When I was growing up (not a million years ago), we weren't as sexually aware as some 'stories' would suggest. Pussies were always hairy, and the clitoris, G-spot and female orgasm still hadn't been invented. A grope was just that-an uninformed grope and exploration of the female anatomy, more for curiosity and a sense of achievement than any notion of pleasing the lady. We never had sex-starved cousins, aunties or sisters to lead us astray, and we didn't have our own private room in a secluded part of the house, a hot tub with erotic jets, shopping malls, or our own cars. VCRs, DVDs, computers and the internet were nowhere near existence-so we'd hang out in clumps, climb trees, graze our knees, pinch apples . . . and very slowly become aware of girls.
So, in the light of this background, my (true) story begins . . .
A bunch of us lads were hanging about outside our garden gate, when a tall, slender, short-haired, quite attractive girl ('Bev'-that's the only bit of this story that isn't true) walks by. Bravado in front of my mates led me to throw a few 'witty' comments her way, and (to keep the story short) she ended up being 'my girl'.
I never had money to take her out, so we'd go into our kitchen and spend a happy hour or so snogging on a bench seat. Bev would pant for breath, and I thought I was really turning her on (or I WOULD have thought that if I knew then what I know now)-but it turned out that she couldn't breathe through her nose, so she had to keep coming up for air.
One evening I decided I wanted to go further (which we couldn't do in the house), so I led her into the garage in the garden. There was just room for us between dad's car and the wall, so we scooted down to the front, our bodies pressed together, and got on with the snogging. Dad always kept his car immaculately clean and polished-it was his pride and joy (which becomes relevant later). It was dark in the garage, and the only illumination was the stray evening light that crawled in through the one dirty window. But it was enough.
Bev was leaning up against the car as we snogged, while my right hand slowly wandered down to her soft white knickers, which were easy to reach by lifting the front of her short, pleated skirt. Bev gasped. Usually there'd be a hand pulling mine away by now (knowing my luck), but there was no opposition, so on to the next stage. . . I tugged Bev's knickers to one side and my finger found what it was looking for. A quick explore of the fur, then the neat folds, and then quickly inside for a wriggle around. Bev gasped again.
It felt good (to me anyway). I'm not sure what Bev made of it. Was there any pleasure in her gasps, or just a desperate need for oxygen? It would be wrong to say I didn't care-it was more a case that I (and millions like me) didn't know any better.
Anyway, the acute sense of naughtiness and the new sensations in my right hand were doing wonders for my manhood, and it stood proud (or it would have done if there was space between us). Moving slightly to the left, I was able to unzip my jeans with my left hand (my right one was enjoying itself too much and refused to leave her pussy alone), and managed to pull out my throbbing gristle. I then took Bev's right hand and placed it on my eager dick. Hmm, that felt good. She seemed to know what to do, and slowly stroked up and down the shaft. Hmm, that felt VERY good.
Maybe Bev's gasping helped, but in no time I was ready to shoot my kids into space. I placed my left hand over Bev's right one and increased the pace. Now it was my turn to gasp. 'Geronimo!'-my hot semen squirted high into the air (how many 'ropes', who knows, who cares ?) . . . and landed all over dad's shiny car-but it was too dark for me to see where exactly, so I couldn't wipe it off. Sorry dad, if you've been puzzled all these years over the mystery stains on your car!
'Bev', if you read this and recognise 'us' from the story, I'd love the chance to do it properly in the light of what I know now.