It was a bright, hot Texas morning in late August. The temperature was already in the upper eighties and we were looking at another ninety-eight degree day. I was a little excited, mostly because I was going to middle school for the first time. Dressed in my nicest blue jeans, a pair of ten dollar sneakers, and a tee shirt, I boarded the tiny school bus with something akin to trepidation. With a nod to the bus driver, a woman I had known since kindergarten even if I didn’t know her name, I sat down in the front seat and stared out the window.
I’m not usually one to be nervous. In fact, even today, fourteen years later, I’m not sure why I was feeling so unsettled back then. Perhaps it was because going to a new school, especially one so much bigger than I had been at previously, normally upsets people. Sure, I looked at it as a challenge, but even in sixth grade I was aware of the fact that some of the more “town folk” type kids would look at me, roll their eyes, and think “farm girl”.
Honestly, I’m not sure why that bothered me back then. I was a farm girl, or maybe cowgirl would be a more appropriate title. I’d been riding horses since I was three. I could drive the small tractor, repair fences, help with planting, take care of the pigs, chickens, cows, horses, and a number of other critters we had running around the place. Of course, despite my pride at those accomplishments, I’d made sure to wear my new sneakers instead of boots and the footwear felt strange on my feet.
Our bus made its way to the new subdivision being built four or five miles away from my farm. Only a few of the houses were finished, most of the other lots were in various stages of completion. Skeletal frames of suburbia loomed in each half acre and large pallets of brick were haphazardly dumped along the street. I stared in fascination. My house was the typical two story Texas farm house you’ve seen on hundreds of films. Heck, if you’ve seen the Wizard of Oz, then you probably could navigate my house. These were so different. The bus pulled up in front of one of the finished homes and honked. I was astonished to see a light brown haired woman pushing a skinny, blond girl out of the house. The door slammed behind her and she turned and faced the bus with a look of disgusted resignation. She was carrying a really expensive, brand new book bag and her long blond hair fell in a golden straight sheet half way down her back.
She climbed up into the bus with a look of quiet distaste, as if she couldn’t believe she was being forced to ride it. She didn’t even glance at me, but went past to the very back, as if she wanted to put as much space between herself and me as possible. I admit, it might have been the driver, but I doubted it. As any eleven year old girl is going to do, I immediately sized her up. She was taller than me by a good five or six inches. While my chest was flat as a pancake, she was already showing some of the curves that would grace her later in life. Her clothes weren’t just stylish, they were expensive and I recognized name brands that would have cost my parents triple the clothing budget had we shopped at the same stores that the blond girl’s parents evidently did. She was wearing loafers, rather than sneakers and she was even wearing a tiny bit of makeup, mostly around the eyes.
And she looked like she was going to cry. With a frown at THAT idea, I stood up, earning a grunt from our driver. I moved toward the back of the bus and plopped back down in the seat directly in front of the new girl.
“Hey! I’m Breanne!” I said brightly, kneeling on the green vinyl seat of the bus. I peered over the back and smiled.
Hesitatingly, she looked up at me. Her fingers came up and caught a long lock of her golden hair and pushed it behind her ear. I felt a flutter in my heart, but didn’t recognize it for what it was. Her eyes found mine and then slowly, with just a touch of dismay, she nodded.
“I’m Karen Anders, but I go by Kari.”
I reached out, extending my hand. “Pleased to meetcha, Kari!” I drawled, emphasizing my Texas hokieness.
Kari couldn’t help it. My beaming smile, the silly Texan drawl, it was just too much. Her frown slowly turned upside down and she reached up and took my hand.
And in some ways, she never let go.
Chapter One: Sexual Awakenings
A lot of people ask me about how old I was when I first started experimenting with sex. That’s a complicated question, especially for a girl like me. I remember quite clearly when I first discovered sex, or at least my sexual parts. I was twelve and had just started puberty. I wasn’t interested in boys yet at that point, and I was still just getting over the ick factor of the whole menstruation process. My parents, my mother in particular, were not overtly sexual people, preferring to leave the matters of sexual reproduction and pleasure to the privacy of the bedroom.
