Preference, Chapter 1
I know, I know, Lily Robin is still in process, I just needed to change gears for a bit. I was given a fab idea, and it bit me, so Patience, my lovelies. . .
My name is Patrice. I'm an attractive, unmarried 36-year-old woman, and the dance teacher for a private school in the midwest. I am the oldest of three (36, 30 & 28), and was engaged once, five years ago. That fell through.
My sexual preference happens to be for young girls.
I have had many flings, I suppose you would call them, over the years, with many, many girls. The youngest was eight, I think, and the oldest was a sophomore, so. . .fifteen? As a dance teacher, of course, opportunities have been plentiful. And it doesn't hurt that the school is a girls' school. Half board, half commute. I live on campus, and live the best of both worlds. Until last week, the whole set-up seemed ideal. Then. . .well, I should bring you up to speed on my personal history first.
My grandmother introduced me to sex when I was six. She was seen as "eccentric" in our family, but mainly for her grand, Victorian ways. She was always dressed to the nines, even in heatwaves, and espousing some strange new philosophical theory or other every time we saw her.
She lived in a huge old mansion in a nearby city (upper midwest), and each summer, we girls would spend a period of two weeks with her, while my parents, both teachers, went on their own vacation. But for the first four years, starting when I was six years old, and as my sisters were just born or just about to be, I was driven up to Grandma's house to spend the time alone with her.
I liked the idea. Whereas the rest of my family (Mom, Dad, aunts and uncles) all saw Grandma Taylor's weirdness as laughable, it was a secret of mine that I rather liked it. That was something that developed early on, too – making and keeping my own secrets. My extended family all lived pretty close, and in the key-less, mid-western-y openness, secrets were something I could keep and hold as my very own. . .
Now, despite Grandma's dress and eccentricity, she was not your Beverly Hillbillies Granny, or Whistler's Mother, or anything like that. No, I suppose, if one needed a comparison, it might be more like Doris Day when she was more tanned and leathery, or Lauren Bacall when she was old but not that old. Because we might call her Grandma, but she was only like 50 or something (admittedly ancient in my eyes at the time!), and quite beautiful in a regal, matronly sort of way.
As soon as she had me moved in to the little room by hers (Mom made sure I'd been stocked with all my stuffed animals), Grandma brought me to the sunroom. It was quite a fanciful, very Victorian-looking room: stained glass, ferns, all sorts of nude statuary, and loads of light. She sat on the edge of a purple velvet settee, and had me stand in the center of the room. In the spirit of "Meeting Grandma", I wore a blue Laura Ashley dress. It was a little hot, and I felt flushed.
"Now Patrice, my child – you're six years old now, is that correct?"
I nodded dutifully. "Yes."
"Good." Her pearls were amazing in this light, as if they were alive, almost. She crossed her legs, and her skirt rode to just above her knee. A glimpse told me that her white stockings didn't go all the way. Hm. I always thought tights went to your waist. Mine did.
"Six years old is the perfect time for you to learn all about your self, Patrice."
I looked at her. Then I nodded again. Dutifully.
She fingered her pearls. "NOW is when you find out who you are, and what you like and don't like, and how to make yourself happy. Right?" I nodded. "Because later is too late, and before you know it, you're trapped into thinking that who you ARE might be WRONG or BAD, and you can't help yourself, and everything is dry and hopeless and you might as well kill yourself and try again." She stared at me, fingering her pearls. "And you don't want that, do you?"
I shook my head. Boy, it was hot!
"Good. Now take your dress off."
My mouth opened, and closed. Did she just read my mind? She looked at me, and I put my hands up to the neckline. How--?
"Come here, child, let me unzip you." I came to her and turned around. She unzipped, and I awkwardly pulled the dress down, stepping out of it. She took it. "Now stand where you were, and take off the rest."
I was now in my white tights and little black Buster Browns. I toddled back to my center spot, turned, and tucked my chubby thumbs into the waistband of my tights. I stopped, not quite sure if this was what she wanted?
