Riverside Afternoon, w/Marshmallows

Then there was the very personal, very unexpected behavioral problem that had come upon her about the time of her first period, something she simply did not understand at all. She'd been masturbating ever since she could remember - in fact, having climaxes in the warmth of her private sheet-tent was probably the very first real memory she had of ANYTHING. But the business of self-pleasuring had always been a trivial sidelight and easily controlled. Now, suddenly, it was a MONSTER and completely out of control, and she didn't like being out of control.

Yet practically every day there were these moments when she went into a masturbation frenzy, and of course it usually happened in the middle of a class. Into the girls' room she would go, and latch herself behind the door of a stall. At least she wasn't alone in this - knowing that helped a bit. There were always others. And there were rules about it - unspoken, unwritten, but thoroughly understood and adhered to by all. You always latched your cubicle's door, and hung something over the crack so nobody could see in, not even a little bit. The necessary, uncontrollable, little quiet noises were okay, squishes and an occasional sigh and the like, and always completely ignored by neighbors and passers-by, but you didn't make any real sounds - not even when the strong feelings and spasms and near-cramps washed over you.

And you NEVER looked down and towards the space at the bottom of the partition, for fear you might see a recognizable pair of shoes or socks there, and then how could you possibly even pass that person in the halls without going absolutely beet-red?

Whoever finished first always, always exited first. Other participants in the game always waited until the first-to-finish had closed the bathroom door solidly behind herself, that noise being the signal for the next person to finish and leave. It was really quite an elaborate and well-developed privacy protection plan. Behavioral evolution in action. And every once in a while, in a private place or moment, some girl might make some comment about 'spending too much time scratching kitty's nose' and the whole group would go red and tee-hee.

Watching in the mirror, she patted her stomach. Flat. That was good. Studied her legs. Muscles, yes. And no HAIR on them either, not since the long talk with her elder sister and some lessons about shaving. She raised her arms, studied her pits. Yeah, she shaved them, she thought almost aloud - she wasn't sure it was necessary. But there was NO WAY she was going to take chances on being embarrassed by a stray hair! Besides, the slipperiness and self-touching involved was really sort of fun. And it could certainly lead to other things, couldn't it?

At least she was anything but overweight! And for God's sake, Periods! Ick. Why had God invented such a thing, anyhow? Proved that God was a man, and that He hated women, didn't it! She had already discovered the joy of cramps, and felt she must be the world's number one consumer of Midol.

But she had an advantage that most of her friends didn't have - years and years of exploring herself deeply down there, putting things into her pussy. (There was that terminology problem again... a pussy obviously had a hole in it, didn't it? If you could put things into it! So where was the EDGE of her pussy? Maybe 'pussy' was a concept, not a real "thing"? Baloney!) All that experimentation had made it possible for her to go immediately to tampons when she'd started, thanks to her sisters' advice and instructions. So at least she didn't have to deal with those awful little rat-mattresses the way nearly all her friends did! She was quite smug about it. Thank GOD for older sisters - Mother was useless as an information source. USELESS!

AND she had learned immediately, with the very first-ever tampon, that she had better tuck the whole damned removal-string up inside with the wad of cotton, otherwise she might be walking about in the gym changing room with a tell-tale hanging out. Girls who did that were ribbed unmercifully. The idea of the little string getting loose and perhaps hanging out of the edge of the crotch panel of her swimsuit or exercise shorts where all the world could see it, well, OHMYGOD, she couldn't even bear to think about such an awful thing happening to her! Yes, thank you very much for the ability to hide the string inside.

What had she NOT put up inside herself during her years of experimentation? At the very first, of course, it was just her fingers. That was easy and fun. She liked feeling what was inside her own body. Then, after she had been shown some amazing pictures in a magazine one of her friends had found in the friend's brother's dresser, she had gradually escalated. All sorts of things had been in there. Now, however, she had settled on favorites, for those frequent times when she had sufficient isolation. Carrots were okay - a bit rough and overly hard, but usable. Best were hot-dogs and small zucchinis. Hot dogs were fun but much more unpredictable, they came in too many sizes and shapes and textures and degrees of firmness - she was a connoisseur now.

