("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: davidsis.txt (bb, bg, inc, exh, 1st) Authors name: Anonymous Story title : David's Sister --------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 1998. Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you. --------------------------------------------------- David's Sister Anonymous Author (Address withheld) Somehow I managed to retain my virginity until 17. Not by choice, certainly. I was as horny as anyone at that age and, I tried every means I could think of to get laid, short of prostitution. I didn't have the initiative for that. Problem was, I'd made the mistake of falling in love at 14 with a very sensible girl. We went steady throughout high school, and she capitulated only after graduation. Sigh. But this isn't a story of my first time with her. It's about another, earlier experience. Much earlier. It's an account of the emerging sexuality of a young boy who very nearly lost his virginity at the age of 12, one chilly autumn night in 1961. Her name was Karen. Karen was just nine years old then. Until recently I had forgotten about this incident. Yeah, I know, it seems incredible, but I had. Perhaps a psychologist would say I had sublimated it, though I don't think so; it certainly was not unpleasant or traumatic. To the contrary, it was every 12-year-old kid's dream come true. The memory suddenly surfaced about two years ago, triggered by an amazingly complex rush of emotions resulting from an encounter with my daughter, just now turning 11. She would've been about 9 then I guess. I inadvertently walked in on her while she was masturbating. You can imagine the instantaneous rush of emotions; astonishment, embarrassment, amusement, regret, concern -- and, uncomfortably, a strong sense of sexual arousal. That aspect of it captured my attention for days afterward and, I suppose, is what triggered these youthful memories that I'd forgotten. And, oh god, what memories, once they came back. What I wouldn't give to go back -- for just one hour -- back to one specific day with little, nine-year-old Karen; to go back knowing what I know now... When I began to recall that episode of my youth, the details emerged slowly, over a period of days; maybe months. It was fascinating -- and enormously erotic -- to remember, and each time I mentally ran through the sequence of events I remembered more detail. Finally it occurred to me that I should record it somewhere. I am a writer, after all, but I realized I'd never written about something that may have been more important to me than I'd previously realized. This is the result. I'm gratified to have recorded it, more gratified to know that it will never be published under my name. Not only for the obvious reason. A more selfish motive is that this account has not been written to my usual standard. I've made a conscious decision to write it as nearly as I can just the way it occurred, without embellishment, without the usual devices that make such accounts more compelling reading. Simply put, this is what happened. It's not a fantasy. That is to say, it wasn't. Now the memory of it has indeed taken on that aspect. The only liberties I've taken are to insert dialogue here and there that, while obviously not authentic, does to the best of my recollection express what was actually said at the time. And, of course, the names have been changed. All but one. First, some limited background. I'm 38, white and single (now; my wife died a number of years ago). I'm strictly straight, but in the past few years I've begun paying far more attention to eroticism, as the realization dawned that for much of my life my sexual imagination had been pretty conventional. Which may be the reason why, when these memories suddenly resurfaced, I found myself so utterly fascinated. My sexual development began at about age 11, I suppose. My earliest memory is of playing if-you- show-me-yours with a neighborhood girl when I was perhaps 5. But, having seen it, I had no idea what to do with it, and that was that. At 11, though, things were quite different. A buddy of mine introduced masturbation to me, or tried to. He was spending the night with me, sleeping in the upper part of my bunk bed. At the time, he wasn't sleeping. He was trying to describe both how, and why, I should try this new experience. This kind of talk was pretty damned embarrassing to me at that age. I wanted him to shut up and go to sleep, but didn't have the courage to tell him so. He insisted I try it so, to shut him up, I did. I pulled down my pajama bottoms, grabbed my little dick in my right hand, and did as he described. "Pull on it," he said. "Kind of rub it up and down real fast. It feels good." Big deal, I thought. It feels like I'm pulling on my dick. I was deeply embarrassed at this, for a lot of reasons. First, I was vaguely disappointed that I wasn't responding the way I clearly was supposed to. Worse, I was terribly conscious that manhood had yet to make an appearance. I had absolutely no hair (I checked daily) in all the places that are so terribly important to a boy's self-esteem. Not on my pubis, not on my balls, not on my chest, not even much on my legs to speak of except fine, nearly invisible blonde down. So I lay there, jerking and pulling mechanically. Up in the top bunk he was doing the same. With a lot more enthusiasm. Talking all the time. "Doesn't that feel good?" He asked, bedsprings squeaking. "Uh, not really, John." "Well then, you're not doing it right. Let me come down there and see if you're doing it right." "NO! No. Uh-uh. I'm doing it fine. Really. Hey, yeah, you're right, John; it, uh, it's beginning to feel good. Real good." Which was bullshit, of course, but I was damned if I was going to let John see my limp, little white dick and hairless balls. "Good. Told ya. Didn't I tell ya? Now, it'll feel better and better, and then this white, sticky stuff will come out. Just keep going." Right, I thought. White, sticky stuff. I began wondering whether John had a particularly active imagination, or if he was just real seriously strange. Eventually he got off. I didn't and said I did. Then we both went to sleep. It never happened again. There was hardly a chance -- John died of leukemia about a year later. After John's death my best buddy was Bob, my next- door neighbor. We were opposites in every way; I was tall and skinny, he was short and stocky. I was quiet and shy, he was the loud braggart. I was on the track & swimming teams; he played tackle. Bob and I were tight, though. Best friends. We explored the world as partners, fought enemies as a team, shared our innermost thoughts. We went to different schools, however, so he wasn't around the first time I successfully "made the white, sticky stuff come out." It happened in the back of my sixth-grade classroom, in late spring, toward the end of the school year. I was alone in the room, having been banished there for excessive rowdiness during a class excursion. I'd found a stack of magazines left over from some class project or other and, leafing through them, came across an ad for women's underwear. I was bored, and spent quite some time looking this ad over. Thinking. Wondering. The room was warm and quiet. My dick began to stir. This was a completely new experience; morning hard-ons until that point had been simply a curiosity, not at all sexual. Suddenly that was no longer the case. It grew. And grew. Constricted in my underwear, it began to throb gently. I reached down to shift it. My god, what a surprise; Oh, that felt good. I rubbed. Soon both hands fumbled with the zipper, and out it popped, straining upward from my lap, its head just peeping up from behind the lower edge of the sloping wooden top of my school desk. I was astonished. I stared at it as I rubbed, soon finding a certain area of wrinkled skin just under the head that -- OH, yeah -- OH, yeah -- that's just -- OH, yeah -- OH, gush, gush, gush, gush, gush, gush... all over the desk top, my pants, the magazine, everywhere. It wasn't the intensely sexy experience I thought it would be; the thing I remember most was my utter amazement. John was right. My