Doug

When Julie told me that she was going to move away, I was stunned. She was the girl next door, and had been my childhood friend. We grew up together from infancy, played together, got into scrapes and trouble together. When we got into the preteen years, and the other boys and girls split into male and female cliques, Julie and I continued to play together. It seemed so natural – there were no barriers between us. We never fought over anything, and that’s a big part of what made our friendship so special.
She stood looking up at me with those luminous gray eyes, solemn after her announcement. I stammered something incoherent, looked down at my shoes, told her she was my best friend, told her I couldn’t begin to explain how much I’d miss her, stuttered to a stop, and just looked at her. Her eyes searched my face, then filled up with tears. She leaned forward against me, and sobbed once. I saw a tear drop to darken my shirt. After a moment, I put my arms around her, awkward at the unaccustomed physical intimacy. She giggled then, and looked up at me through her tears.
She was twelve, and I fourteen. She had grown breasts the previous summer, and I had begun to think of her differently. I found myself telling her that I had begun to hope that we could be more than friends – that we could start dating when we were a little older.
“You mean, you wanted me to be your girlfriend?” she asked incredulously.
For just an instant, my mind flashed on the casual cruelty with which girls can destroy boys when they make such an admission. Then I dismissed the fear. I was safe with Julie. I nodded. She looked past me. Her eyes got a faraway expression for a moment, then refocused on me.
“Then…then…come on,” she whispered, and took my hand, and pulled me toward the Hundred Acre Wood (named after the place in Pooh) where we had played together all our lives.
“Where are we going?” I asked, and she stopped and turned to me.
“Somewhere we can be all alone. I want to be your girlfriend before I go. I’m going to let you Do It.”
I could hardly believe my ears. She turned and pulled my hand again, urgently towing me along into the woods. At first, I didn’t say anything. Flashes of memory occupied my mind. I thought first of the only time I had ever seen her pussy…
We were seven and nine years old, and playing in the Wood on a bright sunny morning. Eventually, nature called urgently, and I walked away from her to find a place to relieve myself.
“Where are you going?” she asked in her clear, childish voice.
“I have to pee”, I said.
“Me too.”
Then she reached for the button and zipper of her shorts, and undid the front of her pants. She didn’t seem to notice that I had stopped and was watching. She took her pants down to her mid-thighs, revealing the hairless little split mound at the base of her belly. She squatted there, right in front of me in a beam of sunlight, and spread her legs wide. After a couple of seconds, a clear stream gushed from her pussy into the grass. Her pee made a faint whirring sound as it exited from between her plump nether lips; after a couple of seconds, I could hear it splattering into the puddle she was making. She looked up at me, and her luminous gray eyes met mine. Our glances held, and she smiled a funny little smile at me. I looked down again, and frankly watched her pussy as she continued to pee. When she was empty, the stream fell off, and then ended abruptly. I could see that there were some dribbles that escaped to wet her taint and her right buttock. She stood and pulled her light blue panties up. The sewn-in crotch panel darkened on contact with her stray moisture. She pulled up her shorts and buttoned them, then stood there expectantly watching me. I unzipped my pants, took out my penis, and wet the forest floor while she watched.
She towed me deeper into the Wood…
I remembered the previous summer, when her breasts had begun to develop. She was eleven. Her new two-piece bathing suit was of cheap material. It clung to her body when it was wet. I remembered seeing her climbing up the ladder out of the swimming pool, her top semi-transparent. Half-tennis ball breasts capped by chocolate chip nipples stood high on her chest under the thin cloth. Where her lower belly curved down between her legs, there was a plump bulge. I remembered what she had let me see four summers before – soft lips split by a crack with a dimple at its top. A few stray wisps of blonde-brown hair escaped from her suit bottoms next to her left thigh.
I grew bold then, and began to ask her all of the questions that the prurient mind of a fourteen-year-old boy had about a girl’s body. She answered me frankly, seeming to hold nothing back, revealing all of the most intimate secrets that a girl knew about herself. She satisfied all of my curiosity, and whetted my growing appetite for what I knew was coming. I don’t remember all of the things I asked her; most of them are now as familiar to me as my own male secrets; and just as mundane to an adult. I do remember that she told me her bra size, 32A, and that she was not a virgin. A friend of her cousin’s had talked her into it only a month before. She said it hadn’t hurt, but that it was over in a matter of minutes, before her pleasure had run its course. He fucked her once, then lost interest. She said she wished that she had waited for me.
There was one question that she didn’t answer in words. I asked her if she masturbated. Her gray eyes widened; she looked away. Her eyes evaded mine. A slow flush crept up her neck from under the collar of her tee shirt, and I had my answer.
At last we reached her chosen place: a wooden bench in a clearing in the middle of the Hundred Acre Wood. She let go of my hand, and we stood silently looking at each other for a few minutes. Her eyes were alive in her face, reflecting excitement, uncertainty, curiosity, and (yes, I’m certain of it) love.
After an awkward silence, she took the lead. She crossed her arms in front of her, grasped the hem of her tee shirt, and pulled it up, revealing the smooth skin of her belly and the small white bra that held her breasts. The tee shirt caught in her hair; she struggled with it for a moment; then it was free. She turned to put it on the bench behind her, and I caught the profile of her little breasts in their snow-white cups. She turned her wide, guileless eyes to me and watched my face as she pushed one strap, then the other off her shoulders. She pushed the bra down, and her firm little cones sprang into my view. They were capped with gumdrop pink nipples in small, pale areolas. Her nipples contracted and hardened in the early summer air. She twisted the bra around so that its back was in front, and carefully undid the single hook in the narrow strap. The bra followed her tee shirt onto the bench.
She stood there for a moment, letting me fill my eyes with the sight of her half-naked body. Then her hands went to the waistband of her jeans. She opened the button, drew down the zipper, opened the front of her jeans to me. Her belly still had a little mound of baby fat; the fine blonde hairs on her skin caught the summer sun. I could see the elastic top of her pink panties in the open vee of her fly. Her hands went to the waistband of her jeans at her hips, and she pushed her pants down. They caught at her hips: they were jeans for preteen girls, and her hips had begun to widen that year. She wriggled from side to side, pushing her jeans down off of one hip, and then the other, and then down her thighs to her knees. She sat down on the bench then, and took her jeans off one leg, then the other, and dropped them onto the bench next to her.
She sat there for a moment in just her panties, her legs together, watching me. I became aware that I was fully erect, that my jeans were tented by my unmistakable arousal. Just as I experienced that thought, her eyes dropped from my face, and she looked down at me there. I felt myself redden.
She looked away then, kindly sparing me my embarrassment, and smiled her crooked little smile as she half-rose from the bench and pushed her panties down. Of all the things I remember about the time that followed, what is always uppermost in my mind is that exact second. I will always see in my mind how she looked then, her hair a little mussed, her nipples erect, her little mound of baby fat; the soft patch of curly new hairs at the base of her belly; her slightly widened hips; her pink panties halfway down her slightly chubby thighs; her artless smile, her averted gray eyes.
When she was naked, she came to me, and helped me out of my clothes. When my pants were a puddle on the ground, she grasped my erection in her little hand, and squeezed it, and my passivity vanished. I took her into my arms and kissed her, then French kissed her, then drew her down onto the forest floor and began to explore her body with my hands and lips and tongue. I tried the things I had heard and read about, and drew gasps and little intakes of breath out of her. I found the sensitive place behind her knees that dusted her flesh with goose bumps and pulled her nipples into tighter contraction ( “they ache when you do that”, she told me later). I felt the taught muscles of her calves, the satin smoothness of her inner thighs, the perspiration that had gathered in the creases where her legs met her buttocks. I discovered the generous slippery hot wetness between the soft pink petals of her inner pussy lips, and the hard nubbin of her erect clitoris. I discovered the wonderful smell of her down there, and how she responded to each caress and exploration of her intimate places. I heard the soft little whimpers that she made as my fingers smoothed her wetness up over her clitoris, pulled back its hood, and rhythmically caressed it as she rocked her hips in helpless delight. I listened to the catch in her sharp intake of breath when I bent over to suck the hard little nubbin into my mouth. I watched her belly convulse as her orgasm overwhelmed her, and she cried out with the contractions of her release. I felt the wet silkiness of her intimate skin as I fitted the end of my erection into the natural hollow that was meant to receive it, at the base of her nether lips. I felt her walls give way with seeming reluctance as I rocked my hips gently above her widespread legs, slowly pushing the blunt head of my erection a little further into her with each thrust. She was hot and tight and wet. I filled her at last, and met the resistance of her womb at the end of her canal, and rocked deeper still, pushing gently harder, hearing her gasp as I stretched her. I fucked her slowly, listening to her gasps, soft panting, little wordless pleadings, and finally her husky moans of completion. Then, I let myself go, and fucked her hard and fast, and felt the pleasure skyrocket in seconds to an unbearable pitch, and then I convulsed in ecstasy, and felt my erection jerk in her tight silken glove as my cum spurted into her once, twice, again, again, again, and again.
I collapsed onto her body, and let myself be cradled there, between her breasts and between her legs and inside her all at once. We lay there together as my erection slowly dwindled, until at last it popped out of her, and then she pushed gently against my chest.
I drew up to look a question down at her flushed face. Julie wasn’t a conventionally pretty girl, but she was a girl of unearthly beauty in that moment. She smiled at me, and whispered, “Let me up – I have to pee”.
I rolled off of her, and she rose into a crouch, and then stood up. I watched her from the ground as she walked a few steps, then whirled around to face me.
“Do you remember?” she asked with a mischievous grin. Then she squatted there, facing me, and reached down to spread her pussy petals to my view. I saw her little clitoris poking half out of its hood, the open valley between her inner pussy lips, glistening with moisture, that fleshy place above her opening, the traces of white semen that clung to her there. Suddenly a triangular opening appeared in the fleshy place as a stream of clear pee erupted from it. I watched in fascination and admiration as she wet the ground in front of me. When she was done, she gave a little shiver, and rose to her feet. She pointed at my new erection, adopted a fake hillbilly accent, and said in a warbling voice,
“Well, lookee there!”
A moment later I was fucking her again.
I fucked her twice more that day, and we agreed to meet the next day in a different spot in the woods – one that had no path leading to it – one that was less public, where we would be screened by foliage as we took our mutual pleasure. When I arrived there the following morning, she was sitting on a blanket she had thoughtfully brought with her. Her shirt was loose, buttoned down the front, I noted. She looked up at me and smiled widely.
“Look!” she said as she spread her legs on the blanket and pointed to her crotch. The faded blue denim was stained a darker blue in a spot the size of a quarter where the seams met.
“Did you wet your pants?” I asked her.
“No, silly. I’ve been thinking about you ever since I woke up, my boyfriend. I’m already wet for you down there.”
I fucked Julie all day that day, over and over and over. I fucked her in every way my fevered imagination could devise. She was instantly obedient to my every whim, looking up at me with total trust in those big gray eyes as I asked her to do, and let me do, everything I could think of. I remember the taste and look and smell and texture of every fold and crease of her body. I remember the faint musky smell in her armpits after a day of lovemaking; the faint rasp of her fine underarm stubble on my tongue; the salty and slightly bitter taste of her there. I remember the smell and taste of all of her body’s secretions and excretions; the splattering sound her pee made on the ground and in the grass and onto the floorboards of the abandoned shed we found that afternoon deeper in the woods. I remember her straddling me, her eyes closed, her mouth open, rocking rhythmically as she impaled herself over and over on my rigid erection. I remember her little breasts jiggling slightly with her frantic movements, her pleading little cries, the sharp “Oh” she uttered when her release hit, the five little spurts of hot pee that she squirted into my pubic hair as her belly convulsed and squeezed her bladder when she climaxed.
I shot my semen onto her belly, onto her breasts, onto her buttocks and her back, into her pussy, over her tongue and down her throat. I fucked her standing up, laying down, sitting up, from behind, from below. I trapped her up against a wall so she couldn’t move, and gave it to her almost brutally, while she was held there, helpless to move, helpless to stop me, helpless entirely, cumming and then cumming again and then yet again, gladly at my mercy and getting fucked until I was done.
We separated for the night, then met again the next day in the abandoned shed, tore each other’s clothes off and did it again. Somewhere, I’m not sure when or where, we gained an audience.
After two weeks, the movers came, and they loaded everything into the big van. I stood there and watched in desolation as they took everything that was hers away. A small knot of neighbors gathered to drink iced tea and reminisce, and say goodbye to her and her family. When the moving van started up and began to drive away, her father became brisk, obviously wanting to end the farewells and begin their trip. He shook hands warmly with all of the men, including me. He had known me for years; I was his daughter’s friend and the boy next door.
Her mother made the rounds behind him, saying goodbye as well. When she got to me, I looked into her gray eyes – eyes that echoed the luminous orbs of her daughter. She had always been like a friendly almost-mom to me. Her children and I had piled through both of our houses indiscriminately for years. Her look had always been of kindly affection towards me… but not this morning. Her gray eyes regarded me coolly; she tilted her head to one side. There was an empty space where her affection for me had resided behind her eyes. She paused, and then said a simple, final goodbye in a low voice. She moved on, and my heart began to beat again. I don’t know if she said anything to Julie, or to her husband, but my gut told me that somehow she knew I had been fucking her twelve-year-old daughter.
Julie’s family got into their station wagon, and Julie came to say goodbye to me. There were no tears from her, though I struggled not to shed my own. My chest felt as though it had a great weight on it. She smiled at me, then put her hands on my shoulders, and leaned in to give me a chaste peck on the cheek. As she pulled away, she whispered, “The answer is yes.” The answer to what? My bewildered look widened her smile, and her eyes sparkled. She leaned in to peck my other cheek, and whispered again.
“Yes, I masturbate.” Then, she got into the station wagon, and they drove away.
My life changed after that day. It was half an hour later when I realized that I hadn’t gotten Julie’s new address from her, so I couldn’t even write. She certainly knew my address, and I waited hopefully for a letter from her, but it never came.
The end of summer came, and my life returned to some semblance of normalcy. I went back to school, and eventually tried to get into the dating scene. There were no takers. I noticed that there seemed to be whispered conversations between girls, conversations that went on behind shielding hands, accompanied by furtive looks in my direction. After a couple of months of this, I expressed my frustration at the house of a male friend, and his older brother took me aside.
“So, Doug… you don’t know what’s up with the chicks?” he asked. I shook my head ruefully. He leaned in closer to me, in the manner of a co-conspirator.
“They all know about you and Julie.”
“But Julie’s gone,” I said. “Do they expect me to live like a monk?”
“No, man. They know that you and Julie, you know, Did It like rabbits. Everybody expects that there may be a little fooling around on a date. The chicks dig it too, you know? But what they say you and Julie did… wow. If a chick dates you, people are gonna think that she wants it the way you gave it to Julie – over and over and over. Chicks can’t be seen to be after that shit, you know?”
I balled my fists and went at him. He held up his hands, palms out, in the peace-making gesture.
“No, no man. I meant no offense to you or your girl. It’s OK with me. It’s just that the chicks can’t go for it. Relax, man. You’re a legend!” and he punched my arm playfully.
“But… I can’t get a date!”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then advised me to try my luck at another school. He was right with that advice, and my social circle expanded to include girls who weren’t so local. I forgot what Julie had taught me, swallowed up in the rush of hormones and the foolish myths about love that teenagers (and adults) substitute for wisdom. Cool Dude Wows the Chicks. Knight in Shining Armor / Damsel in Distress. Hot Girls in Hot Pants in Hot Cars, and all the rest. I had all the usual fascinations, infatuations, and heartbreaks, well into my adult life. I overlooked the plain and simple truth of what was, until my 35th year, the greatest love of my life: a friend whom I could trust, being trustworthy myself; mutual respect and admiration between equals – the things my first love had shown me, all uncomprehending.

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