Her little food-toys were always taken from the fridge and warmed nicely in her sink before use. Zucchinis had to be scrubbed with one of those nylon dish-cleaners, to remove their surface roughness, but then they could be VERY nice. Canola oil was her favorite source of slipperiness - and it was "organic", too! She even kept a little bottle of it in view on her so-called cosmetics shelf, because she had read that it was a good pore-cleanser. That of course was merely her cover for its real uses. It left no trace or taste the way, say, olive oil could. And that was vitally important, because she always washed and rinsed her toys, then returned them to the fridge. They were single-use devices. It amused her no end, very carefully concealed, to watch the rest of the family consuming them later on.

GOD but she could be wicked, couldn't she?

Back to the serious questions. Was this a real honest-to-god DATE? If so, it was her first. An interesting, belly-churning thought. She decided that no, it was not. It was an expedition, a hike perhaps, but not a date. It somehow didn't fit the definition properly. That was some sort of relief.

The question/problem of choosing today's clothes. She liked lacy panties, but chose instead to go naked beneath her shorts. It made her feel daring, and rather naughty. Besides, no underwear at all meant for sure no tell-tale lines beneath her shorts. Underwear lines were SO déclassé. Meant that you simply didn't CARE about your appearance. Band-aids on the nipples, of course. Who could tell when the damned things were going to explode and embarrass her? And not just your little circular "spot" bandages, either - not enough adhesive. Her nipples would just shrug them off - so it was a pair of full-sized finger band-aids for each side, crossed over the nipple.

Snug short-shorts, a loose sleeveless tank top. It would be warm and muggy at the riverbank, so comfortable clothes were required. Weren't they? There was no other possible reason for her choice of outfit, was there? She caught herself in that discussion and almost giggled. And of course her sockless new white tennies. She studied herself in the mirror, harrumphed in dissatisfaction. It was the best she could do. It was HARD to come up with "nice" clothes for going to the riverbank, wasn't it? And why in the world did she CARE anyhow, if this was NOT a date?

She trotted out the door at quarter to twelve - it wasn't far to the secret place. On her way out, she told her folks that she was going to spend the afternoon 'out and about', perhaps at the river. They didn't know where her special place was, just that it existed. She was careful, however, not to say she was going to be ALONE!

It wasn't a fib if you left something out, was it?

So here she sat on the rough end of this big post, her mind in a whirl, her palms all sweaty as if she had done some minor shop-lifting and was about to try to exit the store with the goods. Her belly felt rather peculiar. Then, before she could analyze herself into another funk, she saw Jimmy's head appearing over the rise. He was jogging, coming towards her with a large canvas tote-bag in one hand. She watched him approach, studying him intensely through her sunglasses. It was good she'd worn them - they let her stare without being caught.

She had seen him in his coaching clothes, always shorts, for months already, so why was it only NOW that she began to really notice him? Maybe because they were going to be alone together for a while? Her belly twisted again.

The other older, more experienced players had been right, she decided at once. He was VERY good looking. Nicely muscled, and not a hairy-ape, either. She and her girlfriends, at the pool, always giggled and made private fun of "teddy-bear men". The sun glinted on fine blond hairs on his legs as he trotted up to her. She noticed the set of his shoulders, the way he carried his head. Nice hair. Nice running short-shorts, taut across a very solid-looking bottom. She had long since taken notice of men's bottoms, and knew what she liked. A sleeveless tank-top not unlike her own. Complete with little brushes of armpit hairs. For some reason, that was anything but gross on this particular man.

He stopped before her, reached out and hugged her around the shoulders with one strong arm. Some sort of aura seemed to envelope the two of them, some male thing, not quite definable but very real. Her insides were now pure Jell-O, and she didn't know what in the world to do, how to respond. He solved quandary by releasing her immediately.

Just a greeting-squeeze, therefore all was still okay, right? And - interesting question - just exactly WHAT would have to happen for things to be "NOT OK"?

He he held up the tote-bag and grinned: "Lunch! And some amusements, too. I haven't been down to ANY river bank for a long time, and I like them. Thanks for the invitation. Where to? Lead on, MacDuff!"

