R W Finch
No longer virgin

CHAPTER ONE

Wendy Winkler was nine years old when she climbed up on the back of the overstuffed couch in the basement playroom, balanced, one leg on each side as if astride a horse, and bumped across the coarse fabric. She wore only light cotton panties under her dress and was immediately arrested by the delightful sensation received from her action. She did it again, was rewarded with the same delicious twinge. She did it yet again. And again.

As sliding any distance at all proved awkward, Wendy soon discovered that by leaning forward, supporting herself with her hands, arms straight, elbows locked, and moving slowly back and forth, she could effect the same pleasurable tug. She was totally enchanted by it.

She pulled her feet up, crossed them behind her, frog-like, heels touching her small bottom, the smooth muscles in the backs of her legs tensed. She began rocking. The first steady, precise thrusts of her narrow hips gradually took on a mysterious urgency, quickened, until finally, her heart pounding in hex ears, her skinny arms and legs trembling uncontrollably, her tight, straining buttocks pumping feverishly, she gasped aloud at the flame suddenly licking through her insides, shuddered, surprised, as it consumed whole the delicate tissue between her damp thighs.

She immediately ran to tell her best girl friend.

Now, at the age of eighteen, Wendy Winkler was tallish, slim-hipped, and the possessor of huge, inquisitive brown eyes, a tousled tangle of tawny blonde hair, and an impish, as equally often sensitive, or even secretive, smile. Her firm breasts, though not overly large, were exquisitely round, heavy, poised high and distinctly separate. They tilted upward slightly, pointed outward. To the chagrin of her parents, she never bothered wearing a bra.

Wendy had, by this time, discovered another use for that same overstuffed couch in the basement playroom. She lay sprawled on her back in semi-darkness, the gentle curve of her slender body pressed deep into the battered cushions, her small, denimed bottom wedged into the space formed between them. Alan Stokes, Wendy's boy friend, her lover, her "steady" of two months, his muscular arms around her middle, the throbbing erection within the tight confines of his jeans poking obtrusively against her thigh, lingeringly explored the sugary warmth of her mouth with his tongue.

Wendy squirmed yet more tightly to him, sucked and bit at his lips eagerly, darted her pink tongue wetly against his own.

Alan pulled away slightly, murmured, "I love you, baby." He brushed his lips lightly across her apple smooth cheek, gently chewed at her ear. "I love you," he said again.

"I love you, too," Wendy breathed against him, entwined her fingers in his dark, curly hair. "Touch me."

She shifted position slightly, avoided a loosened spring jabbing at her, worried only briefly if her mother would come downstairs to see how the studying was going, decided she probably wouldn't. She had never yet, anyway.

"Touch me," Wendy coaxed again, almost child-like.

Trembling, Alan quickly unbuttoned her blouse, tugged it free from the waistband of her faded, beltless denims. He pushed it back off of her shoulders and reached for her.

Wendy stiffened with a muffled little gasp at the cool touch of his hands on her bare breasts, shivered almost imperceptibly when he squeezed one gently. Her dark plum nipples already rapidly hardened, swelled into taut erection out of sheer anticipation. She flicked lightly with her tongue at the corner of her mouth.

"Wendy, you have the most fantastic Goddamned tits!" Alan managed hoarsely, kissed wetly along the damp, round underside of one. "I mean, they're so damned perfect!"

"You always say that," Wendy giggled, pleased at his obvious delight with her. "They're just… breasts."

"I always say it because I mean it. They're flawless! Compared to you, every other girl in the seventh grade looks like she's wearing an iron board under her blouse."

"Oh, Alan!" she giggled again, softly, twisted slightly, closed her eyes. She was aware of his tongue teasing at one of her distended nipples, then the other. His breathing, as her own, grew by degrees more uneven.

"Alan, I love you," she said quietly. "I really love you."

And, of course, Wendy did love him, adored him. She was deliriously happy she had him, thought of him, in fact, as something she owned, much like her record player or the English racing bicycle she kept in the garage. Alan belonged to her, was hers, and she loved him as much as she was capable of loving anything. Or anyone, for that matter.

"Your nipples will burst if they get any bigger!" Alan laughed, covered one warmly with his mouth. He tugged at the rubbery flesh with his teeth.

