The Zack Mack Story Archive

How I Began

This is, somewhat modified, the story of how I lost my virginity. A lot of the story is true – I was eleven, and the thoughts, feelings and actions portrayed are, to the best of my memory, accurate. But I’ve changed names, and transposed the action into a different location. A friend suggested that I start writing down my sexual history, to see where it took me – so far, it’s led to this story, and the ideas for more. I hope you enjoy it – that’s why it’s posted! Hugs, Cynthia

I felt the cool breeze of a late summer's afternoon blowing in through the open window, caressing the backs of my legs as I lay reading some unmemorable teen magazine. The rising wind told me that thunder was on the way, as it often was at that time of year. I loved to sit there in my room and watch out the window as it rolled in across the fields, black, menacing clouds full of rain; powerful, elemental, possessing the landscape. It would be an hour or so yet before the first fat drops of rain would pummel into the earth below, however, and so for the moment I read my magazine, with half an ear on my mother's banging and crashing about as she frantically prepared for her evening out. Her first date since dad died. I'd felt angry at first, annoyed that she could be so callous. But he'd been gone four years now, long enough that sometimes I had to look at a picture of him to remember his face. Funny how the pictures in our mind's eye fade so quickly. But the smell of him, the feel of him hugging me in his all-encompassing embrace, those things I never forgot. He was home, the rock, the foundation upon which our family was built, and without him our lives had lacked meaning and direction. The rest of the family had drawn closer in around us, a protective cocoon. Uncle Paul, especially. Mum's brother. He was a rock, too, just as Dad had been, but there was something else to Paul, something a bit more animalistic. He had gone off to war and come back a different person, they said. It was hard for me, at eleven, to remember what he had been like before his tour. The Paul I knew was the only one I'd ever known, quiet, reserved, slow to smile but wonderfully warm when he finally did so. His careful, gentle manner gave you the impression that he was afraid that he might break you into little pieces just by touching you. But then there was the other side of him, the side that showed passion; he would get into raging arguments with the slow, dim-witted folk in our farming community, people who were less worldly-wise than he. He always steered clear of showing aggression, but there was something almost Latin to his temperament, to the way he conducted a discussion. All in all, I had a huge crush on uncle Paul. He lived with us now, made sure the farm was run properly. Mum often teased him about not having found a girl and settled down, but in his own words he was in no rush to do so. He was happy looking after us until someone else came along who could do so. Sounds terribly chauvinistic in these modern, enlightened times, but back then, in that particular part of the world, that's how things worked, and you just did what worked, as long as the wheat grew and the harvest was gathered. I think that evening was only the third or fourth time Paul and I had been left alone together in the house. In hindsight, I suppose that has a great deal more significance now than it did at the time. Before we were lovers, I would hardly have considered it to be of any significance, and yet once we had come to realise and express our desire for each other, finding time alone became a driving force in our lives. Paul came to me about half an hour after my mother had left the house. I felt him before I saw or heard him. That is, I felt the movement of the floorboards as he came to stand at the doorway to my room. He wasn't stalking me, that was just the way he moved - silently, not wanting to affect the world around him. I turned and smiled at him, and he stepped into the room. He moved with such grace that I often thought he should have been a dancer, if that wouldn't have been too great an affront to his maleness. He moved like a tiger, effortless, light on his feet, his powerful muscles controlled and confined. He came and sat at the edge of the bed, rolling me slightly toward him as his weight flattened the mattress. We talked, I think. No, I'm sure. We talked. Of what doesn't seem important now, which is lucky since my memory has failed me. But he spoke in quiet tones, and I think asked me questions, listening attentively to my answers. Then, suddenly, and without warning, at least by my recollection, his hand alighted on the skin of the back of my thigh. His hands were large and strong, and if he'd wanted one of them could easily have encircled my leg. They were hot and rough-feeling, too, the