The Puppy Club

I’m 13 years old and I can already jack-off.

Lyndon taught me. He never touched me. He just told me what to do and it was easy.

By that time I’d already had a few wet dreams - there was this curvy blond who looked a lot like Marilyn Monroe in a bikini turning backward somersaults under water. Her legs were apart and her puffy crotch was bulging out at me - That was when I had to get up and change my pajamas.

Weird.

I was ready. Some of the other guys weren’t. I knew that from the time we showed each other our hard-ons on a Boy Scout Campout and mine was the biggest.

Dad never talked to me about the subject of sex. He grew up on a farm. A fundamentalist Christian Baptist. So I bought sex magazines.

That meant Playboy centerfolds and the Marilyn Monroe Calendar for the most part. And then there were these figure study magazines designed for artists that had pictures of naked men and women in all sorts of crazy poses with their sex organs brushed out.

Really Weird.

Since we live in a small town in Nebraska that’s about as wild as it gets around here. Dad works for the newspaper but because he had farming in his blood we lived on the city limits where he could have a few animals. My responsibility is the cow. I do the milking, the feeding, the cleaning out the barn. Every day under the sun.

Next to the milking stall there is a feed storage shed - hay, sorghum, salt lick - closed off by a door to the outside to keep the cow from getting in. The floorboards are loose and broken in places which makes for plenty of places to hide my secret picture books.

Judy actually taught me how to buy them. Yeah, that surprised me. She showed me how to go into Bamberg’s News Stand down on the square. Mr. Bamberg always sits in the front smoking his pipe all day looking out the window at the passers-by. He could speak English but mostly just grunts. He seems like a fierce man and just looking at him I was scared shitless. Judy didn’t give a damn. She just walked right on by him to the place in the back of the store, behind a counter you had to walk around to get to. The deal was, as Judy instructed me, you’d walk right in and without loitering around back there, or making yourself too obvious, pick out something real quick and take it along with the right change to the counter. I chose a Playboy. He just grunted and took the money. I was bolting out the door when he said “Hey, wait a minute.” I petrified. “Don’t you want a bag for that?” Good thinking. Easier to get home safely. The old hack saw might actually be on our side.

Every day after school I milked that goddamned cow. Mother would be still at the grammar school being a secretary and she wouldn’t get home till about 4:30. Dad was away till five. After I finished milking I dug up my magazines and jacked-off, staring at these bodies I knew nothing about but loved to look at. The gism shot onto the wall or I flung it onto the ceiling or into the haystack. That crazy cow would never know the difference.

One day I was back there whacking-off when through the wall where board had fallen off I saw Stacy coming my way. Shit. She’s a nosey frip who lives three blocks down, always coming around to pester me. She’s also thirteen but I always think of her as being a lot younger, even though in the past year her goods sure got better.

She’s blond, dirty-blond I guess, hair cut short against her neck. It makes her eyes look keener than they did before, watching me like they always do, anytime, anywhere.

Shit again! She’s seen me so I know damn well she’s coming in. I jam my penis, fully hard, half-whacked and upright back into my jeans and am about to return the figure studies magazine to its vault when she’s already in the door.

“What’s that,” she says. Then she takes it from me and studies it real hard.

I’m in no position to lie. “Well, it’s a goddamned Sex magazine,” I sez, casually as I could being a little out of breath.

She smiles and starts looking at the statuesque figures in all their various poses, fully nude and all, with their genitals air-brushed out. “They look uncomfortable she said.”

“Why?”

“Because the poor things have had their sex taken off.”

We laughed. The tension eased a whole lot.

She wanted a tour of the book so what the hell, I gave her one. Now she asks why I have it.

“It’s fun.”

“No, I mean what do you do with it?”

I don’t answer. Already she feels more like a partner in crime than a nosey little girl from down the street but I’m not quite ready to tell any more secrets.

We finish the book. She wants to take it home and she can be persistent but I say no, she was going to have to come here if she was going to look at it. So now she comes every day. And we’ve decided to give the models names. And genitalia. Some of them we give long hairy penises, some little stubby guys. It’s a lot of fun to give the muscular guys itty bitty ones that don’t get hard. We decide which of the girls have lots of hair and which ones were virgins and which ones had done it a whole lot of times. Some got large holes, some got small tight ones.