god, look at all this stuff. I threw the magazine away, cleaned up as best I could, and went home that afternoon dying to tell Bob about this new development. Turns out Bob had been holding out on me. He'd been stroking the pole for a year or more. But he was pretty good natured about it, and listened patiently to my breathless explanation. We were of course intensely curious and active at that age; one thing led to another, and one day soon thereafter Bob and I found ourselves deep in the woods, pants down, examining this new-found wonder. We stared and compared, we stroked, we shot our wads. Finally shucking our clothes completely, we ran, yelling, through the woods, climbing trees, wagging our dicks to smack back and forth on our thighs, beating our chests, reveling in our emerging manhood. We staged pissing contests. We found a high cliff and took turns hanging our asses over the edge, to watch each other's turds squeeze slowly out of the hole and tumble down into the ravine below. We smoked hollow grapevine stalks, slapped mosquitoes and talked about girls. These forays into the woods went on throughout that spring and into the summer. Randy does not begin to describe the emerging sexuality of a 12- year-old boy. I don't recall exactly how it began, which of us initiated it, but finally, one day, Bob and I got more adventurous. I suppose it's because I'm not gay, or even bi, but I don't remember all the nuances of detail that typically embellish stories like these. I do remember spitting on my hands and slathering saliva all over the head of my dick. I remember Bob lying down on his right side, facing away from me, bringing his knees up to his chest. I remember him jerking away at first and turning quickly to punch me in the arm because it hurt going in; that punch hurt like hell, since my arms were so skinny then. I remember how tight Bob's sphincter was; how it hurt the head of my dick to force its way in; how the saliva didn't help much once I was in past his sphincter. It was tight, and squeezed me hard, but it wasn't terribly pleasurable. I managed to go in about three inches, I think, then we just lay there and talked about how it felt. Bob: "Kinda hurts." Me: "Feels okay. I guess." We weren't knowledgeable -- or imaginative -- enough to think of pumping in and out. So we lay there for a while, then I pulled out and we reversed positions. He was right. It hurt. Neither of us came. It also never occurred to us what a convenient position 69 is. So we took turns. That felt much better. It was warm and wet in Bob's mouth, and when Bob started licking the underside of my dick I came right away. This really pissed him off, though, so we didn't do that any more either. Of course, that day Bob demanded that I reciprocate. It was the only time I've ever had a dick in my mouth. And although my memory of it is vague, it served me well in later years by enhancing my knowledge of the physical challenges this presents to women. My most specific memory is how spongy Bob's dick was; how I'd expected it to be something like a hotdog, but its lack of firmness surprised me. It was enormous, certainly; it filled my mouth completely, but when I squeezed and sucked on it, it seemed to expand and contract. It was almost as though I couldn't tell his dick tissue from the mucous-membrane tissues lining my cheeks. And I remember Bob's insistent pushing; he obviously wanted to slide the whole thing into my mouth. I couldn't accommodate more than a couple inches or so, though, and had to push back hard at his stomach to keep him from choking me. It was getting hard to breathe. I wanted him to come, but his dick was so much thicker than mine that it jammed my tongue down and I couldn't lick it the way he had mine. So I popped it out and licked the underside until he came. Ugh. What a mess. Slimy and stinky. Gross, I think, was the term I'd have used then. It didn't seem particularly disgusting at the time, but it also wasn't a terribly erotic moment for me. If I'd had the vocabulary then I'd probably have described the experience as a simply mechanical act; a mutual courtesy, like back scratching. Still, the feeling of being sucked was a compelling memory and I tried for months afterward to twist myself into position to suck my own dick. I was a puppy chasing its tail. I'd bend down until my spine popped. I'd lie on my back in the bottom bunk, roll my knees up, and press my heels hard against the top bunk, straining hard, watching a fuzzy, out-of-focus image of my randy dick head wagging tantalizingly close, stretching out my tongue until the root hurt. Once, only once, in this position, straining so hard that every muscle in my body quivered, I managed to brush the tip of my dick with my tongue. Only then did I realize the sensitive spot I needed to reach was another inch away. So that was that. Bob and I weren't keen on the idea of sucking, so we tried other means. We cut a dick-sized hole in a melon and fucked it. Honest to god, this was not my idea. You can imagine how satisfying that was. We bought slabs of liver at the grocery, carried it into the woods, let it warm on a sunny rock, then wrapped it around our dicks and stroked. Better. Eventually we discovered that greased butt cheeks were a satisfactory compromise, and we'd head off to the woods with a stick of butter several times a week to slap mosquitoes and shoot sperm all over each other's backs. Sometime that summer I became friends with David and introduced him to Bob. At 12, social acceptance can hinge on matters as ephemeral as a zit or a bad haircut, but David suffered the more debilitating stigmas of being short, Jewish, and wearing glasses. So he was not only delighted to be included as a friend, he was uncommonly anxious to please. The three of us got along wonderfully, and eventually Bob and I summoned the courage to mention our excursions into the woods. This drew a characteristically enthusiastic response from David. "Wow! You guys really do that! Neat!" David's insatiable curiosity, his enthusiasm for life, was the stuff of legend. He couldn't wait. He giggled uncontrollably during the entire 20- minute walk through the woods to our carefully selected spot. He just couldn't get over the fact that these two Catholic boys were circumcised, too. And, of course, we had a fine time. The addition of a new person added an edge of excitement we hadn't felt before; today, I recognize that as eroticism, but then it was just exciting and different. We were all nervous, but soon the nervousness enhanced our arousal to a higher pitch than we'd ever experienced. That day we departed from the cheek-fucking routine and actually managed to work our dicks in all the way up to the balls. We formed a daisy chain; Bob fucking David as he fucked me; then we reversed. We must have come three or four times each. My asshole was sore for days. David of course immediately began taking part in our conversations about girls. When it turned out that he had far more first-hand knowledge than either of us, Bob and I were delighted at our wisdom in having invited David to join our exclusive group. I had no sisters. Bob had two, one about four and and an older sister who was a worldly 16; since they lived next door, I fantasized about his older sister incessantly. Especially that summer, when I'd see her so often out in the back yard, sunning in a swimsuit, or lounging in her very short shorts. I had plied Bob with questions about her, but he wasn't much help; just the usual saw-her- coming-out-of-the-shower-a-couple-times kind of stories. "She has tits! And hair between her legs!" Great, Bob. Thanks. Not David. His knowledge seemed far more thorough. I remember clearly one such conversation, over Cokes at the drug-store soda fountain after school one day in early September. Bob and I were arguing some obscure point of human sexuality -- I think it may have been, Which hole do you suppose it goes into? -- I can't now remember which side of this argument I took, but it was a terribly earnest discussion. We honestly didn't know. David walked in on this discussion and found it heartily entertaining. He shook his