“So, this is for real?”
His skeptical and struggling voice is low, gravelly—his vocal cords, inflamed. His nervous chuckle meant to highlight male confidence; instead, conveys agitation.
As intended, his initial sure-footedness dropped with his jeans, which, piled loosely about his ankles, makes him appear what he is—alone, foolish.
I neglect to answer his question. Instead, gazing up into his dull eyes, I grin and playfully wave a flag of feminine defiance, a Ziploc sandwich bag.
My little prop is for real. And, in answer to his question, yes, I am serious. That aside, Billy Babb is only a pacifier, an unremarkable stand-in for the far more appetizing Jackson Sylvane.
Fixation of my obsessions, and doubtlessly up to no good, Jackson, is back home in Atlantic City, where, summering without me, he spends his time hustling boardwalk dupes.
I, on the other hand, am here, stashed away in the backwoods of Maine, the victim of over-the-top parental control.
At this very moment, the clock is ticking. With no other choices, I seem destined to work with Billy, the handsomish country bumpkin I plan to convert to my personal Sir Galahad, not forever—just for a few weeks.
Billy is not stupid. Evidence of it is clear: unlike last year’s selectee, he thought twice before loosening his belt buckle. Moreover, he knows a good offer when he hears one, meaning he’s smart. I like smart boys.
My ploy is not new; it is a reprise of last year when it tested out well on the slightly more handsome but equally bumpkinish Evan Greaves.
Like Evan, Billy exhibits the same nervous laugh, look of disbelief, and effort to appear comfortable, all with flaccid cock and weighty balls on parade, even as his rather cute backside faces the living room picture window, in this, my parents’ summer cottage.
As the reader has already surmised, I had started out with a certain type of boy in mind. Both fit the bill. I liked tall; each stood tall. I leaned toward lean; each leaned lean. I fancied cocks up close; each offered to show me. Each stood, I knelt. Each frowned, I smiled. Each trembled; I conveyed serenity.
I rely on the uniqueness of the plan, that my proposal is not something backwoods boys trip and fall over on an average day. The blueprint is perfect and, smugly, I think any girl—well, any calculating girl—would swap places with me in a flash!
I look carefully at Billy’s limp dick. Like the rest of him, it is long and lean. I cannot help but wonder if, when standing straight, it will exhibit the necessary stamina, something yet to be proven. Also, there is the question of volume. How much sperm will it shoot? Will its load impress me? I need to find out!
It is afternoon, warm for Maine. Only yesterday, Billy offered to come by in the morning.
“You will not,” I demanded. “No, no, no!”
I did not say why, but for you, the reader, I will say. Breezes off the ocean are cold in the morning and chill works at cross purposes with my appetite for unique visuals.
A girl wants to see certain things. Testicles, heavy and hanging loosely in their sack, intrigue me. The morning discourages the spectacle as crisp air prods scrotums to lapse into safe-mode, making them tighten as balls seek refuge up nearer a boy’s body. That, I do not like!
“No, Billy Babb,” I commanded. “It’s cold in the morning. Come by in the afternoon when it’s warm. Sneak into the woods behind our cottage. After my parents bolu seks hikayeleri drive off, I will unlock the back door.”
In anticipation, I lay awake half the night, obsessed that in a few hours, testicles, loose, ripe—like peaches splitting with heavy syrup and dangling vulnerably between masculine legs, will be mine. That is what I want!
We were seniors when the subject first came up. Standing by Andrea’s locker, we listened as she matter-of-factly lectured us about balls. “They float! They move,” she assured us.
We brightened and glanced about, only half-hoping no boys were listening, and it crossed our minds that only Andrea had ever experienced balls—real ones—up close. I had only seen videos.
Playacting skepticism, I asked, “What do you mean, they float?” Blinking excitedly, the stuck-up girl scolded us like children. We were not children!
Authoritatively, Andrea jeered. “They lift and fall as the temperature goes up and down! A girl can watch them. But she needs to get real close. When she does, she can smell a boy’s sperm!”
“What does it smell like,” Berengaria Navarre asked.
“It…it doesn’t smell like anything else,” Andrea pontificated. “Sperm only smells like sperm.”
