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The First One, Pt. 2: On the golf course

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: odysseus Posted on: 31 Oct 2004 1 comments
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Second installment of 14-year old boy whose family moves to a small town.THE FIRST ONE (Part Two: The Golf Course)For oldhornydog That was the year that all the teenage girls were named Cynthia. We had moved to the country town in my second year of junior high in a big suburb. The country town was too small for a junior high: they only had a four-year high school, which seemed somehow like a promotion for me. I hadn't done well in math, and when Gordon Jr. High sent my marks home to transfer, the math teacher had given me a C-minus, and my father had gone down and raised hell with him because I had only been back to school for about a month. The teacher gave in (most people did when my father got mad) and raised it to a B.My high school in the country town was very different from the suburb we had left. The first floor was sunken to the level of the grass, and I became somewhat famous for my sneezing, which was very loud and continuous, and turned out to be an allergy to grass.One day in class I sat next to a girl named Cynthia. She was short and plump, with a mass of curly blondish hair, and a pretty, heart-shaped face.This day she was wearing a blue dress with what they called a "keyhole" neckline, which met below her throat and had a triangle cut out of the material below that. I realized that I could see her cleavage. My cock promptly firmed up in response.There was a girl named Carol who was even prettier than Cynthia, and I took her to a movie at the Town Hall, but the town was very spread out and I couldn't walk to her house and then back. So my father drove me, which is not a great start to groping a girl. We simply didn't get along and I never called her again. I saw her a few weeks later in the Town Hall cuddling up to another classmate named Derek, so maybe she was just hooked on him: I know they had to get married in junior year, so it may not just have been my (nonexistent) technique with girls that was the problem.But you could get your driver's license at sixteen then, and my father had given me a 1946 black Buick, the first car he had bought after the war, and bought himself one of the Raymond Loewy Studebakers that brought modern car design to America, so I thought a lot of Cynthias's cleavage and started maneuvering to ask her out.. I think my father gave me the car at that age so I could drive my brother and sister to school, since we lived in the middle of a golf course on a private road and the busses wouldn't pick us up. It was a walk of about a mile and change, and pleasant in fall and Spring, with the golf course all around us for most of it, but a bitch in winter. I remember one morning with a bitter wind from the west when my sister and I were walking backwards most of the way, our faces wrapped in our scarves.After I learned to masturbate, the golf course was my magnet. At first, when I got a night hardon, I would go into my parents' bathroom and take a short shower. Then I would stand on the edges of the tub with the shower behind me flooding my asshole and balls, and watch myself jerking off in the mirror on the door of the medicine cabinet. It was exciting and also very convenient, since my come would spurt into the tub and be washed away by the shower, and the position tightened my leg and ass muscles for an even stronger come.If I wanted even more privacy earlier in the evening, I would take a shower, get dressed in loose clothing, fill up a small syringe with hot soapy water and go out on the golf course, which doubled as our back yard. There was a kind of open shed in the trees for golfers to rest a few hundred yards away, partly surrounded with pine trees. I found I could climb up on the partition in the middle of the shed, drop my pants, crouch on the partition and let my ass hang over the edge. Part of the thrill was that I could be seen from the golf course, although the only people there at night seemed to have their own sexual urges to deal with.Then I would take the syringe, reach around and slip it into my asshole. That was a treat in itself. I'd empty the syringe into what I had learned in Health Science to call my rectum, pumping it up as hard as I could. (I later bought a turkey baster for this act, which really filled my rectum.)Then, with my ass over the edge, I'd empty my bowels into the air. The discharge had about eight feet to fall, and made a very satisfying sound, while my intestine had that great feeling of emptying that you get with a really healthy bowel movement.By this time my teen-age cock was pretty firm, and I'd grab it and go for it. I could take as long as I wanted, and I would do what I later learned was a Tantric exercise, massaging it to the point of orgasm and then squeezing under the head where the foreskin connects with the penis to stop the ejaculation.I always intended to keep this up longer, but after a few times biology always won, and my cock would begin to spurt up into the cool night air and as I kept rubbing, the spurts would begin to droop and finally drool down onto the wooden bench where the golfers sat. I would squeeze out the last drops and then relax into that lovely post-jerkoff mode. Then I would climb down and walk home, breathing in the smell of the pines, and sometimes taking my shoes off to feel the damp grass of the fairway under my bare feet and thinking of Cynthia's tits.. (To be continued)