Chapter 1

"I, Rebecca Marshall, pledge to God, myself, my future husband, and my family that I will remain sexually pure until I am united in holy matrimony."

It was 1966 and twelve of us, seven girls and five boys, took the pledge on a hot summer night in the basement of the Baptist Church in the small, west Kansas town of Smoky Hill. We then read together from the Bible: "It is God's will that you should be sanctified: that you should avoid sexual immorality; that each of you control your own body in holiness and honor."

Sue giggled. She was my best friend. "Shhh," I admonished her. It was a solemn undertaking for me. For Sue it was a party. Sue was big, bold, brassy, and busty. I was none of the above. I helped her with math and French and, as her friend, I shone a little brighter in her shadow. I was surprised she took the pledge.

The pledge came about as the reaction to several pregnancies in our high school. Church leaders took it upon themselves to bring in a handsome, charismatic, hell-fire-and- brimstone preacher to organize a youth group as an alternative to the drinking, dancing, and fornication that was so prevalent among my high school peers We called our Christian youth group TLC: "Teens Living for Christ." We had about a dozen regular members and a few others who showed up occasionally. We scheduled regular Friday night parties -- after the game during football season -- and the preacher counseled us on how we should conduct ourselves to avoid stoking the carnal fires of teenagers. Prayer was suggested as our most powerful weapon when temptation lurked. I fell in love with the preacher, but he seemed to pay more attention to praying with Sue. Perhaps he thought her need was greater.

The pledge didn't seem like a burden at the time. I was not besieged by panting boys. I was as ordinary as a girl could be: average height, average weight, brown hair and brown eyes. The only exceptional thing about me was my breasts. They were exceptionally tiny. Barely a curve interrupted the geometry of my chest. My nipples, however, seemed large and obscene. I kept them well covered as I did the rest of my body, usually wearing loose blouses that buttoned up to the neck and skirts that reached below my knees.

Looking back I realize that my religiosity was a defensive mechanism. I was an obscure and unnoticed person, even in my small high school. Religion was my excuse as to why boys paid little attention to me. Secretly, I dreamed of romance – especially with one of the dreamy football players who would see in me the qualities of character that the popular cheerleaders and beauty queens lacked. I was a frequent masturbator conjuring up situations in which I found true love – but my fantasy always stopped short of sexual relations.

Romance finally found me early in my senior year. Appropriately enough it happened at the Friday night TLC party at my church. His name was Don. He had not been a participant in my sexual fantasies. He sat down beside me while we were having soft drinks and cake at the conclusion of our party. Sue was on my other side, entertaining a brace of boys with slightly off-color stories. She directed a quick look at Don and gave me the suggestion of a wink.

Don, like me, was undistinguished in school. He had recently grown up to be tall, lanky, and rather good looking – although clumsy and inept in social situations. He was, in the vernacular of the time, consigned to the high school social class of "grits" – which was better than being a "hood" but well below the prestige of a "jock" or a "prep." I was too smart to be a grit but didn't quite measure up to being a prep.

"Would you like to go to the movie with me tomorrow?" Don asked. The closest movie theater was in Hickok, twenty miles away. "My father will let me take the car." Don had a driver's license, but didn't own a car himself – another factor that relegated him to the lowly status of a grit.

I was taken aback. But, I was also suffering the agony of not having a date to the Homecoming dance only one week in the future. Don was better than no date at all. "Why, yes," I answered. "That would be nice. Thank you for asking me."

The date was fun and Don asked me to go to the Homecoming dance and, soon, we were a couple -- my first boy friend. Don and I began going to church parties, watching television, and studying together. We cuddled on the sofa in the living room of my house and kissed chastely -- but we never allowed our hands or mouths to stray to forbidden zones and I kept my lips closed – one of the tips the handsome preacher had given us to preserve us from temptation.

That remained true for several weeks, but one night, sitting on the sofa together, Don moved his hand from my shoulder to my waist, his fingers running slowly over my chest. My nervous giggle ended in a gasp when his mouth found mine and he pushed himself close to me and his hand ran down my back and under the waistband of my skirt.

I allowed the kiss to continue longer than it should have before I shook myself free from him. "Sorry," he apologized.

"I understand," I said. I had been taught that it was the woman's job to restrain the savage sexual beast that lurks in the heart of men. I patted Don on the knee to show that he was forgiven and we sat a little closer than usual the rest of the night, his arm over my shoulder and my large, hard nipple enjoying the friction through the fabric of our clothing. I masturbated that night with the fantasy that Don and I were married and enjoying the blissful delights of sex between two truly committed Christians.

