Early Memories Pt 1

1) what’s this?

I remember the scent more than anything. This warm, yet somewhat harsh, metallic scent that drifted up between us. Oh, yes….and the feeling in my hand and between my fingers. Slippery, kind of like egg white. 

I remember looking down and being surprised. I thought semen was white…plain white. But this was marbled, streaks of white and some places totally clear. 

So…this was it then. Sperm. Spunk. Jizm. Cum. ‘Mess’, some girls called it. And best of all….I had made it happen. Me. Me and my hand. I had wanked a boy off. 

Mind you, it wasn’t all one sided. He had his hand in my panties, but he didn’t have a clue what to do once he got his hand there. In fact, I think it was just the feeling of my wetness that made him cum. I do recall asking him (repeatedly) to finger me, but you know, looking back, I rather think he thought he was! 

The feeling of his cock….so hard….so fucking solid…and the tip, slippery and that copious slipperiness had coated my hand and made wanking him off easy. I remember I had said, “This is what it would feel like if you were in my cunt.” Cunt. Vulgar…but then vulgarity is what boys like, it seems. No. That’s not honest. Vulgarity is also what I liked. After being well brought up at home, with a thick slice of good old fashioned Catholic nuns on top, vulgarity was a naughty secret. “Vagina, sister. It’s called a vagina.” But we were all secretly thinking yeah…and pussy…quim…miff…muff…twat…cunt….slit…hole…and innumerable other dirty words running through our pubescent and equally dirty minds. 

What I wasn’t prepared for was how much there was of it. And anyway, when should a girl stop wanking a boy when he’s cumming? That, let me assure you, isn’t a topic much discussed by the Good Sisters. “Now girls, when he’s shooting his load, sure, don’t just stop…you’ve got to keep going until he’s done, but slowly ease off…you don’t want to wank his cock of now, do you?” ‘No sister!” 

I had got home before I looked down and discovered the front of my school kilt looking like a million snails had come to a snail convention on it. Think Glastonbury on a kilt! I undid it quickly and ran upstairs and dumped it in my bath and soaked it. Then I wrung it out and hung it to dry on the towel rack. Next morning, I learned how tenacious semen is! No use-a da soap, no loose-a da cum!” 

But I’d done it! I had wanked a boy off. Strike one! 

2) wow, but it smelled strong! 

I was just beginning to realise that my sense of smell wasn’t like other people's. One Harvest Festival, there was an un-leasing smell in the chapel. It smelled a bit like an animal had taken a crap in there, but we didn’t have so much as a school cat. (No ‘familiars’ here.) I kept wrinkling up my nose until finally Sister Mary said “Oh for heaven’s sake, Anna. If it’s troubling you that much…find it and sort it out!” So I did….I followed this tiny, thin tendril or smell all the way to a can of beans on the gifts table that had a small puncture in the lid. The beans inside were fermenting, and it was this that I could smell. 

But this smell wasn’t fermenting beans. This was the scent of a boy’s pubes. And his pre-cum. My nose, as usual, dissected all the component parts out, including the pee smell that, believe me, is much stronger in uncircumcised boys. 

My mouth closed over his cock and again, I felt that surge of complete power that my body gives me. I had done this. I had made this erection, and now, my mouth was round it….and my teeth. Yes, I admit I thought of this. My teeth. Oh, I’d seen films by now where a girl, forced to giving a blow job had clamped her teeth together….which always struck me as the very definition of insanity. I mean…if you’re going to force a girl into giving you sexual relief, sticking your cock into her mouth seems to me to be an act of sheer stupidity. 

But I didn’t want to bite his cock. I wanted to suck it. I learned just the right amount of suck that would pull more precum from him. I felt his balls tighten, and when he came in my mouth I learned something else. If I sucked between ejaculations, then I was making direct contact with his seminal vesicles. I could, quite literally, empty him! He told me he had never had a blow job like it, and that I must be very experienced. I giggled and told him no, he was my first. 