Sure, my mom had pulled me aside and explained the birds and the bees, but it was like getting a lesson in cleaning the oven, not love making. I had been horrified to learn that a man sticks his penis in a women’s vagina and then squirts little wiggling things inside her that fertilize the egg. I had come away from that talk with the solemn vow never to have sex with a man. No offense to my mom, but I also came away believing that every time a woman and a man had sex, a baby would be produced. We didn’t talk about sexually transmitted diseases, ovulation, birth control, condoms, or anything of any practical use at all. Hell, she didn’t even tell me about orgasms. And thus I started my sexual life uninformed, a little frightened, and unwilling to embarrass myself by asking.
The first time I was ever aroused happened quite by accident. I had been out watching one of our new foals cavorting around the yard by the barn and I was leaning on the gate. I was in my typical attire; blue jeans, a tee shirt, panties, socks and boots, and of course the cowboy hat I wore religiously back then. My hair was a mousy brown that I had put up in a low ponytail to keep it out of my eyes. As I stood there, I shifted to rest a muscle in my leg, and the hasp of the gate brushed me between the legs.
I’m not sure why it happened, but that single touch was electrifying. I felt a strange pleasurable sensation that I’d never experienced before. My eyes narrowed in confusion and with a slight tilt of my hips, I did it again. The hasp of the gate was a small metal bar with a rounded tip and fate or maybe just plain dumb luck had positioned that hasp at the exact height of my clitoris. I didn’t understand what was happening of course. I just knew that rubbing myself back and forth, up and down across that strange little metal knob was sending shivers through me that I loved. It took me forty minutes that first time, but I humped the fence gate until I finally experienced my very first clitoral orgasm. I cried out, doubling over in ecstasy, holding on to the gate with both hands. My face was flushed, my body tense, but I felt incredible. I felt a thick wetness between my legs and my feelings of exquisite pleasure were suddenly buried in horrified terror and I ran back to my house to see if I was bleeding.
I wasn’t of course and after a few swipes with a damp towel I was able to change out of my panties and put my jeans back on. I knew I couldn’t talk to my mom about it, so I kept quiet, trying to understand what had happened to me. A self examination in the shower revealed nothing, and so the next day, when I had a moment alone, I went back to the fence. With swinging hips I did it again, rubbing myself up and down on the metal barb, the feelings of pleasure washing through me like a hose cleaning off the barn floor.
Once again I practically swooned, uncomprehending of the whys, and only understanding of the how, feeling the rush of wetness between my legs. It became a daily routine to go out to the paddock, step up to the gate, and hump that metal stub until I shook violently in orgasmic release. A week or two passed and once a day became twice a day and my father began to notice the time I was spending out there. I always made sure one of the horses were in the enclosure so I didn’t have to explain why I was looking at nothing, but I realized in short order that I was going to have to find something else to rub against in order to find that same pleasure.
Kari was still a major facet of my life and we frequently visited each other during the summer. I was over at her house and pool all the time and was frequently invited to spend the night. Her parents weren’t very sociable, but they treated me with cool respect. Her father ignored me completely. He was very focused and I wasn’t worthy of his attention. I was pretty sure that Kari’s mother couldn’t remember my name. I think her mother thought I was an unwholesome influence on her daughter. Me. Unwholesome. But thanks to my mother’s frightening sex education, I kept what I was doing from Kari and when she broached the subject, I reacted exactly like my mother, with eyes open in alarm, shock on my face, and a total unwillingness to talk about it.
It’s too bad too, really. Kari was going through her own sexual awakening at that time, except her mother had done a bit better job. My best friend had found her mother’s vibrator and not only had Mrs. Anders explained what it was, but talked about masturbation, sex, men, GIRLS, STD’s, condoms, blowjobs, anal sex, contraception, and had even gone and taken Kari to the doctor and gotten her started on birth control. Then she bought Kari her very own vibrator, a toy I didn’t realize Kari even owned for years.
I had moved my activities from the fence gate into the semi-privacy of the barn. It hadn’t taken much imagination for me to start humping other things and I found that one of the cross beams of our harrow plough was just as good to rub myself against as the fence post. I started making excuses to be out in the barn and since the barn door creaked horribly and I was always fully dressed, it was easy to just straighten up and walk away if my dad or one of the ranch hands came in.
