Archive name: elly1.txt (M/f-teen, first time)
Authors name: Friar Dave (Address Defunct)
Story title : Elly Comes of Age
Part 1 of 4

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This story is copyrighted (c) 1996. All rights reserved.
This story may be posted to free sites as long as no 
changes have been made to my story, and the author name 
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 "David!"

 I opened my eyes wider and scanned the crowded Sunday-
morning sidewalk. Sunday morning in a neighborhood 
that's almost all Polish, Italian, Irish and Latino 
means the sidewalks are Mass confusion, if you get my 
drift. And I was not all that fully awake anyhow, 
having finished Saturday night only six hours before.

 "David!" The voice was right in front of me now. I 
looked down. 
Recognition came slowly. I blinked. "Elly?"

 She smiled prettily and hoisted herself up and gave a 
little jump to plant a light kiss on my beard, catching 
me by surprise.

 I stared at her. "You look unbelievable," I said, with 
complete sincerity. And her appearance was more than 
half the reason I hadn't recognized her.

 I hadn't seen Elly in about 18 months. She'd just 
turned 19 a few weeks before we'd last bumped into each 
other. She'd been pretty much as she'd been the first 
time I'd met her, three years before. Elly was very 
short -- four-foot-seven, I learned later -- but not 
petite by about twenty pounds. Elly could have stood to 
lose that much and maybe a couple of pounds more, 
because a great deal of baby fat still clung to an 
otherwise fine-boned frame. She had a pretty, round 
face and Big Hair and seemed determined to dress as 
unattractively as possible. The last time I'd seen her, 
she was still just the plump, sweet, smart kid who 
sometimes needed someone with whom to talk.

 Elly had made some serious changes. Make that Changes, 
with a capital "C."

 The change that was unavoidably obvious was her 
figure. She'd done away with most of the weight; the 
rest had been redistributed. She'd always been buxom; 
now she'd melted the baby fat and what was left was 
just busty. Even dressed to de-emphasize it, she had an 
astonishing bust, the more so for her otherwise-slender 
frame.

 She was dressed to de-emphasize it, but nothing could 
hide it. Elly had a figure designed by the feverish 
imagination of a 14-year-old acne farm. She was very 
slim-hipped. She had no waist at all; the way she 
cinched her fashionably cut loose jeans betrayed that. 
Her waist couldn't have measured more than 18 or 19 
inches. 

 But even the oversized flannel shirt (it was spring, 
but the Weather Gods had left some nip in the air to 
remind us that winter wasn't very long gone) and the 
oversized vest, unbuttoned, couldn't hide her the swell 
of her breasts. Words like "massive," "huge" and 
"coconuts" came to mind. I probably could have worn the 
shirt she had on and I'm a size 42; she still couldn't 
button the top three buttons over those tits.

 But as fabulous as her figure was, as radiant as her 
newly slim-med and well made-up face was, it was her 
vivacity that commanded attention. She was glowing and 
vibrant and gushing with news. She'd just signed on for 
a co-op in Flushing and then she'd lost her job at 
Shearson Lehman -- but it didn't bother her. She was 
looking for work as an administrative assistant and was 
sure she could find it quickly. I agreed. Best of all, 
she'd done something I'd nagged her about in most of 
our last conversation -- she'd had the doctor do a 
biopsy of the cyst in her uterus -- and it had been 
removed early enough to insure that she was healthy and 
free from The Bastard That Kills. 

 Damn, she looked good! Her jeans clung to slim hips 
and legs that were just a shade to short for her 
diminutive height. She'd had her hair cut differently, 
a bit longer and fuller. Her eyes sparkled and her lips 
and nose were perfect for her face. Elly had turned 
into a little beauty.

 But she wasn't happy. She'd been taken with this fella 
for the past couple of months, an Afghan refugee, and 
she had the distinct feeling that he wouldn't be 
devastated if she left him. That, to her, meant he 
didn't care much. 

 We talked and she told me she had a job interview for 
Tuesday morning and she was tickled at the idea of 
meeting me for lunch when she was done. I sensed a 
tingly tension with her. She'd gone from a pudgy 
sixteen-year-old to a devastatingly sexy twenty-year-
old and I wanted to explore it more. 

 She called at noon and I had her come to my office, in 
the Village. I brought my company's job listing with me 
and took her to a good neighborhood restaurant, China 
Bowl. Their prices were reason-able, the ambiance was 
unhurried and a sign in the window proudly proclaimed 
that they never used MSG.

