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Little Karen
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
LITTLE KAREN
(Author Unknown)
Part 1.
Somehow I managed to retain my virginity until 17. Not by choice,
certainly. I was as horny as anyone at that age and, I tried every
means I could think of to get laid, short of prostitution. I didn't
have the initiative for that. Problem was, I'd made the mistake of
falling in love at 14 with a very sensible girl. We went steady
throughout high school, and she capitulated only after graduation.
Sigh.
But this isn't a story of my first time with her. It's about
another, earlier experience. Much earlier. It's an account of the
emerging sexuality of a young boy who very nearly lost his virginity at
the age of 12, one chilly autumn night in 1961. Her name was Karen.
Karen was just nine years old then.
Until recently I had forgotten about this incident. Yeah, I know, it
seems incredible, but I had. Perhaps a psychologist would say I had
sublimated it, though I don't think so; it certainly was not unpleasant
or traumatic. To the contrary, it was every 12-year-old kid's dream
come true.
The memory suddenly surfaced about two years ago, triggered by an
amazingly complex rush of emotions resulting from an encounter with my
daughter, just now turning 11. She would've been about 9 then I
guess. I inadvertently walked in on her while she was masturbating.
You can imagine the instantaneous rush of emotions; astonishment,
embarrassment, amusement, regret, concern... and, uncomfortably, a
strong sense of sexual arousal. That aspect of it captured my
attention for days afterward and, I suppose, is what triggered these
youthful memories that I'd forgotten.
And, oh god, what memories, once they came back. What I wouldn't
give to go back... for just one hour... back to one specific day with
little, nine-year-old Karen; to go back knowing what I know now...
When I began to recall that episode of my youth, the details emerged
slowly, over a period of days; maybe months. It was fascinating... and
enormously erotic... to remember, and each time I mentally ran through
the sequence of events I remembered more detail. Finally it occurred
to me that I should record it somewhere. I am a writer, after all,
but I realized I'd never written about something that may have been
more important to me than I'd previously realized. This is the result.
I'm gratified to have recorded it, more gratified to know that it
will never be published under my name. Not only for the obvious
reason. A more selfish motive is that this account has not been
written to my usual standard. I've made a conscious decision to write
it as nearly as I can just the way it occurred, without embellishment,
without the usual devices that make such accounts more compelling
reading.
Simply put, this is what happened. It's not a fantasy. That is to
say, it wasn't. Now the memory of it has indeed taken on that aspect.
The only liberties I've taken are to insert dialogue here and there
that, while obviously not authentic, does to the best of my
recollection express what was actually said at the time.
And, of course, the names have been changed. All but one.
First, some limited background. I'm 38, white and single (now; my
wife died a number of years ago). I'm strictly straight, but in the
past few years I've begun paying far more attention to eroticism, as
the realization dawned that for much of my life my sexual imagination
had been pretty conventional. Which may be the reason why, when these
memories suddenly resurfaced, I found myself so utterly fascinated.
My sexual development began at about age 11, I suppose. My earliest
memory is of playing if-you-show-me-yours with a neighborhood girl
when I was perhaps 5. But, having seen it, I had no idea what to do
with it, and that was that.
At 11, though, things were quite different. A buddy of mine
introduced masturbation to me, or tried to. He was spending the night
with me, sleeping in the upper part of my bunk bed. At the time, he
wasn't sleeping. He was trying to describe both how, and why, I should
try this new experience.
Part 2.
This kind of talk was pretty damned embarrassing to me at that age.
I wanted him to shut up and go to sleep, but didn't have the courage to
tell him so. He insisted I try it so, to shut him up, I did. I pulled
down my pajama bottoms, grabbed my little cock in my right hand, and
did as he described.
"Pull on it," he said. "Kind of rub it up and down real fast. It
feels good."
Big deal, I thought. It feels like I'm pulling on my prick.
I was deeply embarrassed at this, for a lot of reasons. First, I
was vaguely disappointed that I wasn't responding the way I clearly was
supposed to. Worse, I was terribly conscious that manhood had yet to
make an appearance. I had absolutely no hair (I checked daily) in all
the places that are so terribly important to a boy's self-esteem. Not
on my pubis, not on my balls, not on my chest, not even much on my
legs to speak of except fine, nearly invisible blonde down.
So I lay there, jerking and pulling mechanically. Up in the top bunk
he was doing the same. With a lot more enthusiasm. Talking all the
time.
"Doesn't that feel good?" He asked, bedsprings squeaking.
"Uh, not really, John."
"Well then, you're not doing it right. Let me come down there and
see if you're doing it right."
"NO! No. Uh-uh. I'm doing it fine. Really. Hey, yeah, you're
right, John; it, uh, it's beginning to feel good. Real good."
Which was bullshit, of course, but I was damned if I was going to
let John see my limp, little white cock and hairless balls.
"Good. Told ya. Didn't I tell ya? Now, it'll feel better and
better, and then this white, sticky stuff will come out. Just keep
going."
Right, I thought. White, sticky stuff. I began wondering whether
John had a particularly active imagination, or if he was just real
seriously strange.
Eventually he got off. I didn't and said I did. Then we both went
to sleep. It never happened again. There was hardly a chance... John
died of leukemia about a year later.
After John's death my best buddy was Bob, my nextdoor neighbor.
We were opposites in every way; I was tall and skinny, he was short and
stocky. I was quiet and shy, he was the loud braggart. I was on the
track & swimming teams; he played tackle.
Bob and I were tight, though. Best friends. We explored the world
as partners, fought enemies as a team, shared our innermost thoughts.
We went to different schools, however, so he wasn't around the first
time I successfully "made the white, sticky stuff come out."
It happened in the back of my sixth-grade classroom, in late spring,
toward the end of the school year. I was alone in the room, having
been banished there for excessive rowdiness during a class excursion.
I'd found a stack of magazines left over from some class project or
other and, leafing through them, came across an ad for women's
underwear.
I was bored, and spent quite some time looking this ad over.
Thinking. Wondering. The room was warm and quiet. My prick began to
stir. This was a completely new experience; morning hard-ons until that
point had been simply a curiosity, not at all sexual. Suddenly that
was no longer the case. It grew. And grew.
Constricted in my underwear, it began to throb gently. I reached
down to shift it. My god, what a surprise; Oh, that felt good. I
rubbed. Soon both hands fumbled with the zipper, and out it popped,
straining upward from my lap, its head just peeping up from behind the
lower edge of the sloping wooden top of my school desk.
Part 3.
I was astonished. I stared at it as I rubbed, soon finding a
certain area of wrinkled skin just under the head that... OH, yeah...
OH, yeah... that's just... OH, yeah... OH, gush, gush, gush, gush,
gush, gush... all over the desk top, my pants, the magazine,
everywhere.
It wasn't the intensely sexy experience I thought it would be; the
thing I remember most was my utter amazement. John was right. My god,
look at all this stuff. I threw the magazine away, cleaned up as best
I could, and went home that afternoon dying to tell Bob about this new
development.
Turns out Bob had been holding out on me. He'd been stroking the
pole for a year or more. But he was pretty good natured about it, and
listened patiently to my breathless explanation.
