Chapter 1: Her First Blow Job

The only ripples in the surface of the huge pool resulted from a lithe fourteen year old siren with long black hair, her arms slowly pulling her luscious shiny-wet body from one end of the pool to the other. She counted the laps as she went, finally nearing her goal of one hundred. No sounds intruded save the gentle splash of her arms; if birds chirped, she didn't hear them. Privacy abounded. Senor Dean had driven Mama Rosa to the bus station; she would travel to visit her sister and would not be back until the following evening. Then the Senor had gone off to make his money, though the live-in housekeeper's young daughter couldn't imagine why he would need more money than he obviously already had, money that he could never spend.

It turned out to be a beautiful day, late spring, the sun bright and warm but not excessively so. Puffy clouds floated here and there but did nothing to impede the sun. The Olympic sized swimming pool sat protected from intruders by an electrified fence and thick foliage surrounding the entire acreage. The mansion, far larger that those rampant McMansions of the newcomers to the enclave, the mansion that the pool serviced sat far up in the hills, up a winding dirt road. Access would have been impossible during the winter, except that it only snowed on that road maybe once per millennium.

She knew that Senora Dean had gone off to play tennis at their fancy and exclusive Club, hidden somewhere down the mountain. Young Dawn had been born in this country. Although Mama Rosa spoke to her in a combination of English and Spanish, Dawn felt at home in English. As someone who should be seen and not heard among these rich people, her ears constituted a powerful weapon. Thus, Dawn had become well aware that the Senora stayed at her swanky Club after her lessons had been completed, compensating the tennis pro in the manner that women had pleasured and entertained men since the beginning of time. Well, maybe it took a few million years before females of the human race began to suck cock and take it up the ass, but you get the idea.

Their pride and joy, Will Dean, still at school, stayed late as always due to basketball practice. Tall for his age and handsome as a rich boy should be, Will acted as her friend and playmate at home, despite the occasions when, she had no doubt, he tried to peek in hopes of seeing her naked body. Alas, poor Will, Dawn had always made sure that he had no success there. She locked her door and covered keyholes with towels or clothing. Still, Dawn day-dreamed about Will, about his smile, yes, about his money, and about that bulge down there when he put on a bathing suit and they splashed and played together in the free-form pool. And sometimes his hand would slip and go where it shouldn't, but it didn't stay long, and Dawn sort of enjoyed it.

And so, in the solitude of the afternoon, Dawn reached her count of one hundred. She pulled to the side of the pool, lifted her body to the concrete deck and began to dry her hair. Walking over to a lounge, she spread the towel neatly on it. Then, with a glance toward the house to reassure herself of her privacy, she sat down. Reaching behind her back, a quick motion untied the thin strap of her bikini. She tossed the garment away from her, so that the shadow of the lounge would not prevent it from drying. Her bottoms went next, leaving Dawn as naked as the day she was born, albeit with more hair and more rounded hips and larger breasts than that overcast day in that dingy West Texas hospital, or so Mama had described it, fourteen years earlier.

Those breasts had already reached 34B, and she had become well aware of the glances they attracted at school, the prestigious private Lakeshore High School, which she attended only because of Mama's employment. Her delightful mammaries, with silver dollar sized areolas and half inch nipples, matched Rosa's in size. Dawn wondered if they would soon outstrip Mama's in attraction. She had never met her father, nor any of the females in his family, so she couldn't know what was in her genes. She smiled at the play on words, knowing that she had something very useful, even valuable, in her jeans even though unaware of what was in her genes. Rosa had early on disclosed to Dawn that she didn't even remember his name, that pig who had taken advantage of Rosa's youth and naivety and whose penis had given her such a lovely daughter.

What Dawn would have had inside her jeans, had she been wearing any, would have been an already tangled mass of black hair, matching the flowing tresses on her head, shielding from view the pink lips in that very center of her femininity. She turned her lounge toward the house, toward the direct sunlight which slowly drifted down toward the roof of the massive structure. She lay back and ran her fingers lightly through the damp bush between her legs. An annoyance, she had already decided that one day soon she would shave her pussy bald. After a brief flirtation with masturbation, she decided that she didn't need it just then. Tucking her hair into her pal Will's baseball cap, she hung both hands down alongside her body and closed her eyes. She had no concern about falling asleep; she had gone through this ritual often enough to know when to turn over without burning herself.

Dawn had no tan lines. Starting off with her slightly darker Hispanic skin, in sharp contrast to the lily-white Dean family, her frequent nude sun baths burnished her to a pleasant cafe au lait. Rosa had not had need to see her daughter's naked body for a long time; the evidence of obvious nude sun-bathing would have shocked her. Although neither worldly nor attractive in a sexual way, rather plain in fact, Rosa was not stupid. Already she had noticed her daughter's internal beauty, and felt sure that boys were already panting over the child's external beauty. Dawn felt something like an itch on the inside of one thigh and she idly scratched it, absent mindedly spreading her legs as she did so. Again the urge to masturbate flitted through her mind; again she deferred it to bedtime. Her orgasm would be a wonderful alternative to that over-the-counter sleep medication she occasionally used.