 Our waitress, who went by the name of Alice, was 
familiar to me. Alice and I had played trade smiles and 
try-to-catch-the-other-one-looking games for about 
three months. Alice, who was about Elly's height, came 
over for our order, took one look at Elly's 
preposterous bust not-too-effectively hidden by a very 
conservatively cut neck-high collar and gave me a look 
that said she was sure she could never compete with 
THOSE.

 Elly and I had a pleasant lunch and she thought my 
suggestion was nice -- that she stop by my place later 
in the week and see what I'd done with it.

 She rang my bell at 8:03 on Friday and I buzzed her 
in. She was wearing jeans again and a simple, plum 
blouse under a loose cardigan. The blouse was tucked 
into her waistband and when the cardigan came off, it 
looked like she'd stuffed a pair of cantaloupes into 
her blouse. 

 I gave her a glass of white wine -- her choice -- and 
the two-bit tour. She thought my alleged cat was cute. 
She admired the photo montages of friends and family 
and the cat. 

 She enjoyed the stereo -- choosing a recording by 
Kitaro, much to my surprise and pleasure -- and ooohed 
and ahhed at the little study I created; it's the place 
where I write.

 In the living room, she admired the nude torso framed 
on one wall. She asked; I told her: "Yes, that's her. 
It was taken by one of her former lovers." But what got 
her was the opposite wall: 

 "Did you READ all of these?"

 I am always surprised when someone is impressed by 
Library Wall in the living room. I explained to her 
that if you read for an hour a day, you read a couple 
of books a week. In thirty years, that's around three 
thousand books. If you save some books -- well, you 
pretty quickly end up with the Library Wall. My living 
room is only twenty feet long, so a wall of books isn't 
that big a deal.

 But Elly was impressed. We sat, drinking wine and 
talked. I asked after some of her friends. One was 
dying of AIDS. 

 "I'm glad I got out of that crowd," she said. "When 
they started getting into stuff past a few joints, I 
got scared. He was doing needles, so I guess that's 
where he got it."

 "There's lots of ways to get it."

 She drained her glass. "Don't I know it! When I went 
to get tested for it -- "

 "You did?"

 She nodded, eyes wide, as I poured more wine for her. 
Of course she did, she said -- as if there were no 
other reasonable course. She was crazy about her Afghan 
refugee. "You think I want to take a chance on killing 
him? No way!"

 Which was, I told her, exactly the way my Significant 
Other and I felt and why we'd gotten tested.

 The talk moved on to cheerier subjects and later, 
after more chatting and catching up -- and her doing in 
two-thirds of a bottle of wine -- she started examining 
the titles of the books. She asked if she could look at 
one on a high shelf. I started to get up from the 
couch.

 "I'll get it. I just wanted to know if it was okay to 
look at it."

 "Sure, help yourself." She got the little folding step 
stool from the corner and set it up. It's only a four-
step job, so she had to stand on the top. I went to 
steady her -- remember that wine -- and as soon as I 
got there, she turned halfway and started toppling.

 I caught her, with my hands at her trim waist. Her 
cheeks were flushed and the redness was spreading down 
her neck and throat and in-to the vee of pale flesh 
exposed by the three unfastened buttons.

 She put her hands on either side of my face, bent and 
kissed me. Her breath was sweetly tinged with the wine 
and her lips were taut and urgent. They opened 
immediately and her tongue danced with mine, teasing, 
then searching and demanding. Her tongue was rather 
long, too, she seemed to have no difficulty running it 
over the roof of my mouth and I know it reached farther 
than any other I'd encountered. It was somehow making 
me even more aroused.

 Without breaking the kiss or moving my hands from her 
waist, I lifted her off the step stool. She wrapped her 
arms around my neck and I had to bend to maintain the 
kiss as I stood her on the floor.

 I put my arms all the way around her and pressed her 
up and against me. Her breasts, so huge and full, were 
crushed against me. She was arching her back deeply to 
catch my leg between her thighs and rub her denim-clad 
crotch against me. I ran my hands up and down her back, 
then reached down and covered her ass, one hand to a 
cheek. Her hips were so narrow and her butt so tight 
and hard that I was momentarily taken aback; it was 
almost like squeezing a preteen girl's ass. (Not that 
I've ever done that)

 But there was nothing kid-like in the heat or 
experience in her hungry kiss or the way she was 
writhing against me. And there sure as hell was nothing 
childlike in the massive pressure of her firm, 
bounteous breasts against me. 