head and chuckled, leaned back on the stool, regarded us with the most jaded look he could muster, then began to explain. We were wary. Wait a minute, David, we said. How do you know all this stuff we don't? "Oh, well," he said thoughtfully, pausing for greater effect. "I can see I'm going to have to start at the beginning." Now, I should add here that David was at the top of his class (my class) academically. He came from a family of overachievers. We regarded his parents as true intellectuals. I was in awe, actually; I'd read about intellectuals, but had never really known one. More to the point at the time, his family was known to be "progressive." Which is to say that, on occasion, they'd take David to an R- rated movie. "So," David explained, "we have this country place, see, and we go out there just about every weekend. About a year ago, my Dad said, we're gonna take both cars this weekend. I rode with my Dad, and my sister Karen rode with my Mom. The deal was, it turned out, my Dad had decided it was time to talk to me, you know? Tell me all about sex." Bob and I nodded and smiled like we'd been through all that, too. In point of fact, neither of us had. We were both 12 but our parents hadn't mentioned a damned thing to us. Catholicism, or simply the morality of the times? Who knows. You decide. We'd gleaned our knowledge from any source we could, tearing through every novel in the house looking for good parts, sneaking Playboys, swapping stories at school. All of which had added up to an incomplete and contradictory collage of images that provoked interest, but no real enlightenment. David went on. "Well, so he tells me the whole story, and asks if I have any questions and all that. Actually, I did. Turned out there was a lot I didn't know about. So that's part of it, see. But that's not the good part. You guys ever met my sister?" We hadn't. Bob went to a different school. David and I went to St. Dominic, an all-male Catholic school. Next door to St. Dominic was St. Agnes -- you guessed it -- an all-girl Catholic school. David's sister Karen went to St. Agnes; but then, so did about 300 other girls, and all we ever saw of them was an occasional glimpse of them playing volleyball 200 yards away during recess. Of course, once in a while a teacher would send a St. Agnes girl over to St. Dominic on an errand. But that was our only contact with the girls of St. Agnes. Not that we didn't spend a great deal of time thinking about those lovely little girls. They looked so cute in their school uniforms; red plaid jumper skirts, white blouses, hair ribbons as often as not, white knee socks, black & white saddle oxford shoes. And, we were sure, little white, cotton panties underneath. Karen was in the fourth grade at St. Agnes. She was nine years old, David said. "Real good kid," he said. "She's great. Real smart, too, for her age." David told us that, after the sex-lecture ride out to the country place, he was fascinated by all he'd learned. He asked Karen if their mom had had the same conversation with her. She hadn't. So, that night, he and Karen stayed up late, whispering in the darkness of the bedroom. David told Karen everything he'd learned. Karen was fascinated, too. According to David, she didn't even giggle much. Well, you can believe that if you want to. According to David, she wanted to see his dick. He got out his flashlight and showed her. He wanted to see her pussy. She showed him. They felt each other. And talked. Over the past year, according to David, this had developed into something like mutual masturbation. We didn't believe a word of this. David was shocked. Would he lie to us? Right, we said. "Okay," he replied, jutting his jaw, "come over and I'll prove it." Now we were stunned. Was he serious? "Damn right. Come over to my house tomorrow, after school." I don't know if Bob slept that night, but I didn't. Was this really on the level? For that matter, what did David mean, exactly, when he said he'd prove it? We hadn't even thought to ask. Maybe, just maybe, she'd show us her pussy. I'd never seen one. Playboy was our most reliable source of visual information, but for 12-year-old boys they were hard to come by. And in those days even Playboy models demurely crossed their legs. We had no idea what a pussy really looked like. What would a nine-year-old girl's pussy look like? Would it be truly representative of the species? More to the point, would we see one at all? After school the next day, Bob and I met at home, hopped on our bicycles, and rode as fast as we'd ever ridden them. We knew David's father wouldn't be home for three hours at least, and David had claimed that his mother would be away, too, but he wasn't sure how long. David's house was a typical, suburban brick ranch-style; large and rambling, with a three-car garage and manicured lawn. We propped the bikes up in the garage and knocked on the side door. David opened the door and as we entered the kitchen I immediately scanned the room for Karen. She wasn't there. "Hi, guys," David said. "Want a Coke?" I hadn't realized until that instant how dry my mouth was. I had a Coke. David disappeared down a long hallway, calling Karen's name. A few moments later they both walked into the kitchen. "Karen, these are the friends I told you about." "Hi," she said. The image of how Karen looked that day has re- formed gradually over the the years; each time I mentally re-enact the events of that day it grows slightly clearer. Like David, Karen was small, but I don't recall any resemblance of features. Unlike David (who was a bit pudgy) she was thin; she was still wearing her St. Agnes school uniform, and I noticed that the elastic of her knee socks drooped slightly where they inefficiently tried to clasp her slim calves. The straps of her jumper top ran from her waist up over her shoulders without the slightest topographical variation. Karen's hair was a very dark auburn, pulled back tightly and gathered by a rubber band in back. Her skin betrayed just a hint of what might have been suntan, or might have been a faint trace of olive pigmentation. She was smiling; a quirky, engaging kind of smile, emphasized by two canine teeth at the edges of her mouth that were not yet fully developed. I remember how bright her eyes were, how they sparkled, though I cannot remember their color. She was beautiful. Well, cute is perhaps more accurate. Classically cute. My mouth went dry again. I croaked when I said Hi. We must have made some small talk, I suppose, but that is sheer conjecture. The next thing I remember is the three of us leaving the house through the same kitchen door we'd entered. We walked through the garage and out another door leading to the back yard. David said something, I think, about not knowing when his mother would be back. We crossed the yard, went through a gate in the chain-link fence, and walked a few hundred yards to a large, open culvert. A huge culvert, actually, built to channel the enormous volumes of runoff water during heavy rainstorms. Perhaps 20 feet wide, it was at least seven or eight feet deep, but David led us to a point where a metal maintenance ladder built into the sheer concrete side of the culvert descended to the floor. We climbed down. It didn't occur to me, dammit, to go first. I went last. The floor of the culvert sloped from the sides gently down to the center in a v-shape, in which a tiny trickle of water flowed. We walked along the side of the concrete stream, around a bend, to a point where the culvert disappeared underground. As we entered, our voices began to echo. Nervous as we could be, Bob and I began making echo-noises. David told us to shut up. A few dozen yards in, the culvert curved away to the right; beyond the bend, hidden from sight of the opening, we stopped. Here the daylight faded into dusky, semi-darkness. "Okay, here's good enough," David said. "Karen, you wanta do this?" She didn't reply. She just nodded. Still smiling that quirky smile of hers. Eyes slightly lowered, she looked up at us from beneath her eyebrows with that wry, little-girl smile that says "I'm being naughty now, aren't I?"; that intensely enticing