Chapter 1

I had known for some time that Kirsten was approaching that age. I’d had “the talk” with her several years ago, and she had gotten progressively more boy-crazy until last year, when she finally got a steady boyfriend. It was a surprise to me to find out that she was still a virgin. I’d put her on the pill without Steven’s knowledge or assent, I just couldn’t see letting her screw her life up that way. I just accepted the fact that she was going to start screwing around pretty quick. The kids around here grow up fast, I was sure most of her friends had lost it by then. I just went ahead and took her to the clinic and got her started on the pill. I found out later Steven knew, but by then he was so out of the family I don’t think he cared. And I sure didn’t care what he thought.

Kirsten is a foxy little thing. I can see that, even though I’m her mother. I’m not bad looking, for thirty six, and I’d gotten used to having men stare at me, but from when she was about fourteen on, whenever I was out with her, it wasn’t me the focus was on. I could see it happening, right in front of me, and it pissed me off at first, then amused me, later. And she seemed so unaware of it. Men, even older men, had a fascination with her ... well, I remember being a teen, and I remember noticing that, even then. There’s just something about beautiful young teen girls. I think a lot of their sexual appeal is that they’re so unaware of it.

Kirsten has a boyfriend now, a very nice young man named Brian, whom I like very much. He is a big kid, but he’s sweet and gentle with her, the few times I’ve seen them together. I think he’s generous and kind, and he’s never been anything but respectful to me. Steven, my asshole husband, has never even cared enough to meet the boy. I’m sure that Kirsten will have many more boyfriends, but Brian is her first real one, and I hope she keeps him around long enough to have many special memories of him. I wish I could have been so lucky, at her age ... how much different my life might have turned out. Sigh ... I sh I shouldn’t say that ... I love my children very much, and I don’t regret the circumstances that brought them into being. I just wish their father was more of a father, and more of a man. ay, I’ve always had a good rapport with Kirsten. She’d started out as a Daddy’s girl, but as Steven pulled further and further away from our family, she began to focus on me. She began to actively resent his treatment of me when she was eleven or twelve, and we had many long talks about it. I have no idea if she ever talked to him about it, he never made mention of it. He and I barely speak any more, on those rare occasions when he’s home. She now seems to ignore him, as I do. This is a conscious choice he’s made, to turn his back on his family. When we finally sign the papers it will be a relief.

Kirsten is an open child, and very up-front. She scares some adults, like her grand-parents, and frustrates others, like her teachers. I have learned to accept her for what she is, and love her for it. I know I spoil her and Rodney. It only seems fair, since their own father ignores them. I love them, and feel for them. It’s not easy being a kid, and it’s not easy being one in a family as screwed up as ours has become.

Don’t ask me why I don’t just walk away. I’m close to that point. Part of it is business related, and part of it is because the kids are still kids. When they move out, there will no longer be any reason to pretend, even as little as we pretend now. And, like I said ... business ... we have a good business, and we seem able to manage that still, as our marriage falls apart. I am comfortable that I’ll be able to hose his ass good, when we finally do split. I will feel no guilt, he was the first to break our vows, back when I was a good little girl. I will gladly take half his earthly possessions, with no guilt whatsoever. Maybe it will be worth it to him, to be free of me. I’m not perfect, but I know I’m still attractive and desirable just from the men that come onto me, when I’m out and around. Why his love for me died I’ll never know. The fact that he’s apparently gone through five or six girlfriends makes me believe that it’s him, and that he’ll never find what he’s looking for. I think I was just a seventeen-year stage in his life. I wonder if he’ll be as relieved as me, when it’s finally over. I’m not going to say I hope for the best for him, because I don’t.

Anyway, that’s not the story, Kirsten and Brian are the story. And Rodney has a little part in it, to my embarrassment. I will tell the whole truth, as it happened. May god have mercy on my soul.

One night Kirsten, Rodney and I had just had dinner, and Kirsten was helping me do the dishes. Rodney had disappeared up to his room, as men seem to do when there are chores to be done. We cleaned the table, and began to stock the dishwasher.

“Mom...” said Kirsten.

“Yes, dear,” I replied.

“Mom ... I don’t wanna make you mad...” she seemed strangely reticent to talk, unlike her usual self. I wondered what was up. She continued. “I know we don’t usually talk ‘bout stuff like this ... but I wonder ... Mom ... how old were you ... how old...”

She just seemed to freeze right up, then and there. I laughed to myself. What else could she be wanting to know, to cause this much fuss?

“Darling,” I said, “How old was I when I first lost my virginity? Is that what you’re trying to ask?”

