?" It was such a non-sequitur that it didn't register. Slowly Michele turned to face me.
"I said, Mom and I are thinking about leavin' Dad."
Oh Jesus, what was I doing! Was I really sitting there, thinking dirty sex thoughts about this beautiful, sixteen year old kid while said kid was trying to cope with the fact her folks were on the outs -permanently???! I felt worthless and ashamed; I couldn't even bear to look at Michele as she crossed the room and flopped down beside me on the couch. Tilting her head back (I caught the faint perfume of her shampoo mixed with the sharper, clean, feminine odor of her body -- even then she was turning me on) Michele closed her eyes and started rambling.
"Mom has this girlfriend, you see. They're sorority sisters or something like that and if Marsha -- that's her name -- can talk her boyfriend into letting us, we're gonna move in with her." A very faint smile crossed her lips. "Dad won't have any idea where to find us."
"Michele," I finally stammered, "I had no idea..."
"'S alright," she replied, ignoring me. "You know, when I was little I really did love him. We had a lot of fun together; going to the zoo or park and stuff like that. In the evenings when he'd tuck me in and kiss me and tell me that I was the prettiest girl in the whole world. But now...now all he can do is fight and yell at Mom. I don't know -- he started changing even before he got laid off, and now it's like I don't even want to be around him anymore." She sighed then fell silent, eyes still closed.
I had no idea what to say. I wanted to touch her, not sexually, just hold her hand or caress her face. I turned to her and raised my arm when she abruptly sat upright.
"John, I gotta go." She stood up, leaving me with my hand hanging ridiculously in the air. "I, uh...I'll see you tomorrow." she said hastily "Be here, okay?" Her last sentence sounded more like a plea than a request. Without even stopping for her CDs she left. Needless to say, I didn't get a lot of sleep that night.
The next morning dawned grey and wet. Not very cold, but not very cheery either, and by noon I gave up all pretense of work. I turned the answering machine to auto, switched off the computer, and went to sit in the kitchen and wait. For what I wasn't exactly sure, but I knew in my bones that Michele would eventually arrive.
Around 2:00 it started pouring; a hard, drenching, summer rain that pounded the roof and overflowed the gutters.
2:30, still raining hard.
At 2:32 came the knock on the door. I jumped up, ran to the door, flung it open.
Michele was soaked. Totally, utterly, to-the-bone, floating in her clothes waterlogged. Her jeans were a mess; dark water stains extended down the front of her legs to her knees while everything below mid-calf was sodden and dripping. Her shirt was plastered to her body and the beautiful reddish-blond hair I loved so was tangled and matted, laying in straggles across her forehead and cheeks. A drop of water trickled from a loose strand, running down her cheek to her trembling lips. She was on the verge of tears.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," I whispered.
She stumbled forward and I caught her, pulled her up into my arms and over the threshold into the apartment. Turning around to set her down in the foyer I caught the door with my foot and slammed it shut, rattling the walls. Confusion overwhelmed me -- what was happening to my lovely Michele?!! I fell to my knees, looking into her eyes, then realized she was too far gone to answer. Two great sobs racked her young body then the tears came. She clung to me, tighter than anyone has before or since, and cried and cried and cried.
Anger, frustration, fright; not knowing what to think I imagined the worst. Had she been thrown out of her house? Had her father (God forbid) come unglued enough to hurt her? I had no idea how to comfort Michele (other than holding her) and it didn't help matters any when, through her tears, she started wailing "He called me a whore -- he said I was a whore!" over and over again. I suppose it said something about my state of mind that, for a second, I thought her father had discovered my secret longing for Michele and was accusing her.
Finally -- and it must have been a good five minutes -- Michele cried herself out. She released her death-grip and stepped back a bit, then sat down hard in front of me. I was still sitting on my haunches, and together we inspected the damage.
"Oh, John," she said, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, "I've got you all wet."
"No -- no," I replied, shaking my head, "It's OK, really." Reaching for her, I ran a hand through her hair, succeeding only in getting my fingers jammed in the tangles, but the physical contact was helping calm her. "Come on," I said finally, "let's get you cleaned up." By this time her teeth were chattering from the cold. I lead her to the bathroom, then fetched a couple of towels and a big wool sweater. I told her I was fresh out of her size (that, finally, got a very small smile out of her) but she could at least wrap herself in the sweater and a bathrobe while her cloths dried.
