I met him in the grocery, of all places. I was picking up a bottle of milk. The contents inside the glass sloshed slightly. He looked at it, me.
"I could save you money on that particular item," he said. I smiled.
"Sure you could, if I don't mind changing diapers," I replied.
"Well," he paused. His eyes looked directly into mine. "There are tradeoffs in life." I gasped. "Oh! You saw me at the beach!" I said.
"No, don't go," he begged, catching my arm as I made to quickly turn away. I could not fight him, though I wanted to. He was imperial, commanding.
"I remember you from the audience," I lisped. "At the wet t-shirt contest." I was blushing now.
"Did you think no one would see you if you stood up on the stage?" he asked. His eyes trailed down my body. I was in clothes now, of course, primly dressed in my schoolgirl attire. I was shopping for mommie on the way home from school. Neat, conservative, the sort of girl policemen make sure get home safely.
But he remember me from spring break. I could feel his eyes stripping me of my clothes as I stood there. Leaving me as I'd been then. On stage. In only my tiniest bikini panties, newly purchased. My mother hadn't known about them. Or my trip with my girlfriend Jennie to Fort Lauderdale.
And, I suppose, he replaced the sleeveless t-shirt I'd worn there, as he looked at me now. It had been made of the lightest cotton, wavering in every puff of breeze. I'd stood on stage, thrusting my young titties out proudly. Waiting. Waiting with the other girls as the man with the spritzer bottle came down the line, spraying. All afternoon I'd trotted with Jenny along the beachside storefronts, window shopping, buying food and trinkets. Letting the boys caress me with their eyes, longingly, as I passed by in my teensy panties and tee. They could see my youthfully excited nipples indenting the fabric. And sometimes a ray of bright sunlight would pierce the obscuring cotton to delineate my cherry teats.
Standing on stage I saw the yearning boys in the audience, open mouthed, watching as the man with the bottle came closer. My breasts compressed inside my tight shirt, too big for my age, nearly bursting it. And my ever-erect nipples, thorns threatening (they hoped) to tear my t-shirt apart. And I saw him. He who was with me now. Older, reserved, perhaps forty, certainly married. Yet he stood watching me with glowing eyes. They followed my hands as, suddenly nervous under his gaze, I tugged on the hem of my tee. Trying to make it cover my panties, my pussy. It was too short. Alas, he could even see my belly-button!
And now here he was again, beside me, remembering. Remembering what he'd seen before and watching me twist under his gaze, knowing what he knew.
The bottle had come. My breasts had been sprayed. The boys had hooted like triumphant steers as my virgin areolaes had come into view. My shirt, glued to my tits, shorter than ever in its newly wettened state, hid nothing. Both globes of my mammaries could be seen in their fullness. The strawberry tips, seen only by my father ere this, shone under the stage lights. Wet and succulent. Ready to be picked.
Jenny shouted in the crowd. She was proud of me. Her new driver's license had paid off. She'd known boys since she was 12, but I only once. Fucked by a cousin, quickly, at 13. He hadn't even removed my shirt. Now, at last, I'd come out of my shell. I was willing to try my hand with boys again. And men? My eyes caught his. Or his caught mine. He did not look at the other girls. Just at me. The rest were older, surely more his type. They were college girls. Sophisticated. Serene. Jenny and I were just interlopers. Skinny girls from high school, mingling illegally with the college crowd. Only the rowdiness of spring break had let us get away with being in the bar, the moon rising outside, the night young with promise. Little girls like us weren't supposed to know about such things. Beer, loud music, carousing, women on stage letting their breasts be bared even as they retained their shirts.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Changes last made on: Sunday, April 26, 2009