She laughed, and I could tell she was embarrassed. I sighed. I wondered if I should tell her the truth. The girl was almost sixteen. Why not, I thought ... surely she’s no longer a virgin. No girl was, around here. I’d read in the newspaper at work a few months ago that fourteen was the median age in this area, for girls to lose their virginity. It hadn’t surprised me.

“Darling, I was fourteen,” I said. Hell, why not. She deserved the truth. I wondered if she’d been even fourteen. She’d only been thirteen and a half when I put her on the pill. I hated to do it, to me that seemed like I was basically telling her it was okay to start screwing, but I had gone ahead. I wasn’t willing to allow her to mess up the whole rest of her life with a baby, like I’ve said before. Yes, I was fourteen, back when the median age was probably eighteen. I was ahead of my time.

“Gee whiz, mom,” she said, now laughing.

“What?” I said, “I know that’s early ... I’m not proud of it, but it happened. I won’t say I was forced, but a lot of pressure was put on me, by Ben, as you know. At the time, I felt like I was ready ... I admit I allowed it, although I felt some guilt ... I knew how your grandmother would feel if she knew...”

“Mom, I know the story,” she said, “I just didn’t know you were only fourteen.”

Yes, she knew the story. I hadn’t hid that from the kids. My uncle Ben was still in the pen, not from what he did to me, but what he’d done to one of my cousin’s daughters. I freely admit my relationship with him was mostly consensual. He was good at what he did. He made me feel grown-up, and important, and sexy. God, he made me feel sexy ... I still think of him, sometimes, when I’m ... fucking ... he had a powerful grip on my psyche. He carefully molded and shaped me. A lot of what I am today is because of his influence. I’m just glad he’s stayed in prison all these years, and I haven’t had to guard my daughter from him. Sad to say, my mother did not do a very good job in that department, even allowing me to stay with him overnight, never suspecting. Sometimes I feel like she wouldn’t have cared, even if she knew. Well, that is unfair ... she would care, but she would want to sweep it under the rug. She wouldn’t want to make a fuss. Sex, to her, was naughty and should not be talked about, even when someone in your family was a molester.

“Mom...” she went on, “Did you ... did you love him?”

“Yes, dear,” I replied, wanting to tell her the truth, “He was very careful and made sure I loved him. And, he was very lovable. I will not lie about that.”

“Thanks, mom,” she said. We finished with the dishes, and she sat at the table, her face in her hands. I looked at her. She was beautiful, even when she had chocolate cake on her chin. She would break a lot of hearts, in the coming years.

“Darling,” I said, wiping her face with a wet paper towel, “what are you thinking? What brought this up?”

“Mom...” her lip trembled, and I almost thought she was going to burst into tears.

“Oh, darling, what is it?” I said, and sat beside her. I put my arm around her shoulder.

“Mom ... like I said, I don’t want you to be mad...” she said again, snuffling, “But all my friends ... have had their cherries popped ... I’m the last...” Tears did come then, and I almost cried with her. But, I was surprised. She was still a virgin?

“Darling,” I said, hugging her, “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud. That’s something very special to still have. Someday you’re going to make some lucky young man very happy. I hope it’s special for you, special and wonderful.”

“I just feel ... left out,” she said, sighing. I laughed.

“Darling, there’s nothing to feel left out about. Sex is fun and part of life, but it’s not a necessity ... I’ve proved that, over the years.” I hoped to get a smile out of her with that, but it went over her head. I continued. “So what if your friends have done it. Your time will come, and hopefully it will be magical and special. I hope it is, I have high hopes for you, darlin’...”

I did. I wanted it to be special for her. I idly wondered if Brian could make it that special. If appearances were any judge, he could.

“So, when do you think I should do it?” she said. She still seemed to have missed my point.

“Kris, dear,” I said, slightly exasperated. “There’s not a right time, per se. Just when you feel ready, and the right guy comes along, a guy who treats you right, and respects you, and whom you love very much ... enough to give something special to. Your virginity is very special, it’s literally a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Please don’t waste it, darling.”

She was silent for a moment. Finally she said, “Do you think Brian is special enough?”

I sighed. This was not exactly going where I’d intended.

“Honey, I don’t know, that’s something you’re going to have to decide. I’m your mother, but I’m not going to decide who ... who pops your cherry.” We both laughed at that. I wondered if it was over.

I wondered about Brian, about the level of his experience. Shit, I’d just ask.

“Honey ... has Brian ... has he had other girls?” I asked, and she shook her head vehemently.

“No! I’ll be his first! If we ... if we ... Mom. We’ve ... we’ve...” she colored nicely. “We’ve played around some, but we haven’t gone ... all the way.”

I nodded.

“Will you be mad at me if I do?” she asked. It wasn’t over. I sighed again.

