The first time I came in my pants with Lolly was when she was twelve. She wore a pretty pink gingham dress, tight in the bodice and full at the hips, with white tube socks and patent leather white Mary Jane shoes. She wore pink lipstick too, against her mother's explicit commands, but I wasn't about to tell. She came into the livingroom crunching a red Apple. I now know where the word evil came from.
She kicked her shoes off and they landed in the corner of the room in a clatter, next to her discarded purse. As she lay back in the sofa next to me to take another bite, I grabbed the apple from her and bit it.
"Gimme back," she said, scratching at my arm. I gave her, unable to resist her simplist request. In a second she grabbed with her free hand the magazine I absently held in my other. She flipped through the pages with her wet apple juice hand then pointed excitedly to a picture; it was a replica of the Venus de Milo, buried in sand with a painter, lying on the beach next to it. I made believe I was interested in the picture when all I really wanted was to keep my face close to hers. To feel her hair brush against my cheek. To smell her girlish flower perfume. To enjoy the warmth of her slim leg pressed close to mine. To hear her small teeth crunching the flesh of the apple. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be that apple!
I grabbed the magazine away mockingly and she was all over me. Just like I planned, her body squirming in my lap to retrieve it, apple juice falling from her lips onto my pants. I grabbed her wrists, let the magazine flutter to the floor, and pinned her to the sofa, her small body denting the cushions. She squirmed beneath me then lay back in the corner, quietly extending her slim legs over my lap.
I was insane with excitement by this time. I distracted her with fast talk about the picture, about school, about her girlfriend Nelly, about puppydogs. By pure perseverance and some luck, I managed to manuever my swollen penis under her soft buttocks and with determined motions, like those of gentle waves on the sea, I increased the friction between our clothes, between our skin, until I felt my pants must burst from the pressure within. In my excitement, I started to sing a little ditty. Lolly knew the words to the song so she sang along too. She sang the song of a nightingale. As she sang, the sounds from her little lungs made her body vibrate excruciatingly. Pleasurably.
The apple was almost eaten. The core was visible. And the seeds. Soon she might run away, to discard the nuisance. But no. Instead she leaned up, pressed herself into me more, and tossed it against the wall, near her discarded shoes and bag. She lay back against me so I could smell her hair again. I rubbed my sunburnt hands along her slim freckled legs. Tickled her a little. Ran my hands up to the thin cotton briefs and my thumb, just like that, brushed the soft warm wedge between her legs. She stiffened, squealed and threw her head back laughing. I withdrew my hand.
We sang again and I felt safe. Safe to draw out the pleasurable torture. So close. So close. But no. Not yet. She rocked some more on my legs, opened hers to ride horsey, her buttocks bumping right over my tumescent bulge, her skirt tussled up, exposing a soft half moon, then the white of the cotton panty. I rocked with her, again and again, her squeals of pleasure rising higher and higher, until the floodgates broke and I moaned into the back of her head, into her hair, my eyes closed, mouth open, gasping.
-Inspired by Vladimir Nabokov