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Tell Me A Story, Desdmona
illustration by garv www.garvgrafx.com

Oh, So Sweet

By Desdmona

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

I have a need to tell a story that I don’t think will be popular with some readers. It’s a true story. I guess by telling it, I might be leaving myself vulnerable, but itís time.

I was thirteen years old. I wasn’t one of those progressive teenagers that abound in today’s society. In fact, I was extremely naÔve, innocent to the core. My parents were faithful members of a local church. The idea of what was right and what was wrong was preached into my system every Sunday, backed up by numerous Bible verses. One of my friends at the time was Diane Roberts. Although she was older than me by one year, we had become friends at the church youth group, and yet I had never spent the night at Dianeís house. It was odd really; every other girlfriend and I would spend the night at each other’s home frequently. Diane rarely had friends over and she had never asked me.

Finally she did ask, and I was excited to go. When I arrived, we immediately rushed out of the house. She had told me to bring my bike and I had. Because it was summer, the day was longer, and it gave us lots of time before night to hook up with a few of her friends.

I don’t really remember where we met Sharon. I only remember that she was suddenly with our small group. It was Sharon, Diane, two boys, whose names I can’t remember, and me. Sharon was obviously older than us by about four years. She had a figure, a womanly figure. She wore seersucker, plaid shorts and a white button-downed shirt. She had glimmery hair, with natural highlights, that flickered in the sun. And she had smooth, blemish-free skin. She talked with a nasal quality and her speech slurred, as if she had tart candy in her mouth, causing too much saliva. When she laughed, she nearly honked. She was also slow-witted.

The boys led our small group away from the traffic of our streets to an isolated culvert in an undeveloped area. I thought it was a great place to investigate and ditched my bike to explore the gully. Diane was close behind me. We weren’t gone more than ten minutes. We realized no one else was following us, so we went back to see where they were.

Sharon was lying on a flat rock, on her back, topless. Each boy had a hand on one of her naked breasts. My mouth dropped open. I had never seen a girl topless, not even in a magazine. I could see the boysí fingers squeezing and fondling. I couldnít speak. Sharon lifted herself on her elbows, causing her breasts to stick out further. Her skin seemed soaked in sunlight. Her nipples were pink and softened by the warm air. She laughed and her tits jiggled. The boys laughed with her.

I looked over at Diane and she was laughing. In fact, she laughed comfortably. I was the only one not laughing. I was in shock. Diane looked back at me, and asked if I wanted to touch Sharon’s boobs. I stood there amazed. And shook my head NO. This didn’t go on in my neighborhood. We played hide and seek, and kick ball, and red rover. We had water balloon fights and caught fireflies, in my neighborhood. We didn’t grope older teenagers in broad daylight.

Diane assured me it was OK, because Sharon let them do it all the time. That fact didn’t increase my level of comfort. The boys had been grabbing and pawing and flicking at her nipples but her nipples remained soft with the areola spread out around them. Diane walked over to Sharon and touched a breast. She didn’t paw at it, like the boys, she caressed it. Diane stretched her hand out and milky ripples of breast flesh popped up between her fingers. She mashed her palm against the broad areola, and then drew her hand up, like a suction cup, pulling and releasing.

I wanted to make her stop but instead I watched with fascination. I glanced up at Sharon’s face expecting to see chagrin or horror or even embarrassment. I saw none of those. She remained braced on her elbows. Her head lolled back, with her shimmery hair dangling to the ground. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused and her mouth slaked open in pure pleasure.

The whole group looked at me. I felt condemned because I refused to touch Sharon’s breasts. If I had been an adult I might have recognized curious desire or understood the pull of doing something taboo but instead I labeled it fear, fear of getting caught, fear of doing something forbidden, fear of going straight to hell.

It was Sharon herself that convinced me. Her pale blue eyes caught mine and she simply said please. Only when she said “please” it sounded like “pleeesh”. I rationalized that I was only doing it because Sharon wanted it so badly.