She was astounded - her feet actually worked! And this despite a malfunctioning brain and a belly that couldn't possibly be made of muscle any more. Not to mention the incipient knee-wobbles. She led them down the little path through the weeds, fifty, a hundred yards. Then she stopped and said "Everyone knows about the trail we're on right now, but HERE is my own special one. I made it myself. Come on!"

She disappeared into the ten-foot weeds beside a large willow. It was startling - she was just GONE! He followed. This path wasn't a real path, just a few broken twigs and bent blades. In half a minute, they emerged on a little platform of riverbank, dining-table sized, beneath an overhanging willow. Visible in front of them through the dangling willow-foliage was a tiny bit of shallow water, a mini-beach, followed by an unobstructed view across the stream to willows and a cornfield on the far side. Dappled sunlight filtered through the drooping branches.

She turned to him and said eagerly, almost bouncing on her toes, "Like it? It really truly is my own special place." Then, shyly, "I've never seen anyone else here, and I've never brought anyone here before. Nobody. I suppose other people have been here, though. Maybe Indians? Who knows!"

Jimmy looked about, looked at her, and set the bag down carefully. It was heavier than it looked, she could tell, and that piqued her curiosity. But she didn't ask.

Jimmy turned to face her and said "Thank you. It's beautiful, and I'm honored to be the first guest. But tell me Julie - why ME?"

It was almost an unfair question to begin with, wasn't it?

She hemmed and hawed and finally looked down at her shoes. She was going to have to give him an answer, and she didn't have one. Nothing coherent, anyhow.

Finally she said, not really looking at him, "I don't know... not really. I guess it's because I kind of like you, because you're a good coach and you treat me nicely and you always pay attention when I talk with you and that's different from most men, even most of our teachers, and it just seemed sort of like you might like this place as much as I do..." She trailed off.

Jimmy reached out and held her shoulder. She wondered if she was shaking so hard he could feel it. And why was she shaking, anyhow?

He didn't seem to notice. He just said "That's a nice string of compliments. Thank you!" His hand released her shoulder.

Part of her went, quite emphatically, "Oh, phooey!" as the hand left. And that was that. For the moment, anyhow. Whew!

He looked at the water, studied the little beach, and then said "Shall we go wade a little? It doesn't look more than a few inches deep, and I'd like that."

He bent to undo his own laces, and she choked. "Puppy feet!" Good grief, here they were, all alone, the two of them, just her and this MAN. (Ye gods! How did that happen?) And the very first thing to happen was what? She was going to have to take her shoes off and he would see her god-awful huge puppy feet. Naked. In all their glorious hugeness. She just stood there, rooted. It was the stupidest possible thing to be concerned about, her mind raged at her, but she could no more help it than fly away.

Jimmy paused and looked up at her. "What's wrong? Surely you're not afraid of the water? You're on the swim team, aren't you?"

She managed to take a deep breath and from somewhere inside her came the knowledge that she could tell this man what it was that bothered her. She whispered, just barely audible to him, "Jimmy, I told you yesterday that I HATE my body and what it's doing. Most of all I hate my feet. They just got HUGE all of a sudden and my mother calls them puppy-feet and I hate them. They're UGLY. I don't want to take my shoes off!"

Jimmy dropped to his knees in front of her, put his hands on her hips, looked up at her, right deep into her eyes. He wasn't amused, just concerned. She could tell at once - he wasn't going to make fun of her - she had been right about telling him. And having his hands on her hips was a positively earth-shaking, soul-rattling experience: her skin was on fire, there should be smoke boiling up from where her skin and his skin met. She almost looked to see.

"Julie, we are all HUMAN, and we're not cut out of some dough with a cookie-cutter! Every person has the same basic set of parts, you know... but no two humans have identical ANYTHING... not hair or eyes or fingerprints or teeth or boobs or feet - not one damned thing! And frankly, the differences, the variations, are what make people interesting. How god-awful boring would it be if we were really all ALIKE?"

He paused, then said vehemently "Now, you are here with ME right now, and I simply don't care if you think your feet are too big. I guarantee you they ARE NOT!!"