"Go on." She made a little finger gesture downwards. I peeled my tights down, bringing the underpants with them. I'd made it to about my knees when I realized--
"Here, come here, child, let me remove those shoes. . ." She seemed a little annoyed, but she was also a little red in the face. I thought, she must be hot, too!
I had to do a bit of short-stepping, as those tights were, well, tight. I waddled back and stood before Grandma, naked down to the tights bunched at my knees. And my Buster Browns.
She looked at me a moment, twirling her pearls, then reached under my arms and picked me. "Here we go," and she swung me around to the settee cushion behind her. I was laid down, head near the settee's back. "Feet up!" she ordered, and I immediately raised them. One shoe, two shoes, off. She dropped them on the floor.
"Ready?" She had a grip on the feet of my tights now. I nodded. This game is neat, I thought – weird, but neat. "OFF with the tights!" and she whisked them off like a snakeskin. I wasn't really sure what was next, so I stayed in that position, legs up and slightly parted, and naked as a jaybird. Well, I still had the little sky-blue barrette in my hair, but that was it. I don't think she minded that.
Grandma was staring at me – at my face, my chest, my legs, between my legs, my feet. She took hold of one of them and patted it. "Now. . ." Then she stood, smoothing her skirt. Her index fingers made a downward motion. "Scoot down, honey." She patted the edge of the settee where she'd been sitting. "Bottom here." As I did this, (clumsily), she pulled a footrest over. She placed it in front of the settee and sat.
I, still not knowing the precise rules for this game, kept my feet up. My arms were also up a bit, my hands curled into loose fists. My Grandma put a cool hand on the sole of each foot and moved them slowly apart. She was looking right at my pee-pee. "The-e-ere we are. . ." She smiled.
Oh my, it was such a bright smile, such a warm smile. The fact that I don't know that I'd ever SEEN her smile made it all the more special. She looked at me, her eyes twinkling. "I am going to teach you, Patrice," and she gave my feet a little squeeze, "how to make yourself feel good." She gave one of my tiny feet a brief kiss, right on the big toe, and squeezed again. "So you won't need anyone else, ever – to feel good. Sound good?"
I nodded, as well as I could in such a position. To help it, I added a plaintive little "uh-huhh. ."
"Good. Good. Now. . ." She gently pushed my feet apart. "Let's look at this pretty little cunty here." I was now wide open. She tilted her head as she examined. "Such a plump little pretty cunty. . ." She looked up at me. "Do you like to play with your cunty?"
I only knew it as my pee-pee, and so had a difficult time even adjusting to the strange term. "I don't know."
"Do you like to touch it? Or rub it?"
I nodded. Good, I knew that one. "Sometimes, uh-huh."
"Good. . ." She put a hand on the inside of my thigh, just stroking from knee to mid-thigh and back. "Does it feel good when you touch yourself?"
It felt good her doing what SHE was doing! "Um. . .I guess so. . ."
"Mm-hmm. . ." She abruptly took her hand away. Boo. "Let's find out how to do it right, okay?"
"Okay. . ." I watched her stand up. She looked at me, then started undoing the buttons of her dress. Wow, I thought I was the only one who had to take off her clothes here! THIS was neat as heck! I lay, legs apart, and watched my Grandma go all the way down her expensive-looking beaded white dress, unbuttoning.
When she finished, she straightened and smiled at me again. It really did take my breath away, that smile. Then she grasped each side and opened up – and she was naked underneath! I must have been completely fish-mouthed, because she even giggled at me as she sloughed the dress off her body. All she had on were those white tights (stockings) that came up almost to her. . .cunty (!) And she kept those on. . .
But, boy! I never even saw Mommy naked, except really fast if she was coming out of the shower and I needed to pee, or if she was getting dressed in the morning and I came in but then she told me to knock! So NOW – Grandma was a real live naked Lady, right there in front of me, and I was naked too, and we could both see our both's cunty's. . . And Grandma's was even furry!
And her boobies were kind of droopy, but really white against her tan, and with big nipplies (that's what my Mom called them) that kind of hung down. And her skin was so, so thin, or kind of like you could almost see through it, especially around the white parts, her veins and smoothness. . .