We were of course intensely curious and active at that age; one
thing led to another, and one day soon thereafter Bob and I found
ourselves deep in the woods, pants down, examining this new-found
wonder.
We stared and compared, we stroked, we shot our wads. Finally
shucking our clothes completely, we ran, yelling, through the woods,
climbing trees, wagging our cocks to smack back and forth on our
thighs, beating our chests, reveling in our emerging manhood. We
staged pissing contests. We found a high cliff and took turns hanging
our asses over the edge, to watch each other's turds squeeze slowly out
of the hole and tumble down into the ravine below. We smoked hollow
grapevine stalks, slapped mosquitoes and talked about girls.
These forays into the woods went on throughout that spring and into
the summer. Randy does not begin to describe the emerging sexuality
of a 12-year-old boy. I don't recall exactly how it began, which of
us initiated it, but finally, one day, Bob and I got more adventurous.
I suppose it's because I'm not gay, or even bi, but I don't remember
all the nuances of detail that typically embellish stories like these.
I do remember spitting on my hands and slathering saliva all over
the head of my prick. I remember Bob lying down on his right side,
facing away from me, bringing his knees up to his chest. I remember
him jerking away at first and turning quickly to punch me in the arm
because it hurt going in; that punch hurt like hell, since my arms were
so skinny then.
I remember how tight Bob's sphincter was; how it hurt the head of my
cock to force its way in; how the saliva didn't help much once I was in
past his sphincter. It was tight, and squeezed me hard, but it wasn't
terribly pleasurable. I managed to go in about three inches, I think,
then we just lay there and talked about how it felt.
Bob: "Kinda hurts."
Me: "Feels okay. I guess."
We weren't knowledgeable... or imaginative... enough to think of
pumping in and out. So we lay there for a while, then I pulled out and
we reversed positions. He was right. It hurt. Neither of us came.
It also never occurred to us what a convenient position 69 is. So
we took turns.
That felt much better. It was warm and wet in Bob's mouth, and when
Bob started licking the underside of my prick I came right away. This
really pissed him off, though, so we didn't do that any more either. Of
course, that day Bob demanded that I reciprocate. It was the only time
I've ever had a cock in my mouth. And although my memory of it is
vague, it served me well in later years by enhancing my knowledge of
the physical challenges this presents to women.
My most specific memory is how spongy Bob's prick was; how I'd
expected it to be something like a hotdog, but its lack of firmness
surprised me. It was enormous, certainly; it filled my mouth
completely, but when I squeezed and sucked on it, it seemed to expand
and contract. It was almost as though I couldn't tell his cock tissue
from the mucous-membrane tissues lining my cheeks.
Part 4.
And I remember Bob's insistent pushing; he obviously wanted to slide
the whole thing into my mouth. I couldn't accommodate more than a
couple inches or so, though, and had to push back hard at his stomach
to keep him from choking me. It was getting hard to breathe. I
wanted him to come, but his prick was so much thicker than mine that it
jammed my tongue down and I couldn't lick it the way he had mine. So I
popped it out and licked the underside until he came.
Ugh. What a mess. Slimy and stinky. Gross, I think, was the term
I'd have used then. It didn't seem particularly disgusting at the
time, but it also wasn't a terribly erotic moment for me. If I'd had
the vocabulary then I'd probably have described the experience as a
simply mechanical act; a mutual courtesy, like back scratching.
Still, the feeling of being sucked was a compelling memory and I
tried for months afterward to twist myself into position to suck my
own cock.
I was a puppy chasing its tail. I'd bend down until my spine
popped. I'd lie on my back in the bottom bunk, roll my knees up, and
press my heels hard against the top bunk, straining hard, watching a
fuzzy, out-of-focus image of my randy prick head wagging tantalizingly
close, stretching out my tongue until the root hurt. Once, only once,
in this position, straining so hard that every muscle in my body
quivered, I managed to brush the tip of my cock with my tongue. Only
then did I realize the sensitive spot I needed to reach was another
inch away. So that was that.
Bob and I weren't keen on the idea of sucking, so we tried other
means. We cut a prick-sized hole in a melon and fucked it. Honest to
god, this was not my idea. You can imagine how satisfying that was. We
bought slabs of liver at the grocery, carried it into the woods, let it
warm on a sunny rock, then wrapped it around our cocks and stroked.
Better. Eventually we discovered that greased butt cheeks were a
satisfactory compromise, and we'd head off to the woods with a stick of
butter several times a week to slap mosquitoes and shoot sperm all over
each other's backs.
Sometime that summer I became friends with David and introduced him
to Bob. At 12, social acceptance can hinge on matters as ephemeral as
a zit or a bad haircut, but David suffered the more debilitating
stigmas of being short, Jewish, and wearing glasses. So he was not
only delighted to be included as a friend, he was uncommonly anxious to
please. The three of us got along wonderfully, and eventually Bob and
I summoned the courage to mention our excursions into the woods. This
drew a characteristically enthusiastic response from David.
"Wow! You guys really do that! Neat!"
David's insatiable curiosity, his enthusiasm for life, was the stuff
of legend. He couldn't wait. He giggled uncontrollably during the
entire 20-minute walk through the woods to our carefully selected
spot. He just couldn't get over the fact that these two Catholic boys
were circumcised, too. And, of course, we had a fine time. The
addition of a new person added an edge of excitement we hadn't felt
before; today, I recognize that as eroticism, but then it was just
exciting and different. We were all nervous, but soon the nervousness
enhanced our arousal to a higher pitch than we'd ever experienced. That
day we departed from the cheek-fucking routine and actually managed to
work our pricks in all the way up to the balls. We formed a daisy
chain; Bob fucking David as he fucked me; then we reversed. We must
have come three or four times each. My asshole was sore for days.
David of course immediately began taking part in our conversations
about girls. When it turned out that he had far more first-hand
knowledge than either of us, Bob and I were delighted at our wisdom in
having invited David to join our exclusive group.
I had no sisters. Bob had two, one about four and and an older
sister who was a worldly 16; since they lived next door, I fantasized
about his older sister incessantly. Especially that summer, when I'd
see her so often out in the back yard, sunning in a swimsuit, or
lounging in her very short shorts. I had plied Bob with questions
about her, but he wasn't much help; just the usual saw-her-
coming-out-of-the-shower-a-couple-times kind of stories. "She has
tits! And hair between her legs!" Great, Bob. Thanks.
Part 5.
Not David. His knowledge seemed far more thorough. I remember
clearly one such conversation, over Cokes at the drug-store soda
fountain after school one day in early September. Bob and I were
arguing some obscure point of human sexuality... I think it may have
been, Which hole do you suppose it goes into? ... I can't now remember
which side of this argument I took, but it was a terribly earnest
discussion. We honestly didn't know.
David walked in on this discussion and found it heartily
entertaining. He shook his head and chuckled, leaned back on the
stool, regarded us with the most jaded look he could muster, then began
to explain.
We were wary. Wait a minute, David, we said. How do you know all
this stuff we don't?
"Oh, well," he said thoughtfully, pausing for greater effect. "I
can see I'm going to have to start at the beginning."