The incident was thought-provoking. Then, like now, I felt an inexplicable enchantment with the male body, and like piglets imagining slop, the three of us giggled.
Andrea was not joking. Roosevelt High’s resident ultra-slut, she knew things, and Berengaria and I hesitated to question her ill-gotten expertise.
Andrea had done both Andy and Jake, though, mind you, not at the same time—she would never; none of us would—not back then. Back then, she had standards. Back then, when she blew two boys on the same day, she would only do one at a time.
I wonder about her now, about this summer and what she is doing in far off Peru. She sent that curious email. “I met this guy,” she wrote. “He’s cute, but he’s run away for a hot weekend with some Irish hussy.” I hate Andrea, but I wrote back anyway.
Billy’s hungry eyes roam my kneeling form, his attentions, refocusing my drifting mind to the here and now. Uninvited, he reaches to caress my hair, but I push him away. “No touching, Billy Babb,” I snap. “Not till we make a bargain.”
He smirks as if he does not care—but he cares. He cares about toeing the line for a girl. He knows to get what he wants; he needs to do what I want.
With my ‘no touching’ rule in place, his browsing eyes do the rest. When his attention reaches my knees, I tug my skirt up and open my legs for him. I keep tugging until he sees everything.
“Wow. No panties,” he observes. “Wow…you…you don’t shave. I thought all girls shaved.”
With an ill grin, I counter, “You thought wrong, Billy Babb. And, for your information, I’m a woman, not a girl.” He smiles like he is OK with that. Well, it is OK! A girl waits forever to be a woman, to have hair down there. I am not shaving for any man.
He studies my breasts. “Nice boobs,” he mumbles.
Eyeing him, I raise my pullover and push my titties together. It takes some effort, but I manage to coerce some cleavage, prompting his cock to jump! His cock! It bounces! I so love it!
“Well, well, Billy Babb,” I mock. “Your cock just woke up. I was starting to wonder.”
His face is a study in resolve, and he strokes himself for me—three times.
All boys take chances, and Billy is no different. “Maybe you can suck it a little,” he suggests.
“A little?” I snap, raising my voice to emphasize the point. “Why would I suck it a little?”
Without answering, he inched the tip closer to my face and tempted as I am, I pull back, and without taking my eyes from his, I turn my head to one side.
“No sucking,” I insist. “I only suck boys who do nice things for me! And I only do it when they do a lot of nice things!” He frowns, and I think he probably wants to slap me, but he doesn’t dare. He knows if he does, I will hashtag him, that he will lose his job at the farm supply store.
I glance at my watch and declaim, “You’re wasting time, Billy Babb. My parents only went to the ‘Stop & Shop,’ and they’ll be back before long.”
I slip a finger inside my pussy. After letting it marinate, I calmly withdraw it and lick it clean for him. His cock jumps again! Only this time, it stays hard, and stands straight out! Such a turn-on!
“I need answers, Billy Babb. Do we have a bargain or not?”
Reluctantly, he seizes his cock and pulling back his delicious-looking foreskin, he exposes the head. I love the head! The corona! The tip! It is undefended, velvet!
“Oh, and Kari, about that bargain; let me get this straight. I jerk off for you while you watch. I drop a load into that stupid baggie and…”
“…it’s not a baggie.” I commandingly correct. “It’s a Ziploc.”
He smirks like ‘what’s the difference,’ but there is a difference! Everybody knows Ziploc’s keep food fresher.
“Stop interrupting and let me talk!” he insists. “I jerk off into your Ziploc; you wrap the bag in brown paper, label it ‘pancake batter’ and stash it in your parents’ freezer till August. That’s the deal, right?”
Satanically, and grinning up at him, I confirm, “Correct, Billy Babb.”
“And,” he continues, “all summer—no questions asked—I do whatever you want. I let you drive my jeep. I take you to local yokel parties at the shore. I find you reefer to smoke—all that stuff.”
“You’re so smart,” I jibe.
“Then, on August 4th—on what do you call it?”
Frowning, and with as much condescension as a girl’s face can conjure, I answer, “August 4th is Midsummer Eve, Billy Babb.”
“Yeah, and on mid—whatever the fuck it is—you defrost the batter…and it’s suddenly my turn. I get to watch you gulp it.”