It was a time of revelation for me and I went two or three months masturbating “hands free” merely by rubbing my crotch against some protruding knob. The prohibition my mother had instilled in me against “touching” myself was still strong and it took maybe three or four months, and the start of school before I made the next step. Without my twice daily session in either the barn or at the fence post, I felt tense and needy. My vagina, (that’s what I called it then) was constantly damp and I was always on edge. Finally one night in the shower, I grabbed the shampoo bottle and turned it upside down. I realized suddenly that I could do with the bottle what I did with the fence gate spur or the harrow cross beam. I turned the bottle around, pressed the rounded bottom edge against my clit and rubbed.
Suddenly I was the cleanest twelve year old child on the planet. I showered twice daily, something my parents clearly did not understand. I wasn’t about to explain to them that the moment I had the hot water cascading down my back, I grabbed the closest plastic bottle and frigged myself with it. Besides, twelve year old girls aren’t supposed to do things like that. But for me, the ability to do in private what I had been doing out in the barn changed things dramatically. I got to see what was going on down there and my interest in my own body peaked. I found myself starting to touch, rationalizing in my head that I was “cleaning” myself, and found that little nodule that did so much for me. I had no idea it was called a clitoris, or what any other “parts” were down there. All I knew was that if I rubbed that little spot with a bottle, or against a fence post, I felt good. Sometimes that’s all you need to know.
But by touching myself, I had opened another door. When my parents started complaining about all the water I was using, that burning itch between my legs had to be scratched and I took the bottle out of the bathroom to my bedroom. Wearing my nightgown and panties, I rubbed myself to frantic release, coming to understand that I didn’t need the shower in order to experience that pleasure. A week or two later, I came to the realization that I didn’t even need the shower bottle. With my fingers stuffed into my panties, lying on my bed, legs spread wide and my nightgown up around my waist, I rubbed at my clit with slow circles, increasing the speed and pressure gradually until my entire body tensed and then released. I felt the building wetness in my vagina, and one evening, in the throes of sexual climax, I slipped a single finger into my pussy and felt something totally different.
There are a lot of women who can’t experience a vaginal orgasm. There is something in either their genetic or psychological makeup that makes it impossible, and I feel sorry for them. I, on the other hand, can practically cum from just having a steady breeze blowing across my bare slit. The night I discovered vaginal orgasms was a major milestone in my sexual awakening. Before that, every climax I had experienced was clitoral and the difference was dramatic. Clitoral orgasms are like spurring your horse from a standstill into a thundering gallop, feeling the adrenaline and wind whip through you. Vaginal orgasms are like moving from a walk, to a trot, to a canter, and then building the speed up to a gallop and because you allowed the horse to get there over time, the speed is greater and you can go farther. I know it’s not a perfect analogy, but it works for the time being.
Vaginal orgasms instantly became my new thing. I’d work my clit until I was trembling in excitement and then I’d drive my fingers through my soaked slit, working one or two in and out of myself with quiet whimpers and moans. I became addicted to masturbation and I would find moments even at school, disappearing into the girl’s restroom, to push down my jeans and panties and finger myself to release. I did it in the shower. I did it in my bedroom. I did it at school. I did it in the barn. Hell, I did it while spending the night over at Kari’s house, snuggled in my sleeping bag, frigging myself into quiet bliss, thinking that Kari was asleep.
She wasn’t of course. She knew exactly what I was doing, but she kept quiet about it and never showed me her vibrator or anything. Perhaps she felt her own sexual activities were private too. I’ve never asked. But I know now that she took a sort of perverse pleasure in listening to her best friend’s quiet moans as I orgasmed nearby in the darkness.
I was lying on my bed, totally naked when I discovered that other parts of my body were almost as sensitive as my clitoris or vagina. My breasts were instantly a source of interest and I experimented playing with them in a variety of ways as I masturbated. Of course, as a twelve year old girl who was almost thirteen, I didn’t really have the sophistication to think “gosh, I should put some clothespins on my nipples.” That’s just not something a twelve year old girl is going to think, even one who would someday be an admitted nympho humiliation pain slut. They say that experience is everything and frankly I think I agree with them.
