Chapter 2

I wrote to Peter the next day and had a letter from him when I got home two weeks later. I wrote back, but he never replied to my second letter, and that was the last I ever heard of him. But I didn't know that at the time, of course.

The next weeks passed slowly. I felt like I had a knife in my heart that hurt every time I took a deep breath and sometimes brought stinging tears to my eyes. Aunt Judy and Uncle Fred were worried about me, questioning Jackie about what we had been up to and watching me sometimes with concerned eyes. So I tried to act better around them. But I felt really sad and broken, the worst I'd ever felt about a boy.

Gradually, though, I began to lighten up. After all, Peter had promised to write, and we didn't live that far apart. Maybe it would all be okay, I told myself. I looked forward to going home and writing to Peter.

For several months after school started, I was pretty down on boys. Peter had never answered my second letter, and my heart was broken, for the first time. I had a few dates, but nothing serious.

Then the Christmas dance came along, and I just had to go. It was the first big dance of the year in my first year in high school. So, when Roger Fry asked me, and there was nobody else I particularly wanted to go with, I accepted. And had a great time. Isn't that always the way? Things seem to work best when you expect the least.

Although he was a hunk and a hulk, it was Roger's wicked sense of humor that attracted me as much as anything. His imitation of old Mr. Patterson, the chemistry teacher, was dead on and devastating. And he had this little girl's voice he would put on, asking naive questions or making dumb comments.

Like once, there was this group of us sitting around, bagging anything and everything. Somehow, we got onto sex and we were all making suggestive cracks. And somebody said something about it putting it where it would do the most good, and Roger asked, in his little girl voice, "But I don't understand! Where does he put it?"

One of his friends leaned over and pretended to whisper in his ear. Roger's eyes popped wide open and he said "Oh my!" faintly, and fanned himself with his hand.

Well, you had to be there, I guess.

So, before long, Roger and I were going steady. I wasn't in love or anything, but I liked him a lot. And everything was fine, except that he started pushing me to go farther and farther when I wasn't in a mood for much but hugs and kisses.

We fought all the usual battles, one by one. When I finally let him touch my titties without protest, the next time he wanted to put his hand inside my blouse. And when I let him do that, he started working on getting me to let him unfasten my bra. And then he wanted to touch me down there, and then he wanted to get his hand inside my pants or under my skirt. And slowly, inch by inch, liberty by liberty, I let Roger have his way. It was never quite enough, never too much insistence, for me to feel I had to break up with him.

I mean, he was a nice guy. Don't get me wrong. He treated me well, spent money on me, took me nice places and was respectful in public. Roger was fun to be with, and maybe I should have loved him, but I just didn't. He was just someone to be with.

But, now that I had let him touch me pretty much everywhere there was to touch, Roger had a new complaint. All day Sunday after our Saturday night dates, he said, his nuts ached. He was getting frustrated. He understood I wasn't ready to go all the way. But wasn't there something we could do? Something I could do? Other girls did, he hinted.

So, one night, after we'd been making out for more than an hour, and Roger had worked his hand under my skirt and into my panties, and I was feeling pretty worked up with his finger stirring around in my pussy, I just decided Oh, what the hell? So I opened up his pants and pulled his prick out and jerked him off until he shot his load all over the dashboard and windshield.

That seemed to satisfy Roger for a while. It became sort of a Saturday night ritual, minus the dashboard and windshield part. We'd go to a movie or such, then stop off to get something to eat, and Roger would always grab some extra napkins and hand them to me to put in my purse for later. Then we'd go find some place to park, most often at the Point, and we'd go to it. He was always good to me, taking his time and getting me good and worked up. He learned what turned me on, and most times he'd make me come. But pretty soon he'd be pressing at me with his dick, wanting me to take it out and jerk him off. And I would.

Like I said, that held him for a couple of months, maybe. Then one night, we were over at his house. His parents were gone, and Roger and I were down in the basement that they had converted to a rec room, indulging in our favorite form of recreation. We had the lights on incase his folks came home early. I'd become less shy with practice.

Roger got me off good that night. It had been a couple of weeks since we'd had the chance, and I was unusually horny. Maybe it was just that time in my cycle when I always seem to be more responsive.

Anyway, I was still turned on after I came, and Roger started up on me again instead of just wanting his turn. I came again after several minutes, and he kept going. And then I kind of went off my nut, coming again and again, so many times I lost count. Roger kept after me like a demon, almost as excited as I was, pushing me up to the edge and then over, time after time. I finally had to beg him to stop, too weak to push him away.