Still grinning and still waving my Ziploc, I nod. That is when he gives me a dark look. “So Kari, how do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain? I mean, if your parents decide to cut their vacation short and after I’ve been your manservant for six weeks, where does it leave me?”
Letting the bag drop to the floor, I uncaringly snarl at him, saying, “It leaves you nowhere. I just might do that, Billy Babb. It’s a risk boys take if they want to see this girl swallow.”
He glowers at me, so I reinforce the point with piercing questions. “Why? Has some other girl given you a better offer?” He glowers more, and I take his silence as a no.
In frustration and reaching down, he pumps his waning cock. It grows by two—its purplish head looking ready to pop and I…well, I wish I had one.
Girls wonder what it is like to have a boy’s collection of balls, sack, and shaft, all united by dark matter to a mysterious prostate gland hidden in a place they do not want girls to touch.
If I had one, I would make it spit in Andrea’s face. In fact, I would make it spit at all the girls I do not like!
One time, Berengaria and I searched her mom’s computer. Fascinated, we were spellbound, watching boys touch themselves. Later, it became our drug of choice, with jerk-off videos morphing to an addiction.
“Decide, Billy Babb!” I order. “I will swallow, but only if you follow the rules.” He does not appreciate that answer, but like a tom fanning his feathers for a favored hen, my would-be gobbler shows off, jerking himself two more times.
Sticky pre-cum oozes from the tip. Instantly, my eyes widen, and my slit salivates. I so want to do something dirty, to lick him clean. But I do not dare, for fear of breaking the spell. Instead, and running out of time, I urge a negotiated settlement by upping the ante.
“Tell you what; if you’re a good boy, you can whip up a second load for me. I promise to drink both on Midsummer Eve.”
As he mulls the idea, my thoughts drift to bargains where competing parties inevitably reach a point of crisis, when one side breaks. Though there is no way I will, whether Billy knows it or not, he has options.
In fact, he has three: He can totally fuck with me by pulling his jeans up and storming out. If he does, I will suck him off to make him stay! Or, he can pressure me for a third load—something I am prepared to accept but do not divulge. Finally, he can cave by whipping up a single load, inking the bargain currently on the table.
Billy cups his swelling testicles with his left hand. Self-fluffing captivates me. His dick grows majestically. Straight and loaded, I doubt he can stop, and his face contorts. “Hurry, Billy Babb! Shoot! Shoot your big load for Kari!”
His lids are heavy with want, and I refocus, watching as a long viscous drool of sperm strings its way to the floor, fashioning a translucent puddle between my open knees. Excitedly, I think, oh my, it almost touched me!
I like Billy’s cock and take pride in my choice. It is big. It holds itself imposingly, elegantly. Long, pinkish to start, it darkens as he strokes himself.
His big body twitches, and, like guys in porn flicks, it involuntary jerks. Like an alarm going off, my instincts tell me it is time for Mr. Ziploc, which I carefully position to collect Billy’s looming discharge. “Tell Kari when,” I jeer.
“I’ll fucking tell ya,” Billy groans. “It’s—it’s fucking NOW!”
Swiftly and not wanting to waste any, I cloak the end of his pulsing erection and watch as gush after sticky gush turns my handy Ziploc from crystal clear to a torrent of creamy white!
Afterward, and just before his sated body settles, I get mad and demand more. “All of it! GIVE ME ALL OF IT!”
Surprised at my insistence, Billy nevertheless obeys, and urges the final drops from his pulsing urethra, the tip, surrendering its exquisite fluid.
By then, and disappointingly, his cock droops. Carefully easing the bag away, I stand, smooth my skirt, and lock in his sperm’s murky freshness by carefully drawing shut the zipper.
“You need to leave. Mom and Dad will be back any time!”
Billy Babb, fussing with his pants, tries to kiss me, but I turn away, saying, “Take your pathetic cock and get out! Text me in the morning.”
Shaking his head in contempt, he shoots me the finger and reaching into his still open pants to reposition his swollen testicles, he turns away and silently slips out the back door.
I watch from the rear window as his lanky form sprints to the dark woods. Once gone, and just as my mom and dad pull into the driveway, I open the Ziploc, hold it close to my face, breathe in deeply, and smile.
End