skin toughened by his work on the land. It was as if a brand had touched my skin, and I jumped. Still dressed in my short, gingham school dress, I suddenly felt very exposed. Apprehension mingled with a nervous excitement sent adrenaline coursing through me, and there was a tingling at the base of my spine. He continued talking as if nothing had happened, and though I tried to do the same, my voice occasionally faltered as his hand roamed higher and higher upon my leg. Soon he was pushing the hem of my dress upwards. I remember the feeling of the fabric brushing across my skin, and his coarse touch on the inside of my thigh. The palm of his hand was on one leg, the fingertips gently grazing the skin the other, a symphony of touch. Eventually I succumbed to the feeling completely, letting my head fall onto my crossed arms and closing my eyes. Paul continued to talk as his hand worked, but his conversation had become a monologue. With my eyes shut, I could concentrate on the feelings he was giving me. I had surrendered to him, given in to his power. I was his to do with as he liked, as long as he would continue to make me feel this way. His hands on my cotton-covered backside were almost a relief, so sensitive had my thighs become. They were rougher here, as he began to feel a more urgent need, and realised that I was submissive to him. The feel of his fingertips pushing the soft material of my panties into the place where only my fingers had touched was akin to the lightning striking the fields outside. The thumping of my heart was like the drumming of the rain on the tin roof of the house. His gentle moans of appreciation of my body seemed like an answer to the thunder which shook the room. I began to lose track of time, focussing on nothing more than the fire between my legs, and the growing need, felt in the pit of my stomach, for something more, something wholly adult. I offered no resistance to his removal of my clothes, though nor did I assist. I don't think I could have done. I was limp, anaesthetised, a rag doll to be flung around this way and that. He left my socks on. He was naked, too, and then suddenly crouching over me. I wanted to open my eyes, to drink in the sight of his powerfully muscled frame, but they were glued tightly shut. There was a sensation of shifting weight, and he was above me. I felt something brushing across the skin at the top of my thighs, and then something warm settled between my legs. I registered with only a little surprise what it was - I knew what was coming, and far from being resigned to the inevitable, I actively wanted it. He grabbed my thighs, pulling them roughly apart, and I gasped, not at the action, but at the cool feeling of the air rushing past wet skin. My excitement had escaped the bounds of my inner self and wetted my thighs. When again Paul shifted, his hands came to rest either side of my shoulders and I knew he was crouched over me on all fours. Suddenly I was transformed. I was the young she-cat on the nature programme, the one who shamelessly, provocatively waves her backside at the males, teasing them with her willingness. I raised my hips up, feeling the soft fur of his belly rubbing across my lower back, sending a shiver right down my spine and all the way round to my button. His thing, the essence of his manhood, brushed back and forth across my thighs, leaving a cold, damp trail as I wiggled my tail. He stopped me, one hand on my hip, the other on himself. He was impatient now, ready to finish the dance. He surged forward, his massive, blunt tool forcing its way inside. I felt pain for a second, then nothing more than a deep, uncomfortable fullness, which grew as he pressed forwards until I could feel the wiry, tickly hairs on him caressing the petals of my flower. He possessed me, then, owned me just as the thunder owned the land. It had boiled up all day long, and now its fury was unleashed, a crashing torrent pulsing through me. I lay on my bed, aching and sore, alone, repentant. What had I allowed him to do to me? What had I brought upon myself? I had pushed him away at the end, forced him from my room even as the evidence dripped from me to mar the carpet, and tears ran in dark tracks down my face. The soothing, warm water of the bath allowed me to forget for a moment, and this time when the memories returned, my feelings had changed. With desire stoked anew in me, I sought him out. He was frantic, but restrained. I sat upon his lap on the old, brown sofa in our living room, in the only house I had known, and brought his hands around me onto the bare skin of my tummy beneath the folds of my bath robe. And then I pushed them downwards.

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. I'd love to hear what you think. If you'd like to email, my address is cynthiaparsons@hotmail.co.uk.

© 2010-2011 Cynthia Parsons