“No dear, even if I somehow find out, I won’t be. Darling ... I appreciate your openness with me, and sharing this stuff ... but you don’t have to keep me clued in to the status of your ... hymen...”

“Why? Will it upset you?”

“It will upset me that my little girl isn’t little any more. Kirsten ... nothing you do will alienate my affection for you. I won’t care, one way or the other ... except, I do want you to think seriously before you do anything. Like I said, don’t just throw it away. In the old days, girls were still virgins when they married. There is something to be said for that, although, I admit, I wasn’t ... but think about your perception of yourself, and your ... self respect, to use a tired old phrase. Don’t do it just to fit in, or because all the other girls have. Do it because you love someone, and you love yourself. And, like I said, make it something to remember.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asked, and I nodded.

“It can, and usually does, when the hymen is torn. But not every girl has a hymen. Things like gymnastics and stretching can tear it prematurely. It’s not a given.”

“Did it hurt for you?”

“Yes, frankly, it hurt like hell. But just for a little bit. I must have had a tight hymen.”

“Mom ... do I have ... a hynem?”

I laughed. “Hymen, darling. Also called maidenhead. We’ve talked about this before, darlin’ ... remember? I have no idea, I haven’t seen you down there since ... well, in years. I assume you do. You should be able to tell ... if one or two ... fingers won’t go, you probably do...”

She turned red again. I laughed to myself. Talking with my daughter about sticking her fingers in her twat ... what a nice dinner table conversation.

“I’m afraid it will hurt, though,” she said thoughtfully. I understood.

“You’ll deal with it, if it does. It’s just part of life. I have heard of girls having to have surgery to help them along, down there ... do I need to make an appointment with Doctor Needle?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Mom...” she said, and I could tell again it was something she didn’t want to talk about.

“Yes, dear,” I said.

“Mom ... would you ... would you look?”

That shocked the holy hell out of me. I mean, she’s not really shy ... but hell, she’s almost sixteen. And she wanted me to examine her vagina, her pussy?

“Darling,” I said, “I’m very serious. I can make you an appointment, and the doctor can reassure you. He’s seen you down there already, remember? I think if you were impossibly small, he would have at least said something to me, at that time. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

While I said this, I had a thought squirm through my brain ... not really a wicked thought, but a slightly ... improper one. Yeah, I thought to myself, I’d like a look at that. Not because it’s a pussy, but because it’s my daughter. I’d like one last glimpse of her, before she became a woman. I loved her when she was a child, I’d spread her little lips more than once and looked into her simple childish beauty, marveling at what it was and what it would become, someday. That someday was now, and I’d like to see it again. Call me weird. I wanted to see her pussy.

“You don’t have to make an appointment...” she said. “It’s not that big a deal. I just wondered...”

“Darling...” I said, “I think I understand. Here, pull your shorts and panties down, and let me have a quick peek. I think I can tell you, at least, if it’s going to be a big problem.”

She looked embarrassed, but slowly unsnapped her shorts, and slid them and her panties down. She sat back in her chair, and spread her legs. I squatted, placing my hands on her upper legs.

And she was shaved! That surprised me more than anything. She shaved her pussy? At fifteen years old? And she was still a virgin? Did she shave it for herself, then? What else reason would there be? I shaved, and I admit, at this stage, it was mostly for myself ... I didn’t like matted tangled pubic hair, although I’m blonde and it wasn’t that thick ... shaving just seems so much neater or something...

“Baby, I didn’t know you shaved...” I said, not wanting to make a major issue out of it. I was curious what she’d say, though.

“Mom, everyone shaves. I couldn’t go in the locker room, if I didn’t shave,” she said, and I nodded.

“I see,” I said, leaning close, surveying her smooth little pussy. I took my thumbs, and delicately pulled her pussy lips back, exposing her slit. I could see a little hymen, and it looked fairly tight. I didn’t think she’d have any problem, though ... any problem taking a cock, I told myself, feeling a naughty thrill just from thinking that. I’m looking at my daughter’s pussy, I told myself, feeling another naughty thrill. I was almost shocked at myself. Am I a pervert? I wondered. I spread her a little further, and leaned in closer, like I was looking. I drew a silent sniff through my nostrils, and smelled her light scent. Oh, she smelled good ... I felt my own pussy begin to ooze.