Now, I should add here that David was at the top of his class (my
class) academically. He came from a family of overachievers. We
regarded his parents as true intellectuals. I was in awe, actually;
I'd read about intellectuals, but had never really known one. More to
the point at the time, his family was known to be "progressive." Which
is to say that, on occasion, they'd take David to an R-rated movie.
"So," David explained, "we have this country place, see, and we go
out there just about every weekend. About a year ago, my Dad said,
we're gonna take both cars this weekend. I rode with my Dad, and my
sister Karen rode with my Mom. The deal was, it turned out, my Dad
had decided it was time to talk to me, you know? Tell me all about
sex."
Bob and I nodded and smiled like we'd been through all that, too.
In point of fact, neither of us had. We were both 12 but our parents
hadn't mentioned a damned thing to us. Catholicism, or simply the
morality of the times? Who knows. You decide. We'd gleaned our
knowledge from any source we could, tearing through every novel in the
house looking for good parts, sneaking Playboys, swapping stories at
school. All of which had added up to an incomplete and contradictory
collage of images that provoked interest, but no real enlightenment.
David went on. "Well, so he tells me the whole story, and asks if I
have any questions and all that. Actually, I did. Turned out there
was a lot I didn't know about. So that's part of it, see. But that's
not the good part. You guys ever met my sister?"
We hadn't. Bob went to a different school. David and I went to St.
Dominic, an all-male Catholic school. Next door to St. Dominic was St.
Agnes... you guessed it... an all-girl Catholic school.
David's sister Karen went to St. Agnes; but then, so did about 300
other girls, and all we ever saw of them was an occasional glimpse of
them playing volleyball 200 yards away during recess. Of course, once
in a while a teacher would send a St. Agnes girl over to St. Dominic
on an errand. But that was our only contact with the girls of St.
Agnes.
Not that we didn't spend a great deal of time thinking about those
lovely little girls. They looked so cute in their school uniforms; red
plaid jumper skirts, white blouses, hair ribbons as often as not, white
knee socks, black & white saddle oxford shoes. And, we were sure,
little white, cotton panties underneath.
Karen was in the fourth grade at St. Agnes. She was nine years old,
David said. "Real good kid," he said. "She's great. Real smart, too,
for her age."
David told us that, after the sex-lecture ride out to the country
place, he was fascinated by all he'd learned. He asked Karen if their
mom had had the same conversation with her. She hadn't. So, that
night, he and Karen stayed up late, whispering in the darkness of the
bedroom. David told Karen everything he'd learned.
Karen was fascinated, too. According to David, she didn't even
giggle much. Well, you can believe that if you want to. According to
David, she wanted to see his cock. He got out his flashlight and
showed her. He wanted to see her pussy. She showed him. They felt
each other. And talked.
Part 6.
Over the past year, according to David, this had developed into
something like mutual masturbation. We didn't believe a word of this.
David was shocked. Would he lie to us? Right, we said. "Okay," he
replied, jutting his jaw, "come over and I'll prove it."
Now we were stunned. Was he serious? "Damn right. Come over to my
house tomorrow, after school."
I don't know if Bob slept that night, but I didn't. Was this really
on the level? For that matter, what did David mean, exactly, when he
said he'd prove it? We hadn't even thought to ask. Maybe, just
maybe, she'd show us her pussy. I'd never seen one. Playboy was our
most reliable source of visual information, but for 12-year-old boys
they were hard to come by. And in those days even Playboy models
demurely crossed their legs. We had no idea what a pussy really looked
like. What would a nine-year-old girl's pussy look like? Would it be
truly representative of the species? More to the point, would we see
one at all?
After school the next day, Bob and I met at home, hopped on our
bicycles, and rode as fast as we'd ever ridden them. We knew David's
father wouldn't be home for three hours at least, and David had claimed
that his mother would be away, too, but he wasn't sure how long.
David's house was a typical, suburban brick ranch-style; large and
rambling, with a three-car garage and manicured lawn. We propped the
bikes up in the garage and knocked on the side door.
David opened the door and as we entered the kitchen I immediately
scanned the room for Karen. She wasn't there. "Hi, guys," David said.
"Want a Coke?" I hadn't realized until that instant how dry my mouth
was. I had a Coke. David disappeared down a long hallway, calling
Karen's name. A few moments later they both walked into the kitchen.
"Karen, these are the friends I told you about."
"Hi," she said.
The image of how Karen looked that day has reformed gradually over
the past few months; each time I mentally re-enact the events of that
day it grows slightly clearer.
Like David, Karen was small, but I don't recall any resemblance of
features. Unlike David (who was a bit pudgy) she was thin; she was
still wearing her St. Agnes school uniform, and I noticed that the
elastic of her knee socks drooped slightly where they inefficiently
tried to clasp her slim calves. The straps of her jumper top ran from
her waist up over her shoulders without the slightest topographical
variation.
Karen's hair was a very dark auburn, pulled back tightly and
gathered by a rubber band in back. Her skin betrayed just a hint of
what might have been suntan, or might have been a faint trace of olive
pigmentation. She was smiling; a quirky, engaging kind of smile,
emphasized by two canine teeth at the edges of her mouth that were not
yet fully developed. I remember how bright her eyes were, how they
sparkled, though I cannot remember their color. She was beautiful.
Well, cute is perhaps more accurate. Classically cute. My mouth went
dry again. I croaked when I said Hi.
We must have made some small talk, I suppose, but that is sheer
conjecture. The next thing I remember is the three of us leaving the
house through the same kitchen door we'd entered. We walked through
the garage and out another door leading to the back yard. David said
something, I think, about not knowing when his mother would be back.
We crossed the yard, went through a gate in the chain-link fence,
and walked a few hundred yards to a large, open culvert. A huge
culvert, actually, built to channel the enormous volumes of runoff
water during heavy rainstorms. Perhaps 20 feet wide, it was at least
seven or eight feet deep, but David led us to a point where a metal
maintenance ladder built into the sheer concrete side of the culvert
descended to the floor. We climbed down. It didn't occur to me,
dammit, to go first. I went last.
The floor of the culvert sloped from the sides gently down to the
center in a v-shape, in which a tiny trickle of water flowed. We
walked along the side of the concrete stream, around a bend, to a
point where the culvert disappeared underground. As we entered, our
voices began to echo. Nervous as we could be, Bob and I began making
echo-noises. David told us to shut up.
Part 7.
A few dozen yards in, the culvert curved away to the right; beyond
the bend, hidden from sight of the opening, we stopped. Here the
daylight faded into dusky, semi-darkness.
"Okay, here's good enough," David said. "Karen, you wanta do this?"
She didn't reply. She just nodded. Still smiling that quirky smile
of hers. Eyes slightly lowered, she looked up at us from beneath her
eyebrows with that wry, little-girl smile that says "I'm being naughty
now, aren't I?"; that intensely enticing smile that women in later life
so often attempt to emulate, without success. On Karen, that day, that
look shone with authenticity; it was pure and completely unaffected;
she was nine years old, not old enough to understand sexual artifice;
it was real; rather than projecting an attitude, it clearly betrayed
her actual thoughts... I'm being naughty now, aren't I... and the
memory of it to this day makes me furiously horny.