He waited patiently while I settled down, holding me in his big arms and kissing me gently on my forehead, cheeks, lips. I was overwhelmed by my body's response. I had never dreamed that I was capable of coming so long and so hard.

"You must be pretty proud of yourself," I said, when I finally had caught my breath. Roger just smiled.

"Seriously," that was wonderful, baby. Incredible. I didn't... I mean, I never knew!" He squeezed his arms around me, then started to slide his hand down over my stomach again.

"No," I said firmly, but took his hand in both of mine and raised it to my lips. "I've had enough. It's your turn now."

I'd opened his pants up earlier and played with him, but that had been long minutes before. Now, when I slid my hand back into his undershorts, his penis was limp and surprisingly small. It had always been up and cocky by the time I touched it. But as I squeezed and pulled it gently, I felt it swell in my hand, getting longer and stronger, until the head started to poke up out of his shorts.

I peeled Roger's underwear down his hips, lifting it away from his stomach in front and over his prick, which stuck out stiffly now, curving back over his belly. The head of his cock had emerged fully from its sheath of loose skin, and it was purple-red with blood. I pushed his clothes down to mid-thigh.

Taking his boner in my hand, I began to stroke it slowly, squeezing it firmly in my grip. Roger laid back, eyes closed, and let me work on him. But after a minute, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

"You know, it's... it's better if it's slick..."

"What do you mean?" I asked. This had always been fine before.

"Well, it gets a little raw sometimes... afterward." He ducked his head apologetically. "Could you... I mean... well... like spit on your hand? You know, to make it slide?"

Well, that seemed a little gross, but it was my spit, after all, so I brought my hand up to my mouth and dribbled some spit into my palm. I didn't get much but, when I wrapped my hand around his prick again, I could tell immediately that it was better. So I did it again, and that was even better, and added more later.

Roger laid back again and let me do him. I knew why he liked it right away. I could see that it was more like real sex. The feel of his slippery cock sliding through my tight grasp must be more like real fucking. I kind of enjoyed the feel of it, sliding my hand up and down on his pole, renewing the lubrication every once in a while.

In the lighted rec room, I could see him more clearly than ever before. I liked the way his prick looked, so strong and urgent. I also like the feeling of power, of knowing that what I was doing felt really good to him, that if I kept doing it I would make him come. I kept watching the head of his cock poke up through my fist as I slid my hand downward and then disappear again my clutching fingers when I pulled up.

I started thinking, as I had many times, about what Jackie had first told me about and then done. And what Jimmy had made me do to him. I'd been repelled by it, but that was probably because he made me when I didn't want to. I still remembered the way Jimmy's tool had felt in my mouth. Like it or not, there had been an incredible feeling of intimacy.

Spitting in my hand for the umpteenth time, it occurred to me that there was a more efficient way to transfer liquid to Roger's cock. Maybe I was feeling grateful and horny, or maybe enough time had passed for the distaste from the episode with Jimmy to fade. Anyway, I decided to try it again. I was curious to see what Roger's bigger tool would feel like in my mouth.

Gradually, I leaned closer and closer until I could breathe on his prick. Then, experimentally, I stuck out my tongue and licked the head. Roger gave a gasp and his eyes shot open.

"Jeez, Marcee," he said, "that felt good!"

Encouraged, I licked the head a couple more times. Then I ran my tongue down and back up the length of it. Roger gasped again, his cock throbbed, and his whole body quivered.

"Jesus, Marcee," he said through clenched teeth. "Do it some more."

So I opened my mouth and, sliding it over my tongue, took the head of Roger's cock between my lips. Clamping them together just under the ridge, I sucked on it. Roger groaned and fell back weakly.

I pushed my head forward slowly, taking more and more of it in until I felt the soft tip bump against the roof of my mouth. I almost gagged, but pulled back in time, then pushed my mouth down on him again. After doing that several times, I pulled my head away and used my hand again, discovering that it slid easily over his boner.

Roger was clearly enjoying what I was doing to him. What surprised me was that so was I. Far from being disgusting, the feel of his stiff tool sliding in and out of my mouth was a real turn-on.

So I did it again. Before long, I had the rhythm of it. My pursed lips clamped onto him as I slid my mouth up and down his length. I held his cock up straight with my hand, which kept him from going too deep. Sometimes, I'd slide it up and down him, following my mouth. Sometimes, I'd pull my head away to catch my breath but kept my hand sliding up and down.

Roger was almost funny. He was watching me half the time and had his eyes closed tight the other half. Every time his eyes popped open, they bugged out like he was under tremendous pressure. His breath was ragged and gasping, and he kept making little whiny noises. Trembles and shudders ran over his body.