I made tentative steps over to where she lay. The sun was starting to set but Sharon remained in sunlight. Her eyes squinted up at me. I bent down and reached out a trembling hand to touch what she willingly offered. My hand drew closer and as it did, her nipples began to harden; they had been flat up til then. I was awestruck by the shrinking of her areola and how the tip rose up in welcome to form a perfect nubbin

I reached to touch it. Just then the boys yelled. A car was coming, and everyone raced to their bikes. I looked over at Sharon as she hurriedly snapped her bra back into place and buttoned her blouse. At the time, I didn’t know I would never see Sharon again. I only knew I wanted to experience whatever had put that look on her face.

I didn’t speak all the way back to Diane’s house. I sat quietly at their dinner table while she told her family we had met up with so and so and went riding. My face reddened when Mr. Roberts asked me why I was so quiet. I shrugged my shoulders and Mr. Roberts smiled.

I managed to push my food around enough on my plate to look like I had actually eaten something so that when Diane asked if I was finished I was half out of my chair with my answer. We rushed into her room, sifted through her 45’s and piled our choices high on the record player.

Diane never brought up Sharon and neither did I. Instead we talked about boys and school subjects and how awful we thought math class was. We did our fingernails with pastel pink polish, brushed each other’s hair, and practiced hair-do’s until our scalps were raw. We giggled. We laughed. We acted like the innocent teenager that I was.

The Roberts had a strict lights-out policy at midnight so we climbed into Diane’s bed. We continued talking in hushed whispers until we were tired. I lay there in the full silence of night. After some moments I heard soft, little snores from Diane. I lay still unable to fall asleep. I was hot. The air was muggy. The window was open and night air slipped through like warm fog.

Flashes of Sharon lying naked on that rock, like a sacrificial lamb kept edging their way into my mind. I tried to think of something else, or of nothing, but I couldnít. The look on her face, the dreamy ecstasy- I couldn’t imagine what had made her feel that way. I started having an itchy feeling between my legs. My stomach was all fluttery. I wanted to touch my own small, pudgy breast to see if I could invoke the same reaction that I had seen in Sharon’s nipple. I grazed my hand over the cotton shirt I was wearing, and gasped at the sensation it caused. It felt like a campfire stick had just run through me.

I heard Diane groan something and I jerked my hand back down to my side. I was scared to death that she had awakened and knew what I was doing. My heart was pounding so hard it thrummed in my ears. Diane groaned again, only this time I heard formed words. It sounded like she had said, “feel me.” She was pretending to talk in her sleep so it came out, “fuuuuuume.” I could actually feel the sweat beading up on my lip. I could taste the salt of it. When she said it again, I didn’t know what to do so I pretended to be asleep as well. She shifted, in her feigned sleep, to her stomach and let her arm flop over onto me. I didn’t move. Seconds went by. I felt like a trapped bird. I wanted to rage against her arm and at the same time I silently begged her to “accidentally” touch me the way she had touched Sharon earlier.

As if she heard my prayer, Diane moved her hand directly over my breast, palm down. My breathing stopped. And then it sped out of control. My nipple was so sensitive I wanted to scream. Heat rushed up my body. The tingling that began where Dianeís palm touched the point of my nipple shot out in all directions, darting about wildly until I almost couldnít bear it. Iíd never felt anything like this before. I now knew why Sharonís expression had been so euphoric. I also knew that Diane knew I was awake, just as I knew she was awake, but it was easier to pretend this was happening in our sleep.

My idealistic, teenage morals had been thoroughly bathed in religious waters. I had warring thoughts of right and wrong swirling in my head. It felt so incredibly good to have my breast touched but it was wrong, wasn’t it? This wasn’t something “good” girls would do.

When Diane squeezed her fingertips into my flesh I bolted over to my stomach. I wasn’t able to understand why my body was reacting this way to something that was supposedly wrong. Seconds crept by, and then, without a word Diane was slipping out of bed and out of the bedroom. At first I imagined that she was going to the bathroom, but some minutes later when she hadnít returned I let panic conjure up all sorts of conclusions. I was sure she was telling on me. Maybe she was telling her parents that she had caught me touching my breast or maybe she was telling them I had touched Sharon’s nipple, never mind that I hadn’t actually touched Sharon, that Diane her self had.

