Ecstatically lost within the literal sea of Elsa’s vagina, knowing where his mouth was, and his tongue was, feeling Elsa’s passion, becoming a part of, not only his, but Elsa’s passion, also allowing the motion of his head to go with the urging of her hands—and the pulling of his hair—his chin sliding into and out of her capaciously open, thoroughly saturated portal, the bridge of his nose rubbing up and down, over and around Elsa’s now hypertrophied clitoris, her fluid flooding his mouth and nostrils, finding it becoming near impossible to breathe, but—not wanting to move from the sight and smell and taste of this place that he’d dreamt of being, all of his life, so it seemed, and—not wanting to pull from Elsa’s hands and possibly keep her from orgasm, but, at that moment not sure if he was going to drown or ejaculate, turning his head minutely to the left, drawing air through the corner of his mouth, he turned back to the task—task? Ah, yes, it’s a hard job but someone has to do it—he turned back to the task at hand, as…
Drawing air harshly through her nostrils, Elsa’s movement, and her clasp upon his head turned even more frenzied and, as her pelvis began to pulsate, “Ohhhh!” groaning as though in pain—actually frightening Mitchell for a long moment—stretching her legs straight outward and her toes straight upward, “Ummmm! Oh, Jesus! Ummmm! Ummmm!” Her, “Ummm!” breathing, “Umm!” began to slow and—having her very first “man-made” orgasm—“Um!” toes wilting, her legs, and her clasp on his head, and hold of his hair relaxed.
Still positioned between Elsa’s thighs, lifting his head, swiping the palm of his hand over his mouth and chin, Mitchell looked up.
Still flat upon her back, and spread-eagled, Elsa’s eyes were closed… And there was a very satisfied look on her face…
Looking at her, happy, ecstatic over the fact that that he—to his knowledge, for the first time in his life—had actually caused a girl to orgasm… And yet tasting her taste and smelling her smell and, Oh, God, ready, more than ready, to do what he had waited for and wanted to do all of his life—so it seemed—now! Moving from the harbor of Elsa’s thighs, and the sight of her flooded vagina, moving onto his knees, now…
Now it was his turn.
“Mitchie,” sitting up, “are you going to…” pointing first at his willing, able, and very ready penis, “uh,” then to her crotch.
Breathing heavily, “Yeah!” looking at his target. “Sure!”
If he had stopped doing what he’d been doing—though possibly he would have lost a double handful of hair—within the heat of that moment Elsa would have welcomed… Hell, she’d have urged his penis into her vagina…
But now, now that the bulk of her passion had been spent, thinking of her mother and her father, and Jesus Christ… Elsa began to cry.
“Elsa?” His penis wilting, “What’s wrong?”
“Mitchie, believe me,” she said through her sobs, “I do”—actually, to be exact, she did, a minute or so ago—“want to do it with you so bad, but I’m afraid. What if I get pregnant? And”—okay, now’s the time to tell him—“I think you ought to know…”
“Elsa, I wouldn’t do that to you! I’ve got a rubber!” Reaching for his pants, groping through a pocket, removing a Trojan, “See?”
Looking at the small, foil wrapped pac in his hand, then at his face, “I can’t,” she said softly.
“Huh?” Not sure he’d heard right. “What do you mean?”
“I said I can’t do it!” Said softly, “that way.”
“Elsa,” he said in near panic, “how can you tell me now that you can’t do it?”
“Mitchie, my dad’s a police sergeant!” Not sure if she had issued this as a warning or a statement of fact. “And, uh, I’m only sixteen. But…” she added quickly, “only for another few months.”
He remembered a lecture accompanied by a film that he had seen in boot camp. The film was on venereal disease and the lecture concluded with the stern warning: “The age of consent in most northern states is eighteen, and you…” In his mind’s eye, the Chief Petty Officer giving the lecture had looked directly at him. “…will go to jail for statutory rape!”
“Sixteen! Elsa, you’re only sixteen?” as if that wasn’t bad enough, “And your father’s a cop!?”
“Yeah.” On her knees, Elsa searched the sand at the foot of the blanket for her panties. Finding them, shaking the sand out, sitting on the blanket again, pulling them on, “Mitchie, I’m sorry I lied to you. Come here!” Spreading her legs, she patted the blanket in front of her.
Still on his knees, he moved closer. But, the thought that, It’s God, came to mind. The ridiculous thought that, God does not want me to ever get fucked! came to mind.
Putting her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers, Elsa kissed Mitchell, ardently. And as she kissed Mitchell she reached to his by-then fully flaccid penis, and—thinking that Wayne’s, in a state flaccidity, was much longer than Mitchell’s—massaged it till, breaking the kiss, “Baby…” she said, after having resurrected his penis… And also, feeling it grow, feeling it harden and become erect in her hand, Elsa had sensed the flow, again, of her own heat. “…there’s other ways to do things, you know.”
Lying back, Elsa inserted the tip of the head of his penis in the shallow depression made by her, once-again secretion-slicked panties.
“Mmmm! That’s not so bad, is it?” she asked as, holding the shaft of his penis, Elsa began to move her hand up and down. And, as Elsa masturbated Mitchell she also rubbed his glans into, and put hard penile pressure onto, her clitoris… “Ohhh!” And soon, Elsa orgasmed again. While…
Held in the hand of a real live girl. Looking at big, real live breasts. Pressed against, but, alas, not actually in, a real live vagina soon, very soon, Mitchell orgasmed, too.
Whenever he had liberty, Elsa and Mitchell spent the evening on the beach, at “their spot.”
But no matter how careful he was, and no matter how romantic it had looked when Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr did it, sand is sand, and by the time Labor Day rolled around and the Schmidt’s two-week vacation was through, the skin on the head of his penis, and tongue, had been painfully rubbed raw. Besides, although he hadn’t actually penetrated her, Mitchell had the nagging thought that, technically, what he and Elsa were doing could be construe d as statutory rape. So, with a promise to call her—Yeah, I’ll call you—in two years when you’re eighteen—Mitchell was just as glad to say goodbye and see Elsa, and her police sergeant father, leave Rockaway and go home to Bayside.
U.S.C.G. Rockaway Life Boat Station
Rockaway, New York