Now I’ve started making comparisons to Stacy’s body. Here are your breasts I will say. She hit me the first time but afterwards shed bring it up herself. “These look like mine,” she’ll say, “but they’re not as round.”

I hold the book up to her and she will push out her chest and I will say yes these are yours or no, you’re bigger... much to my surprise the step limiting our rate of progress is not her unwillingness but the level of my courage to ask. Once I realized that I started getting better at it.

Her breasts I imagine are better than any on the page. I had now watched them closely under her clothing and knew they were about the size of small oranges with a nice rounded underside. The tips were very pointed and came straight forward pushing up little tents against her blouse.

We do a lot of talking about penises. I told her that mine was pretty big. “How big,” she wanted to know. “Um... well, larger than any of my friends.” “When do I get to see it,” she said. Now that really took me by surprise.

I thought about it for a while, stalling so I wouldn’t have to answer. Then I had an idea. I told her she had to show me something first.

She giggled. “What do you want to see?” This was getting better than I imagined in my wildest dreams.

“How about your breasts,” I say, and lo and behold she turns to me and without pausing she unbuttons her blouse. Now I am slammed with the sudden, panic-stricken thought that knowing my luck, this would be the exact moment my father would come home early and catch us. All would be over. I look out to the driveway and see it is empty then I look back just in time to see her reach the bottom button. She opens her blouse wide open.

Now there is a light cotton bra with a catch in the center. She is bulging a little around it, out the sides and over the top. She grasps the clasp and clicks it open but holds it there looking up at me. I can hardly stand this. I am absolutely sure that my father is about to burst in the door and spoil everything but he doesn’t. Then pausing a moment, she spread her wings all the way out to the side.

They are the most gorgeous things I had ever seen. Not at all like the ones in my books, they are alive and they move with her breathing, and when she laughs they jiggle like they were laughing too. I ask her to turn to the side so I can see her profile and they stick out like bumpers on a ‘57 Cadillac. The skin appears tight on the surface as if the mound underneath were pushing up with constant force. The tip is a very light rose color, more pastel than I expected and it smoothes into a sweeping curve reaching to the apex. As she twists her torso side to side they elongate in the diagonal, assuming their shape once again as she straightens up.

Suddenly she snaps her blouse closed holding it there tightly in her fists. “Okay,” she says. “Your turn.”

What the hell, I think. If I could see her breasts everyday I’d run down the street buck naked.

I unbutton the top two buttons on my jeans and slide pants and briefs all in one motion half way down my thighs. My dick is hard and stands straight out, bobbing from the thwang of release. If she’s ever going to freak out she’s going to right now.

She shrieked. I thought for a moment I’d scared her shitless. But no. “Fan-tas-tic,” she says and starts peering at it from all angles. My skin feels hot from her hard looking and I am bobbing a little out of pure excitement.

“Turn to the side,” she says.

I do. I even lean back to let her get the full effect of my 6 and one-quarter inches.

“God,” she says. “How is it possible for any woman to hold all that inside?”

I had no idea how big females were, or how deep they went. Or what happened when push comes to shove.

“Let me look up at it,” she says. I spread my legs a little and she sits with her back to me and leans head back right underneath it, her hair brushing my thigh. I can see my penis straight out over her face, between her eyes, along the ridge of her nose, her mouth...

“That’s enough,” I say, and I pull up my jeans. Time to go. Mother would be home in ten minutes.

She looked sad as she snapped her bra and buttoned herself up all the way. She turned back and kissed me on the cheek, her tight breasts brushing against my sleeve. I watched her leave then whipped it out and jerked off. I was so excited it took15 seconds.

We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well by now. I have decided that I am definitely in love with her breasts. When she arches her back and lifts her arms over her head and the nipples rise and point upward I know why there is a reason for springtime.

“I didn’t know they did that,” I say.

“They do lots of things,” she says and pushes them up with both hands, then down, then out to the side. “Watch this,” she says and she rotates side to side, the tips rising at the turn-back point, then falling through the turn until the next turn-back point in which they rise again. Figure 8’s side by side.