But the itch would not go away. Oh, the itch on her thigh was gone with the first touch, but that itch in the center of her soul, that cry for relief from her clitoris, the yearning in her womanhood, would not cease. Dawn tried to fight it, squeezing her fists into balls as though she had some toy to relieve tension. The cool feeling that she had as the water evaporated on her skin after leaving the pool began to fade; perspiration formed on her forehead in its place. She pressed her butt down into the lounge, clenching the cheeks together in an attempt to alleviate her distress. She pushed Will — yes, Will - and the other handsome rich boys from school out of her mind and began to recite cooking recipes to herself; alas, the feeble attempt to divert her thoughts was futile. Dawn needed her fingers inside her body.

Again she glanced at the house, reassuring herself that she would be unseen, undisturbed. Her legs spread an inch or two and her hand rested on the dark jumble of her pubic hair. Her fingers slowly edged up and down but outside her labia; Dawn had pleasured her own body often enough to know that she enjoyed taking her time. Rosa had given her the traditional mother-daughter lecture. Dawn had been fully prepared when she began to menstruate, had learned early the manner in which babies were made. Rosa had warned her about the tricks boys use with girls, even the trick that had fortunately led to Dawn's own conception. But Rosa had never taught her bright little girl about masturbation; that became a game that Dawn had to learn all by herself, and one at which the passage of time had made her quite proficient.

She spread her legs farther, allowing her feet to drop off the lounge on either side and rest on the ground. That appeared to be her slut position, announcing to the world, in her mind, that she stood ready to take on her fingers. Or a cock. Or a tongue. Of those last two she had no personal knowledge, but girls talk as much as boys do, and her inexperience made her all the more curious, all the more eager to experience the real thing. But at that moment, her fingers would be all she had. She brought them together and began to gently rub up and down her slit. Dawn fought her way through the tangled hair so that her fingers might reach bare skin. Damp bare skin, for what the sun had baked dry, her body quickly rejuvenated down underneath her pubic hair. The juice that lubricates vagina for penis, cunt for cock if you prefer, also lubricates a young girl's fingers.

Dawn had a quick decision to make: whether to make a two handed attack on her pussy or to use the free hand on her breasts. The latter won the contest. She squeezed the fleshy playthings and felt her nipples harden as she applied a tweaking pressure to them. Her pussy oozed desire as her hand down there sped up, the thumb remaining behind to carry out its learned function, to work on her clit. Quickly, very quickly, the two traveling fingers changed direction, bending inward, sliding inside between her labia. Her eyes clamped shut, like a little girl playing Hide and Seek. Dawn finger-fucked herself and in her heart she knew that pleasure from her digits as good as any cock would ever be. Or so she thought.

Then her fingers curled more; a new trick that she had learned accidentally. She wondered if Mama could do it; she did not doubt that Mama masturbated. Heck, Mama certainly had no other kind of sex anywhere in the Dean home. Dawn's fingers found her g-spot, that trigger that she feared no cock would ever reach, tucked away where Dr. G had found it. Her body exploded, her cum as beautiful as ever, her juices spurting all over her thighs. She clamped her mouth tightly; a noisy orgasm would draw unwanted attention to her. She kept to that traditional habit even though she had no company then in the Dean compound.

As the pounding inside her abated, as her breathing returned toward normal. Dawn opened her eyes. Some readers may not be surprised to learn that one hundred feet up an incline, and three stories above the ground, she thought that she saw the slight movement of a curtain in an upper room. Perhaps the word 'thought' is imprecise; she did see it, but she just couldn't be sure whether or not her mind, her conscience even, played tricks on her.

Rapidly, she tried to recall the architectural layout of the third story. Bathroom, guest room, study, whatever else; they all jumbled in her mind. She had been up there on occasion but had never paid any attention. Then she mentally called the attendance roll: Mama Rosa, Senor Dean, the Senora, Will? No, no, no and no, all accounted for, somewhere else, or so she assumed. She even thought of but quickly dismissed the idea of a burglar. It wasn't until later that she realized her certainty about it not being a burglar had been foolhardy, although quite correct.

After all of her mental gyrations, Dawn realized that she still had no clothing on, buck naked, quite fetchingly so, and she moved to retrieve the two pieces of her skimpy bathing suit. As she bent over, facing away from that upstairs window, it occurred to her that she must be putting on quite a show for whoever it might be, presenting her bare ass and whatever else he, or she, might be able to observe. Her original instant thoughts of being violated by a peeping tom soon turned to warmth as she accepted the fact that she thrilled at the idea that someone, some man or boy armed with an erect penis, or even a woman, stood looking at her naked body. Little Dawn was growing up.

The fingers holding that curtain belonged to Alan Dean, the man whose name appeared on the deed to all of this real estate. Dawn's analysis had been incorrect. After driving Rosa to the bus station, he had gone to his office, but just before lunch, while Dawn was still at school, Alan Dean had offered his brand new secretary the opportunity to attain early tenure on the job, the same offer he made to all new attractive female employees. Alan followed the ancient maxim: a secretary does not become a fixture in the office until she's been screwed to the desk. But Alan. always a bit of a show-off, chose to exhibit his wealth to his latest intended fuck-toy, and so he had brought her to his home.

The screwing in its several positions had been on the couch in his upstairs den — the working one, not the showcase downstairs— and Alan's pipes had been thoroughly cleansed. Nevertheless, he had stared hungrily out the window at Dawn's naked body and her enthusiastic self relief while Luz or Letitia or whatever the fuck that cunt's name might be dried his cum out of her body, fore and aft, and put her clothing and her face back on. A decent piece of ass she had been too, but nothing like Rosa's little pubescent girl, over whom he had been lusting, and occasionally flogging his log, for the better part of two years.