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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of    o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-    o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Young Karen (Mf, ped)
Anon NIXPIX Author - 1990

*

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.

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 dick 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 dick.

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
dick 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 next-
door 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 dick 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.

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 dicks 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 dick.  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 dick 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 dick 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 dick 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 dick
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 dick tissue from the
mucous-membrane tissues lining my cheeks.

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 dick 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 dick.

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
dick 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 dick 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 dick-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 dicks 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 dicks 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.

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 dick.  He got out his flashlight and
showed her.  He wanted to see her pussy.  She
showed him.  They felt each other.  And talked.

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 re-
formed gradually over the the years; 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.

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.

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 dick 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 dick.  No idea whether it was embarrassment
or just stimulation overload.  No matter.  I blew it.

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 dick.  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 dick 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 dick
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 dick 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 dick.

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 dick 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 dick 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.

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,
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.

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 the 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 dick,
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.

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 dick, of course, was limp as a
herring.  I was very self-conscious about my dick
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
dick began to stir.

"C'mon, here, do like this," Karen whispered,
impatient now.  Reaching forward, her little
fingers closed on my dick 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 dick.  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 dick; 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
dick 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 dick 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 dick nestled in that warm, sweet,
pink little groove.  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
dick, 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 dick 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
dick 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 dick 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 dick
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
dick 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.

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
dicks 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 dick 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 dick; I say touched, because that's
all she did; at nine, she didn't have the slightest
idea how to properly handle a dick.  Curious, she
felt the skin of my balls, the head of my dick; 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...

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 dick, 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 dick.
This time, oddly, there was absolutely no
giggling, no blushing.  Karen looked at me, then
reached down, calmly, smiling softly, took my dick
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 dick; 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 dick 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 dick 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 dick 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 dick, at just the right angle.

I nestled the tip of my dick 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 dick."

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 dick 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 dick 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 dick 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
dick; 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; her
little fingers squeezed my forearms.

I pushed again; squeezed in a tiny bit more;
perhaps an inch of my dick 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 dick 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 dick 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?