"Okay," David said, "take off your panties. Show them your pussy."
For the first time since we left the house, Karen spoke; her voice
was tiny and shy: "Make them, too."
"Okay," David said. "Okay, guys?" We nodded. "But you first,
Karen. You said."
Still smiling, she reached down, lifted the hem of her skirt,
grabbed the waistband of her panties and slipped them down to her
ankles, stepped out of them, still wearing her shoes and socks. Sure
enough, they were the white cotton panties I just knew those St. Agnes
girls wore. She dropped them behind her, on the dry part of the
concrete.
"Go on, Karen," David said.
For the first time she giggled; probably blushed, but the light was
too dim to know. She grabbed the hem of her dress, bent slightly and
held it down tightly around her knees.
"Karen, come on now. You gonna do this or not?"
She looked up at me, at Bob, back to me. Grinning naughtily, and
biting her lip. Then she nodded. Still smiling. And slowly raised the
hem of her dress.
There it was. Just a tiny, smooth, hairless little slit at the apex
of her skinny thighs. Above was a featureless expanse of flat belly.
"Okay, go ahead, take a look," David said. I don't know whether it
was pride or excitement that colored his voice.
Neither of us moved. We just stood there, staring. Karen was
looking right into my eyes. And holding the hem of her skirt up beneath
her chin.
"No, no, c'mere," David said. He grabbed Bob's hand, pulled him
over in front of Karen. "Now, kneel down and look. You can't see
anything from over there."
Bob did. Then it was my turn. I knelt down on the concrete before
her; I was too tall; I sat back on my ankles. Clearly enjoying this
now, Karen stepped closer, her shoes brushing my knees. I stared. Oh,
jesus, I could come right now at the memory of that little, hairless
slit; my first pussy. My hands holding her just above her bony little
knees, I stared, my nose no more than eight inches away; I could smell
her faint odor of urine.
Her thin thighs were pressed tightly together, framing two small,
puffy little lips. They looked so smooth and soft. I was struck by
how pronounced her little mons was, contrasted with the flat expanse
of her belly. I watched, fascinated, as the apex of the little slit
rose and fell ever so slightly with the movement of her tummy as she
breathed.
Part 8.
Why didn't I think to lick it!?! Dammit. Oh, to do this over
again. To have licked and tasted that sweet little furrow. What I did
was reach up and touch it. I ran my finger lightly down one smooth
lip, and she jumped back. I was horrified. Had I blown it?
"That tickles!" she said. I looked up. She was still smiling.
At that, David walked over and knelt down beside me. "No, no," he
said, "like this, see?"
He reached up... I had to admit he seemed like he knew what he was
doing... placed a thumb on each side of the little crack and spread her
lips apart.
David began rattling off a clinical recitation of female anatomy,
but I paid no attention. I was transfixed. She was so pink inside;
the contrast emphasized by the slight tint to her skin. And there it
was... her little hole... It looked no bigger than a pencil eraser, I
thought. How could a prick fit in there?
David was saying something when he reached up with his finger,
actually touching her between her lips.
"See?" he was saying.
"Huh?" I replied.
David began stroking her lightly. "I said, that's how you do it.
Like this. See? That feels good, doesn't it, Karen?"
"Uh, huh," she said.
I looked up; she was still smiling that smile, and somehow I didn't
believe her; it seemed that she was enjoying the naughtiness of it, but
her face wasn't registering the kind of expression I recognized as
arousal. Still, I noticed that she spread her legs more widely when
David began stroking her.
She really did seem to be enjoying the aspect of naughtiness; I
suppose even a nine-year-old girl can be an exhibitionist. Surely she
was too young to comprehend eroticism; perhaps she was just reveling in
the attention; in her new-found power of fascinating and attracting
males. Just as we'd been reveling in our emerging masculinity.
"Now, do like this," David was saying. He stood up and fumbled with
his belt buckle. He dropped his pants, pulled down his underwear, and
left both gathered around his ankles. Then he reached behind Karen,
grasped her little butt, pulled her to him. She dropped her skirt and
hugged him; he pulled her skirt up, moved closer, and began hunching
his hips forward toward her.
With his shirttail and her skirt blocking our view it was impossible
to tell what exactly was going on. It didn't matter. Inside my brain
a voice was screaming, Her pussy! I just saw her little pussy! I
touched it! I almost wanted to leave immediately, go straight home,
and jerk off 14 times.
Suddenly, David backed away, pulled up his pants and said, "Okay,
now you guys."
Nobody moved. I'm sure Bob was thinking the same thing I was: Go
ahead and... do what? David had backed away too quickly for anything
really significant to have happened. I guess he'd just been
demonstrating for us. But what?
"Well?" said David. He looked back and forth and us. Bob and I
looked at each other, then back at Karen. Karen was looking at me.
Smiling. Her skirt wrinkled and askew.
"Okay, Karen, which one do you want first?" David said.
Karen pointed at me. I still can't believe my response. My mouth
went dry. I balked. My trembling pole of an erection suddenly drooped
to a limp cock. No idea whether it was embarrassment or just
stimulation overload. No matter. I blew it.
LITTLE KAREN
(Author Unknown)
Part 9.
I gestured at Bob. He shrugged, and stepped forward eagerly. Same
routine as David; he hunched up against Karen for 30 seconds or a
minute.
Then it was my turn. No out now. So I asked. "What do I do?"
"Fuck her," David said, grinning.
"Huh? Standing up, and all?"
"Well, not real fucking, you know. Just kind of rub it up against
her pussy. It feels great."
I looked at Karen. She nodded; her expression had changed slightly;
maybe she'd noticed... hell, how could she not... my nervousness and it
calmed her own.
My palms were sweating profusely as I unbuckled my belt. It was
humiliating to drop my underwear and expose that now limp prick. I
reached down to grab it but she beat me to it. The softness of her
little fingertips, the warmth of her hand encircling my cock had
immediate effect. As it again became engorged it broke the grasp of
her little hand and she giggled softly. She reached for it again,
tried to draw it to her; I crouched to get low enough; and she began
rubbing the head of it up and down her smooth little furrow. Lips
parted, she looked down, jerking her skirt out of the way with her free
hand, to see what my prick looked like. She held it away from her for a
moment, staring, then resumed rubbing it against her little pussy.
The warmth of her pussy was maddening; the smoothness of her
hairless little lips felt wonderful. But she wasn't wet. And because
I was so much taller than she, even though I was by now crouching, the
wrong part of my cock was making contact; the sensitive underside of
the head never touched her. These things hardly seemed to matter,
though. The sensation was overwhelming. Not only had I seen my first
pussy, here I was stroking it with my prick.
After a while, I have no idea how long, we stopped and dressed, left
and went back to the house. Nobody had come, of course, but that, too,
hardly seemed to matter. We said our goodbyes fairly quickly; I'm
quite sure Bob had the same thing in mind I did: to get home, alone,
behind a locked door as quickly as humanly possible. As we left,
Karen looked directly into my eyes. It may have been, in retrospect,
the most intense moment of that day.
The sperm I flushed down toilets during the next two weeks while
remembering that day could have fathered the population of a large
urban area. I seized every opportunity at school to talk more with
David. I was desperate for more detail. Reveling in his new role as a
knowledgeable, cosmopolitan, man of the world, David was glad to
oblige.