Our next date was another descent down the sinful slope that led to the fires of Hell. Sitting together on the sofa, his hand again found its way to my breast and, beneath the waistband of my skirt, inside my panties, and to the very top on the curve of my buttocks. His hands stayed in place while we kissed -- and I broke another rule I had learned for avoiding temptation. I took my feet off the floor and reclined on the sofa. I allowed him to unfasten the top buttons on my blouse and his fingers to reach under my bra to feel my nipples. I sensed the hardness of his penis beneath the fabric of his blue jeans. "I love you, ' he said. "I want to marry you."

I was speechless. "Don't you love me?" he pressed.

"Oh, I do," I answered, kissing him on the lips.

"I think this is all right if we're going to be married."

I wasn't sure what he meant by "this." I thought about it as we lay there, he half on top of me, his fingers massaging my breasts, me twitching to feel better his hard penis pressing against my hip. "Well, yes," I said. "I think it's all right that we do this. As long as we don't go any further," I added quickly.

"Of course not," he agreed. "We promised God." We talked a lot about marriage and our future after that. I didn't exactly accept his proposal of marriage but I now regarded our relationship as enduring. I would help Don grow up to be the kind of person I thought he should be. He was sometimes slothful at school and less than ambitious about his future.

During Christmas vacation Don came over late one night to watch a movie on television. My parents had already gone to bed. I greeted him wearing flannel pajamas-- long, loose trousers held on with a drawstring and an untucked top that buttoned down the front. I thought about getting dressed more appropriately, but the pajamas were modest, I told myself, and I well aware that his hands could find my breasts easier under the top than if I put on a bra and blouse. It didn't take long for him to discover that.

We lay on the sofa side-by-side and, for the first time in my life, a boy's mouth sucked my nipples. They were so hard and big and he sucked and sucked as I turned onto my back and he rolled on top of me and pressed against my groin. He began to hunch, his body driving harder and harder against mine. I spread my legs, and he pitched wildly back and forth, breathing hard and moaning in ecstasy, and then he collapsed, his labored breathing hot against my neck.

I wasn't sure what had happened -- but I thought he had "climaxed." That was a less embarrassing word to me than "orgasm." The word "cum" had never passed my lips – although I knew what it meant.

The hard member in his jeans quickly went away after his last spasm and he relaxed in my arms, not even able to respond when I moved my hips to enjoy better the feel of him. He laid his head on my bare breasts. Only a month before the notion of uncovering my breasts for a man would have been unthinkable.

"Did I hurt you?" Don asked as his breathing became more normal.

"Not at all," I answered. "I like it when you kiss my breasts. And, and ... uh ... I liked the other too."

"I can't wait until we get married and we can go all the way."

"I can't either. I think God is telling us that we will be happy together. Should we wait until we finish college – or get married sooner?"

"Sooner," he said. "Maybe I'll get a job instead of college."

"Oh, no, you must go to college. Perhaps you could become a preacher?" That was my dream: to marry a handsome, sensual preacher and to be his sweet, satisfied, and well-fucked helpmate. The word "fuck" had entered my consciousness – and I liked the guilty thrill it gave me. Sue said it often – just to shock my pious little soul.

"Perhaps," his lack of enthusiasm was noticeable. I worried about his lack of ambition. The seed of doubt was sown.

"Please, Jesus," I prayed. "Instill in Don the desire to do your will and great work on your behalf. And, Jesus," I added, "Bless the soul of Sue. She loves you and she needs your guidance to avoid the temptations of sin." I had a strong suspicion that Sue had already violated the pledge with her boy friend, one of the stars on the football team. She was uncharacteristically vague about the details of her romance, but he was known to have had sex with several girls.

Two nights later, in the back seat of his father's car, I wrapped my legs around Don to and moved in concert with him and we hunched together in a fully-clothed pantomime of sex. He climaxed again. I suppressed the wish that he had lasted just a little bit longer as I was nearly ready myself.

A few days later, while we were kissing on the sofa, Don unzipped his jeans and pulled my hand down to his penis. I felt the hardness beneath my hand and, then, his penis sprung from his pants, standing tall, and my hand was wrapped around it. "Becky," he muttered, "I need ... some ... ah ... relief. I'm afraid I'll want to do something bad if ... ah ... you don't help me."

I wasn't sure how I was to help him, but it was not very difficult to learn. A few strokes of my hand and he breathed hard and sighed loudly and his penis jerked wildly and hot sperm surged out of him and fell on my arm and hand. I held his dick (as I had begun to call it) until it lost its hardness and nearly disappeared. It was interesting how it became so small and insignificant so quickly. It didn't even respond when I gave it a few more strokes. As Don lay back on the sofa and relaxed I found myself really, really wishing that he would provide some relief for me, but I didn't have the courage to ask him. I left him as soon as I could to change my underwear. My panties were wet.