When the door finally creaked open and Mr. Roberts peeked in, I was sure my conclusion was correct. Diane had told on me. Guilt washed over me like a baptismal dunking. Mr. Roberts never turned on the light. He walked through the dark room slowly, deliberately, with eerie precision, and I watched him. There was nothing I could do. He stood over the bed looking at me and then he sat down on the edge. His weight made my body shift towards him. I couldnít help it. My hip met his muscled thigh. I froze with the contact.

I tried to pretend sleep but it was no use, I was sure the gasp I had made when our bodies touched, gave me away. I asked him where Diane was, and if something was wrong. He told me that Diane was asleep, on the couch, in the living room and nothing was wrong. I still felt uneasy, but for what I wasnít sure.

His hand began to caress my hair in long strokes, while he told me in hushed tones how pretty it was. I felt paralyzed. I could feel, I could hear, I could see, but I couldn’t react. He never stopped speaking. It was a mantra of soft, quiet words dedicated to my beauty. I quit listening to the words and only heard the hymned rhythm. My eyes sluggishly shut.

When his hand moved from my hair, I hardly noticed. I was caught up in the hypnotizing hum of his voice. When his fingertips inched down my breast and snagged on my distended nipple, my eyes shot open in a fixed stare. And still he didn’t quiet. Over and over he told me how beautiful I was. My hands were clenched in tight fists and my jagged fingernails dug into my palms. A voice in my head shouted at me “this was wrong” but I remained immobile in stony silence.

His big hand molded around my small breast and tenderly massaged it. He released it then and left only his palm to touch the very tip of my nipple. The fires of hell surged through me and I shuddered from it. And still he murmured on. He flattened his hand on my stomach and let his middle finger dance around my belly button. It didn’t tickle as much as it tugged at the same spot that had been itching earlier.

His fingertip pushed at my belly, forcing a gap in the elastic waistband of my panties. And then his hand slipped through the gap. His litanous song continued to boast at how lovely I was. How lovely and sweet. Oh so sweet. He lightly stroked his fingers through the beginnings of pubic hair that had recently started growing. His fingers inched right to the spot that was burning.

My heart raced. I felt feverish. A slight buzzing vibrated in my ears. My breathing was disjointed. I remained still. Scared. Excited. Anxious. Violated. But motionless.

His hand flattened against my privates and his middle finger again led the way. It jabbed at my tightness and tunneled its way inside. He dug until he hit that itchy spot. He crooned how sweet, how slippery and sweetly ready. I didn’t understand.

On and on went his words of how beautiful I was, how lovely, how good. I wanted to believe him. And on and on went his touching, soft, gentle and deliberately slow. Something was building inside of me. Climbing, growing, becoming bigger and making me breathless. I wanted it to stop but I needed it to go on. I started to panic. I couldn’t breathe. He continued to draw tiny circles. I tried to speak, I tried to tell him I couldn’t breathe, that I was burning, that what he was doing was wrong, but all that came out was short puffs of air.

The feeling exploded over me with tiny bursts spiraling to my toes. His finger stopped, and pressed tightly against me. I felt little spasms fighting back at his finger, wave after wave that peaked, and then flittered out into my body, and finally died out. My body went limp from exhaustion.

He whispered how beautiful I was, how beautiful I had been. He removed his hand and stood. I watched him walk to the door, and then turn to me. Once more he drew out the words, ďOh so sweet,Ē and then he slipped his fingers into his mouth, and walked out the door.

I was mortified. Flushed with shame. I had lain there, not moving, not complaining, and just letting him touch me. I knew how wrong it was for him to do that but it didnít stop guilt from creeping over me like uncontained ivy. Itís easier now for me to understand Mr. Robertsí culpability and my innocence. And to understand that my guilt was fertilized because in that moment, that second of glorious release, when I felt my very first orgasm, mounting over me it was OH, SO VERY SWEET, and I had enjoyed it.