smile that women in later life so often attempt to emulate, without success. On Karen, that day, that look shone with authenticity; it was pure and completely unaffected; she was nine years old, not old enough to understand sexual artifice; it was real; rather than projecting an attitude, it clearly betrayed her actual thoughts -- I'm being naughty now, aren't I -- and the memory of it to this day makes me furiously horny. "Okay," David said, "take off your panties. Show them your pussy." For the first time since we left the house, Karen spoke; her voice was tiny and shy: "Make them, too." "Okay," David said. "Okay, guys?" We nodded. "But you first, Karen. You said." Still smiling, she reached down, lifted the hem of her skirt, grabbed the waistband of her panties and slipped them down to her ankles, stepped out of them, still wearing her shoes and socks. Sure enough, they were the white cotton panties I just knew those St. Agnes girls wore. She dropped them behind her, on the dry part of the concrete. "Go on, Karen," David said. For the first time she giggled; probably blushed, but the light was too dim to know. She grabbed the hem of her dress, bent slightly and held it down tightly around her knees. "Karen, come on now. You gonna do this or not?" She looked up at me, at Bob, back to me. Grinning naughtily, and biting her lip. Then she nodded. Still smiling. And slowly raised the hem of her dress. There it was. Just a tiny, smooth, hairless little slit at the apex of her skinny thighs. Above was a featureless expanse of flat belly. "Okay, go ahead, take a look," David said. I don't know whether it was pride or excitement that colored his voice. Neither of us moved. We just stood there, staring. Karen was looking right into my eyes. And holding the hem of her skirt up beneath her chin. "No, no, c'mere," David said. He grabbed Bob's hand, pulled him over in front of Karen. "Now, kneel down and look. You can't see anything from over there." Bob did. Then it was my turn. I knelt down on the concrete before her; I was too tall; I sat back on my ankles. Clearly enjoying this now, Karen stepped closer, her shoes brushing my knees. I stared. Oh, jesus, I could come right now at the memory of that little, hairless slit; my first pussy. My hands holding her just above her bony little knees, I stared, my nose no more than eight inches away; I could smell her faint odor of urine. Her thin thighs were pressed tightly together, framing two small, puffy little lips. They looked so smooth and soft. I was struck by how pronounced her little mons was, contrasted with the flat expanse of her belly. I watched, fascinated, as the apex of the little slit rose and fell ever so slightly with the movement of her tummy as she breathed. Why didn't I think to lick it!?! Dammit. Oh, to do this over again. To have licked and tasted that sweet little furrow. What I did was reach up and touch it. I ran my finger lightly down one smooth lip, and she jumped back. I was horrified. Had I blown it? "That tickles!" she said. I looked up. She was still smiling. At that, David walked over and knelt down beside me. "No, no," he said, "like this, see?" He reached up -- I had to admit he seemed like he knew what he was doing -- placed a thumb on each side of the little crack and spread her lips apart. David began rattling off a clinical recitation of female anatomy, but I paid no attention. I was transfixed. She was so pink inside; the contrast emphasized by the slight tint to her skin. And there it was... her little hole... It looked no bigger than a pencil eraser, I thought. How could a dick fit in there? David was saying something when he reached up with his finger, actually touching her between her lips. "See?" he was saying. "Huh?" I replied. David began stroking her lightly. "I said, that's how you do it. Like this. See? That feels good, doesn't it, Karen?" "Uh, huh," she said. I looked up; she was still smiling that smile, and somehow I didn't believe her; it seemed that she was enjoying the naughtiness of it, but her face wasn't registering the kind of expression I recognized as arousal. Still, I noticed that she spread her legs more widely when David began stroking her. She really did seem to be enjoying the aspect of naughtiness; I suppose even a nine-year-old girl can be an exhibitionist. Surely she was too young to comprehend eroticism; perhaps she was just reveling in the attention; in her new-found power of fascinating and attracting males. Just as we'd been reveling in our emerging masculinity. "Now, do like this," David was saying. He stood up and fumbled with his belt buckle. He dropped his pants, pulled down his underwear, and left both gathered around his ankles. Then he reached behind Karen, grasped her little butt, pulled her to him. She dropped her skirt and hugged him; he pulled her skirt up, moved closer, and began hunching his hips forward toward her. With his shirttail and her skirt blocking our view it was impossible to tell what exactly was going on. It didn't matter. Inside my brain a voice was screaming, Her pussy! I just saw her little pussy! I touched it! I almost wanted to leave immediately, go straight home, and jerk off 14 times. Suddenly, David backed away, pulled up his pants and said, "Okay, now you guys." Nobody moved. I'm sure Bob was thinking the same thing I was: Go ahead and... do what? David had backed away too quickly for anything really significant to have happened. I guess he'd just been demonstrating for us. But what? "Well?" said David. He looked back and forth and us. Bob and I looked at each other, then back at Karen. Karen was looking at me. Smiling. Her skirt wrinkled and askew. "Okay, Karen, which one do you want first?" David said. Karen pointed at me. I still can't believe my response. My mouth went dry. I balked. My trembling pole of an erection suddenly drooped to a limp dick. No idea whether it was embarrassment or just stimulation overload. No matter. I blew it. I gestured at Bob. He shrugged, and stepped forward eagerly. Same routine as David; he hunched up against Karen for 30 seconds or a minute. Then it was my turn. No out now. So I asked. "What do I do?" "Fuck her," David said, grinning. "Huh? Standing up, and all?" "Well, not real fucking, you know. Just kind of rub it up against her pussy. It feels great." I looked at Karen. She nodded; her expression had changed slightly; maybe she'd noticed -- hell, how could she not -- my nervousness and it calmed her own. My palms were sweating profusely as I unbuckled my belt. It was humiliating to drop my underwear and expose that now limp dick. I reached down to grab it but she beat me to it. The softness of her little fingertips, the warmth of her hand encircling my dick had immediate effect. As it again became engorged it broke the grasp of her little hand and she giggled softly. She reached for it again, tried to draw it to her; I crouched to get low enough; and she began rubbing the head of it up and down her smooth little furrow. Lips parted, she looked down, jerking her skirt out of the way with her free hand, to see what my dick looked like. She held it away from her for a moment, staring, then resumed rubbing it against her little pussy. The warmth of her pussy was maddening; the smoothness of her hairless little lips felt wonderful. But she wasn't wet. And because I was so much taller than she, even though I was by now crouching, the wrong part of my dick was making contact; the sensitive underside of the head never touched her. These things hardly seemed to matter, though. The sensation was overwhelming. Not only had I seen my first pussy, here I was stroking it with my dick. After a while, I have no idea how long, we stopped and dressed, left and went back to the house. Nobody had come, of course, but that, too, hardly seemed to matter. We said our goodbyes fairly quickly; I'm quite sure Bob had the same thing in mind I did: to get home, alone, behind a locked door as quickly as humanly possible. As we left, Karen looked directly into my eyes. It may have been, in retrospect, the most intense moment of that day. The sperm I flushed down toilets during the next