It was only later, in the kitchen -- listening to the blow dryer, the clack of a styling comb as it hit the counter top and Michele's occasional, muffled "damn" -- that I finally began to relax. "OK," I thought to myself, "She's alright, at least physically." But I still had no idea what was going on. I didn't know if or how much Michele was willing to reveal, but the way she had kept repeating "he called me a whore" over and over was scary.
I met her at the bathroom door with a cup of hot chocolate which she gratefully accepted. She was wrapped in my sweater, and as she took a long, noisy draught from the cup, I took the wet clothes and draped them over the shower door.
"Feel better now?" I asked. She nodded, staring straight into her cup.
"Do you want to tell me what this is all about?" I asked.
"Give me a moment." she replied quietly, swirling the chocolate around. I waited patiently as she took another sip. She seemed hesitant, pensive; nibbling on her lower lip, occasionally glancing at me out of the corner of one eye. I was starting to have second thoughts about trying to get her to tell me when suddenly she raised the cup to her lips and drained the last of the cocoa.
"Okay." She took a deep breath as she put it down, "Follow me."
I followed her into the hallway where she stopped and leaned her back against the wall, then like a slowly deflating balloon sank to the floor.
"Daddy found out about Bobby and me."
"Uhh...Bobby?" I questioned.
"He's my cousin," She replied matter-of-factly, motioning me to sit opposite her. I did, spreading my legs out in a V with my feet touching the baseboard on her side. She sat between them, legs drawn to her chest as she rested her chin on her knees. This, as best I can recall, was her story:
"Last summer, after Dad had been laid off for a while, we went to spend a couple of weeks at my Aunt Sarah's place. They have this big farm outside Canton and I guess Dad talked her into letting us help out in exchange for room and board. I didn't mind really, I always liked the farm and working with the animals. I'm real good with horses -Sarah says I'm a natural. Anyway, there was the three of us and Aunt Sarah and Uncle Don and my cousin Bobby. His real name is Robert, but we all called him 'Bobby'. He's kinda shy around other people, but around me, he's...oh, I dunno...so natural and talkative. He's also, uh, pretty foxy -- if you know what I mean. I was really looking forward to seeing him and Aunt Sarah again and I guess he was looking forward to seeing me. I remember when they met us at the bus station. Bobby gives me this great big bear hug -- it was kinda embarrassing. Then, all the way back home, he paid me LOTS of attention." She smiled shyly; a smile of pleasant memory.
"Had a crush on you, eh?" I smiled back, biting my tongue. Bobby sounded like one damned lucky kid.
"Yeah," she continued, "he did, but...it was more than that. In the evening, after chores, we used to sit around on the porch and drink sodas and talk and tease each other, you know? But after a few nights we, uh...well...stopped doing so much talking and started, like, kissing. I liked it too. Pretty soon we were sneaking off together to the pond or the barn or wherever we could be alone."
At that point, she stopped and lay her head on her knees, looking down the hall. I realized that this was no longer a story about Bobby; Michele was leading me somewhere. Trouble was, if she kept it up I was going to have another serious hard-on problem.
"Michele, this sounds really personal. If you don't want --"
"No, John, I want you to hear this." She paused, nibbling her lip again, then with a deep breath continued. "We started getting into some pretty heavy make-out sessions. Sometimes he...he would get me up in the hayloft and undress me and touch me all over. God, I loved it when he did that! He could be so sweet and gentle and yet turn me on something crazy!" She turned her head back to me and now her voice was soft and low, almost reverent. "Pretty soon, I -- well, we -- started giving each other oral sex."
My jaw must have hit the floor. "Michele?!?"
"Well, that's what we did!" she replied with indignant surprise "Don't be such a prude about it! It wasn't like he forced me or anything -- I *wanted* to. We both did. And it was *good* John, it was fun and sexy and cuddly all at the same time."
"Michele, I just never --"
"Oh! Don't you understand?" she continued, cutting me off, "Lovin' Bobby made me feel good, made me forget about Mom and Dad fighting so much. He took away the hurt when Dad yelled at me. He made me feel safe, and loved, and just plain special; more than anyone else ever did. I'd never felt that way about a guy before and I didn't think I would again for a long time, except...now I've got you. You make me feel like Bobby did."
Her voice softened. "John, I know how hard you've tried not to brush up against me or touch me or anything, even when I wanted you to. And I did, John, really bad sometimes. Yesterday, on the couch, I wanted you to put your arms around me and lay me down and...do things to me. Sex things. I...I know this could get you in a lot of trouble, but -- John, will you make love to me?"