He told me how he would often sneak out of his room at night, after
his parents had gone to sleep. He'd go to Karen's room. She'd always
be awake, he said. "And then we do it."
"What?"
"Oh, you know. All kinds of stuff."
"What?! What?!"
He really was enjoying this.
He told me how they'd rub each other, sometimes. He'd stroke her
pussy the way he'd shown me, while she caressed his cock with both
hands. He insisted she liked that. Lately, though, they'd gone
farther; she would pull up her nightie and spread her legs. He would
lie on top of her and rub his prick against her pussy. He said it would
gradually become wet and slippery and warm. He said it was the most
intense feeling he'd ever felt. He said it was just like fucking. He
said he came every time. He never mentioned whether Karen did, and I
never thought to ask.
I have no idea why neither of us pursued this further; in retrospect
it seems absurd that I wasn't spending more time at David's house than
my own. For whatever reason, it just didn't happen. Until once again,
much later, that fall.
Part 10.
The local high school that we both aspired to attend had reached the
state championship playoffs, and the game was due to be broadcast on a
Friday evening. David asked if I'd like to come over and hear the game
with him; since it would run late, why didn't I spend the night.
I spent a week wondering whether Karen would be there. At that age,
spending the night with friends is one of the more popular social
activities, and it was quite possible that Karen would be away. I was
trying to be cool about this thing, so I didn't dare ask David. Also I
was aware that, although he had freely described to me his experiences
with his sister, he hadn't invited me over again. It crossed my mind
that I'd be devastated if she wasn't home; but that, if she was, I'd
spend the entire evening in the bathroom jerking off and miss most of
the game.
Friday finally came. She was there. Wearing shorts, red, I think,
and some kind of t-shirt. The game was thrilling, I vaguely remember.
Zero to zero until the last minute or two when our team won by virtue
of a field goal. The whole family... David, Karen and his parents...
sat in the den for the game. The kids sat on the floor. We ate pizza,
ate popcorn, drank Cokes, and listened to the radio with most of my
mind concentrating on not staring at David's little sister, sitting
cross-legged on the carpet with David between us. I did steal
furtive glances, of course. More than once I suspected that she was
doing the same.
Finally David's parents excused themselves for the night, telling
Karen pointedly that it was time for bed. You boys can stay up if you
want to, they said. Good night. Now, these were progressive parents,
I thought. They smiled and left with Karen. As she left she turned
and glanced at me quickly, over her shoulder. I was glad David's
parents were pretty much through the doorway by then, out of eye
contact, because I have no idea what my own face registered at that
moment.
Another blank in my memory of events is what David and I did between
then and going to bed, probably at least an hour later. TV? No doubt.
Whatever.
As we walked down the hall toward his bedroom, David jerked his head
to the left. "Karen's room," he said. I glanced at the crack where
the door met the floor; her light was off. Damn. I must have said
something about this to David, because I remember him saying, "Why?
Want to drop by for a while?" He said this in a very wry tone of voice,
and I was completely unsure what he meant by it. I mean, we were both
12 years old and perpetually horny, and he must've known my thoughts.
Was he jealous? Was he serious? Had he noticed her glancing at me? Was
there potential trouble brewing here?
Since I had no way of knowing, my libido made the decision for me.
"Yeah, lets!" I said, in what I hoped was a jocular tone.
We entered David's room, across the hall. He closed the door, then
turned to me and winked. "Gotta do this right," he said. "We wait
here for a while to make sure my parents are asleep. And if they're
not, to make sure they think we're asleep." He had this routine down.
So we killed time. After a while, he said it was okay. We turned
out the light and eased open David's bedroom door. "Don't tip-toe," he
whispered, just before we left the room. "Walk normally. That way, if
they hear us, they won't be suspicious. They'll just think we're going
to the bathroom or something."
We walked, normally, to Karen's room, maybe 12 feet down the hall.
David put his hand on the door and rubbed, quickly, back and forth. I
was impressed. I'd never seen that done. It was very quiet. But
obviously effective. A moment later the door opened. Karen stood
there, grinning broadly, and we hurried in, David closing and locking
the door quietly after us.
As David concentrated on locking the door soundlessly, I looked at
Karen and she looked at me. There was no mistake about it. Karen was
interested. In that moment may have come my first inkling of the
amazingly complex issues surrounding sexual morality. Not that I
understood it; I was simply exposed to the barest, most superficial
outline of it. It expressed itself that night, in that moment, as
something like: She wants to hug and kiss me, but I don't want that at
all. After all, she's only a gangly little nine-year-old girl. I just
want to fuck her. Not even to fuck her, really; to fuck a pussy. And
she happens to have one. And it's right in front of me.
Part 11.
She stood, grinning at me, her face a wonderful mixture of
excitement and shyness. She looked different tonight. Not that I'd
seen her since that last episode, months ago. But her hair was down;
then it'd been pulled back with a ribbon. She wore a pale blue, flannel
nightie with a lacy collar and some kind of little, stylized cartoon
animals printed on the fabric.
David finally got the door locked and we all sat down on the floor.
I looked around; I don't think I'd ever been in a girl's bedroom
before. It looked just as I imagined it would; girlish; stuffed
animals, lots of printed fabrics everywhere; everything neatly in
order, unlike my room.
We sat there, cross-legged on the carpet, in the darkness, talking
excitedly. We all were giggling as quietly as we could manage, high on
the combined effects of nervousness, youthful exuberance, raging
hormones, and conspiratorial excitement. Friday night. Staying up
late. Spending the night with a friend. And his sister. His little,
skinny, lovely, horny, naughty, accessible, more-than-willing sister.
Suddenly, quite suddenly, the exuberance died down and we felt an
uncomfortably embarrassing moment: What next? David took the
initiative. Pretty unceremoniously, I thought... I was and still am a
romantic... he said something like, "C'mon, Karen, let's get in bed."
Karen glanced at me, grinned, and said, "Okay."
She climbed on top of the bedspread. I didn't notice then, but have
realized since, that the bedspread hadn't been disturbed. Her light
may have been off, but she'd been waiting up for us.
Karen lay there as David stripped off his pants. He started to
climb into the bed with her, then hesitated, standing by the bed.
"C'mere," he said to me, "you can watch."
I was still uncomfortable. "No, thanks," I said. "I can see fine
from here."
Which was of course absurd. It was dark. And I was sitting on the
floor, leaning back against Karen's chest of drawers, some ten feet
from the bed. David stood there for a second, then went to Karen's
closet.
"Got an idea," he said. He pulled something from her closet, a
robe, I think, walked over and tucked it into the crack beneath the
door. Then he went to the windows and pulled down the shades tightly.
Karen's room faced the street. "Now, that's better," he said,
switching on a small bedside lamp. In its pale, yellow light I
suddenly could see her, lying on her right side, propped up on one
elbow, her little eyes still on me.
David tried to encourage me to come look, I guess he meant for me to
stand beside the bed, but I declined. With Karen looking at me that
way, I was just too embarrassed. Maybe, I thought to myself, I'll come
over there in a minute, after they get going.