The best part is the stuff they do when she’s not paying attention. Just the little sway when she moves her head. The elongation when she bends over slightly to turn a page. I can feel their presence without looking directly at them, know where they are instinctively. Two swans shepherded by the motions of her body.

And I see her heart beat pumping through the tight casing of the left one, the nipple dancing slightly with every beat. I am fascinated by the way they curve into their attachment at the side under the arm. This too, is nothing like the pictures in the book.

So we have gone along happily this way for a couple of weeks, looking from different positions at breasts and penis. I make her bend over and watch them sway. I make her lie down and observe them flatten against her chest, lower ribs pushed forward and upward to give a new prominence on the horizon.

One day she says she wants to see me in stages.

“What do you mean?” I say.

She remains silent a moment. Looks embarrassed. “You know. Soft. Medium. Hard.”

The instant she says it I get this tugging feeling that made me exhale all my wind, that kind of feeling I sometimes get when I’m trying to ask a pretty girl if I could sit by her, a pretty girl I probably would have no chance in hell with.

“We’ll have to... change things... around, I say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll have to go first.”

So instead of looking at magazines, then looking at her we start with me. I take my pants down and let it dangle out in the air a while, swaying occasionally so she could see it swing and flop. She looks like she is witnessing the resurrection.

I was already a little tumid just talking. And being watched and feeling the tweek of movement out in the air I can tell it is getting harder.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Well, take off your top.” And she does. Then I make her do a little dance for me. Watching the movement of her breasts makes me rise quickly to firmness. I can tell it excites her to see me through all the stages because as it was growing and beginning to stand out she oohed and ahhed and bent around to watch from all sides.

She talks about how as it rises the foreskin draws back from its resting place behind the tip to the little groove between the bulb and shaft. And that the tip turns purple. Or was it magenta? “What a wonderful organ the penis is,” she says. “Don’t you just love it?”

“Now I’ve got something I want to ask you, she says. “So what do you do with these magazines?”

“I look at them like we’ve been doing.”

“Isn’t there more than that?”

Well, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well by now and I figure I have no reason to hide anything. She’s certainly played along without withholding anything. So I look at her to see if there’s any mockery in her face. It seems earnest to me.

“I jack-off.” I said.

OOOOOhh, she said.

And I thought for a moment I was feeling the same thrill she was feeling.

“What’s that like?”

“Great!” I say.

“Oh, come on. You can do better than that. I mean, what does it feel like?”

I hadn’t thought about putting it into words. Tingly, was the best I could come up with.

“Where tingly.”

“Well, on the tip and - I don’t know - down deep inside somewhere.”

“What do you think about while you are doing it.”

“Girls mostly.”

“What about girls.”

“Pussies and asses, I don’t know. How the girls lie down and let me lie on top of them, I guess. How they touch me and press my hard-on against their breasts, maybe.”

That was more than I’d planned on saying. But she kept pushing. She’d just have to put up with the answer.

“I want to know what it’s like just as you are coming.”

I thought for a moment. “I lose control. I try to rise up to that high place as slowly as I can because it makes it... well, feel better longer. It makes the pleasure greater to have it slowed down like that so I try to draw it out. But then it feels too good and... I just lose control.

“What’s the feeling in the penis at that time?”

I thought for a minute, unable to find what it was. “I guess it’s like shooting out stars,” I say.

She just nods her head in a slow rhythmical fashion. And takes a deep breath. I don’t know what’s coming next. And she sure surprises me. “I want to see you do that sometime,” she says.

One day she arrives excited and nervous.

“What’s up,” I ask.

“I want something,” she says.

“What?”

“I’m not sure I can ask.”

“No harm asking,” I say.

“I want to watch you do it.”

“Do what?”

“You know. Do it.”

“Oh,” I say like I didn’t know already. Then after a while I say, “I don’t know. I’d be real embarrassed.”

“I’ve got a deal for you.”

“What?” I say.

“I’ll show you my bottom if I can watch.”

If she could have seen my thoughts she’d already know that I’d been fantasizing about doing it for her that way anyway. If she got a thrill watching me pound my meat, why not. Truth is, just the thought of her watching turned me on a lot. I wasn’t going to bring it up because I didn’t want her to think I was weird. But now she’d broken the spell.

