Karen Reynolds
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 1
I was fourteen when I, Karen Reynolds, grew up. That’s the only way I can describe what happened to me. I’d turned fourteen in late March, and that was the month that my mom, Erica Reynolds, told me that she thought I’d enjoy a little time away from home at camp, come summer. I told her that I didn’t think I’d enjoy it that much; my mother, as usual, had a way of getting her way, regardless. I was signed up for two weeks at Camp Skull or something like that. It didn’t work out, and of all the things that happened to me, I’m the least upset about that.
Two days after my birthday, I woke up in the middle of the night and when I went to pee, found the inside of my panties smeared with blood. For a second, I was terrified; then I remembered the dozen lectures I’d had over the prior several years about menstruation. I hadn’t felt any of the horrible symptoms Mom and some of the other girls had described and predicted; some of my classmates had been regular for years now, some of their stories had been quite vivid. About time for me. Still, it was a bit of an anticlimax.
The next morning, I studied myself in the mirror in the bathroom to see what, if any, other changes had happened overnight.
My breasts had, a year or so before, started to swell; the progress had been minuscule, and so were my breasts. Just small bumps. Maybe they’d start to grow more now? Not so far.
Later, washing myself in the shower, I did notice a hopeful sign. I’d never paid that much attention to the area between my legs, but the feeling the tampon made was enough to concentrate my mind. I noticed some fine, long, dark hairs down there. Much darker than I’d noticed before. I hastily checked under my arms; there were some darker hairs there too. With three people in our house and only one shower, there’s never much time.
That night, I lay in the privacy of my room and touched the hairs between my legs. They were silky and warm and felt pleasant to touch. My fingers brushed across my little button clit, and I felt something even more pleasant. I didn’t mention to anyone what I found happened when I rubbed my clit, and a few days later I learned that rubbing even my non-existent breasts at the same time added to my enjoyment.
Within just a couple of days, I learned a lot about stimulating myself, and Saturday morning spent nearly an hour at it until I had my first orgasm; not that I knew what it was, beyond that it felt even better than anything else. When I finally got up, I went into the bathroom; my period was near its end, even so I didn’t want another messy pair of panties; I decided I’d use another tampon. I slid the applicator inside of me and almost came again. I tried rubbing it various ways until I found that in and out felt the best; I did come once again.
That night, I learned still more about my body. I took an applicator to bed with me and tried to insert it. I was too dry; it was more painful than pleasant. I set it aside, not really understanding the problem at the time, and used my fingers on my clit and on my nipples. I was primed by having spent most of the day looking forward to this, and it didn’t take long to get into the mood.
When I inserted the cardboard tube inside of me the second time, it went in much easier, and I deduced it was because I was wetter. Lubrication, I realized. I began to slide it in and out, slowly at first, then faster and faster until, as I had in the morning, I came. It was such a good feeling, I did it again, then again. Along about the fourth time, the applicator tube collapsed, too soggy to function anymore. I finished myself off with my fingers, ending up quivering and shaking. What, I thought to myself, would this be like with a boy?
Boys had a gizmo that wouldn’t get all limp and soggy, I’d heard. At least not until afterward, when it got soggy and then went limp. And maybe gave you a baby; that didn’t sound like a good idea to me. On the other hand, touching myself was nice. Maybe we could just touch each other? That would be good; no babies, either!
A few days later, my mom hit me up for a favor. “Karen, there’s a young woman I work with,” she said, “Her name is Laurie Sayers. She has a daughter who is a year and a half old; Laurie’s going to be attending a seminar this week with me, in the evenings, after work. Would you babysit for her? They don’t live very far from us.”
I shrugged. Why not? I’d babysat several times; it didn’t hold any particular fears for me.
The first night was a piece of cake; Mom took me the three blocks to where Laurie lived and introduced us. Laurie was in her late twenties, very cute. I hoped I looked half as good as she did when I grew up. Long blonde hair, a heart-shaped face with her hair parted in the middle to accentuate it. A little thin, but not overly so. Not tall, just an inch or so more than me. Laurie showed me where everything was, and told me that Sarah liked to eat around 8 and showed me what to give her. It wasn’t my first time babysitting; I had no trouble remembering what I was supposed to remember; that and I took notes.