 When she finally broke the kiss, she leaned back in my 
arms, otherwise remaining pressed against me and 
letting me support most of her weight. Her eyes were 
closed and there was a small smile on her flushed face.

 "I have wanted to do that for four years," she said. 
"And I've wanted you to do that, too." Her eyes opened. 
"Did you know that?"

 I shook my head. 

 "And you don't remember the time I told you that one 
of the things I liked best about you was that you'd 
never tried to come on to me."

 Again, I shook my head.

 "And you don't remember telling me that you liked me 
and thought I was cute, but that I felt bad about 
myself and that was why I was overweight."

 I was starting to remember something, now ....

 "And do you remember telling me that if I was a few 
years older and about 20 percent thinner, then you'd 
have more of a problem not making a pass at me?"

 "Uhhhh --- Well -- "

 Her smile widened. "I'm a few years older and a lot 
thinner -- mostly -- and just like you said, you're 
making a pass at me. And guess what?"

 "What?"

 "Pass received." She brought one hand up and quickly 
unbuttoned her blouse. The bra she wore wasn't meant to 
be sexy. It was meant to contain and support breasts 
that belonged on an over-endowed woman a foot taller 
and thirty pounds heavier. It wasn't containing them, 
though. Her tits swelled up and around the edges of the 
cotton, creamy swells of billowy pale flesh that was 
just tinged with a flush of arousal. And that made it a 
VERY sexy damn bra.

 I swallowed.

 Her fingers went to the clasp between the two 
overflowing cups. Her fingers moved. The clasp 
released. The bra slid back partly, un-able to deal 
with the pressure of her large breasts. 

 "Did you ever suspect that sometimes when I called you 
and asked about relationships and how they could be, I 
was sitting in my bath-robe?"

 "No, I never -- "

 She was shimmying her shoulders and the bra was 
opening wider and wider.

 "Or that sometimes, when we were talking, I was 
getting wet and starting to touch myself, imagining 
what it would be like to have you making love to me?"

 "Not even once."

 She shimmied and the cups fell back from her breasts. 
They were magnificent. The bra hadn't been able to 
contain them and judging by the firmness of the twenty-
year-old tits jutting up at me, it hadn't been 
absolutely necessary for support, either.

 "I used to imagine you kissing and licking my breasts 
-- not like the grabby guys my own age or the dirty old 
pigs that were always copping feels -- but just 
sweetly, lovingly, hungrily devouring my tits ... Would 
you like to do that?"

 "Guess what, Elly?"

 She frowned. "What?"

 "Pass received." I lifted her easily and turned, 
setting her tiny butt on the arm of the loveseat, then 
I bent slightly and began kissing and licking her 
magnificently excessive tits, trying furiously to live 
up to the lurid imaginings of the pudgy sixteen-year-
old who'd encased this gloriously sexy twenty-year-old.

 I tried to guess what she'd fantasized, planning to 
live up to it if biologically possible -- but abandoned 
that effort in, oh, five sixteenths of a second. So I 
just went with instinct and me.

 I bent and licked her shoulders, then down her arm. I 
trilled my tongue in the hollow of her elbow and 
watched the goose bumps rise and felt her shiver. Then 
I went to work on her breasts.

 Twenty years old or not, tits that big are required by 
Gravity to have some sag to them and hers weren't 
lawbreakers -- but they were bending the rules pretty 
good. I licked the under swells of each gorgeously 
curved mound and then kissed along the outer edge. Her 
aureoles were no larger than twenty-five-cent pieces, 
making them oddly tiny in proportion to her tits, but 
the nozzles themselves were outstanding. They swelled 
up and out, stretching easily three-quarters of an inch 
and as thick as pencil erasers.

 Her hands had come up to either side of my head and 
she was trying to force my mouth onto her nipples. I 
let her -- but my mouth draped over each one, open, and 
I withheld my tongue, so no matter how much she pressed 
my face into the firm, fragrant abundance, her nipples 
were untouched. 

 She was moaning for me to attend to them, but I had 
another idea. I figured a girl with such huge, gorgeous 
breasts probably had her nipples grabbed by every moron 
who got his digits near them. I also figured that 
absence makes the frond grow harder. So I stayed 
completely away from touching her nipples.

 It made her crazy. 

 But while my lips and tongue were busy with her 
abundant upper attractions, my hands had been steadily 
caressing and stroking her curvy, slim legs. My right 
hand was gently moving up and down over the denim-clad 
chub of her mons. I could feel the heat through the 
fabric of her jeans and whatever else she was or wasn't 
wearing beneath them.

Continued in part 2

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