David finally gave up and climbed into bed. Karen quickly rolled
onto her back, hunched her little butt up, reached down and pulled
down her panties. I caught just a glimpse of her little crack again as
she lifted her legs to slip the panties off her ankles. She dropped
them on the floor on the far side of the bed, then lay back again and
giggled softly. David lifted her nightie all the way up to her chin
and, for the first time, I saw Karen's little nipples. They looked
just like mine; there was not even a hint of breast development.
Karen lifted her knees as David reached down between his legs. As
he leaned forward between her little thighs, Karen whispered something
to him. David glanced over at me, then back at her, then said, "Good
idea." Sitting back on his heels, he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it
off, and dropped it on the floor. She wanted me to watch! She knew
his shirttail would impede my view.
David knelt between her legs, then leaned forward over her.
Supporting himself on his left hand, he reached down with his right,
positioning his cock, I suppose, but I couldn't see. Then he leaned
forward on both hands and began hunching.
Total silence pervaded the room. No grunts & moans. No heavy
breathing. Even the bed... a large, heavy wooden-frame thing... was
silent. David moved; Karen didn't. This went on for a long time. My
nervousness began to calm down. I wanted to see more, but still was
reluctant to approach the bed.
Part 12.
After what seemed like a very long time, David shifted slightly and
said something to Karen that I didn't catch. They both shifted now,
Karen raising her bent knees up nearly to her chest. This captured 110%
of my attention. David began hunching again, longer hunches, I
thought, and slower. Soon he began moving faster and for the first
time I could hear him breathing heavily... then, suddenly, a single,
muffled "NGUH!"
I'll never forget the scene as David slowly raised himself from
Karen. He'd shot a bit off-center and a small, white pool remained on
the lower right side of her concave little belly, a thin stream of it
oozing down her side onto the bedspread. "Hang on a sec," David said,
jumping off the bed and grabbing a fistful of Kleenex from the bedside
table. This he handed to Karen and she mopped it up, dabbing first at
the bedspread, then swabbing her belly.
Meanwhile, David collapsed beside me on the floor, stark naked,
grinning like a fool, jabbering excitedly in a strained whisper. "See,
didn't I tell you? Oh, man, you just can't imagine what that feels
like. Go on, go ahead. Her pussy's all wet and slippery now, like I
told you. Go on!"
He ignored Karen completely during this harangue, but I was looking
at her; she was looking at me. Grinning. Still nervous, I busied
myself getting undressed as slowly as possible, very carefully
removing each shoe, disengaging the belt, removing, then folding, the
blue jeans, unbuttoning even non-essential cuff buttons of my shirt.
Then I walked to the bedside.
Karen giggled and spoke for the first time, her voice a bit less shy
now. "No, come on," she said, pointing at my underwear.
Gulp. I pulled them down, stepped out, stood naked by the bed
feeling more foolish than I ever had in my life. My prick, of course,
was limp as a herring. I was very self-conscious about my cock at that
age; although it extended to a fairly respectable six inches when hard
(I'd measured, of course) and become moderately thick, at rest it was
unbelievably tiny; no more than two inches long; about the size of my
thumb. If that. And Karen was looking right at it, grinning.
"Come on," she said. I climbed into the bed. In a delaying
tactic, I said I wanted to look at her pussy. "N'kay," she said. She
pulled her nightie up to her belly and lifted her knees. I leaned down
to look. Ohmigod, David was right. I could see a thin, shiny film of
moisture pooled in her little crack. I touched it, ran my finger down
the little crack; it felt warm and slippery and my prick began to stir.
"C'mon, here, do like this," Karen whispered, impatient now.
Reaching forward, her little fingers closed on my cock and she pulled
me gently toward her. "C'mon, move up some more." I did. "Yeah," she
said, and leaned back, lifting her knees. I leaned down, closer.
Then it happened... I felt, for the first time, the maddeningly
compelling, indescribably delicious feel of a girl's slick, warm
arousal. As luck would have it, the first touch, my very first
contact, occurred precisely on the most sensitive spot on the
underside of my prick. I don't remember how I responded... probably
grunted or something... but my delight and astonishment must have been
apparent, because Karen giggled again and David said something. For
the first time I became aware that he'd moved to stand beside the bed
and was watching closely. Suddenly it didn't matter.
Her little knees up around my flanks, Karen looked right into my
eyes, grinning that naughty, little-kid grin of hers. She let go of
my cock; suddenly huge and trembling with arousal it didn't need her
guiding hand any longer. She reached up with both hands and held my
forearms. My hips moved. My prick glided softly between her little
pussy lips.
My mind was a blur. I had never before in my life been so
completely lost in sensation. Her little cunt was so small, the sweet
slit maybe two inches long, if that, but with her knees up like that,
her little pussy lips spread open at just the right angle for my cock
to make maximum contact with her warm slickness. Her hairless little
lips were so warm and smooth. Oh, god, how I remember the feel of my
prick nestled in that warm, sweet, pink little groove.
Part 13.
Her little hands grasping my arms. Her bright little eyes looking
into mine. That delightfully naughty grin. And something else. She
was breathing hard, I noticed for the first time. She was breathing
through her mouth. Oh, the memory of that sound, Karen's grinning,
panting little breaths, as I moved slowly in her slickness, tasting her
girlhood arousal with my cock, savoring the warmth oozing from her
tiny, sticky little cunt. I had no idea what a clitoris was then, but
I must've been in the right place.
David said something like, "Here, now do this," and reached over to
push me back, away from Karen. I sat back on my ankles, the cool rush
of air over my now slick prick unpleasant as it broke contact with her
warm little furrow to hang, bulging and throbbing, at a 45-degree angle
to my belly.
At David's urging, Karen re-arranged her legs, into a position she
obviously knew well; she brought both legs straight up, her little feet
pointing at the ceiling, pressed her thighs together tightly and
crossed her ankles. David urged me forward, to kneel close to her.
Karen's little feet were just beneath my chin, and I remember how the
slight film of dirt on the balls of her feet and her heels emphasized
the sweet, white flesh of her instep.
David told me to go ahead. I don't remember whether he just
explained, or reached forward to guide me, but the next sensation was
explosively sensual; my cock forced its way between Karen's tightly
clamped thighs, the pressure squeezing the sensitive underside down
firmly into her slippery little groove. I pushed forward, my prick
trembling in the unbearably pleasurable warmth of her, feeling it glide
between her smooth little lips. I was watching her face, as the small
portion of my brain that was still working tried to determine whether
she was feeling anything like my ecstasy. She just looked at me,
grinning, her mouth open, breathing deeply. My eye caught a small
motion and I looked down; it was the head of my cock emerging out onto
her belly, then receding again as I moved. Fascinated, I watched it
reach nearly up to her pert little belly button... an "outie"... on
each upstroke, then glide back down, back in, disappearing between her
little thighs, until I felt the head once again gratefully squeezed
down into the creamy warmth pooled between her tiny lips.
I didn't last long. My sperm gushed out onto her little belly,
thick, viscous globs of it pooling around her belly button, slick
streams of it oozing thickly down her side onto the bedspread. My whole
body shuddered, and I hope to god I didn't vocalize what I felt. I'd've
waked the neighborhood.