Everything went without a hitch. Except for a half hour used up feeding the baby, there wasn’t much to do; I finished my homework early and watched a little TV. When they got back, I told Laurie that the baby had been fine, that there had been no problems.
“This is the first time I’ve been gone in the evening. Sarah’s in day care while I’m at work, I was hoping she would miss me a little in the evening.”
“She moped for a while after you left, Mrs. Sayers.” I told her.
She brightened a little. “Just call me Laurie. I’m not Mrs. anybody.” The last bit was a little emphatic, I thought, but didn’t think anything more about it.
The next day, Mom brought me a little earlier, and Laurie opened the door and peeped out and said, “I’m running just a bit late. Would you tell your mom?” I nodded and went back to the car and informed her. Mom laughed and replied she was early. I went back and let myself in. Laurie came out from the back, wearing a half-slip and bra, shoulders a little hunched forward, peering myopically.
“Been having trouble with one of my contacts all day,” she said, “and I can never remember where I put my glasses.”
“Purse?” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Yes!” She exclaimed and walked over to a table and bent down to open her purse. For a second as she leaned over, her slip pulled taut over her bottom, and I could make out the outline of her cheeks. Tight and muscular; pert globes of flesh. For a moment, I felt a rush of hormones like when I touched myself.
I was confused and surprised. When Laurie turned around, the glasses on her face, my eyes were drawn to her breasts. Laurie was wearing a lace bra, just soft cotton, one that fit loosely. Though it was loose, I could make out the curves of her breasts, the darkness that were her nipples. I found myself staring at them.
“Thanks, Karen.” Laurie said and paused for a second. I hastily jerked my eyes away from her nipples. I blushed, and from Laurie’s expression, she knew what I’d been staring at.
Laurie showed me what she’d set aside for Sarah while she finished dressing and a few minutes later went outside. This time, Sarah was fussier for the first hour, so I gave her a bottle of juice, which eventually quieted her down.
What in the world had happened to me? I pictured Laurie in my mind leaning over, and I could feel the surge of emotion again, not quite as acute. And when she turned around ... I felt a little faint. My fingers brushed my breast, and even through my bra, it felt good. I adjourned to the bathroom and tugged and unbuttoned, rubbing myself to a climax. Pictured in my mind was Laurie.
That night I lay in my bed and did it again, convinced I’d gone off the deep end. But it just felt so wonderful ... And when I fell asleep, it was a pleasant drifting, and when I awoke, I was more refreshed than usual.
Laurie was dressed by the time I got there the next afternoon; Mom was late, and they hurried off. Sarah was asleep, and I left her alone.
I wandered around Laurie’s apartment, curious about her. About myself. The apartment wasn’t very large, just one bedroom with the crib sharing the space with Laurie’s bed. I looked at the books on a bookshelf over a computer desk, but they all seemed to be about accounting and law. Heavy reading, I thought. Just what did Laurie do at Mom’s office?
In the bedroom walk-in closet, in a corner buried under a pile of laundry, I saw what looked like the edge of a magazine. Curious, I bent down and pulled it out. The title was “Sappho,” and on the front cover, two women were holding hands on a beach, staring into each other’s eyes; a pretty beach sunset for a background. The women were nude.
I glanced inside and was amazed. I took the magazine and sat down cross-legged on the bed, my knees shaking, my whole body quivering. The first article started with the two women on the cover, hugging, fully dressed. By the time the pictorial ended, they were lying nude in bed, sated. The pictorial had left no doubt about the reason they were tired, but satisfied. The pictures were lush and very clear, very graphic. Very, very graphic. There were pictures of the two women kissing each other, some where it was obvious that they were using their tongues. And pictures of one or the other kissing and licking the breasts of the other woman; pictures of them being kissed between the legs, including the use of the tongue there. With no stinting on anatomical detail. All in lush, vivid colors.
I knew about pornography; those were pictures of nude women that men and boys lusted over. It seemed to me that the audience these pictures were aimed at was different, and I found I was intrigued.