And on top of that she was tossing in a rich peek at her privates. What a deal!

I play it a little tough and pushed for more. “On one condition, I say.”

“What’s that?”

“That you leave yourself naked so I can watch you while I do it.”

“No problem,” she said. “Are we on?”

She’s wearing short shorts, the kind that hug the folds of her underside like an extra layer of skin. I can see her pussy folds and everything. Her bottom is small and round, appears real muscular from outside her shorts. I can hardly wait to see what’s underneath.

She reaches down and unbuttons three buttons and stops there long enough to look at me, then slides the shorts down in a side-to-side, rocking motion - first one flank, then the other, one thigh... one knee - until she kicks them off with her feet. She’s wearing shiny pink panties. She watches me watching her a few seconds then rubs herself before sliding them all the way off in one graceful motion. Now she stands with her legs slightly apart, hands on her hips.

Her pussy hair is light blond, just like the hair on her head, rising like smoke over her wedge. And sparse, giving a clear view of the lacy slit carved into her underside. The silky fissure is bordered on each side by a soft ridge which rises from the milky skin just inside where the thigh joins the body, a little mountain range that followed the valley downward between her legs.

“Can you see?” she asks.

I lied. “Sort of,” I say.

She hops up on the feed barrel and spreads her legs, peering over herself to inspect the prize. “Let me help,” she says, reaching down with her fingertips to pull back the skin on either side of the widening furrow. Pink shows through. Moist pink, with a little white mucous glistening in the crevasses.

“This is my pee-hole” she says pointing to a dot near the top of the space shaped like the wedge curtains make when drawn to one side. “And this... this, is the best part,” she says, moving her finger to her hole. “This is my vagina.” And she giggles. She actually giggles. “I think that’s what all the boys want,” she says.

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Seen enough,” she says.

I nod.

“Okay, your turn.”

My heart rips along at the speed of light, as much from fear, I think, as excitement. But a deal was a deal and all in all it felt good. I never could have done it without a trade off. In spite of anxieties under such pressure things might suddenly not work I was set to go through with it.

I pull my penis out of my fly, squeezing it and playing with it, rolling the skin in a circular motion around the shaft, then massaging it straight on with stiff fingers, pinching the bulb and rubbing the trough behind the soldier’s helmet.

“What does that do?” she asked.

“Makes it hard.”

It’s about three quarters hard and because it’s been kinked inside my pants trying to get out most of the swelling had found a place at the tip end giving it an hourglass shape, which, as it hardens, evens out.

“Wow! That thing’s a shape shifter.”

There’s a little clear fluid of excitement coming out its tip. I take this and rub it on the underside of the bulb, lifting the tip to show her the sensitive cleft under the head. Then first with the flats of my fingers I started sliding the skin up and down. My foreskin is short and slides out to cover the tip then back to disappear in the stretch of the recoil. It will give her a real good view.

I am so intent on pleasing her I have forgotten to look at her. She’s still sitting on the feed barrel mewling in almost whimpering tones, oohing and aahing. Her legs are parted and her sex is directly in view. I imagine I am inside her and the motions I am feeling are the tight clinch of her sex against mine.

“Show me your top too,” I command. And without speaking she opens her blouse and bra and lets her breasts swing, revealing a subtle rocking motion I now realize her whole body’s been doing all along.

I am pointing 45 degrees away from her. I turn to the side to show her the full length and she squeals softly. She gets down to look up close. I keep the pace feeling my gism well up against the root.

“I’m about to come,” I say. “Let me watch your bottom as I do.”

She hops back on the barrel, spreads her legs and with her fingers separates her lips.

I am in her now. Pumping her. I can see she feels it too even though we are not even touching. She seems to be pressing herself open more and more and I am starting to lurch and stiffen my face... and neck... and my spine curling over... and I just manage to say... “watch, watch,” ... just before it shot out three feet in front of me.

She cheered.

I let it pump a few times to finish. Then take the cream in my fingers and hold it up to her, rubbing my fingertips together. Her eyelids droop and her mouth opens slightly. I fix her eyes in mine and sling the gism into the haystack.