Dead silence. Her eyes riveted me to the wall and my mouth was so dry I could not speak even if I wanted to. Slowly, Michele uncurled her body and rose to her knees, kneeling between my trembling legs.
"When Daddy found my diary today, he called me a whore, made what Bobby and I did into something bad and dirty. But it's not; not at the heart of it. It's about two people makin' each other feel good and loved and when it's good for me all the hurt goes away. I know you can make it good for me. Can you do that, huh John? Can you make it real good for me -- please?"
For as long as I live, I will never forget that first kiss. She leaned forward, placed her hands on either side of my face, then sealed my mouth with her lips. It was a kiss of pure, sexual hunger; as I pulled her tight against me she glided her slick, wet tongue over my teeth, pushing deep into my mouth, offering it to me. I took it, greedily. Oh God! I wanted her; wanted every last morsel of her young body. Without breaking the kiss I scooted my legs under me then, using the wall for leverage, started to stand. Michele, her fingers wrapped in my hair, pulled herself to her feet and together, mouths locked and tongues intertwined, we stumbled down the hall into the bedroom.
We hit the bed running; I fell sideways onto the mattress with Michele still in my arms. Breaking the kiss, I struggled to get up to start undressing, but Michele was having none of that; pulling me back down, she trapped my leg between her thighs and started grinding her mons into my hip. (Not that I was particularly calm myself -- I remember grabbing her ass to steady myself as I fucked my erect cock against her soft stomach.) Finally, after several long minutes of dry humping each other, Michele pushed me away. She rolled over onto her back, eyes wide and round.
"John," she pleaded, "Undress me. I wanna be naked for you..."
Michele's sweater was hiked up around her waist and as she raised her arms I grabbed the hem and started pushing it up her body, uncovering her breasts. They were perfect; well proportioned, firm, orange sized mounds. The nipples were dark red and erect, jutting forth from the pink circles of her areolas. I cupped her firm, young girl tits in my hands, flicking the nipples back and forth with my thumbs as she moaned and tossed her head from side to side. She was so beautiful in her passion! I bent over her, laving each lovely nipple with my tongue, tasting the sweetness of young flesh, when suddenly her hands were at my shirt, grabbing at the buttons. "C'mon...you too!" she urged, voice full of frustration. I took her hands -- I think if I had let her Michele would have ripped the buttons clean off -- and together we hastily unfastened my shirt. As she finished pulling the sweater over her head I stood and removed my shirt, then unsnapping my jeans pushed both them and my Jockeys down my legs.
I stood before Michele: naked, breathing hard and deep, my erection sticking up and away from my stomach. For her part, Michele was a lovely, erotic, disheveled mess; sprawled out on the bed with her slim legs dangling over the edge, hair in her face, the crotch of her panties dark with her feminine secretions. Her eyes traveled the length of my body several times, each time lingering on my erect penis, then slowly she raised her hand and beckoned. "Easy now..." she murmured as I climbed back on. I pulled her around so that we were laying along the length of the bed, resting on our sides. Again we embraced and kissed; this time with more patience and tenderness. Michele ran a hand up and down my body, caressing my back, then my chest. As her hand made it's way down my stomach I pulled away, allowing her access to my cock. She didn't hesitate, and as she closed her warm fist around the shaft, I slid my hand down her body, reaching for her panties. Slowly, carefully I slid my fingers beneath the waistband, over her lightly furred mons then down her cleft to part the warm, wet lips of her cunny. As she worked her fingers over the underside of my cockhead (Bobby had taught her well) I stroked her slippery, swollen clit; every once in a while she would moan and push her crotch hard against my hand. As she got more excited, she spread her legs wider, allowing me to slide my finger deeper, probing at her vaginal opening. Her steady cock stroking faltered.
"Wait." She whispered, looking up at me, "Hold still for a moment, 'K?"
Reaching down to place her hand over her panties, Michele pressed my finger tips into her moist slit. "Get...in there," she mumbled, lifting her knee high in the air, then: "Oh Jeez..." she gasped as the tip of my middle finger slid smoothly into her hot, wet -- and incredibly tight -entrance. Only then did I truly comprehend how small and slim hipped Michele really was. She grimaced and muttered something about taking it easy. I froze.