I remember the salty tang of this egg-white in my mouth and the metallic scent that accompanied it. For a moment, I thought I might gag, especially when not all of it went down on the first swallow. It took a couple of gulps before I managed it, but I was determined not to be a ‘spitter’. And not for his sake either. I wanted to swallow cum. And so I learned how. I learned to control my gag reflex too, and for some…a lucky few…I gave proper ‘deep throat.’ 

It was with this boy that I learned boys have sensitive bum holes too. Sadly, I also learned that homophobia (in a way) is quite a strong influence with some. “I like it…but I shouldn’t.” When asked why, it would be, “Well…it’s what gay men do…isn’t it?” Yes. That’s why you’d like it too! Many boys thought anal sex with a girl would “make them gay”. Anal sex isn’t the pinnacle of male homosexual love. As Stephen Fry said, “You think it is…but it isn’t, you know.” 

And so I learned that gently tracing a finger around the outside of a boy’s bum while giving him a blow job was well received. 

Then I learned that if I told him that my finger was wet and slippery because it had been inside me, that added something. 

But it was my friend Tig…Dr. Tig, as she is now, who had laughed like a drain when I told her I really liked thee idea of pushing my finger deep up a boy’s bum, but didn’t like the idea of getting covered in something nasty. She explained the TWO sphincters that reside up there, and that I should go ahead. She also explained about the prostate gland, where it is and, “Sure, think of it like the male g-spot.” 

So I did. I learned to find this illusion gland, to stimulate it, and to milk it, much to the benefit of my then boyfriend. 

My first mouthful of semen. My first swallow. My first feeling of awe and wonder as I felt his bum contract around my finger in much the same way as my vagina contracted around his fingers when he made me cum. 

We aren’t so very different, you know. 

3) Only women bleed. 

‘That time of the month’, usually said in hushed tones, and we hide ourselves away as if we’re doing something unclean. We don’t touch ourselves…well…not at first. At first, we are dealing with a ‘Carrie’-like horror story of sticky pubic hair, unpleasant smells and fucking pads, while we look on with envious eyes at the girls who use tampons, and can go swimming at that time of the month. 

And the girls who have cramps…bad cramps…sometimes to the point of vomiting cramps….the evil mood swings when the nicest, politest girl becomes a fired-breathing bitch-Queen from hell….and then blames it on that time of the month. 

But my time of the month isn’t yours. Yes, I can feel angry, and my tolerance for fools is shorter, but I am in command of my words and actions, not what is between my legs. “Oh, I’m such a notch to him when I’m on…but I just can’t help it.” Yes, sweetie, you can. You just choose not to. 

And then…that first excursion with the razor. Scissors first, and trim as closely as possible without cutting myself. Then hot water, then a hot towel, then shaving gel then the sharpest razor I can find and slowly, carefully denuding myself of that which I had waited so long to get.

It was the hot towel that did it, actually, the hot towel that felt so good against my clit that I simply had to touch myself, and lo…what did I discover? That my physical pleasure was much enhanced by my period. I came longer, stronger, harder, and my mental imagery was much more dark. Yes, it increased my flow….more than a little. But it was a price worth paying. 

Most boys stay well away from a girl during that time of the month. But my boyfriend….well….he reduced me to tears one afternoon. I was risking it a bit by kneeling over his tummy. His cock was between the cheeks of my bum. No, we weren’t going to have anal….at that stage we hadn’t ‘had’ anything…but it felt naughty, you know? I had been gently pressing back and forth. His precum had made my bum crack slippery and we knew he could cum like this.

A single drop of blood fell from me onto his tummy. He looked at it, then at me, and said, “Oh…that’s beautiful! Thank you for trusting me.” I dissolved into floods of tears. Bending forwards I hugged him….and the tip of his cock found the puckered flesh of my bum hole. A slight push back and although it was only the very tip that had entered me….he shot most of his cum into my bum. 

Which taught me something new later on. I wondered where it would go. Now, how shall I put this? I learned that any gaseous emissions were best avoided! 

No, I hadn’t been ‘fucked up the arse’…that would come much later. But he did teach me that some boys have maturity beyond their years, and for that, I shall always love him. 

4) Dare I? 