two weeks while remembering that day could have fathered the population of a large urban area. I seized every opportunity at school to talk more with David. I was desperate for more detail. Reveling in his new role as a knowledgeable, cosmopolitan, man of the world, David was glad to oblige. He told me how he would often sneak out of his room at night, after his parents had gone to sleep. He'd go to Karen's room. She'd always be awake, he said. "And then we do it." "What?" "Oh, you know. All kinds of stuff." "What?! What?!" He really was enjoying this. He told me how they'd rub each other, sometimes. He'd stroke her pussy the way he'd shown me, while she caressed his dick with both hands. He insisted she liked that. Lately, though, they'd gone farther; she would pull up her nightie and spread her legs. He would lie on top of her and rub his dick against her pussy. He said it would gradually become wet and slippery and warm. He said it was the most intense feeling he'd ever felt. He said it was just like fucking. He said he came every time. He never mentioned whether Karen did, and I never thought to ask. I have no idea why neither of us pursued this further; in retrospect it seems absurd that I wasn't spending more time at David's house than my own. For whatever reason, it just didn't happen. Until once again, much later, that fall. The local high school that we both aspired to attend had reached the state championship playoffs, and the game was due to be broadcast on a Friday evening. David asked if I'd like to come over and hear the game with him; since it would run late, why didn't I spend the night. I spent a week wondering whether Karen would be there. At that age, spending the night with friends is one of the more popular social activities, and it was quite possible that Karen would be away. I was trying to be cool about this, so I didn't dare ask David. Also I was aware that, although he had freely described to me his experiences with his sister, he hadn't invited me over again. It crossed my mind that I'd be devastated if she wasn't home; but that, if she was, I'd spend the entire evening in the bathroom jerking off and miss most of the game. Friday finally came. She was there. Wearing shorts, red, I think, and some kind of t-shirt. The game was thrilling, I vaguely remember. Zero to zero until the last minute or two when our team won by virtue of a field goal. The whole family - - David, Karen and his parents -- sat in the den for the game. The kids sat on the floor. We ate pizza, ate popcorn, drank Cokes, and listened to the radio with most of my mind concentrating on not staring at David's little sister, sitting cross- legged on the carpet with David between us. I did steal furtive glances, of course. More than once I suspected that she was doing the same. Finally David's parents excused themselves for the night, telling Karen pointedly that it was time for bed. You boys can stay up if you want to, they said. Good night. Now, these were progressive parents, I thought. They smiled and left with Karen. As she left she turned and glanced at me quickly, over her shoulder. I was glad David's parents were pretty much through the doorway by then, out of eye contact, because I have no idea what my own face registered at that moment. Another blank in my memory of events is what David and I did between then and going to bed, probably at least an hour later. TV? No doubt. Whatever. As we walked down the hall toward his bedroom, David jerked his head to the left. "Karen's room," he said. I glanced at the crack where the door met the floor; her light was off. Damn. I must have said something about this to David, because I remember him saying, "Why? Want to drop by for a while?" He said this in a very wry tone of voice, and I was completely unsure what he meant by it. I mean, we were both 12 years old and perpetually horny, and he must've known my thoughts. Was he jealous? Was he serious? Had he noticed her glancing at me? Was there potential trouble brewing here? Since I had no way of knowing, my libido made the decision for me. "Yeah, lets!" I said, in what I hoped was a jocular tone. We entered David's room, across the hall. He closed the door, then turned to me and winked. "Gotta do this right," he said. "We wait here for a while to make sure my parents are asleep. And if they're not, to make sure they think we're asleep." He had this routine down. So we killed time. After a while, he said it was okay. We turned out the light and eased open David's bedroom door. "Don't tip-toe," he whispered, just before we left the room. "Walk normally. That way, if they hear us, they won't be suspicious. They'll just think we're going to the bathroom or something." We walked, normally, to Karen's room, maybe 12 feet down the hall. David put his hand on the door and rubbed, quickly, back and forth. I was impressed. I'd never seen that done. It was very quiet. But obviously effective. A moment later the door opened. Karen stood there, grinning broadly, and we hurried in, David closing and locking the door quietly after us. As David concentrated on locking the door soundlessly, I looked at Karen and she looked at me. There was no mistake about it. Karen was interested. In that moment may have come my first inkling of the amazingly complex issues surrounding sexual morality. Not that I understood it; I was simply exposed to the barest, most superficial outline of it. It expressed itself that night, in that moment, as something like: She wants to hug and kiss me, but I don't want that at all. After all, she's only a gangly little nine-year-old girl. I just want to fuck her. Not even to fuck her, really; to fuck a pussy. And she happens to have one. And it's right in front of me. She stood, grinning at me, her face a wonderful mixture of excitement and shyness. She looked different tonight. Not that I'd seen her since that last episode, months ago. But her hair was down; then it'd been pulled back with a ribbon. She wore a pale blue, flannel nightie with a lacy collar and some kind of little, stylized cartoon animals printed on the fabric. David finally got the door locked and we all sat down on the floor. I looked around; I don't think I'd ever been in a girl's bedroom before. It looked just as I imagined it would; girlish; stuffed animals, lots of printed fabrics everywhere; everything neatly in order, unlike my room. We sat there, cross-legged on the carpet, in the darkness, talking excitedly. We all were giggling as quietly as we could manage, high on the combined effects of nervousness, youthful exuberance, raging hormones, and conspiratorial excitement. Friday night. Staying up late. Spending the night with a friend. And his sister. His little, skinny, lovely, horny, naughty, accessible, more-than-willing sister. Suddenly, quite suddenly, the exuberance died down and we felt an uncomfortably embarrassing moment: What next? David took the initiative. Pretty unceremoniously, I thought -- I was and still am a romantic -- he said something like, "C'mon, Karen, let's get in bed." Karen glanced at me, grinned, and said, "Okay." She climbed on top of the bedspread. I didn't notice then, but have realized since, that the bedspread hadn't been disturbed. Her light may have been off, but she'd been waiting up for us. Karen lay there as David stripped off his pants. He started to climb into the bed with her, then hesitated, standing by the bed. "C'mere," he said to me, "you can watch." I was still uncomfortable. "No, thanks," I said. "I can see fine from here." Which was of course absurd. It was dark. And I was sitting on the floor, leaning back against Karen's chest of drawers, some ten feet from the bed. David stood there for a second, then went to Karen's closet. "Got an idea," he said. He pulled something from her closet, a robe, I think, walked over and tucked it into the crack beneath the door. Then he went to the windows and pulled down the shades tightly. Karen's room faced the street. "Now, that's better," he said, switching on a small bedside lamp. In its pale, yellow light I suddenly could see her, lying on her right side, propped up on one elbow, her