After we put ourselves together she comes up to me and kisses me full on the mouth, letting her frontal parts press against my side. I grab her butt and press her against me, and she lets me, feeling her sex against my thigh.

Then she turns and goes away.

She stays away a few days then comes in shuffling her feet and looking grumpy.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Not sure I can tell you.”

“Why not?”

She pauses, thinks a while then says, “Guess I’ll have to one way or another.”

“So go ahead.”

But she looks like words are poison to her mouth. She looks down to the ground working her jaw back and forth. Finally she spits them. “My sister wants to come,” she says.

“I didn’t know you had a sister. And what do you mean she wants to come?”

“She’s my younger sister, 11 years old. She heard someone talking about hard-on at school and asked me what it was. I told her. Then she asked if I had ever seen one and... I said... well... ”

“I get it.”

“Yeah, and she said she’d tell on us if I didn’t let her come too. Knowing her, she’d do it.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants to see a hard-on.”

A thrill shoots through my loins right up to my breath and stops it short. It’s a mix of pride she wants to see me and excitement at having another girl around. I definitely like the idea but its her sister. I have to read Stacy on this.

Stacy’s pissed. “She’s always getting me in trouble she says. I guess she has to come but we should make her pay for it.”

“Yeah, make her pay.”

“Yeah,” she says getting a sudden scheming look in her eye and a change in the angle of her face, “but how?”

“Something really bad,” I say.

“Yeah, really bad.”

Stacy’s agreement on this thrilled me. It gave us the power to do stuff to her and her being willing and all. I thought for a minute. “Well, maybe we could have an initiation.”

“Yeah.” Stacy was brightening up. “Yeah, we could make her do stuff.”

“We could call ourselves a club and say she had to go through hazing to become a member.”

“Oh, this is good,” Stacy says. She was really getting jazzed now. “Okay. Let’s figure this out.”

We decide that first she had to memorize all our models. She has to know who has the big penises and what size holes the women have.

“But she has to show us something too, I said.”

“She’s going to have to show us something. That can be the next step. Breasts. That’ll be stage two. Her breasts.”

This was incredible. I couldn’t tell if I was pumped more by the power I suddenly had to make girls take off their clothes or by the idea that Stacy was actually going to deliver her sister to me.

I’m suddenly curious. “Have you seen them?”

“Not for a while,” she says. “But I think she’s starting to grow a little something. I bet you’d like them.”

The speculation of one girl for the breasts of another girl and how they might please me is something I never thought possible in this world. In this universe!

“Okay,” I say, barely able to speak, “what else can we make her do?”

“Well I think she should get naked all over,” Stacy says.

“Good. Naked is good,” I say, thrilled by the extremes yet wanting to keep on pushing. “Anything missing?”

“Then we get to touch her all over,” says Stacy.

“Great! That’s it. Great!”

It was settled. We’d say her prize was to see the hard on but she had to go through initiation first. Like we did ourselves. We’d tell her only one step at a time so she didn’t freak out and blow the whole thing.

It took her several days to memorize penises and vaginas. But she took to it with remarkable gusto. She passed the test on the third day.

“What next?” she asks. This was too good to be true.

“Have to show us your breasts,” Stacy says and snuggles over to me.

She’s not wearing a bra. I know that because when she bends over I can see down her blouse to the nubbins of her brand new breasts. I can’t wait to have her show them openly.

With no fanfare she simply pulls her blouse over her head in one quick motion, looking around like she wanted to be chosen next for the next talent show.

Mostly nipple is what I see, a swollen skull cap on a little puff of cushion mounding up from below. They stick close to her and don’t move around as much as Stacy’s do. They looked timid. Curious.

We make her take off her top three days in a row while we watch. She doesn’t seem to mind. Actually she seems to groove on this. We look in the book to guess which women have the breasts she was going to get. We ask her to guess. She’s no idea and doesn’t care. She is such a focused woman. She wants to see that hard-on.

So today we tell her she has to get totally naked and lie down on the quilt spread over a little shuffle of hay. And then we would touch her all over.

In seconds she was naked and lying down, arms behind her head, legs slightly parted. She seems ready for anything.

She’s just beginning puberty. Her body in many ways is still infantile - skinny, long, very little muscle or fat so that the curves everywhere are smooth and gentle.