Okay, since this whole story is about confessions, here’s one for the books. I have a dear friend, a woman named Jean, whom I have worked with for over ten years. I have, over the years, felt a stronger and stronger attraction to her, and it’s been reciprocated. I know she likes me, and I like her, but we both kind of kept our distance ... until recently. After a business trip several months ago, we had taken a further step in our relationship. One Saturday night she invited me to her house. We made out on her couch, and I spent the night in her bed. It was everything I’d hoped for, and more. She was sweet and gentle with me, and I’m guessing I wasn’t her first. I don’t think I’m a lesbian, but I love her very much, and she has helped me through a difficult time in my life, when I felt all alone. I love her for that. I love her physically, in a way that’s hard to explain. We have a great friendship, and a kind of cerebral logical love because of that friendship, but the physical side of it is incredible. She brought out things deep inside me that I never dreamed I possessed. Making love to her is almost a spiritual experience for me. And the smells and tastes of her body drive me totally fucking insane. ‘Nuff said.

So, smelling my beautiful daughter’s cute little pussy was also almost a holy experience. And a damn sexy one. I thought of Jean, of what I did to her just last weekend, and I felt a longing, a sadness that I couldn’t just bury my face in this sweet little cunt, like I had Jean’s. Like I said, I’m not a lesbian, but I do like pussy, although I’ve only ever sampled one other than my own. Secretly, I love the taste and smell of myself ... maybe I am part lezzie, I don’t know.

I had an overpowering urge to at least kiss her little cunt, but I didn’t. I was down here to check her hymen. I carefully fitted my index finger into her cunt, feeling her tight hymen circle it. Her sexy little clit stood proudly above my questing finger and it was all I could do not to stroke it. I didn’t push inside her with my finger, though I was tempted. It was an emotional experience, and highly sexual for me, and I felt my own cunt oozing juice even more. How I wished that it was my tongue instead of my finger. I shook my head at myself. What was I turning into? Crazy, just plain crazy. I needed to stop, before I did something I regretted.

Finally, I let her little lips flop back together, and scraped the top of my knuckle across her clit, hoping it would seem like an accident. I leaned back and looked up at her. She looked down, almost puzzled.

“Honey,” I said, “I don’t think you’ll...”

“Oh, holy shit!” a loud voice said. We both jumped guiltily. I looked at the door. All I saw was the back of Rodney’s head as he turned and went back in the hall. I’m sure it looked weirder than shit to him, me on my knees, my head down, less than a foot from Kirsten’s bare spread-eagled pussy. Shit, I thought, shit. Why didn’t we go to the bathroom?

“Mom...” Kirsten was actually giggling, instead of freaking out. That was a relief, at least. “Mom, you’re gonna have some ‘splainin’ to do...”

“Well, so be it,” I said, standing. “Kirsten, your pussy looks just fine. I don’t think you’ll have a problem. There will probably be some discomfort, but I think you’ll be brave and manage just fine.

Kirsten stood, and pulled her shorts and panties back up. My peep show was over. A thought occurred to me at that time about Brian. The kid was big, for a tenth grader. The football coach had gone ga-ga over him, he could throw and run, in spite of being big. I wondered just how big he was. And if he was big ... all over. My poor baby might be in some pain, I thought, if his dick is as big as his muscles. Another thought stole into my head, and gave me a little thrill. Maybe, I thought, just maybe a little detective work is in order. I wondered how to make it happen.

That night, after Kirsten had kissed me goodnight and toddled off to bed, I waited thirty minutes or so, changing into my nightgown while I waited. After I was sure she was asleep, I went up the stairs to the loft, where Rodney sleeps. I knew he’d still be awake, he always watched the Tonight Show, and sure enough his little TV was on. He didn’t say a word, he just nodded at me.

Rodney and I have a peculiar relationship. I know he loves me, and I love him dearly. He’s my son, he came into this world through my vagina. He was difficult to carry, and difficult to birth, even though he was my second. We are close, without being clingy. Just like tonight ... I hug and kiss Kirsten every night, and send her off to bed. But I don’t see Rodney until the next morning at breakfast. None of that lovey-dovey shit for him. It’s just the way he is, and I’ve changed my habits to suit him. I suppose I have spoiled him, probably even more than I have Kirsten. I apologize to the world. He probably has a bit of a god complex ... he’s handsome, rangy and slim, and I know, even though he’s just in ninth grade, I know he’s good with the ladies. He’s had a steady string of girlfriends, since he was nine or ten. He’s almost a joke in the family, my parents call him “Casanova” at times. Kirsten calls him “The Love Bug.” I know beyond the shadow of doubt Rodney is not a virgin. I have found condom wrappers in his jeans, when I did his laundry. I’m sure he’s not using them for water balloons.

“Rod, honey,” I said, seating myself on the couch next to him. He slowly turned, and looked at me.

“What you saw...” I said, and he snorted and said, “Good grief!”

“Rodney, I was reassuring your sister. She was worried about ... girl stuff. Thank you for understanding.”

He laughed.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, “It just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it.”