little eyes still on me. David tried to encourage me to come look, I guess he meant for me to stand beside the bed, but I declined. With Karen looking at me that way, I was just too embarrassed. Maybe, I thought to myself, I'll come over there in a minute, after they get going. David finally gave up and climbed into the bed. Karen quickly rolled onto her back, hunched her little butt up, reached down and pulled down her panties. I caught just a glimpse of her little crack again as she lifted her legs to slip the panties off her ankles. She dropped them on the floor on the far side of the bed, then lay back again and giggled softly. David lifted her nightie all the way up to her chin and, for the first time, I saw Karen's little nipples. They looked just like mine; there was not even a hint of breast development. Karen lifted her knees as David reached down between his legs. As he leaned forward between her little thighs, Karen whispered something to him. David glanced over at me, then back at her, then said, "Good idea." Sitting back on his heels, he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and dropped it on the floor. She wanted me to watch! She knew his shirttail would impede my view. David knelt between her legs, then leaned forward over her. Supporting himself on his left hand, he reached down with his right, positioning his dick, I suppose, but I couldn't see. Then he leaned forward on both hands and began hunching. Total silence pervaded the room. No grunts & moans. No heavy breathing. Even the bed -- a large, heavy wooden-frame thing -- was silent. David moved; Karen didn't. This went on for a long time. My nervousness began to calm down. I wanted to see more, but still was reluctant to approach the bed. After what seemed like a very long time, David shifted slightly and said something to Karen that I didn't catch. They both shifted now, Karen raising her bent knees up nearly to her chest. This captured 110% of my attention. David began hunching again, longer hunches, I thought, and slower. Soon he began moving faster and for the first time I could hear him breathing heavily -- then, suddenly, a single, muffled "NGUH!" I'll never forget the scene as David slowly raised himself from Karen. He'd shot a bit off-center and a small, white pool remained on the lower right side of her concave little belly, a thin stream of it oozing down her side onto the bedspread. "Hang on a sec," David said, jumping off the bed and grabbing a fistful of Kleenex from the bedside table. This he handed to Karen and she mopped it up, dabbing first at the bedspread, then swabbing her belly. Meanwhile, David collapsed beside me on the floor, stark naked, grinning like a fool, jabbering excitedly in a strained whisper. "See, didn't I tell you? Oh, man, you just can't imagine what that feels like. Go on, go ahead. Her pussy's all wet and slippery now, like I told you. Go on!" He ignored Karen completely during this harangue, but I was looking at her; she was looking at me. Grinning. Still nervous, I busied myself getting undressed as slowly as possible, very carefully removing each shoe, disengaging the belt, removing, then folding, the blue jeans, unbuttoning even non-essential cuff buttons of my shirt. Then I walked to the bedside. Karen giggled and spoke for the first time, her voice a bit less shy now. "No, come on," she said, pointing at my underwear. Gulp. I pulled them down, stepped out, stood naked by the bed feeling more foolish than I ever had in my life. My dick, of course, was limp as a herring. I was very self-conscious about my dick at that age; although it extended to a fairly respectable six inches when hard (I'd measured, of course) and become moderately thick, at rest it was unbelievably tiny; no more than two inches long; about the size of my thumb. If that. And Karen was looking right at it, grinning. "Come on," she said. I climbed into the bed. In a delaying tactic, I said I wanted to look at her pussy. "N'kay," she said. She pulled her nightie up to her belly and lifted her knees. I leaned down to look. Ohmigod, David was right. I could see a thin, shiny film of moisture pooled in her little crack. I touched it, ran my finger down the little crack; it felt warm and slippery and my dick began to stir. "C'mon, here, do like this," Karen whispered, impatient now. Reaching forward, her little fingers closed on my dick and she pulled me gently toward her. "C'mon, move up some more." I did. "Yeah," she said, and leaned back, lifting her knees. I leaned down, closer. Then it happened -- I felt, for the first time, the maddeningly compelling, indescribably delicious feel of a girl's slick, warm arousal. As luck would have it, the first touch, my very first contact, occurred precisely on the most sensitive spot on the underside of my dick. I don't remember how I responded -- probably grunted or something -- but my delight and astonishment must have been apparent, because Karen giggled again and David said something. For the first time I became aware that he'd moved to stand beside the bed and was watching closely. Suddenly it didn't matter. Her little knees up around my flanks, Karen looked right into my eyes, grinning that naughty, little- kid grin of hers. She let go of my dick; suddenly huge and trembling with arousal it didn't need her guiding hand any longer. She reached up with both hands and held my forearms. My hips moved. My dick glided softly between her little pussy lips. My mind was a blur. I had never before in my life been so completely lost in sensation. Her little cunt was so small, the sweet slit maybe two inches long, if that, but with her knees up like that, her little pussy lips spread open at just the right angle for my dick to make maximum contact with her warm slickness. Her hairless little lips were so warm and smooth. Oh, god, how I remember the feel of my dick nestled in that warm, sweet, pink little groove. Her little hands grasping my arms. Her bright little eyes looking into mine. That delightfully naughty grin. And something else. She was breathing hard, I noticed for the first time. She was breathing through her mouth. Oh, the memory of that sound, Karen's grinning, panting little breaths, as I moved slowly in her slickness, tasting her girlhood arousal with my dick, savoring the warmth oozing from her tiny, sticky little cunt. I had no idea what a clitoris was then, but I must've been in the right place. David said something like, "Here, now do this," and reached over to push me back, away from Karen. I sat back on my ankles, the cool rush of air over my now slick dick unpleasant as it broke contact with her warm little furrow to hang, bulging and throbbing, at a 45-degree angle to my belly. At David's urging, Karen re-arranged her legs, into a position she obviously knew well; she brought both legs straight up, her little feet pointing at the ceiling, pressed her thighs together tightly and crossed her ankles. David urged me forward, to kneel close to her. Karen's little feet were just beneath my chin, and I remember how the slight film of dirt on the balls of her feet and her heels emphasized the sweet, white flesh of her instep. David told me to go ahead. I don't remember whether he just explained, or reached forward to guide me, but the next sensation was explosively sensual; my dick forced its way between Karen's tightly clamped thighs, the pressure squeezing the sensitive underside down firmly into her slippery little groove. I pushed forward, my dick trembling in the unbearably pleasurable warmth of her, feeling it glide between her smooth little lips. I was watching her face, as the small portion of my brain that was still working tried to determine whether she was feeling anything like my ecstasy. She just looked at me, grinning, her mouth open, breathing deeply. My eye caught a small motion and I looked down; it was the head of my dick emerging out onto her belly, then receding again as I moved. Fascinated, I watched it reach nearly up to her pert little belly button -- an "outie" -- on each upstroke, then glide back down, back in, disappearing between her little thighs, until I felt the