Chapter 1

At five feet five inches tall she had world-class legs, a dynamite ass, and a lithe, athletic figure. Her breasts were petite—34B. She had wavy, short deep brown hair, clear blue eyes, and a smile that was like the sun on a bright, cheery morning.

I knew Cherie Carlisle for two years before we finally started dating. She was as cute and classy as any girl I’d ever met. We met while I worked as a “hasher” in the sorority house where she lived. Though I had my eyes on her and seemed to have a warm, We had a friendly relationship, but she always dated higher profile guys, ones who seemed destined for careers with higher incomes.

At the beginning of my junior year a fraternity brother, who years later became a high-placed executive in a major industry began dating Cherie. He had the reputation as a player, usually going for “loose” women. So, I figured that Cherie must have been one of those. One night about two months into their relationship I was proven wrong when Garth came storming into the fraternity house shouting, “I’m through with that fuckin’ broad. I’ve wasted two months, tons of dough, and haven’t even gotten so much as a HAND-JOB.”

It was taboo for sorority members to socialize with kitchen help. It was one of those status things, even though the “help” consisted of young men attending the same college. But being more independent Cherie always ignored the taboo. She would often, in my case a member of a fraternity. But Cherie often came into the kitchen after dinner and talked with us as we worked. She enjoyed flirting with us, an “in your face” attitude that attracted me to her even more. About two weeks after Garth’s outburst at the fraternity house I asked her out. When he found out that I was dating her he chuckled and said, “So you’ve got a thing for nuns, huh?”

Cherie was active in the Wesley Foundation, the Methodist outreach for college campuses throughout the country. Not long after we started dating, she began pressuring me to go to church with her, which from time to time I did. She was demure; the kind of person one would think would be in control of her emotions. We didn’t kiss until our second date (standard practice in the era of the late 1950s and early 1960s).

On our third date, we went to a movie. When I put my arm over her shoulder, she took my hand and rubbed the back of it against her cheek, she liked touching it. At the same time, she nudged my knees with hers and moved her body as close to mine as the armrest would allow. I remember thinking at least she isn’t a nun. After the movie we pulled around the corner from the sorority house and parked the car in a dark, tree-shaded area, it was 10:45, fifteen minutes before the girls had to be in the house for the night. This time when I kissed her, she opened her lips and accepted my tongue. By the time she had to go in saliva sagged down both of our chins. As I remembered Garth saying, “I’ve wasted two months, tons of dough and haven’t gotten so much as a hand-job from her,” I thought she doesn’t seem so frigid to me.

The fourth time we went out she welcomed my hand on her breast and didn’t stop me when I slid it inside her bra. I remember how warm and soft her breasts were and how her nipples seemed to harden against the hollow of my hand as I fondled them. When I massaged her breasts, she became more passionate, and our kisses turned into a marathon of twisted tongues, moans, and sighs. Our noses acted as snorkels, mine breathing in and hers breathing out at the same time. It was a natural segue to slide my hand up the inside of her thigh. She wore a dark blue pleated skirt and knee socks (high style at the time), and her legs were bare from her knees to her panties. When my hand reached the warm humidity of her panties, she jerked it away and said “NO!”

After keeping her head against my chest and remaining quiet for a bit she looked up with her wide blue eyes, smiled, and kissed me passionately. Taking my hand, she put it back between her legs.

Vagina, pussy, twat, and cunt, all the words I could imagine, flooded my mind as my fingers smoothed over the panel of her panties and pressed the fabric so far so good. Pulling her panties aside my middle finger slid between her warm, moist lips and then penetrated her vagina which seemed to wrap around my finger like a wet soapy sponge. It felt like I was exploring the most marvelous tunnel in God’s creation.

It was the first time my finger had been inside a girl’s pussy. It felt like she was purposely squeezing her pussy muscles to make it tighter. I didn’t know about female orgasms at the time ... had no clue what a clitoris was. Had I known that it was there I certainly wouldn’t have known what to do with it. All I knew was that when her pussy clasped my finger so tightly, she gasped and froze into a spasm. I was so excited that I loaded my shorts with sperm.

After kissing her goodnight on the porch of the sorority house as I drove back to the fraternity house my left hand was on the wheel and the middle finger of my right hand was under my nose. It was as if I were sniffing a fine Cuban cigar. The delicate smell, coupled with a faint hint of urine made me hard again. As I drove, I relived the memory of our lovemaking and sucked my finger into my mouth, fucking it while it imparted the incredible scent and taste of her sex.

It was the night before we left to go home for Christmas vacation, just a month after we had first started dating. Cherie would be driving back to Virginia for the holidays. Being chaperoned by the house mother at the sorority house she was the last one left before she would drive home in the morning. In the car in the driveway of the sorority house, we exchanged gifts and then made love, kissing and caressing; my finger sliding inside her pussy again for the fourth time since we had been dating.

Romantic music played on the car radio, its light casting a green shade on Cherie’s bare, white legs above her knee socks. I had never done it before but since sucking my pussy-essence finger that first night of finger-fucking I had the urge to get close enough to her pussy to smell it. It was the late fifties, and I had never heard any of my fraternity brothers talk about eating pussy. Oral sex had not come into the popularity that we know today. But I was more than ready to break new ground.

Lifting her skirt, I could see her white lace panties being washed in the green light of the car radio. Lowering myself to my knees I spread hers. There was no resistance. Like a photographer taking a group picture, I pulled her skirt over my head. Then resting my cheek on Cherie’s soft abdomen, I could hear the grumbling inside her stomach and wondered if it was a sign of her excitement. It was heaven to be close enough to smell the delicate aroma of her femininity. For me, I was about to do something I imagined she had never dreamed of. I had only just been dreaming of it myself.

When I pulled her panties aside it was as if the music from the beginning of the movie A Space Odyssey 2001 blared in my ears. Chestnut brown hair—curly, deep brown hair—covered not only her mons but her puffy labia as well (Women, didn’t trim their bushes back then). I squeezed the cheeks of my ass tightly together to keep from popping my load. Convinced that I was going to fuck her that night I didn’t want any mishaps along the way.

As I parted her lips with my fingers, I heard the most marvelous wet “click” of her opening pussy. Resting my cheek on the inside of her thigh I could see her labia glistening in the ambient, green light of the car radio. Extending my tongue, I licked just where the top of her clam came together. I must have touched her clitoris (though I was yet unaware of what it was) because she winced so hard that her pubic bone hit my nose (I thought it would bleed but didn’t). As my tongue slid through her moistened, aromatic groove it tingled. I’d never done anything like this or tasted something so exciting. in the mists of my memories, the taste of my beloved Cherie’s pussy equaled Ambrosia of the gods.