"It's...been awhile," she whispered, "let me get use to it." She closed her eyes and snuggled closer, her chin resting on my chest. Gradually her body relaxed and breathing steadied. With a barely perceptible nod of her head, she gave me permission to continue. Very, very slowly I worked my digit the rest of the way in, expecting at any moment to find her maidenhead. When I didn't, I looked at her upturned face, questioningly. Michele shook her head.
"Bobby got it," was all she said.
"Oh," I replied. The disappointment I felt was sudden, deep and completely unexpected.
She smiled gently. "John -- don't ask, just make me cum."
Well, I know when to take an order (especially one delivered by a young lady whose vagina is clamped about my finger) so to make a long story short, I did. My thumb found her clit again and while carefully sliding my finger in and out of her small, delicate pussy, I massaged the fevered bud. As my fingering increased in intensity, she started panting; soon she was on the edge of climax. "Uhhh....Uhhhh...." she moaned, then after a few long, deep strokes she clamped her thighs around my hand. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" she cried, burying her face into my chest, shuddering as the orgasm crashed through her young body. She clenched and moaned, pushing her stomach against mine, then opened her legs and with a final thrust of her hips, buried my finger completely inside her young cunny. She yelled and shuddered again, wildly bucking her crotch against my hand. I snaked my free arm under Michele's quaking body to steady her; gradually her cries quieted and her body grew limp. We lay still, her fist slowly opening and closing against my arm, then after a while I gently removed my finger from her vagina and cupped her pussy in the palm of my hand.
Is there anything more beautiful than a teenage girl in the heat of passion? There is: a teenage girl resting in the quiet afterglow of wanted, consensual sex. I have not the words to describe how achingly lovely Michele looked; eyes closed, lips pressed against the hollow space below my collar bone, face relaxed and serene. Her fair skin seemed to glow in the pale light and I was struck by the insane desire to jump up and change the rumpled bedclothes -- they weren't good enough for this angel to *lay* upon, let alone make love on. It was crazy, I know, but that's what I thought. That's the way Michele made me feel sometimes. Crazy.
After a few moments, she stirred; opening her eyes she smiled and planted a quick kiss on my chest.
"Oh, man," she said quietly, rolling over onto her back, "I'm still tingly all over."
I slipped my hand out of her panties then trailed my wet fingers up her body, circling each breast. She sighed softly, a sound of contentment. I caressed her smooth, flawless skin; playing my fingers up and down her body, then across her neck, then traced the outline of her mouth. Her lips parted and without thinking I ran a fingertip between her lips and gums. Her small, pink tongue darted from her mouth, playfully chasing my finger, finally catching and licking it. Her eyes grew wide and round in surprise.
"Oh, wow," she breathed, "I can taste myself."
"Yeah?" I smiled. "You like it?"
"Ummm...I guess," she said softly.
"It's an acquired taste," I offered. She nodded, very slowly, her eyes staring into mine.
"John, would ya...?"
She didn't even wait for me to say yes, she just pushed me aside and scooted up the bed, lifting her hips off the mattress as I scrambled over her body to kneel between her outstretched legs. Hooking my fingers under the waistband of her panties, I dragged them down over her hips. Her mons was plump and full, with just a patch of golden red hair above the cleft, while the pale pink lips of her cunny were parted and glistening with moisture. Slowly I pulled the panties down her legs, to her ankles, then with one swift motion skinned them over her feet and tossed them aside. Flopping down on my stomach, I worked my hands beneath the small, taunt cheeks of her ass.
"Yeeeess!" Michele hissed.
I ate her. Laying my tongue between the lips of her cunny I filled my mouth with her sweet/salty nectar, tasting fully of her young, girlish sex. It's musky, lush aroma drove me into a state of pure arousal -- I just couldn't get enough! I covered her entire pussy with my mouth, pressing my lips against her vulva, kissing and licking her moist, delicate pussy folds, stopping every so often to flick my tongue rapidly against her swollen clit. Soon her cunny was in full flower, exposing her small, coral red vagina, and I started going back and forth -- down to tease her cuntal opening (as much as I wanted to she was simply too small and tight to properly tongue fuck) then back up to lap at her clitoris. After the second or third round trip, Michele started thrashing about, begging me to make her cum some more, and then she did. Oh man, did she cum! Even with her thighs covering my ears, I heard the scream. Her juices poured forth and I stopped licking long enough to swallow; it was either that or drown. She moaned and cried and lolled her head from side to side --the ecstasy consuming her. At last, as I closed my mouth around her vulva to suck the last of the wetness from her, she finished. Her knees fell away and she lay motionless, my lips still covering her pussy.