Something excites me about the smallness of her breasts and how they flatten to nothing when she lies down. Maybe it’s because they are so fresh, maybe because they contain such mystery, knowing they already have invisible in them the changes no one can predict.

Her crotch is hairless, almost. Just a little peach fuzz fluffing around the area like designer decoration on a store window.

Stacy takes the right side. I take the left. We begin with her hands. I like that we did that. It shows respect for her and at the same time builds tension. She knows what’s going to come but not how it will feel. She is courageous, I see that. For all her trouble-making you had to give her that. We stroked and squeezed to let her know we were honoring her body, celebrating its right of passage. She seemed content. Assured, relaxed in a state of sleepy enjoyment.

We move to her shoulders, her brown hair in ringlets at her neck, her scalp, her eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth. I put a fingertip between her lips and drag the corner of her mouth down ever so slightly as I pass.

Then her upper chest. I look at Stacy to see how she is going to take touching her sister’s breasts, but she is intent. I go first, sliding both hands along her ribs to the little mounds that seemed to rise higher in advance of my approach. They are remarkably soft, not like the firm roundness I imagined Stacy’s to be. It’s like feeling whipped cream yielding to the slightest pressure. Her nipple seems curiously out of place, as if attached there by a passing god with a quirky sense of humor.

I glance at Stacy. She is kneading Angela’s breast like she was making bread, her tongue to the side of her mouth, fingers labile and light.

I move to the dip dropping under her ribs to the deep hollow of her belly. She has an inny and I stick a finger inside and jiggle. This is the only time she moves in response to our ritual. She didn’t just move she jumped and clasped her hands over mine.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve always had a strange sensation there. I guess it’s how I’m made.”

I pass on to the mound above her privates. I paused to stroke it. The bony pubic prominence was hard underneath it and seemed to be acting like the tent pole from which all else fell away.

I move my head down to have a direct view. Her folds are smaller than Stacy’s. Very subtle. You could almost miss them if you weren’t looking directly. I lick my finger to make it slippery, ready to slid it along my side of the little ridges, stroking and pinching. But we pause here, inexplicably. The folds glisten and seem to swell in response to our looking.

We have gone far enough. Without speaking Stacy and I just stand up and announce that she had passed and was worthy of our congratulations and our admiration.

She stands up naked and says, “okay, now I get to see it.”

“Maybe she’d faint,” we tease.

“I won’t I won’t. I’m ready. I’m ready. Show me. Show me. Show me.”

I open my fly and I rise forth like a gesture of tribal greeting.

She is so jazzed she grabs hold of it. Reflexly, I draw back. But then, thinking she’s surely earned it, I just give it to her and say, “do what you want.”

She moves it side to side. Holds it up and looks underneath. She picks up my balls and rolls them side to side in her fingers like mother marbles. She spreads my cheeks and looks at my bum hole. I feel like I’m in the doctor’s office.

With Angela the barriers of touch that have been unconsciously observed till now have been broken. Touch is now club policy. The secret was that Stacy had never touched me. But now I feel like I need to give her a reward, make her feel privileged, special.

I wink at her, accessing her status as I did. “Now you get a treat,” I said to Angela. “You get to watch Stacy do me.”

Stacy could have walked but I had a suspicion she wouldn’t. I lay down. Stacy straddled my thigh. She grabs me and starts massaging and twisting like she’d seen me do, slowly adding a rolling and a pumping motion, acting as if she had done this all along. I can feel her meat pressing against the bone of my leg. And as she moves me, the recoil moves her. She is getting more and more excited as we go along and is pressing harder against my leg, adding some rubbing and pelvic kicks of her own.

I watch her screw up her mouth in serious concentration, as if she were struggling to write the final paragraph of an essay on Modern American Freedom, the jiggle of her labor rippling through the muscles of her arm and chest.

I am about half-way there when Stacy swoons, drooping her head down, the piston-like action of her hand slowing way down like a locomotive in deep snow.

I look over at Angela. “Help her out,” I say.

She jumps in, straddling the other leg and grabbing hold, taking over where Stacy left off. She pumps with such gusto I get an extra charge, her little breasts dancing out of control like chipmunks laughing.

