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Message-ID: <30382asstr$990346202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} "OH So Sweet" by Desdmona  {ff,Mf caution}
Date: Sun, 20 May 2001 04:10:02 -0400
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If you're not supposed to be reading this then please don't. For the rest of 
you, I hope you feel prickly by the end of the reading.


OH So Sweet by Desdmona
Copyright May 2001


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 it's 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 naive, 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 Diane's 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 noticeably 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 boys' fingers squeezing and 
fondling. I couldn't 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 spreadout 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 couldn't. 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 Diane's palm touched the point of my nipple shot out in all directions, 
darting about wildly until I almost couldn't bear it. I'd never felt 
anything like this before. I now knew why Sharon's 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 hadn't returned I 
let panic conjure up all sorts of conclusions. I tossed about in the bed, 
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 
herself 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 couldn't 
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 wasn't 
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 my 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 
was. 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,  "Oh so sweet," 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 didn't stop guilt from creeping over me like uncontained 
ivy. It's easier now for me to understand Mr. Roberts' culpability and my 
innocence. And to understand how my guilt was fertilized in that moment, that 
second of glorious release, when I felt my very first orgasm, mounting over 
me because it was OH, SO VERY SWEET, and I had enjoyed it.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


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