"Well, don't bite it off!" Wendy breathed, shivered at the delicious tingling sensations, the delightfully electric miniature spasms sluicing down her body. She could almost believe that, somehow, through her breasts and nipples alone, she might achieve some form of partial relief, some form of orgasm.

She squirmed for even more body contact with this boy she loved, pulled him even more on top of herself. She felt his stiffness against her thigh again, was both excited, at the same time, frightened at the thought of it.

A brief fantasy, vague, confused, flitted through her mind, captured her, released her. A fantasy about his cock, about her in complete possession of it, touching it, holding it, putting it into her mouth, putting it, forcing it, into the slick passage between her legs, into the tight opening of her anus. She wanted it with a ravenous urgency, wanted it within her, throbbing, alive.

To Alan, she said nothing. Her relief, she knew, would only come later, after Alan had gone home, after the rest of her family was asleep, when Wendy was safe and alone in the darkness of her own bed. When all was still in the house, then would her relief come, quietly, and in the form of her own slender, probing fingers.

"How did you ever get your tits so firm?" Alan asked and squeezed one. He tweaked at a shiny damp tip with his fingers. "You do breast exercises or something?"

"No," Wendy answered awkwardly, thought she might be blushing. "I don't do those."

"You must do something," he insisted.

"Nothing. They're… they're just natural."

"They're just beautiful," Alan corrected her.

She loved it when he complimented her so extravagantly, felt somehow even more valuable to him, and he complimented her often, particularly about her breasts. She was lucky to be so endowed, she guessed, but if Wendy's wondrously round and uptilted breasts gave her reason for pride, then they certainly also gave her cause for concern, and even occasionally, as when the girls in her seventh grade gym class glanced at her with obvious curiosity and envy, cause her acute dismay and embarrassment.

Wendy, of course, was as curious about the other girls' tits as they about hers, and, twice a week when the entire class stood naked in the shower room together, toweling off or dashing in and out of the tilted shower stalls, she covertly compared herself to them and was always honestly amazed at the difference.

"I'm completely in love with your body," Alan announced, moved from sucking at her nipples to kissing her throat. He pushed her loosely-cut hair aside, chewed at her slender neck, ended at her bare shoulders.

"Only my body?" Wendy chided softly.

"Everything," he said. "I love everything that's part of you, all and everything that makes up you."

His hand moved down across the tips of her breasts, across the flat expanse of her tummy, lingered momentarily to toy with her navel.

Wendy giggled.

Alan reached out, through her denims squeezed the plump mound between her slightly parted thighs, caused her to start with a small, audible sigh. Quickly, he slipped his hand under the waistband of her jeans, managed to poke a finger under the elastic of her panties before Wendy said, "Man, please don't, baby."

"Oh, come on, Wendy!" he responded almost peevishly, raised up on one elbow. "Christ, we've gone together for over two months now. I love you. You say you love me. What's a finger going to hurt?"

"You know how I feel about that," she said. She was acutely aware of the oily-slick wetness that so completely filled the area Alan wanted access to, worried it would actually seep through her jeans. She could just barely detect the warm passion smell of herself and hoped unreasonably that Alan couldn't. It embarrassed her.

He had not yet removed his hand, but now inched his fingers forward and touched the finely curled hair that began on the gentle slope of her groin.

"Stop it, Alan!" She would have stamped her foot had she been standing. "I mean it!"

"Damn it, Wendy! What's it going to hurt? Tell me."

She finally took his hand firmly, pulled it away, wrapped her arms around his neck. She began kissing at his face wetly. He moved away from her.

"Wendy, you don't understand what you're doing to me! Look at me! I'm going to burst through these jeans any second!"

She wouldn't look, but shook her pretty head.

"Alan, behave yourself. Besides, if I let you touch me there, it would only make things worse for you."

He ignored her logic. "Let me just touch it once. Just with my finger. Just once. I promise."

She felt her resolve weaken slightly, still held firm.

"Honey, I love you, but I just can't. Try to understand."

"But you'll like it, Wendy. You will. Besides, all the other girls let their boy friends do it."