I have a need to tell a story that I don’t think will be popular with some readers. It’s a true story. I guess by telling it, I might be leaving myself vulnerable, but itís time.

I was thirteen years old. I wasn’t one of those progressive teenagers that abound in today’s society. In fact, I was extremely naÔve, innocent to the core. My parents were faithful members of a local church. The idea of what was right and what was wrong was preached into my system every Sunday, backed up by numerous Bible verses. One of my friends at the time was Diane Roberts. Although she was older than me by one year, we had become friends at the church youth group, and yet I had never spent the night at Dianeís house. It was odd really; every other girlfriend and I would spend the night at each other’s home frequently. Diane rarely had friends over and she had never asked me.

Finally she did ask, and I was excited to go. When I arrived, we immediately rushed out of the house. She had told me to bring my bike and I had. Because it was summer, the day was longer, and it gave us lots of time before night to hook up with a few of her friends.

I don’t really remember where we met Sharon. I only remember that she was suddenly with our small group. It was Sharon, Diane, two boys, whose names I can’t remember, and me. Sharon was obviously older than us by about four years. She had a figure, a womanly figure. She wore seersucker, plaid shorts and a white button-downed shirt. She had glimmery hair, with natural highlights, that flickered in the sun. And she had smooth, blemish-free skin. She talked with a nasal quality and her speech slurred, as if she had tart candy in her mouth, causing too much saliva. When she laughed, she nearly honked. She was also slow-witted.

The boys led our small group away from the traffic of our streets to an isolated culvert in an undeveloped area. I thought it was a great place to investigate and ditched my bike to explore the gully. Diane was close behind me. We weren’t gone more than ten minutes. We realized no one else was following us, so we went back to see where they were.

Sharon was lying on a flat rock, on her back, topless. Each boy had a hand on one of her naked breasts. My mouth dropped open. I had never seen a girl topless, not even in a magazine. I could see the boysí fingers squeezing and fondling. I couldnít speak. Sharon lifted herself on her elbows, causing her breasts to stick out further. Her skin seemed soaked in sunlight. Her nipples were pink and softened by the warm air. She laughed and her tits jiggled. The boys laughed with her.

I looked over at Diane and she was laughing. In fact, she laughed comfortably. I was the only one not laughing. I was in shock. Diane looked back at me, and asked if I wanted to touch Sharon’s boobs. I stood there amazed. And shook my head NO. This didn’t go on in my neighborhood. We played hide and seek, and kick ball, and red rover. We had water balloon fights and caught fireflies, in my neighborhood. We didn’t grope older teenagers in broad daylight.

Diane assured me it was OK, because Sharon let them do it all the time. That fact didn’t increase my level of comfort. The boys had been grabbing and pawing and flicking at her nipples but her nipples remained soft with the areola spread out around them. Diane walked over to Sharon and touched a breast. She didn’t paw at it, like the boys, she caressed it. Diane stretched her hand out and milky ripples of breast flesh popped up between her fingers. She mashed her palm against the broad areola, and then drew her hand up, like a suction cup, pulling and releasing.

I wanted to make her stop but instead I watched with fascination. I glanced up at Sharon’s face expecting to see chagrin or horror or even embarrassment. I saw none of those. She remained braced on her elbows. Her head lolled back, with her shimmery hair dangling to the ground. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused and her mouth slaked open in pure pleasure.

The whole group looked at me. I felt condemned because I refused to touch Sharon’s breasts. If I had been an adult I might have recognized curious desire or understood the pull of doing something taboo but instead I labeled it fear, fear of getting caught, fear of doing something forbidden, fear of going straight to hell.

It was Sharon herself that convinced me. Her pale blue eyes caught mine and she simply said please. Only when she said “please” it sounded like “pleeesh”. I rationalized that I was only doing it because Sharon wanted it so badly.