He stopped, squeezed her hips between his hands: it felt as if his fingers could simply sink into her insides, right through the skin - and oh my god if they were to do so, what would happen with this rolling, boiling spot deep down in her pelvis when those fingertips got to it and stirred it up even more? She would explode, wouldn't she! Blammo and Blooey - bits of Julie all over the landscape. What would the police think when they found the pieces?

Then he brought her back to the present moment. His eyes held her as he asked "Now... will you trust me for a moment on this one? On this imaginary foot-problem of yours? Please? Okay?"

She nodded, while a part of her mind raced along and asked, quite reasonably, for just exactly what was she trusting him? She didn't explore that question any further.

Then he was reaching for her shoes, his head bent so he could look down. His hands were undoing her laces, and all she could do was watch the tops of his shoulders. They were beautiful - gently tanned, glistening with the tiniest little golden hairs, almost microscopic. Like on her legs way up high on her thighs where she didn't need to shave.

Overhead, the leaves made pinhole lenses that cast spots of sunlight which made little patterns on shoulder-skin and hairs. She was entranced. His shoulder muscles moved in tiny little smooth increments beneath his skin as his fingers worked the laces.

Why, she wondered, did shoulder muscles get involved in finger-movements?

But instead of asking, she just dropped her hands to his shoulders to steady herself as he lifted her feet and removed her dusty tennies one after the other. Was it okay for her to be touching his body this way? She really didn't have a choice if she didn't want to topple over, but still it was a good question. He could stop her if he objected to the touches, couldn't he? And he didn't, hadn't, wasn't stopping her, so, well, it must be okay, then.

Beneath her fingertips now, where they pressed on his body, she could feel his muscles working. She wondered if, perhaps, he felt the same contact-heat that she did? Surely not - he was a fully-grown man, and she was anything BUT fully grown, wasn't she? They must be really different inside, male and female, mustn't they? Perhaps later she could figure out some way of asking such an intimate question?

One leg at a time Jimmy held the bottom of each calf in one hand, and took the shoe off with the other. She was really and truly on fire now, wherever those hands and fingers touched. She felt goose-bumps swarm up her thighs, and she flushed in embarrassment at how they advertized her inner turmoil. He absolutely could NOT miss the bumps, because they were right THERE in front of his face, yet he gave no sign of seeing them. He was quite a gentleman, wasn't he? The embarrassment passed like a wave retreating. That was, in itself, odd - normally once she became embarrassed, the flustration would last far longer than it reasonably should. Not with this man. Another surprising, wonderfully nice thing!

He set her feet back down on the turf, cupped her ankles with his hands. God but his hands were BIG! And strong, too: she found that out as he squeezed her feet, hard, almost a massage! It felt incredibly good! Almost as good as - well, no, maybe not THAT good, but GOOD! Who could have imagined a rush in her belly like this, like the dizzy churning at the very start of motion sickness, just from having her feet squeezed? Where were the nerves that connected those two areas, anyhow?

He ran his thumbs firmly over her arches, then down between her toes - and the intimacy of THAT was absolutely mind-boggling, not to mention utterly unexpected. Then he slid his fingers beneath her feet to hold all her toes in his hands at once - and he looked up at her. His face was even with the hollow of her throat, his eyes twinkled, and he said "Puppy feet my ASS, woman! I've seen six-month-old Dobermans with puppy feet, and these do NOT qualify. I like them. They're pretty, and strong, and quite shapely. Sexy feet, really. Phooey on your opinion! And your Mother's too!"

Her brain did a little whirling-dervish dance: "SEXY?" What? What? She wasn't completely certain what that meant, but NObody could possibly think she, or any part of her, was SEXY!? No way, Jose! She knew that was impossible, yet everything Jimmy said and did seemed perfectly honest, and he should know if anyone did. How incredibly nice to hear such a thing.

In fact, it was rather scary, wasn't it? "Sexy" was a special property that a few lucky people - not herself!- owned, and it was something reserved, private, hidden. At least, hidden most of the time, at least in theory. Except in the magazine ads and on television all the time.

There was something special in here, the fact that he was willing to say such a thing to her and not, apparently, to worry about it. Maybe HE was trusting HER as well? She could practically hear the capitalization of the whole little word, 'SEXY'! Why in the world was that so special? What should she do, say, think?