As I am about to come Stacy revives and gets back into action.

Two hands, two girls. I hold back... and hold back... and just finally slipping over the edge, explode. Both girls were holding on. They jump back as I shoot off then grab hold again to feel me pump... and pump..... and pump.

We are a threesome. The initiation is complete.

Days pass now we don’t take off anything but we are free to touch each other through our clothes as we want. We use the magazines. How we react to the pictures any particular day determines what we do.

Some days we just look at our profiles and compared them to the models. Others I stroke their bottoms while we speculate what the girls pussies will look like ten years later. One day we make Angela do the Marilyn Monroe poses just like the ones on the calendar, even the nude one for Oct-Nov-Dec.

The penis always gets the most attention. He is our unifying concept. He is the curiosity that stimulated the imagination of the girls and ramped their curiosity. They ask millions of questions: How does it work? What does it feel like? How could I tell if I was going to pee or come? Did anybody ever make a mistake and pee inside a woman? What do I do if I get a hard-on at school?

Stacy hated to say goodbye each day, I could tell. She was the originator of all this and I think the most deeply connected. So we develop a ceremonious goodbye touch. She is beginning to get weepy when we part so we arrange it so they would kneel down and press first one breast and then the other to my groin, and then stand, and taking me in one hand, press me against their sex - just a few sweet seconds. It is the ritual kiss that saves us from words.

As Stacy touches my penis today to bring it to her breast it is not hard. “It’s so soft,” she says. “It feels like the muzzle of my puppy dog.” So they begin to call it “Puppy” and we decide to name ourselves “The Puppy Club.” I find key chains at the dime store with a cocker spaniel’s head on them which we keep in our pockets as a sign of our secret alliance.

Stacy says we are too young to be fucking and we all agree on that. It gives a wisp of virtue to all our mischief. But occasionally, for goodbyes, we do what we call “tipping,” which means my tip could rest just at the girl’s openings for 5 seconds. This has become our “French Kiss.”

Today Stacy comes alone. It’s clear to me she’s been crying. I know better than to ask. She seems distant. We do our thing but with an unexplained sense of wistfulness, as if she were there and not there all at the same time. When she’s about to leave and she and I were tipping she puts her hand on my shoulder and looks straight into my eyes. I could feel her opening give a little in the same moment her eyes went glazy and half closed. She seems more reluctant than ever to break away.

“Just for today,” she says in a voice that’s a little shaky, “I’m going to let you push in to me - just a little. But you have to promise you’ll be careful.”

I put my hands under her bottom and push slowly in. I can feel her parting for me in ripples of resistances and gives, the tightness submitting to the power of our will. My bulb wedges then slips with a little pop then squeezes its way slowly up her channel. Her breathing gets hard and fast. She closes her eyes all the way and tilts her head back a little, as her mouth opens slightly around her hot, strictured breath.

Half way in she jerks a hand up in front of me, placing her fingertips against my chest. I stop. I can tell it hurt her but she shows no outward signs of that, instead she summons the strength to keep herself there a moment, holding on to what ever it is that despite the pain make her do it. Then with a little side twist of her head she pushes me out.

Nothing is spoken as we dress and make ready to go. At the very last moment she puts her arms around me and hugs me, tight, kissing my neck. There is an element of sweetness here I’ve never felt before. I thought of honey. Gardenias.

Now I sit for a long time thinking how it felt to be inside Stacy, trying again and again to recreate that feeling in my mind. I decide not to wash myself for a week leaving the essence of her, drying on me.

What a great gift it was, I thought, to be able to give that much to someone.

I sit long in daydream, startled to hear my mother’s car pulling into the drive. I scurry to get the milk in the fridge and my shoes changed before she comes in the door.

The girls never come back.

They’d missed days before so when Monday and Tuesday go by I don’t think much about it. But by Thursday, I decide to go by their house on my way home from school. What I found was curtainless windows and a sign in front that said “Sold” on it.

I never hear from them again.

The cow dies. Dad tears down the barn. I knew he was going to do that, but somehow I’m in a mood to let happen whatever was meant to happen.

“Found your magazines under the barn,” he said one day. “Threw them away.”

I nodded.

And that was all that was ever said about it.