I made tentative steps over to where she lay. The sun was starting to set but Sharon remained in sunlight. Her eyes squinted up at me. I bent down and reached out a trembling hand to touch what she willingly offered. My hand drew closer and as it did, her nipples began to harden; they had been flat up til then. I was awestruck by the shrinking of her areola and how the tip rose up in welcome to form a perfect nubbin

I reached to touch it. Just then the boys yelled. A car was coming, and everyone raced to their bikes. I looked over at Sharon as she hurriedly snapped her bra back into place and buttoned her blouse. At the time, I didn’t know I would never see Sharon again. I only knew I wanted to experience whatever had put that look on her face.

I didn’t speak all the way back to Diane’s house. I sat quietly at their dinner table while she told her family we had met up with so and so and went riding. My face reddened when Mr. Roberts asked me why I was so quiet. I shrugged my shoulders and Mr. Roberts smiled.

I managed to push my food around enough on my plate to look like I had actually eaten something so that when Diane asked if I was finished I was half out of my chair with my answer. We rushed into her room, sifted through her 45’s and piled our choices high on the record player.

Diane never brought up Sharon and neither did I. Instead we talked about boys and school subjects and how awful we thought math class was. We did our fingernails with pastel pink polish, brushed each other’s hair, and practiced hair-do’s until our scalps were raw. We giggled. We laughed. We acted like the innocent teenager that I was.

The Roberts had a strict lights-out policy at midnight so we climbed into Diane’s bed. We continued talking in hushed whispers until we were tired. I lay there in the full silence of night. After some moments I heard soft, little snores from Diane. I lay still unable to fall asleep. I was hot. The air was muggy. The window was open and night air slipped through like warm fog.

Flashes of Sharon lying naked on that rock, like a sacrificial lamb kept edging their way into my mind. I tried to think of something else, or of nothing, but I couldnít. The look on her face, the dreamy ecstasy- I couldn’t imagine what had made her feel that way. I started having an itchy feeling between my legs. My stomach was all fluttery. I wanted to touch my own small, pudgy breast to see if I could invoke the same reaction that I had seen in Sharon’s nipple. I grazed my hand over the cotton shirt I was wearing, and gasped at the sensation it caused. It felt like a campfire stick had just run through me.

I heard Diane groan something and I jerked my hand back down to my side. I was scared to death that she had awakened and knew what I was doing. My heart was pounding so hard it thrummed in my ears. Diane groaned again, only this time I heard formed words. It sounded like she had said, “feel me.” She was pretending to talk in her sleep so it came out, “fuuuuuume.” I could actually feel the sweat beading up on my lip. I could taste the salt of it. When she said it again, I didn’t know what to do so I pretended to be asleep as well. She shifted, in her feigned sleep, to her stomach and let her arm flop over onto me. I didn’t move. Seconds went by. I felt like a trapped bird. I wanted to rage against her arm and at the same time I silently begged her to “accidentally” touch me the way she had touched Sharon earlier.

As if she heard my prayer, Diane moved her hand directly over my breast, palm down. My breathing stopped. And then it sped out of control. My nipple was so sensitive I wanted to scream. Heat rushed up my body. The tingling that began where Dianeís palm touched the point of my nipple shot out in all directions, darting about wildly until I almost couldnít bear it. Iíd never felt anything like this before. I now knew why Sharonís expression had been so euphoric. I also knew that Diane knew I was awake, just as I knew she was awake, but it was easier to pretend this was happening in our sleep.

My idealistic, teenage morals had been thoroughly bathed in religious waters. I had warring thoughts of right and wrong swirling in my head. It felt so incredibly good to have my breast touched but it was wrong, wasn’t it? This wasn’t something “good” girls would do.

When Diane squeezed her fingertips into my flesh I bolted over to my stomach. I wasn’t able to understand why my body was reacting this way to something that was supposedly wrong. Seconds crept by, and then, without a word Diane was slipping out of bed and out of the bedroom. At first I imagined that she was going to the bathroom, but some minutes later when she hadnít returned I let panic conjure up all sorts of conclusions. I was sure she was telling on me. Maybe she was telling her parents that she had caught me touching my breast or maybe she was telling them I had touched Sharon’s nipple, never mind that I hadn’t actually touched Sharon, that Diane her self had.