Michele finally reached down and dragged my mouth from her crotch; gently but firmly tugging at my hair till I was on my hands and knees above her. I rubbed my mouth over her nipples, first one then the other, smearing the juices all over her chest. I went to take one of them into my mouth, but she continued pulling until I was head to head with her, staring into her face.
"John," she moaned, "I want you inside me."
I wanted to, very badly, but there was no way. I had barely gotten my finger inside her, and that a discomfort.
"John!" She cried again, louder this time. Her eyes were wide and unfocused and I could tell she was totally gone, lost in the ecstasy of our lovemaking. She arched her back towards me, opening her legs wider, and her stomach brushed against my cock. I was hovering just above her pubic mound and all I had to do was back up, drop my body, and I would have been inside her; fully, deeply inside her. I was close to losing it completely and my hips gave an involuntary jerk or two. I shut my eyes, trying to think of something, ANYTHING, that would put my mind back in control. I bit the inside of my lip (or my cheek -- I'm not sure) and shook my head violently from side to side, spraying sweat all over her and the bed. Again I shook, then heard and felt something in my neck pop. I was going to do it a third time when I realized that Michele had grown still beneath me. She was breathing hard, chest heaving up and down, but she had stopped bucking towards me. Other than her breath, and her low guttural moan, and my heart pounding, the room was again quiet.
(Michele, you will never know how close I came to really hurting you; to take with pain what you were so willing to give me.)
Sanity returned. Slowly I sank to my elbows and cupped Michele's head in my hands, holding it steady. Our eyes locked and it was as if I was dragging her back from the abyss. Slowly, with visible effort on her part, her focus returned. I held the gaze until I was sure she was back to reality. As much as I wanted this I had to make her understand that it would not be easy, that she could still say no.
"Michele, my love," I said softly, "You're still just a kid. It would hurt, maybe a lot. I -- couldn't -- do -- that -- to you."
"John," she said simply, "It didn't hurt with Bobby."
"This is different, Michele. I'm a grown man." She just looked at me, patiently and lovingly yes; but as if I didn't get it.
"You put your finger in me," she replied, "I want the rest."
"Michele, it's not like that!"
"You can do it."
"Oh...Michele!" I was trying to reason with her, but it was becoming ludicrous, and we both knew it. She was going to have me even if she had to take my cock and stuff it into her vagina herself. She continued with her patient, loving stare, then -- and I don't know if she planned these words or they just came out on their own -- she spoke the password, the key to my relenting.
"John, I trust you to stop if I say so, right? Trust me enough to let me try. Please?"
I dropped my forehead to her chest and once again the musky fragrance of her sex greeted me. I could no longer reason, or resist. For a moment or two, I remained hunched over her, head bowed in submission to my young lover, then, very gentle and soft, I felt her hands on my shoulders.
"John?" she asked. It occurred to me that she was still waiting for an answer.
"Okay. But lets get you on top first. You'll have better control that way."
It was simple, really. Letting go of her head, I rolled over and flopped on my back, arms askew. With quick, lithe movements, she straddled me and the next thing I knew she was pressing her pussy against my erection. Pre-come dribbled out of the tip. She raised herself off me then scooped it up and smeared some over my cock. The rest she rubbed between the lips of her cunny then, holding herself open, sat down again; trapping my cock between my stomach and her crotch. With slow, full strokes she rode the shaft, mixing our juices together. The sensation was wonderful -- hot, wet pussy flesh sliding up and down my cock shaft as her weight pressed the topside of my glans against my stomach. As I took hold of her hips to guide her, she slid forward far enough for my cock head to press against her opening. She stopped; poised and ready.
"Go ahead," she whispered. She held her lower lip between her teeth, her face a mixture of hesitancy, anticipation and plain old lust.
"Michele?" I hated to bring this up, but...
"Come on!" she implored.
"Let me get a condom on, okay?"
"Oh," she said softly. She paused, then shook her head no.
"Wha -- Michele!?"
She sighed, deeply, as if she were disappointed in me. "I know all about my period and making babies. After Bobby --" she stopped, pursing her lips tightly in frustration (whether at me for the interruption or at herself for revealing something she didn't want me to know I can't say) then looked at me in utter exasperation, "--Look, Mom bought me all the books and I've done lots of reading. This is my safe time -- you can't get me pregnant. Trust me, Okayyyyyyy?!"
I did not argue; I wanted her so badly I would have done anything she asked. "Alright," I croaked. She nodded her head, satisfied.
The act of penetration was slow, sweet, utterly exquisite torture. That may not be the right word but I can't think of another that describes the restraint I forced myself to use as I pressed my cock into her. Her pussy was like a warm, wet fist closed tight around the glans; the direct sensation of it was almost more than I could bear. For her part, Michele flinched at the sudden pressure; but even as she did she rocked her hips back and forth, each small movement nestling me deeper into her tight entrance. Ever so slowly her vagina opened, inch by grudging inch, the grainy wetness of her inner flesh hot against my cockhead, till suddenly the small opening gave way. Michele gasped. I was inside! She through her head back and cried in triumph.
"Eiaaaaaa! Oh, John...never...never..." she struggled to catch her breath, "never felt this...full before." Her chest was flushed deep scarlet and her eyes reflected something between pure ecstasy and genuine pain.
I reached up, caressing her face. "Michele, honey, take it easy," I whispered. She nodded her head, then with a nervous 'I'm-scared-but-I'm-going-to-do-this-anyway' smile, began rotating her hips; slowly working my cock deeper into her small cunny.
Her pussy lips were distended, stretched tightly around my shaft, and her clit protruded far beyond her labia, yet Michele never stopped her slow, rhythmic grind. With every downward thrust, she exhaled and softly moaned; with every exhale and moan I sank a little deeper into her young body. Slowly, tentatively I started pushing back, timing my thrusts with hers. Soon we had a rhythm -- in and out, always a little more in than out -- and it was working; I had all but the last inch inside her tight sheath when she stopped. She leaned forward, letting her soft hair brush my throat. Slowly Michele lowered her body to mine, her firm tits pressing against my chest as she tucked the top of her head beneath my chin.
"You doin' okay?" I whispered.
I felt her head nod. "Just stuffed to the max. Hold me, will you?"
I wrapped my arms around her, letting one hand cup her lovely ass as I draped the other arm across her back. She got her hands under my shoulders and pulled herself tight against my chest. We lay absolutely still, our sweat-slicked bodies pressed together, my cock resting deep inside the hot, wet vice of her young cunny.
"I wanna cum some more," she said quietly.
"Relax, hon. You will." I murmured reassurances as I reached up and stroked her hair.
"Just can't get...the motion..." suddenly she lifted her head from my chest. "John, roll me over." Her voice was urgent.
"I want you on top. C'mon." She started prying my shoulders from the bed. Slowly and awkwardly (but still keeping my penis inside her) I rolled Michele onto her back, once again cupping her head in my hands as she nestled her small body beneath my 6'2" frame.
That did it. With her legs spread wide enough to straddle my hips and my weight bearing down on her, my cock slipped the final inch home. Michele squealed in delight. I backed off a bit. "Oh Jeeesussssss....do me...fuck me...do me..." Michele panted as she thrust her hips up at me. I was fast losing what little restraint I had left and when she grabbed my ass, one small finger tip coming to rest against my anus, I *did* lose it -- totally. Taking her by the shoulders to hold her steady I started fucking hard and deep into her small pussy; crashing my pubic bone against her pillowy mons on each inward thrust. Michele screamed and started cumming. I withdrew most of my cock from her then plunged into her again. And again. And again. And again.
I came; pouring stream after stream of hot, thick semen into Michele's young body -- it was if my spine had melted and turned to cum. Straining against her crotch, I buried myself deep as I could, ejaculating twice, three times, till Michele cried out, her lovely face etched with ecstasy and pain. I backed off but the sensation of her tight, hot vagina enveloping my cock was still too much. I lurched forward again; Michele grunted loudly, wrapping her legs tightly around my thighs as my balls summoned forth a final, pussy soaking load of jizm. Michele finally threw her arms around my neck and hung there, until I slowly collapsed on top of her. "Your cum's...so...so fuckin' hot!" she breathed into my ear.
It had been the longest, hardest orgasm of my life and now I was drained; utterly spent. The front of my legs ached and my feet were cramped from the near constant curling of my toes. With my remaining strength I rolled us both over, onto our sides, clutching Michele's body as tight as I could. Eventually my erection shrank enough to slip out of her cunny and then our mingled juices spilled forth, down across my thigh and onto the bed sheets. I didn't mind.