head once again gratefully squeezed down into the creamy warmth pooled between her tiny lips. I didn't last long. My sperm gushed out onto her little belly, thick, viscous globs of it pooling around her belly button, slick streams of it oozing thickly down her side onto the bedspread. My whole body shuddered, and I hope to god I didn't vocalize what I felt. I'd've waked the neighborhood. As I began to come to my senses again, I realized that Karen was trying to hunch against me, clutching my forearms with her little hands and pulling herself against me rhythmically, her eyes closed now, still breathing hard. I nearly got hard again immediately; I must not have realized before that she'd been hunching herself against my dick as I fucked her slick little channel. Even the raging hormones of youth, though, couldn't respond that quickly; I felt myself softening. In my embarrassment, I pulled away from her. She dropped her little feet to the bed, opened her eyes and looked in fascination at the greasy film of sperm on her belly, looked up at me for a long moment, then that smile of hers slowly spread across her pretty little face. And she giggled. David was grinning broadly now, watching all this from his bedside vantage. Suddenly all this was terribly embarrassing; I hopped out of the bed, and began fumbling with my clothes. At that age, clothing is an indispensable aspect of a kid's ego, and at that particular moment I was desperate to re-cloak myself in my masculine ego. Of course I'd worn the most cool things I owned, a bottle- green oxford-cloth shirt (had to be bottle green or burgundy, that year), carefully faded jeans and penny loafers. Without socks. Socks were definitely not cool that year. "Hey, no, don't do that," David said. He grabbed my arm. "Come on, this is great, let's enjoy it. Okay?" Or something to that effect. With great misgivings, I complied. I dropped my jeans back on the floor and sat down again. Karen was now sitting on the edge of the bed, swabbing the last sticky globs of my sperm off her belly and thighs with a handful of Kleenex. David told her to come on over here and join us. She scampered off the bed and came to sit facing us, cross-legged, on the floor. David told her it wasn't fair to be wearing that nightie; that we were both naked and she wasn't. She made a pouting little face and said something about it being cold; she didn't want to take it off. David made some kind of threat; I forget what; in the way that kids will do; "if you don't, I'll..." blah, blah. Eventually Karen pulled off her nightie, made a big show of hugging herself and shivering and frowning; then she giggled again, finally. We all giggled, high on the conspiratorial excitement of the enormously naughty things we were doing. We sat there for some time, whispering and giggling, as I recall talking about things unbelievably incongruent to the situation; playground talk; of school and teachers and such. All three of us were stark naked. David and I leaned back against the chest of drawers, cross-legged, all gangly knees, skinny thighs, and little, limp dicks perched atop wrinkled, hairless balls. Karen sat facing us, hugging her little bony knees up to her chest for warmth, rocking nervously back and forth on her lanky haunches, her little slit occasionally visible, pouting out from between two thin thighs, her chin on her knee, grinning and giggling and flashing looks at me that soon made my mouth dry and my dick begin to stir again. As we loosened up and nervousness abated, we grew more bold. I reached down and stroked Karen's little slit; it was still gooey. She reached out and touched my dick; I say touched, because that's all she did; at nine, she didn't have the slightest idea how to properly handle a dick. Curious, she felt the skin of my balls, the head of my dick; I was far too tongue-tied to tell her what felt good. After some time of this, David said there was something he'd been wanting to do for a long time. What? I asked. He hesitated, looked at Karen. "You know," he said to her. "What we talked about? You know." Karen blushed furiously, grinned like her little face would break, and kept pretending she didn't know what David was talking about. David's frustration grew; he began sputtering; now he was tongue-tied. "Come on, Karen, the... you know, we... oh, come on, you know what I mean." Karen was giggling far too much not to know what he meant. This was great. For the first time that night the focus of attention -- and thus the burden of embarrassment -- had shifted away from me and my little, unmanly, hairless genitals. How I enjoyed Karen's embarrassment, and David's frustration. I relaxed at bit, probably for the first time that night. Finally, David leaned over, grabbed Karen's sharp little shoulder, pulled her over to him and whispered in her ear. She instantly clapped her hand over her mouth and began giggling uncontrollably. And blushing furiously. "Okay?" David was saying. "Okay?" Still giggling, still with her hand over her mouth, Karen nodded. She shot a quick glance at me over her hand, then jerked her head back to face David again and burst into a renewed giggling fit. Grinning hugely, his eyes wide, David turned to me. He sputtered, trying to find the right way to begin. Obviously this was something he'd thought about for a long time, discussed with Karen, but it had never occurred to him how to put it to me. "See, there's this thing I was... Well, I mean I want to, but, you know, I can't, and..." It turned out that David wanted me to fuck Karen. He wanted to watch. He was dying to do it himself, of course, but apparently this was where religious or moral considerations demanded that he draw the line. He would not fuck his own little sister. He'd hunch her little cunt and come all over her, but that was it. So his plan was for me to fuck her, so he could watch; then I could tell him what it felt like. I was furiously randy and appalled at the same time. Jesus. The swirl of thoughts that stormed through my mind ran something like: Yes -- no -- maybe -- of course -- let me at her -- I don't know about this -- oh, god, the real thing -- fucking -- but she's his little sister -- she's only nine years old -- oh, let's do it -- but what if I don't know how -- what if I can't get it in -- yes, yes -- her wet little pussy -- no, god, what am I thinking... etcetera... Of course we ended up in the bed together. Little Karen, naked now, lying there, looking so childlike, her tiny nubs of nipples so cute, her bony ribs so apparent, giggling and blushing, but obviously wanting to; David standing by the bed, his erection wagging before him in anticipation; me kneeling between Karen's slim legs, her bony knees drawn up, her tiny little feet flat on the bedspread. I remember how my palms were sweating as I grasped my dick, which was sort of semi-turgid at that point, and I will never forget what happened next. It went limp. Instantly. Holding it in my hand it drooped to its most embarrassingly puerile state. Oh, god, I was beyond humiliation. I stared at it, David stared at it. Karen, still lying on her back, wondered at the delay, finally looking up at me and saying, "C'mon, okay? Hey, c'mon..." Nothing happened for what seemed a long time. Karen sat up, perplexed. Finally, David broke the ice. He took charge. He'd obviously been looking forward to this for a long time, and wasn't about to see it blown now. "Okay," he said in his most firm voice, "C'mere, Karen, do like we did that other time, you know." His hand urged her forward, toward my limp dick. This time, oddly, there was absolutely no giggling, no blushing. Karen looked at me, then reached down, calmly, smiling softly, took my dick in her little hand, guided it to her mouth. She made no attempt to suck it in, just licked at it. Oh, god, the feel of her tiny little tongue licking at the underside of my dick; its childlike softness; somehow she grinned the entire time, licked and grinned. The image evoked by that memory is maddeningly erotic; her little, skinny shoulders as I looked down at her; her bony spine; her childish hips so lanky it seemed that she had no butt at