She put a hand to her . . .cunty, and scratched her fur slowly, like a cat. "You'll have hair, too. We all do." Then she sat down on the footstool. "Okay, pretty Patrice. Now I'll show you mine." And she scooted her butt in and put her feet up on either side of the settee. She parted her tanned, muscled thighs and there was her rich cunty, on display.
"Sit up, child. Keep your legs open so I can see you." I did as she said, back on my elbows to see her. I was absolutely fascinated.
"Now. Do what I do." And she brought one finger to her full labia. She touched it to the space between, and let it rest. I did the same with my slit (a far more appropriate term for my own little twat).
"Now just let it kind of sink in a bit. Not much, just to. ..feel inside." I watched her own finger sink in, rather more deeply than mine. It was very weird, almost like I was feeling myself inside HER instead of me. . .
"Good girl, good. . .now let it just kind of. . .move a bit, up and down. . .up and down. . ."
Mine didn't have a whole lot of distance to travel, from up to down. . .I watched her finger move like it was on a silky trail, a slug trail. . .if I just let my finger be hers, I did okay.
"Good, honey, good. You're doing so well. . .Now," and she brought that finger up, "taste yourself." She put her finger in her mouth. I did the same, a bit hesitant. Hmm, salty. Not bad. Kind of. . .weird. But good. Tasted like me, I guess.
She made a meal of her own taste. "Mmm. . .I love the taste of me," and she brought the finger back to cunty.
"That's what I was thinking!" I was very proud of my perspicacity.
She smiled at me. "Again," and we began re-tracing ourselves. I did it a little better, I thought, especially since I could be Grandma getting even more into it. This was getting really neat. I liked this game a very lot.
"Now you taste me and I taste you." And she brought her finger to my mouth. I touched my own tiny finger to her lips. She opened her mouth and sucked it in greedily.
Ooh, I really liked how her finger tasted! It was salty, too, but it was also like spicy, and nutty, and, and it smelled even kind of farty, but good, kind of like her breath sometimes, but not when it was bad. . .
"Ohh, sweetie. . .you are so sexy." She kissed my finger. "Now, put a lot of spit on my finger, and I'll put some on yours, and then we'll do some more playing with our cunty's. Okay?"
I nodded, eagerly now. She left a big gob on my finger; it ran down my hand and I had to put it on my cunty FAST. We giggled, and started moving around again on ourselves.
This time she started using her other fingers, too. I tried that, and discovered that I could do most of what she was doing, too. She began squeezing her lips, and slushing around inside more. "Don't worry, honey, if you can't. . .ohh, my. . .if you can't get in very far. You don't have to, it's just. . .mmMMmm, yes. . .just move it around in the gushy parts, Patrice. That's right, honey."
I WAS, I was moving my fingers around in the gushy parts, because my pee-pee, my cunty, had become very gushy, very soft and squishy. And because I was moving at about the same rate and way that Grandma was, I was starting to feel things that I had never felt. Ever. I started getting a little frantic in my fingering, like my body was in a race that had started awhile ago, but that I'd just joined, and now was deep in it. I began getting these deep tingly sensations in my belly, that then started radiating outwards.
And just as Grandma began making these kind of scary noises, as if she'd gotten her hand caught in a door or something, I felt my first Wave.
The beginning of my Life, really. An experience I've chased for decades now, and here is where it was born. I don't know how it is for other women, just as I suppose no one ever knows what it's like to die – but for me, it is a sacred event, and comes upon me, ineluctably, a terribly, terribly welcome joy.
At six years old – it scared the crap out of me. It was such an amazingly, agonizingly wonderful feeling, and it kept. . .arriving, this feeling, as if it would never get here, but instead keep coming and coming, bigger and bigger, and never stop! THAT was the fear, somehow, in my little six-year-old body – that in this eternal moment of unimaginable bliss, I would be trapped, I would explode, and be no more.
Too scary. My little body passed out.
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