A "Great" Guy. . . the Bastard
He walked along side after school was out. . . me with my splendid profile, I thought, and what did I know. . . we were teenagers after all. . . each of us at stages of development in school. . . but I was ahead of the class, in History, too.
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. . but you know what I mean. I was the magnet of the boys, mostly immature. . . admiring me and a few other girls from afar. . . I was lucky. . . my breasts were easily the nicest at school. . .
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it was a silent thing we all knew. . . mine were the best and the others were trying to catch up.
What breasts meant we weren't sure but we were sure they meant something n. i. c. e. Breasts were the key to a boy's heart, and his dick, and being popular and then, each day, school was out and we were all on our way home. . . one guy sort of tagged along with me, down the lane, toward my house. . . "Hey," he said to me.
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"Hey, back" I said. . . and we walked along. I noticed it was just us two. . . "Come on!" he said and pushed me to the side. . . "Stop," I said. . . "Why?" "I don't know, just stop!" I said.
Well, as guys do, or don't, he didn't stop and pushed me to the side.
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. . down along a side street and then down to the ground. . . "Come on," he said. . . "Let me go," I cried as he pushed me down and now he was like one hundred hands. . . I didn't know a guy could have so many hands and they were all on me. I said, "Stop" again but he didn't.
As I was developing, I naturally admired my breasts. .
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. my early self-examinations. . . and checked them out without end. . . each curve and shape as they grew. . . the folds, tried different bras, checked the nipples which were sensitive and responsive. . . and here was this guy with one hundred hands exploring. .
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. it was different than self-examination. . . my nipples were hard before he grabbed. . . and I turned at him when he was there. . . his mouth on mine. . . "You are a little tease," he said. .
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. . "I've watched you parading around for us. . . " Maybe I had and he was all over me. . . "Stop this" I said and sat up and he pushed me down. . . "Let me go," I squirmed in his hands and he let me up and I went home. . . pulling my blouse down, my dress up, straightening my bra straps.
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. . he had gotten me. . . the bastard. . . my face was red, my whole body was flushed, I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. . . feeling, exploring---two hands, ten fingers--not the rough hundred handed boy--I was still aflame with the moment, nipples hard and sensitive to my touch, my flesh had goose bumps but I petted myself down, smoothing my tummy and my little hairs. . calming, soothing. I sat at the edge of my bed, still catching my breath, the house quiet, the front door double locked.
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My thighs were so very smooth but my hands were setting me on fire. I couldn't keep them off myself and petted and wetted and squeezed on them at my waist.
. . slow movement, squeezing, releasing, my little lips and fingers, I was breathing in deeply, flexing, lying back on the bed, that rude, rough boy, I had escaped in time. . . in time for this! My feet were up now, and spread apart, thinking of him pushing me down, grabbing at my breasts, but he hadn't tried for my waist. . not there, just at that, AH!. . special spot, where my fingers were probing and stroking. . . what if he had done that.
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. . This was too much for me and my legs sprang together, holding my fingers. . . too, intense. . . too good for words. My legs pushed my fingers inside. I opened them again. . . thought of all this. .
. his hundred hands hadn't gotten at my waist. . . he might have made me come! He could have fucked me. . . could have. . .
I avoided that rude boy after the time in the alley. Made sure I got home early for some self-examination. Then one afternoon I stayed late at school to see my teacher for a writing evaluation. . .
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it was almost dark outside when our meeting began. I entered the classroom and there he sat. . . English was a bore and writing a chore and a passing grade was barely in sight for me. . . I walked to his desk. He looked up, "Hi!" he said. "I was going over your paper. It needs work. " I nodded. . . I mean obviously it needed work.
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. . I wasn't a writer. . . "Look here," he said and I walked around to his side of the desk. "Punctuation. " "What about it?" I asked. He pointed to several spots and I bent over for a closer look and closer to him. . . his pointing arm against my side. He had a cologne. . .
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"What cologne is that?" I asked. "Hmm. . . I don't know. " "I like it. " He looked up at me and smiled. . . staring right at me I smiled back. He kissed me and pulled away but kissed me again. He wasn't like the rude boy and I was feeling flushed. His hand went under my dress, fingers to my wet quim. . .
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I couldn't help squirming. . .
It was my favorite dress with pleats below the waist. . . Just a school dress but nice. Sexy. "You're a sexy girl," he said. "You know that, don't you. " I just smiled and waited for a hundred hands all exploring me. I had the nicest breasts in class, I knew that, I wondered if I was first in the class between my legs. . . it sure felt like I was.
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. . UH!. . . the hands were stroking me now. He yanked down my knickers and I felt cool and hot at the same time. My legs moved apart. They couldn't help it. He bent me across his waist. "You're a sexy, dirty little girl. " His words were stinging and exciting and he lifted my dress. More handling. . .
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and then a whack on my bottom. . . "You should be spanked because you're dirty," he said and he spanked me again. . . pushing me against his leg. Now he was massaging my bottom. . . spanking me again as I moved against his hand. "Sit on me," he said, lifting me away from his lap. He pulled my legs apart, feeling up my thighs and I sat on him.
. .
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I leaned my head on his shoulder, shivering, not from the cold. . . from the heat and feelings of his hundred fingers and my waist moving to get more, feel more, breath more. . . I was gulping for air as he said dirty words in my ear. . . I was his "wet cunt" his "dirty cunt" his "little tart" I was a dancer too, my waist dancing on his fingers. . . then I said "Stop. " "Stop. It's too.
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. . much. " and he held me there. I didn't feel dirty at all. My little body parts clinging to his fingers. . . resting, relieved, washed and clean is what I felt.
I was on my bed now at home, lying back, dreaming, in my dream he was doing the work, stroking, petting, just. . . AH!. . .
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just there and I was flexing hard and my head back on his shoulder as he touched and explored, thrilling me and I pulled on his hands at my waist. . . it was so quiet in school. . . so quiet. I think he liked my writing technique. I got a passing grade. I learned a kind of lesson. I got to thinking, on many nights, about the two guys. They were both rough, one grabbing, one spanking. Very different but the same result. . .
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they got me going. The spanking though was best. The teacher would hit my bottom and then rest his hand on me, moving it around, like soothing the skin he had hit and then spanking me again, smoothing again. It stung each time but I forgot about the sting and waited for his soothing touch. Then I was raising my rump, opening to his touch when the palm of his hand slid on my lips, fingers dipping. . . I put my hand back. . . I was all puffed and wet and the palm of his hand made me shake and move on it. . . then he would rest his hand and play with me, his fingers sliding up and down as I lifted more and he made me come on his fingers, my cunt in the palm of his hand, my cheek on his knees. He felt my hot cheek and my breathing on him.
. . it seemed like hours but it was minutes and I hoped he would check my papers some time soon. . .
Night after night I went to sleep with these conflicting dreams. . . spanking, searching hands, disgusting hands forcing me down. . . it all put me to sleep. . . after I had thought it all through.
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. . it was the combination of pain followed by intense pleasure. . . awaking with the slap, ignited by the fingers probing. . . I could almost come just by thinking about it. . . of a hundred hands I only needed my fingers.
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