all, seemed that her lower back simply ended in a small crack; suddenly the full awareness that this was a nine-year-old girl burst upon me as I looked at her from this angle. My dick grew; she had to hold it with both hands now. It looked so enormous now, the head pressed up against the underside of her little button nose; her tiny tongue softly licking, not erotically; just lapping, the way she'd lick an ice-cream cone. My dick soon reached maximum heft and I pulled away, anxious to take advantage of the situation while I had the chance. Karen excitedly plopped back down on the bedspread, lifted her little knees, and grinned at me. Leaning forward, I lowered the head of my dick to her little slit. I felt her warm wetness tease the tip of it. I rubbed up and down, groping for her little hole. It occurred to me for the first time how absurd this was; there was no way this thing was going to fit into that little, tiny pink hole. Oddly, Karen was still grinning widely, not the least bit apprehensive. In later years this perplexed me until I realized that, at nine years old, this was all a game to her, that she had no real awareness of what was involved; it simply had not occurred to her that quite possibly this would not be pleasant for her at all. So she grinned and I poked and probed. David watched. Nothing was happening. Again, David took the initiative. He reached over, took Karen's little foot in his hand and guided it up, pressing her knee back toward her chest, telling her to raise her legs higher. She did. Her little butt rotated up toward me, her little pussy lips spread more widely; I drew back a bit as she moved, and looked down. There it was; I could see it now; her tiny, pink hole, glistening wetly in the soft light, angled up toward me, toward my throbbing dick, at just the right angle. I nestled the tip of my dick against the mouth of her little hole and pushed, gently. Nothing. I pushed harder. Well lubricated now with her slickness, it suddenly slipped away from my grasp. Both Karen and David giggled at that. I grabbed it again, blushing, and tried again. And again. Still no progress. My cheeks burned in embarrassment. Finally I leaned back on my knees and told David this wasn't going to work. No way, I said. He was ready for that one. "Yes, it will," he said with certainty. "I know it will. Here, I'll show you." "What?" With an impatient, businesslike look, David leaned over, licked his index finger, held it against Karen's little hole, and pushed. I was astonished. It slipped in. Deeply in. All the way in. "See?" he said. "Just push it in. Then do like this. This is how you fuck." He began pumping his finger in and out of Karen's little cunt. I was stunned. I stared, eyes bulging, watching David's finger slowly sink into the little hole, then slowly emerge, glistening in her wetness. "She likes that. Don't you, Karen? She loves for me to do this. We do this a lot. Just do the same thing with your dick." He kept pumping, gently. Karen was still smiling. David kept it up, settling into a slow rhythm. Karen began breathing more deeply; she was trying to smile, -- it seemed now almost as though that smile was her defense mechanism against embarrassment, like my new penny loafers -- but her growing arousal was obvious. Eyes wide, I watched David's finger move rhythmically, in and out, Karen's little pink hole sucking at it as he withdrew. Abruptly Karen dropped her feet back onto the bed, knees up, and began moving her hips gently as David's finger worked her little pussy. She stopped smiling. She closed her eyes. She turned her head to the side. The arousal of her breathing was clearly audible now. Oh, the sweetness of a young little girl's sexual arousal is such a thing of beauty; innocence abandoned to pleasure. Now her little hips moved more actively, hunching forward to meet David's thrusts. Finally, David looked at me, his finger still fucking her gently. He didn't say a word, but his meaning was clear. "See?" his expression said. "She loves it. Go ahead." David stopped the motion of his finger. Karen still hunched against him. David slowly withdrew his finger. Karen opened her eyes, looked at both of us, her little mouth slack, and that look was all the encouragement I needed. I quickly leaned forward again. She raised her legs. To my horror, my erection had begun to droop again. Not completely, thank god. It was a semi- turgid dick I held against her. I pushed. And pushed. She closed her eyes, turned her head to the side again; she looked so sweet and innocent. I pushed again, harder, against her little hole; and felt it begin to slide in -- oh, my god, it was sliding in -- my dick was sliding into her little pussy hole -- oh, god -- she frowned; I pulled back; David was nearly frantic; "No, no, go on! Go on!" I looked at Karen. As I hesitated, she turned to look up at me. I stared into her sparkling little eyes; saw, or thought I saw, eagerness there. I resumed pushing as if my life depended on it. My still semi-turgid dick curved and bent at the effort; I squeezed desperately to hold it straight enough; pushing harder. She grimaced, and turned her head again, clutching harder at my forearms. I felt the little hole squeeze the head of my dick; her sucking wetness was maddening; I was desperate to plunge deeply up into her little belly. I trembled and shoved; felt it squeeze a tiny bit farther in; the head was nearly inside her now; I paused; she turned to look at me, still frowning, she somehow managed a grin; her little fingers squeezed my forearms. I pushed again; squeezed in a tiny bit more; perhaps an inch of my dick was inside her now; I pushed; another millimeter and, suddenly, the head was fully engulfed -- for the first time, I felt truly in her -- felt that I really was fucking her -- suddenly it seemed her cunt was forcibly drawing me in -- abruptly I felt -- oh, sweet jesus, I felt her little pussy hole sucking wetly at the sensitive spot on the underside of my head. Two things happened simultaneously -- I plunged into her another full inch or so and -- the effect was instantaneous -- my dick engorged instantly -- it suddenly exploded into full, rampant turgidity, nearly doubling in size -- her little eyes shot open -- and she screamed in pain. I jerked my dick out of her and, for one horrified instant, we all remained stock still, terrified that their parents had heard her scream. That instant burns clearly in my memory. Karen had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, a tear running down one cheek. Then the moment passed and we leaped toward our clothes, dancing madly into our pants, fumbling with shirt buttons, jamming sweaty feet into shoes. I've never dressed so quickly in my life. Somehow, Karen's scream had gone unheard. But the fear of god had been put into us all. Playing with Karen, for me anyway, was finished. Not just for that evening, but forever. It occurs to me now that I never even knew for certain whether Karen ever had an orgasm with David, though I'm certain she must have, judging by her responses that night. But although David and I remained friends for another few years, until separating in high school, and although we continued to talk breathlessly about girls and sexuality, we never again discussed Karen; never again even mentioned that one, spectacular night. What became of you, Karen? I really wish I knew, but I never will make an attempt to find out. I wonder if you know the name I now use; if you know it belongs to the lanky kid who once came so close to being the first to pump his sperm up into your little belly, that night in 1961. Who was the first, anyway? Was it David? Where are you now? Married? Probably. Happy? Maybe. Sexually satisfied? Probably not. Do you have kids of your own, now? A little girl, perhaps? Does she have a big brother? Do they whisper together and giggle in the darkness of a cool, autumn night? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It’s okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with strangers. But it isn’t okay to *HAVE* unpro- tected sex with strangers!! You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 9