I remember waking -- slowly and grudgingly, not really sure of the time or even if it was still daylight out. Michele was snuggled close, her head resting against my shoulder, and for a long while, I lay very still with my eyes shut; conscious of little else except Michele's slow, steady breathing and her warmth against my skin. When I finally did open my eyes, I was greeted with a portrait shot of clear blue sky out the bedroom window. The storm had passed; now the golden glow of late afternoon sunshine filled the room. I blinked a couple of times, clearing my vision, then gazed at the bedside clock.
"Michele?" I called softly. She stirred but did not reply. Gently I shook her shoulder. "Honey, it's quarter after four -- time to get up."
Michele sighed, muttered something inaudible, then dragging her fingers across my chest, she pushed herself away and rolled over. She greeted me with a soft, "Hi ya," then reached up and brushed the hair back from her forehead.
"Hello to you, young lady," I replied, returning her contented, happy smile. "Sleep well?"
"Mmmmmmm -- yeah, I did." She giggled, shyly. "I, uh, guess sex does that. Makes you wanna sleep, I mean."
I nodded. "Hopefully, though, not while you're in the act."
"John!" she gave my arm a playful swat.
For quite a while, we lay there; talking softly and touching one another. I was content to trace the curves of her hips, but Michele, I think, wanted to caress every last square inch of my body -- and she damned near did. Her touch was not so much sexual as it was sensual; a soft, almost innocent exploring of my musculature and skin. She stopped only when my nervous glances at the clock became too obvious to ignore.
"Alright," Michele sighed. She gave me a playful scowl, as if I had spoiled all her fun, but she couldn't hide the happiness in her eyes. "I know -- Mom's gonna be home soon."
Reluctantly we untangled legs and arms and sat up. My body felt leaden, as if I had been sleeping for a week, and my legs almost cramped up on me as I stumbled into the bathroom to do my business. I was standing in front of the toilet when I heard the phone ring.
"Michele, don't answer -- I'll get it!" I yelled, but it was too late. When I returned, Michele was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone to her ear. "Mom" she mouthed silently, then turning her attention back to the phone scooted over and motioned for me to sit beside her. I did, careful not to make the bed squeak. She listened intently, not speaking. I waited.
"No, John doesn't mind," Michele said at last, "we're just, uhhhh -hangin' around." She looked at me out of the corner of one eye and I caught her bemused smile. "Do you wanna talk to --"
A long pause.
"Oh. Mom, I'm --" another long pause, and her smile faded, gone like a wilted bloom. Hunching closer over the phone, she started chewing on her lower lip, and at one point I remember her closing her eyes, as if in prayer.
"No, I'll be alright," she said very quietly. "I...I figured this might be it...yeah, I will...Okay..." Michele held the receiver to her ear for a little while longer, then slowly uncurled her body. She held it out in front of her, looking at it in a daze, then with unsteady hands, dropped it back into the cradle.
"Michele...?" I asked in a whisper.
"Mom says..." she hesitated, and her voice was very small, "...Mom says that now is not a good time for me to be coming home. It's...it's all over between them."
She did not say anything else for the next couple of minutes, nor did she cry (at least not out loud); she just sat on the edge of my bed and stared into her lap. I was utterly useless. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her and tell her everything would be alright (which I knew to be a lie, but I wanted to say it anyway) but even then my cock was stirring and I knew if I touched her it would be sexual and not for comfort. Damn! Double damn!! Michele, if ever I had five minutes to do over again, it would be those moments.
"John," her wavering voice finally broke the silence. She turned and looked up at me, her soft grey/green eyes round and wet. "I want to get out of here. Can we, like, take a car ride or somethin'?"
We drove around town for awhile, aimlessly wandering the streets. Michele curled herself tightly into the passenger seat and spent most of the time staring silently out the side window. At one point, she turned her head completely away from me and wept, but it was over very quickly and when she had finished she wiped her eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, smiled bravely, then announced she was hungry. I found a steak house. It was dark and warm inside and Michele stood very close to me, holding my hand as we waited in the foyer for the hostess. She seemed much calmer now -- as calm and relaxed as I'd seen her all day. During dinner, we ate and talked and then ate some more (for all her upset Michele put it away as only a starving teenager can) and at one point, when no one was watching, I let her take a sip of my Guiness.
"Uck, it's so bitter! You really like that stuff?"
I smiled. "It's an acquired taste." She threw a napkin at me.
It was dusk, the sky a deep, rain washed, blue-grey, before we left the restaurant and piled into the car again.
"Where to next?" I asked.
