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.