As I began to come to my senses again, I realized that Karen was
trying to hunch against me, clutching my forearms with her little hands
and pulling herself against me rhythmically, her eyes closed now, still
breathing hard. I nearly got hard again immediately; I must not have
realized before that she'd been hunching herself against my prick as I
fucked her slick little channel. Even the raging hormones of youth,
though, couldn't respond that quickly; I felt myself softening. In my
embarrassment, I pulled away from her. She dropped her little feet to
the bed, opened her eyes and looked in fascination at the greasy film
of sperm on her belly, looked up at me for a long moment, then that
smile of hers slowly spread across her pretty little face. And she
giggled.
David was grinning broadly now, watching all this from his bedside
vantage. Suddenly all this was terribly embarrassing; I hopped out of
the bed, and began fumbling with my clothes. At that age, clothing is
an indispensable aspect of a kid's ego, and at that particular moment I
was desperate to re-cloak myself in my masculine ego. Of course I'd
worn the most cool things I owned, a bottle-green oxford-cloth shirt
(had to be bottle green or burgundy, that year), carefully faded jeans
and penny loafers. Without socks. Socks were definitely not cool that
year.
"Hey, no, don't do that," David said. He grabbed my arm. "Come on,
this is great, let's enjoy it. Okay?" Or something to that effect. With
great misgivings, I complied. I dropped my jeans back on the floor and
sat down again. Karen was now sitting on the edge of the bed, swabbing
the last sticky globs of my sperm off her belly and thighs with a
handful of Kleenex.
Part 14.
David told her to come on over here and join us. She scampered off
the bed and came to sit facing us, cross-legged, on the floor. David
told her it wasn't fair to be wearing that nightie; that we were both
naked and she wasn't. She made a pouting little face and said
something about it being cold; she didn't want to take it off. David
made some kind of threat; I forget what; in the way that kids will do;
"if you don't, I'll..." blah, blah.
Eventually Karen pulled off her nightie, made a big show of hugging
herself and shivering and frowning; then she giggled again, finally. We
all giggled, high on the conspiratorial excitement of the enormously
naughty things we were doing.
We sat there for some time, whispering and giggling, as I recall
talking about things unbelievably incongruent to the situation;
playground talk; of school and teachers and such.
All three of us were stark naked. David and I leaned back against
the chest of drawers, cross-legged, all gangly knees, skinny thighs,
and little, limp cocks perched atop wrinkled, hairless balls. Karen sat
facing us, hugging her little bony knees up to her chest for warmth,
rocking nervously back and forth on her lanky haunches, her little slit
occasionally visible, pouting out from between two thin thighs, her
chin on her knee, grinning and giggling and flashing looks at me that
soon made my mouth dry and my prick begin to stir again.
As we loosened up and nervousness abated, we grew more bold. I
reached down and stroked Karen's little slit; it was still gooey. She
reached out and touched my cock; I say touched, because that's all she
did; at nine, she didn't have the slightest idea how to properly
handle a prick. Curious, she felt the skin of my balls, the head of my
cock; I was far too tongue-tied to tell her what felt good.
After some time of this, David said there was something he'd been
wanting to do for a long time. What? I asked. He hesitated, looked at
Karen. "You know," he said to her. "What we talked about? You know."
Karen blushed furiously, grinned like her little face would break,
and kept pretending she didn't know what David was talking about.
David's frustration grew; he began sputtering; now he was tongue-tied.
"Come on, Karen, the... you know, we... oh, come on, you know what I
mean." Karen was giggling far too much not to know what he meant.
This was great. For the first time that night the focus of
attention... and thus the burden of embarrassment... had shifted away
from me and my little, unmanly, hairless genitals. How I enjoyed
Karen's embarrassment, and David's frustration. I relaxed at bit,
probably for the first time that night.
Finally, David leaned over, grabbed Karen's sharp little shoulder,
pulled her over to him and whispered in her ear. She instantly clapped
her hand over her mouth and began giggling uncontrollably. And blushing
furiously.
"Okay?" David was saying. "Okay?"
Still giggling, still with her hand over her mouth, Karen nodded.
She shot a quick glance at me over her hand, then jerked her head back
to face David again and burst into a renewed giggling fit.
Grinning hugely, his eyes wide, David turned to me. He sputtered,
trying to find the right way to begin. Obviously this was something
he'd thought about for a long time, discussed with Karen, but it had
never occurred to him how to put it to me.
"See, there's this thing I was... Well, I mean I want to, but, you
know, I can't, and..."
It turned out that David wanted me to fuck Karen. He wanted to
watch. He was dying to do it himself, of course, but apparently this
was where religious or moral considerations demanded that he draw the
line. He would not fuck his own little sister. He'd hunch her little
cunt and come all over her, but that was it. So his plan was for me to
fuck her, so he could watch; then I could tell him what it felt like.
I was furiously randy and appalled at the same time. Jesus. The
swirl of thoughts that stormed through my mind ran something like:
Yes... no... maybe... of course... let me at her... I don't know about
this... oh, god, the real thing... fucking... but she's his little
sister... she's only nine years old... oh, let's do it... but what if I
don't know how... what if I can't get it in... yes, yes... her wet
little pussy... no, god, what am I thinking... etcetera...
Part 15.
Of course we ended up in the bed together. Little Karen, naked now,
lying there, looking so childlike, her tiny nubs of nipples so cute,
her bony ribs so apparent, giggling and blushing, but obviously
wanting to; David standing by the bed, his erection wagging before him
in anticipation; me kneeling between Karen's slim legs, her bony knees
drawn up, her tiny little feet flat on the bedspread.
I remember how my palms were sweating as I grasped my prick, which
was sort of semi-turgid at that point, and I will never forget what
happened next. It went limp. Instantly. Holding it in my hand it
drooped to its most embarrassingly puerile state. Oh, god, I was
beyond humiliation. I stared at it, David stared at it. Karen, still
lying on her back, wondered at the delay, finally looking up at me and
saying, "C'mon, okay? Hey, c'mon..."
Nothing happened for what seemed a long time. Karen sat up,
perplexed. Finally, David broke the ice. He took charge. He'd
obviously been looking forward to this for a long time, and wasn't
about to see it blown now.
"Okay," he said in his most firm voice, "C'mere, Karen, do like we
did that other time, you know." His hand urged her forward, toward my
limp cock. This time, oddly, there was absolutely no giggling, no
blushing. Karen looked at me, then reached down, calmly, smiling
softly, took my prick in her little hand, guided it to her mouth.
She made no attempt to suck it in, just licked at it. Oh, god, the
feel of her tiny little tongue licking at the underside of my cock; its
childlike softness; somehow she grinned the entire time, licked and
grinned.
The image evoked by that memory is maddeningly erotic; her little,
skinny shoulders as I looked down at her; her bony spine; her childish
hips so lanky it seemed that she had no butt at all, seemed that her
lower back simply ended in a small crack; suddenly the full awareness
that this was a nine-year-old girl burst upon me as I looked at her
from this angle. My prick grew; she had to hold it with both hands
now. It looked so enormous now, the head pressed up against the
underside of her little button nose; her tiny tongue softly licking,
not erotically; just lapping, the way she'd lick an ice-cream cone.