"Dunno." She answered, staring thoughtfully out the front window. For a long time, she remained silent, then: "Wanna go back to your place?"
"Yes," I answered immediately, before I could even think about it. My attempt at recovery only made it worse. "No. I mean...uh...I would, but...ahhhh, Michele!" She turned to face me, grinning wickedly.
"Michele, don't tease me," I warned. "We were damn lucky this afternoon, and you know it. Much as I want to, we can't chance it again, understand?"
"Yeah, I know." She chuckled, then her smile faded. Suddenly she turned away; I caught a troubled look.
"John," she said, "I'm...I'm not a tease or anything --"
" -- I didn't say you were --"
"-- I know, it's just that...I'm not really like this, coming on to guys and jumping into bed with 'em. I mean, I haven't even done it with anyone except you and one time with Bobby." She paused, shaking her head, searching for words. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that...you made it good for me. And it wasn't just the sex part. It was waking up with you and all the touching we did afterwards. It's the way I always imagined it would be and...I just wanted some more, that's all."
"Michele," I began, "I know you're not a tease, or some tramp, but...sex can be just like booze or drugs or anything else. You can, uh, well, drown your sorrows in cum -- forgive the crudity -- and I don't think that's right."
For a long time, she was silent. "You're feeling guilty, like you took advantage of me, aren't you?" she asked softly.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly. Michele had done more than seen through me, she had seen what was inside of me even before I could name it myself. "Yes," I croaked.
"John, I wanted this. No -- I wanted you. I trusted you to treat me right and fuck me well -- forgive *my* crudity -- and you did and I'm glad you did." She turned to face me. "Don't feel guilty about it, understand? And if I wanted to do it again with you, it's just, well...you have a way of making a girl feel pretty special, you know that?"
I sat there with my mouth open, but the words would not come. I knew then, as I know now, that I was in love with her. Maybe not the mature, rational love of an adult, but Michele had touched something deep inside my heart. She trusted me and loved me for what I was --and I could no more not love her back than I could stop breathing.
"Anyway," she continued, "you're right, better take me home. Mom and him --" she caught herself, "-- Dad are probably waiting."
"Michele," It was a struggle to get the words out without my voice cracking. "For what it's worth, you make me feel pretty special too. If there were any way I could spend the night with you, I would."
It was a long drive back to the apartments and Michele, once again curling herself into the passenger seat, dozed off for a while. When we arrived, I parked on the street then walked her to the covered parking area next to our building. She stopped, looked around, then tilted her face towards mine.
"One more?" she asked. The kiss was full, wet, and left a dull ache in my loins. I watched silently as she slowly walked the concrete pathway to her apartment. She stood in front of the closed door for a moment, then with a nervous glance and faint smile back at me, opened it and stepped inside. I remained for a while longer, then turned and walked back to my place.
The end came suddenly, as I knew it would, but that still didn't make it any easier. Several nights later, about 11pm, the phone rang. I answered.
"John?" her voice was soft and hesitant and...excited.
"Tonight's the night." There was a long pause, as if she were expecting me to shout for joy. Of course I couldn't, and I think it puzzled her. "Marsha said yes," she continued, "but Mom says we have to be quick about it, so were sorta sneaking out. I wanted to come over and...ummm...say goodbye, but I can't. You understand?"
"Yes." I croaked. Again silence. I mean, how could I tell her my heart was breaking?
"Love ya, John," she said. Her voice was casual.
"I love you too."
"Bye," she said softly.
"Bye," I answered. The phone clicked.
OK folks, it's starting to get light outside and I've been at this far longer than I intended, so I better quit now and get some sleep and my right hand is a total wreck. Why? Because for the last two hours I've been trying to type and hold a postcard at the same time. From Michele. It came in the mail this afternoon and I have no idea how it made it to me; when I left the apartment, I don't remember leaving a change-of-address card at the post office. Anyway -- she says her dad is gone and she and her mom have moved back to the Midwest. Michele's back in school, full time, and working on a farm. 4H stuff and all that. She has a boyfriend now, a real one, not like Bobby or myself. She has a life. She made it.
Michele, I will never get to wake you in the morning with a kiss, or see what dawn looks like through your eyes, but, for now, I can go about this day knowing that you are safe. At least as safe as anyone in this crazy, fucked-up, gone to seed world can be. That's enough. For right now, that's enough.
It was a a good romantic love story and you could find a new occupation writing romance novels for maiden school teachers.
Thanks for the lovely word pictures.
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