Oh there were rumours, of course. Our old, wizened and, we thought, pervy caretaker had dashed spy cameras everywhere…even in the girl’s locker room and toilets. (He hadn’t, but the rumours continued to circulate.) We thought he would watch us as we changed, watch us as we peed, watch us as we changed our pads or tampons, and it was no coincidence, we decided, that the areas of the school he cleaned, included all the girls' bathrooms and the locker rooms. We imagined him combing every nook and cranny in case one of us should have left our panties behind. Ridiculous, of course. Trust me…a girl doesn’t ‘lose’ her panties. 

And anyway, it wasn’t the caretaker who was seeking panties in the locker room….it was me! I knew I was attracted to girls, and thanks to the Internet, I knew what girls did with one another….or at least, what some third-rate director decided we did. 

It was one movie that I’d seen. One, I suppose you’d call it ‘vintage’ these days, movie. For a start, the girls all had pubes! Set in a girls’ school, one girl stole panties and would smell them. Brilliant! I thought. I knew I liked my own scent..and taste, but what about someone else’s? 

It would be horrible to find out I didn’t like it if I was between another girl's legs at the time. Panties seemed the logical way to find out, and careful observation as my classmates were getting changed let me see the occasional flash of panty crotch…and the stains therein. 

When I was sure I was all alone, I’d creep round the bags and reach in, but not before looking around the room. Was there a camera there? Was there anything different? A new box on the wall, perhaps? Oh but I lived in terror of being caught. I’d convinced myself that being caught would lead to being blackmailed into doing things for the caretaker. So, the first few panties I got my fingers on remained in the bags because I was too scared to pull them out. 

But my fingertips are as sensitive as my nose! I could feel the slickness in one girl’s panties, so I rubbed my fingers against the material, and then brought them to my nose. My entire head felt full of her scent. It made me dizzy. It was similar to mine, yet uniquely different too. This would be my method for weeks until one day, I forgot myself and pulled a girl’s panties out of her bag before I could stop myself. 

Too late now. I held them to my face and the full sweetness of her enveloped me. That pure scent of a sexually developed girl. The afterhint of fabric conditioner, and almost buried away to nothingness, that little tang of pee. Mmmmmm. Heavenly. 

And the tastes now I knew I could lick another girl’s sex. I knew I could, and I knew I must. No surprises now. None at all. 

But a girl can’t skive every PE lesson. 

I would pick and choose carefully. I didn’t mind indoor games, but cross country running was something I loathed in the winter, but loved in the summer.

Circuit training. But circuit training as taught by two elderly nuns as it ‘was in their day…meaning something years ago! Including rope climbing. Fuck! 

Whoever designed those ropes had only three points on their brief.

1) Make them impossible for girls to climb

2) Make them give rope burns on the way down. 

3) Ensure that girls orgasm if they hold the rope tightly against themselves.

And so it was that I found myself at the top of the rope, touching that metal thing and being urged to "come down quickly now dear.” I wonder if those old bitches knew we would probably cum on the way down? Maybe you can have orgasms by proxy?

Either way, it felt like each and every lump in the rope was designed to touch my clit through my stupid, bottle-green PE knickers. They reached from just under my ribs to half way down each thigh. Oh, and the good sisters insisted we wore nothing under them. Why, we were never informed. But before I was halfway down I felt myself getting very wet, and I stopped. That, I learned was not allowed. We had to “lower yourselves in a controlled manner to the tune of Onward, Christian Soldiers.” And so syllable my syllable, hand over hand, that’s what we did. I got to “With the cross of Jesus, going on befoooooooooorrrrrreeeeeee!” And I felt myself cumming into those feckin’ knickers that, owing to their colour and material, instantly showed wetness…especially the squirt wetness I produced when I orgasmed. 

My bum, inner thighs and front were almost black by the time I landed in a heap on the floor. 

Sister stared down at me and her lips curled in a sadistic smile showing her tobacco-stained teeth. She hoicked me up to my feet and hissed “Go and clean yourself,up!”

That was the first time I brazenly stripped totally naked in the locker room. I even spoke out loud. “Well…if you’re looking, wank yourself off over this." 

He wasn’t looking….but the thought that he might be, and that if he was, my body was what was making him do it. There. Girl power…

…again!