My cock soon reached maximum heft and I pulled away, anxious to take
advantage of the situation while I had the chance. Karen excitedly
plopped back down on the bedspread, lifted her little knees, and
grinned at me. Leaning forward, I lowered the head of my prick to her
little slit. I felt her warm wetness tease the tip of it. I rubbed
up and down, groping for her little hole. It occurred to me for the
first time how absurd this was; there was no way this thing was going
to fit into that little, tiny pink hole.
Oddly, Karen was still grinning widely, not the least bit
apprehensive. In later years this perplexed me until I realized that,
at nine years old, this was all a game to her, that she had no real
awareness of what was involved; it simply had not occurred to her that
quite possibly this would not be pleasant for her at all.
So she grinned and I poked and probed. David watched. Nothing was
happening.
Again, David took the initiative. He reached over, took Karen's
little foot in his hand and guided it up, pressing her knee back toward
her chest, telling her to raise her legs higher. She did. Her little
butt rotated up toward me, her little pussy lips spread more widely; I
drew back a bit as she moved, and looked down. There it was; I could
see it now; her tiny, pink hole, glistening wetly in the soft light,
angled up toward me, toward my throbbing cock, at just the right angle.
Part 16.
I nestled the tip of my prick against the mouth of her little hole
and pushed, gently. Nothing. I pushed harder. Well lubricated now
with her slickness, it suddenly slipped away from my grasp. Both Karen
and David giggled at that. I grabbed it again, blushing, and tried
again. And again. Still no progress.
My cheeks burned in embarrassment. Finally I leaned back on my
knees and told David this wasn't going to work. No way, I said.
He was ready for that one. "Yes, it will," he said with certainty.
"I know it will. Here, I'll show you."
"What?"
With an impatient, businesslike look, David leaned over, licked his
index finger, held it against Karen's little hole, and pushed. I was
astonished. It slipped in. Deeply in. All the way in.
"See?" he said. "Just push it in. Then do like this. This is how
you fuck."
He began pumping his finger in and out of Karen's little cunt. I
was stunned. I stared, eyes bulging, watching David's finger slowly
sink into the little hole, then slowly emerge, glistening in her
wetness.
"She likes that. Don't you, Karen? She loves for me to do this.
We do this a lot. Just do the same thing with your cock."
He kept pumping, gently. Karen was still smiling. David kept it up,
settling into a slow rhythm. Karen began breathing more deeply; she
was trying to smile,... it seemed now almost as though that smile was
her defense mechanism against embarrassment, like my new penny
loafers... but her growing arousal was obvious. Eyes wide, I watched
David's finger move rhythmically, in and out, Karen's little pink hole
sucking at it as he withdrew. Abruptly Karen dropped her feet back
onto the bed, knees up, and began moving her hips gently as David's
finger worked her little pussy. She stopped smiling. She closed her
eyes. She turned her head to the side. The arousal of her breathing
was clearly audible now. Oh, the sweetness of a young little girl's
sexual arousal is such a thing of beauty; innocence abandoned to
pleasure. Now her little hips moved more actively, hunching forward to
meet David's thrusts.
Finally, David looked at me, his finger still fucking her gently.
He didn't say a word, but his meaning was clear. "See?" his expression
said. "She loves it. Go ahead."
David stopped the motion of his finger. Karen still hunched against
him. David slowly withdrew his finger. Karen opened her eyes, looked
at both of us, her little mouth slack, and that look was all the
encouragement I needed. I quickly leaned forward again. She raised
her legs.
To my horror, my erection had begun to droop again. Not completely,
thank god. It was a semi-turgid prick I held against her. I pushed.
And pushed. She closed her eyes, turned her head to the side again;
she looked so sweet and innocent.
I pushed again, harder, against her little hole; and felt it begin
to slide in... oh, my god, it was sliding in... my cock was sliding
into her little pussy hole... oh, god... she frowned; I pulled back;
David was nearly frantic; "No, no, go on! Go on!"
I looked at Karen. As I hesitated, she turned to look up at me. I
stared into her sparkling little eyes; saw, or thought I saw, eagerness
there. I resumed pushing as if my life depended on it. My still
semi-turgid prick curved and bent at the effort; I squeezed desperately
to hold it straight enough; pushing harder. She grimaced, and turned
her head again, clutching harder at my forearms.
I felt the little hole squeeze the head of my cock; her sucking
wetness was maddening; I was desperate to plunge deeply up into her
little belly. I trembled and shoved; felt it squeeze a tiny bit
farther in; the head was nearly inside her now; I paused; she turned
to look at me, still frowning, she somehow managed a grin; she her
little fingers squeezed my forearms.
Part 17.
I pushed again; squeezed in a tiny bit more; perhaps an inch of my
prick was inside her now; I pushed; another millimeter and, suddenly,
the head was fully engulfed... for the first time, I felt truly in
her... felt that I really was fucking her... suddenly it seemed her
cunt was forcibly drawing me in... abruptly I felt... oh, sweet jesus,
I felt her little pussy hole sucking wetly at the sensitive spot on the
underside of my head. Two things happened simultaneously... I plunged
into her another full inch or so and... the effect was instantaneous...
my cock engorged instantly... it suddenly exploded into full, rampant
turgidity, nearly doubling in size... her little eyes shot open... and
she screamed in pain.
I jerked my prick out of her and, for one horrified instant, we all
remained stock still, terrified that their parents had heard her
scream. That instant burns clearly in my memory. Karen had her hand
over her mouth, eyes wide, a tear running down one cheek. Then the
moment passed and we leaped toward our clothes, dancing madly into our
pants, fumbling with shirt buttons, jamming sweaty feet into shoes.
I've never dressed so quickly in my life.
Somehow, Karen's scream had gone unheard. But the fear of god had
been put into us all. Playing with Karen, for me anyway, was finished.
Not just for that evening, but forever.
I'd love to know the end of this story... to know what became of
Karen, what other games she and David played, and for how long. Did
they continue experimenting throughout her adolescence? Did they
become more adventurous? Oh, wouldn't I'd have loved the chance to
watch little Karen's sexuality emerge, to help her grow into full
sexual maturity. But then, this is a true story, dammit.
It occurs to me now that I never even knew for certain whether Karen
ever had an orgasm with David, though I'm certain she must have,
judging by her responses that night. But although David and I remained
friends for another few years, until separating in high school, and
although we continued to talk breathlessly about girls and sexuality,
we never again discussed Karen; never again even mentioned that one,
spectacular night.
What became of you, Karen? I really wish I knew, but I never will
make an attempt to find out. I wonder if you know the name I now use;
if you know it belongs to the lanky kid who once came so close to
being the first to pump his sperm up into your little belly, that
night in 1961. Who was the first, anyway? Was it David?
Where are you now? Married? Probably. Happy? Maybe. Sexually
satisfied? Probably not. Do you have kids of your own, now? A little
girl, perhaps? Does she have a big brother? Do they whisper together
and giggle in the darkness of a cool, autumn night?
Do you still remember, Karen? Do you?
- THE END -
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