"Oh, god, Marcee. Oh, god. Oh, jeez. Oh, god." He was panting and not making any sense, except that I knew what he meant. While I pumped away at him, I was wondering if he was going to shoot, and what I was going to do when he did. I could stop and get the napkins out of my purse or I could keep going, and...

"Gnnnnnng!" Roger froze and then jerked, and suddenly the debate was over. He shot his cum into my mouth. The first jet caught me by surprise, and I almost gagged on the taste. I pulled my mouth back and off him just in time to catch the second shot on my nose. The third sort of splooted up and plopped back on my hand, and the rest just welled up from the tip and oozed down the head and over my fingers. I kept pumping at him until it was clear he was done.

Some of the first shot had fallen out of my mouth when I pulled back, but there was still plenty left. It was warm and salty and gummy and yucky. I wasn't sure what to do. I wanted to get the napkins and wipe my face and hands and spit it out, but that would take too long. And Jackie had made it clear what she did. So I swallowed it. It took several tries to get all the gooey stuff to the back of my throat, and it felt strange as it oozed around in my mouth, but I finally got most of it.

I got used to it over the next several months, since that was how most of our weekend dates ended. Roger would finger me until I came (or gave up and pretended to come) and then I'd suck his dick for him. Before long, I was taking all his load in my mouth and swallowing it down. I can't say I ever got to like it, but I preferred that to the mess. It was just... neater, somehow. And Roger definitely approved.

That held him for a while, but after a couple of months, he began to hint that maybe we should move on to the next stage. He didn't say it directly at first, but there was only one more stage to go, so the meaning was clear.

And I just wasn't ready. At first, I was able to put him off and distract him. But with each week he got more and more insistent. It began to piss me off. One thing led to another. We began to argue about everything.

And then, boom, he dumped me. I was stunned. Then I learned that Cindy Merganser had been out with him the Sunday before. And everybody knew that Cindy was a major slut. Let me see if I can figure this out...

I was really pissed, and all my friends from WeFive agreed we'd NEVER go all the way until we met the man we were going to marry. And even then, not until our wedding night. Probably not, anyway. We stuck to that all through our freshman year and most of our sophomore year. And then the trees in the virgin forest began to fall, one by one, and I was desperate not to be the last tree standing.

Keith and I rolled out of the drive-in early, keeping the car headlights off until we were out. We cruised back into town and other the other side on Wadetown Road. About five miles out, Keith turned onto a side road. After another mile or so, there was a gravel track that lead back to grove of trees along Sager Creek. Keith parked, leaving the radio on low.

It didn't take us long to pick up where we had left off. When Keith put his hands on my tits, I didn't object. I also let him slide his hand under my top again and stroke my bare flesh. When he rolled the tube top up and over them, I pressed my titties up to his seeking, sucking lips and reveled in the feel of his damp kisses.

When he put his hand on my thigh, I trapped his hand between them for a while by squeezing my knees tightly together, then let them relax and drift apart. I gave a little hunch with my hips to encourage him and let him know his touch was welcome.

Keith slid his hand up to my pussy and kneaded it through my shorts. I let him feel me up, rolling my pelvis slowly in time with his stroking hand. It felt really good. I think I enjoyed it more than ever because I knew I wasn't going to stop him. There was none of the usual anguish, no conflict between desire and fear.

When Keith started to unbutton my shorts, I put my arms around his neck and let him. I let him tug down the zipper, and while he struggled with it, I pressed my breasts against his chest, kissed his neck, nibbled his ear. He got them unzipped, finally, and then slid his hand into my panties. I was wet and waiting, my love bump already up and throbbing. When his fingertip touched it, a jolt of electricity shot through me, and I couldn't help letting out a soft moan of pleasure.

Keith pushed his finger over my clit and down through the slick outer lips of my pussy. He slid his finger up and down in my slot, wetting it with my juices, and then slowly wormed it into my hole. I pushed up to meet it and helped him press his finger as deep as it could reach.

I fumbled around his middle until I found his rampant hard- on and then squeezed it rhythmically with my fingers. It strained and swelled under my touch. Keith groaned and kissed me deeply, then moved his nibbling, sucking lips to my neck.

Meanwhile, his finger was stroking in and out of my pussy - - not very expertly, to be sure, but I didn't care. I think I was turned on as much by what I was intending to do as by Keith's somewhat fumbling manipulations of my body, but that didn't really matter. I was plenty turned on, for whatever reason. I could tell by the ease with which his finger sluiced in and out of my slick hole.