When the door finally creaked open and Mr. Roberts peeked in, I was sure my conclusion was correct. Diane had told on me. Guilt washed over me like a baptismal dunking. Mr. Roberts never turned on the light. He walked through the dark room slowly, deliberately, with eerie precision, and I watched him. There was nothing I could do. He stood over the bed looking at me and then he sat down on the edge. His weight made my body shift towards him. I couldnít help it. My hip met his muscled thigh. I froze with the contact.

I tried to pretend sleep but it was no use, I was sure the gasp I had made when our bodies touched, gave me away. I asked him where Diane was, and if something was wrong. He told me that Diane was asleep, on the couch, in the living room and nothing was wrong. I still felt uneasy, but for what I wasnít sure.

His hand began to caress my hair in long strokes, while he told me in hushed tones how pretty it was. I felt paralyzed. I could feel, I could hear, I could see, but I couldn’t react. He never stopped speaking. It was a mantra of soft, quiet words dedicated to my beauty. I quit listening to the words and only heard the hymned rhythm. My eyes sluggishly shut.

When his hand moved from my hair, I hardly noticed. I was caught up in the hypnotizing hum of his voice. When his fingertips inched down my breast and snagged on my distended nipple, my eyes shot open in a fixed stare. And still he didn’t quiet. Over and over he told me how beautiful I was. My hands were clenched in tight fists and my jagged fingernails dug into my palms. A voice in my head shouted at me “this was wrong” but I remained immobile in stony silence.

His big hand molded around my small breast and tenderly massaged it. He released it then and left only his palm to touch the very tip of my nipple. The fires of hell surged through me and I shuddered from it. And still he murmured on. He flattened his hand on my stomach and let his middle finger dance around my belly button. It didn’t tickle as much as it tugged at the same spot that had been itching earlier.

His fingertip pushed at my belly, forcing a gap in the elastic waistband of my panties. And then his hand slipped through the gap. His litanous song continued to boast at how lovely I was. How lovely and sweet. Oh so sweet. He lightly stroked his fingers through the beginnings of pubic hair that had recently started growing. His fingers inched right to the spot that was burning.

My heart raced. I felt feverish. A slight buzzing vibrated in my ears. My breathing was disjointed. I remained still. Scared. Excited. Anxious. Violated. But motionless.

His hand flattened against my privates and his middle finger again led the way. It jabbed at my tightness and tunneled its way inside. He dug until he hit that itchy spot. He crooned how sweet, how slippery and sweetly ready. I didn’t understand.

On and on went his words of how beautiful I was, how lovely, how good. I wanted to believe him. And on and on went his touching, soft, gentle and deliberately slow. Something was building inside of me. Climbing, growing, becoming bigger and making me breathless. I wanted it to stop but I needed it to go on. I started to panic. I couldn’t breathe. He continued to draw tiny circles. I tried to speak, I tried to tell him I couldn’t breathe, that I was burning, that what he was doing was wrong, but all that came out was short puffs of air.

The feeling exploded over me with tiny bursts spiraling to my toes. His finger stopped, and pressed tightly against me. I felt little spasms fighting back at his finger, wave after wave that peaked, and then flittered out into my body, and finally died out. My body went limp from exhaustion.

He whispered how beautiful I was, how beautiful I had been. He removed his hand and stood. I watched him walk to the door, and then turn to me. Once more he drew out the words, ďOh so sweet,Ē and then he slipped his fingers into his mouth, and walked out the door.

I was mortified. Flushed with shame. I had lain there, not moving, not complaining, and just letting him touch me. I knew how wrong it was for him to do that but it didnít stop guilt from creeping over me like uncontained ivy. Itís easier now for me to understand Mr. Robertsí culpability and my innocence. And to understand that my guilt was fertilized because in that moment, that second of glorious release, when I felt my very first orgasm, mounting over me it was OH, SO VERY SWEET, and I had enjoyed it.


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