"And just how do you know that?" she asked. "The guys all talk about that sort of thing," he answered vaguely, suddenly defensive. "You know, just talk."

"I know. Just talk. Like talk about that whore Lucinda Krell and how many different boys have pulled her pants down. I've heard that talk. And you just want something to talk about, too! Well, I'm not Lucinda Krell and I wouldn't want to be!"

Alan blurted, "I would never say anything about you! I love you!"

Wendy suddenly smiled then, kissed him on the mouth impulsively. They looked at each other for a moment without speaking.

Finally Alan said, "Let me touch it through your underwear. I'll stop the second you tell me. I swear."

"My parents are right upstairs," she said.

"What's that got to do with it? We're not going to be throwing the furniture around or anything."

She was silent and looked away from him, unsure of what exactly to do. After all, she did love him.

"Do you promise, on our love, you'll stop the instant I tell you to? Do you promise?"

She glanced almost shyly at him, saw in his eyes his anticipation was even greater than her own.

"I promise," his voice cracked.

"Be gentle. I'm very sensitive down there."

"I would hope so," he laughed nervously, his fingers already under the front of her jeans, moving cautiously along her lace panties toward the center of her young womanhood.

Wendy bent her knees, raised them, parted her legs slightly to afford him more room within the tightness of her denims. She could tell her underwear was already soaked, could feel the wetly clinging fabric riding up in the back between the cheeks of her bottom.

Alan couldn't quite seem to reach her, the area just too confining.

"Undo the snap," she suggested finally in a tiny voice.

Alan fumbled with the front of her jeans, flipped open the snap, pulled down her zipper, exposed a large triangle of white panty. He slipped his fingers past the elastic, when she didn't protest, moved down through her damp, curly hair. He searched.

Wendy cried out with a barely stifled sob when he found the slick opening of her cunt, caught her breath with a sharp little whimper when his fingers discovered the fleshy covering protecting the exquisite sensitivity of her faintly trembling clit.

He probed gently, lit on the quivering, distended stub, enclosed it. He tugged at it.

"Don't!" Wendy barely managed to gasp brokenly, twisted away from his touch. "What's wrong?"

"I want you to stop. You promised." She removed his hand, pulled up her zipper, re-snapped her jeans. She was trembling.

"Let me make you come at least!" he almost cried.

"No," she breathed in a small voice, felt her face flush, turned away. "That's enough."

"Why?"

"Alan, don't start again. You promised."

"Just tell me why."

"Alan, please…"

"There's nothing to worry about," he persisted. "Even if we did end u-uh – anyway, I have a – uh – a rubber."

"What!" she turned back to him. "Where'd you get it?"

"Tyrone gave it to me so you wouldn't get pregnant."

"You told your creepy brother about what we do together!" she suddenly flared.

"Calm down. It's no big deal. It's just a rubber."

"What did you tell him?" she wanted to know. "Nothing. Forget about it. I didn't say anything."

"Then why would he give you a rubber? He must think I'm like that dopey slut Lucinda!" She paused, looked at Alan keenly. "Or maybe he gave it to you for Lucinda!"

"You're crazy."

"Don't think I miss the way that little bitch rubs all over you in school," she continued heatedly. "I know she'd love to add you to her list."

"I don't give a damn about her," Alan said angrily.

"Then why did Tyrone give you the rubber? You must have said something about us."

"I didn't," Alan insisted. "He just assumed, well, you know. And, anyhow," suddenly louder, "what's the big fucking deal? People do have sex together. It's, not unheard of. I'm human, you know. I'll bet Lucinda never got a guy all worked up and sent him home ready to explode in his pants!"

"Ohhhh, then go find Lucinda!" Wendy blurted, tears burning her eyes. "If that's all you want, go get it from her! You'll probably get something else, too."

"You're impossible," Alan shook his head disgustedly. "I mean, you're really out of your Goddamned mind!"

"I'm sorry I'm not like your precious Lucinda," Wendy said sarcastically, turned her back to him. She didn't want him to see her crying.

"So am I!" Alan said. He stood suddenly. "At least Lucinda's not some Goddamned tease!"

He stormed up the stairs, slammed the back door behind him.

"Good for her," Wendy said quietly, bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling.