Literotic asexstories – Girl Next Door First Session by djeroticon
Sheridy was the daughter of my mom’s best friend. My mother and Sheridy’s both seemed impossibly old to me, as I recall. But I was fascinated by the girl.
Coming of age on the coast of Maine in the early 1960’s was difficult. All those strong urges and no outlets. Me, I did whatever I could to hide my confused but powerful feelings; any erotic antics I indulged in were saved for my clandestine collection of men’s magazines and the privacy of my bedroom. Or the bathroom.
Sheridy was different, I came to learn.
She was tall, brunette, kind of skinny, and carried herself with an air of haughtiness. If I didn’t know her from my mother’s connection to Sheridy’s family I’m sure I’d have been terrified to even speak to her at school, such was the impact of that strong persona, of being above-it-all, that she seemingly worked hard to project. Both of us being seniors and just turning 18 that year was about all we had in common.
Sheridy wasn’t beautiful but she was pretty. A lot of it had to do with the time she spent making sure she looked just so. Her hair was done in Cher bangs before Cher thought to do it that way. Her clothes were Jane Asher before the British Invasion occurred. Things just worked out that way. Some people glide through life. She swished like a classy sex bomb down the school hallways, managing all the while to seem unaware of the effect she had on everyone.
She lived in the house down the street, the three story job with the tire swing lolling against a big old oak. The one that never seemed to need painting. Her folks weren’t well-off but they seemed to do better than the rest of us on the street.
The first nudie mags I got to see were courtesy of Sheridy’s father. Mr. Walker liked his beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon in the 16-ounce cans. I liked the way it smelled and how pleased he looked when taking a big old gulp. He had little hair by age thirty-five, but never seemed to mind. Good-natured sort, willing to talk to a young man without preaching.
I knew the Walker home practically as well as I knew my own. One weekday afternoon during winter school vacation I happened upon a Gent magazine in Sheridy’s living room, its curled edge just peeping out from under a couch pillow. Maybe Mr. Walker had been sitting right there on that couch reading it when someone came in, causing him to stash it hurriedly. Or perhaps he’d passed out from the beer late one night and didn’t know he was leaving it in such an obvious place. No matter.
Now, Gent is not exactly the classiest nudie rag in history. Even then the pictorials specialized in top-heavy women, no matter that from the neck up they might have the features of Ernest Borgnine. What they had was tits, pure and simple. To a young man who’d been making do with his own imagination, occasional naughtiness at the movies, and what little he could glean from newsstand covers, this was a small piece of the Holy Grail.
You need to understand that in that time a glimpse of forbidden female nudity was a lightning rod going right through the soul of any man. You would shake at the thought of it. That’s hard to envision today, when one can see more exposed flesh in an afternoon’s jaunt to the shopping mall than was evident to me in all my first eighteen years. Imagine it. Imagine jerking off to bra and panty ad line drawings in newspapers, ’cause that was all we had.
Anyway, I had that magazine under my shirt and into the cellar with me before you could think twice. The two moms were in the kitchen, so downstairs was better than sneaking past them to go upstairs.
Those B&W photos had me enthralled, all right. Here was a naked woman on an outdoor swing, breasts hanging low as she leered suggestively at the camera. No pubic hair, naturally (this wasn’t 1971), but she had a nice smile. And, there was a young lady on a sofa, her legs folded under her in just such a way as to hide anything from the waist down. Her breasts were enormous, and she seemed to like getting her picture taken with them resting in the palms of her hands.
Not for the first time that afternoon did I bring myself to sexual climax, but it was the first occasion that it was accompanied by a guaranteed true representation of female pulchritude to spur me on. I hid the mag in an old trunk when I was done.
I mention all that part to help you understand how the next instances could happen. After that first discovery of Mr. Walker’s penchant for one-handed reading, I was determined to search for more of his collection. After discreetly tossing the basement and finding nothing, I figured his bedroom closet or bureau sock drawer were the logical choices. Getting in there without being caught would be tough.
Funny: today, an 18-year-old boy would no more waste time surveying his dad’s adult stash than he would delivering newspapers for extra cash. By 18 he’d have been experienced with the real thing: girls. But, I digress.
The next Saturday I snuck into the Walker home after mowing my lawn. I’d seen Mrs. Walker leave with my mother to go shopping, and Mr. Walker’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Sheridy, who normally would have been heard loudly talking on the phone to one of her girlfriends, seemed also to be absent.
I was in the master bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, a just-discovered collection of nudist magazines spread over the comforter. Hungrily perusing the 1950’s “camp sunshine” layout style (healthy naked people leading healthy naked lives), I had the sudden, odd feeling that I wasn’t alone.
I remember I’d been looking at what appeared to be a young lady devoid of hair between her legs, stretching to punch a volleyball, when I felt the back of my neck twitching. Today I know that the pubic hair of that girl and all the rest of the folks in the mag had been airbrushed out because some districts and states had laws against showing hair down there (the theory being that then no publisher would try to show the genital area), but that’s another subject entirely.
I also recall how thankful I was that my erection wasn’t out in the open. I was stiff as a board and my fingers were pleasuring myself through my Anderson-Little Young Men’s slacks, but, thank goodness I hadn’t yet taken it out! Somehow I thought that having the good taste not to be exposed would make my crime less venal, I suppose.
Despite the dread I was feeling, I turned to meet my fate. It wasn’t bravery, just the feeling of inevitability. Sooner or later I knew I’d be caught looking at naked women. I fully expected to hear the gasp of Mrs. Walker, or the surprised but knowing chuckle of her husband.
It was Sheridy, and I think my face must have blanched. I remember it felt immediately drained, like all the blood in my body needed to be moving south in a hurry. She was in a bathrobe, a towel draped over her arm, and a Prell bottle in her hand. I had looked briefly into her room when I’d crept upstairs a short time ago on my way to her parents’ room, and I could have sworn there was no sign of her then. Oops.
Her eyes took in my presence, the magazines strewn over the bed, and no doubt my state of arousal, all in one sweep. I was amazed that the expression on her face betrayed no outrage or anger or surprise. She looked, well, sort of like things were as expected. Like it was no shock to find me lolling on her mom and dad’s bed. Neither of us spoke for seconds.
“I was going to take a shower”, she simply said, after eons.
“Oh.”
“You like looking at those? My dad has tons of them.”
The robe wasn’t revealing, but just being in Sheridy’s presence was always a strange, erotic thrill. My fear and shame fought toe to toe with my arousal. Neither side was winning. I nodded quickly in reply to her question. I really hadn’t remembered what she’d asked, to be truthful.
“Mom knows he has ’em. I suppose all men buy that stuff. Crazy, really. When they could get to see the real thing anytime.” Before I knew it she was at the foot of the bed and looking over the open pages of the cheaply-made magazines with their B&W displays of families gardening, farming and even grocery shopping in the raw. Phony captions under the stills related how fresh air and family activities were the mainstay of the nudist colonies. Me, I was studying Sheridy’s jawline and her sensual neck.
As I say, she was not beautiful. Yet every movement she made exuded sex appeal. I liken it to how some people thought Barbra Streisand was hot when she was just coming up on the national scene. In a funny way, she was. It was some kind of inner confidence thing, I believe, that gave Sheridy that command over the libidos of her classmates. Not that her thin, lithe figure was anything special, but you just loved to hear her clothes rustle when she walked.
My eyes had made it down to the hollow of her neck when she asked me “Do you play with yourself when you look at these?”
Well, the blood that had deserted my face flowed back at a ferocious pace when I heard that! She was standing at the foot of the bed with that damned average shampoo bottle in her hand, looking for all the world like an everyday American girl, but asking me a question that might as well have been beamed from outer space. That was how outrageous it was, to me, to hear a girl say such a thing. Totally alien.
I remember I got up off the bed and hurried to gather up the magazines in a frenzy. I suppose I meant to put them back in the drawer and run the hell out of there. I was filled with shame at what she had found out about me and just wanted to run away from it. While my autonomic nervous system was busy making my body gather up the forbidden evidence of my perversity, my mind was feverishly trying to deny that this neighborhood girl might in fact be aiming to bond with me, or maybe even something better than that.
She couldn’t help but laugh at my spastic reaction to her question about jerking off. Anyone would have laughed, watching me. “What are you doing?!” she tittered, pointing as I comically crammed the magazines into the bottom drawer of her dad’s bureau. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sorry if I said something to make you upset.”
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