The other thing I realized was that my fingers weren’t really designed to do my pussy justice. Sure, I could get one or two of them in, or if I was willing to bend like a pretzel, I could do even more, but I didn’t think that was very practical. I sat in my desk chair, brushing my hair, thinking about the problem. I wanted something thicker than my finger. I wanted something longer, something that would go deeper. I suppose I could have considered finding a boy, but the idea was still just a tad bit anathema to me. Then in a flash of inspiration, I realized I had the solution in hand. Literally. I jumped up in excitement and despite the fact that I had just masturbated in the shower not ten minutes before, I tore off my nightgown, pushed my panties to the floor, and climbed up on the bed.
With my hairbrush still in hand, I turned it around. The handle was rubber coated plastic, firm but soft and I found that I was already soaked just from the idea of what was about to happen. With my left hand I worked my clit, bringing myself up through the levels of sexual wantonness in a way that perhaps most would find disturbing in a twelve year old girl. Then I began working the handle inward. It was easy. I was lubricated to the point where I think a two by four would have made it. I gasped as I felt the thickness of the handle, the depth of the plastic, move inside me. I rocked my hips and pulled it toward myself, impaling my pussy even deeper. There was a twinge of pain, but it was lost in the need, no… not lost… swallowed. The pain of the penetration merged with the pleasure and I exploded in this fiery eruption of total chaos. My hips jerked wildly. My lips opened in a mournful cry of extreme bliss, and I felt as if every pore of my body was being flushed with a thousand gallons of water. My eyes rolled up into the back of my head and I wrenched at the hairbrush, sending ripples of ecstasy through my entire body.
I lay back dazed, startled at my discovery, but my feelings of elation were short lived. I pulled the brush out from between my legs and saw the blood. I freaked out. I thought I had broken something, damaged some part of myself. I panicked, throwing the hair brush away. I bundled up the sheets which were clearly bloody, and after cleaning myself up, threw them in the washing machine, hoping my mom wouldn’t see. My sex was sore and the anxiety I felt kept me from not only masturbating, but even touching myself for over a week. But after a few days the soreness disappeared. A trip to the school library helped as well, since I was able to find a book that was a little more explicit on female plumbing issues than my mom had been. Somehow, unsurprisingly, she had failed to mention some of the female problems that occurred the first time you have sex. I had never even heard of a “hymen”, and the thought that I had ripped open a thin membrane that had been inside me was both gross and cool all at the same time. According to the book, it was also supposed to be very painful. Mine had hurt, yes. But an overwhelming pain that was supposed to make women dislike sex? Not even close.
I had to talk about it with Kari, though I didn’t mention my own explorations. Kari is no dummy though and after about four seconds of me telling her what the book had said, she laughed at me.
“Please tell me you’re not that dumb,” she had said.
I frowned. I know I’m a provincial, but geeze. “I’m not dumb! I don’t have the benefit of those years in California. The girls there are sluts.” I used the word without any concept of the meaning, hoping I would be considered cool by my best friend. Instead her eyes narrowed. Oops.
“Seriously, Bre. Every girl gets her hymen broken. I’m surprised yours wasn’t already ripped considering all the horseback riding you do.”
My eyes opened in astonishment. “What do you mean? I’d never do anything…” I struggled to find the word, “improper on a horse!”
Kari rolled her eyes. “No dummy, from the movement. I’m not implying you fuck the horse.”
Yeah, well I was a provincial and THAT suggestion made me gag. Evidently California girls are worldlier than I thought. I almost asked her how often she had done that, but I knew how uncomfortable she was around equines and I didn’t want to come off looking worse than I already did.
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine in a couple of days. What did you do it with?” she asked, seeing to the heart of my problem without me saying a word. You have to understand, this is how it’s always been with Kari. She knows me better than she knows herself.
I stammered out a wimpy denial, only to have her smirk at me. “Sure, Breanne. Sure.”
I may not have confessed to Kari that my first sexual fuck was with a hairbrush, but at least the conversation relieved one of my major worries. Sure enough, when I finally had the courage to try it again, I popped in an explosive rush that resulted in nothing more than a damp spot on the sheets beneath me. No blood. No broken bits. Just me and my new hairbrush. It was quite a relief.
I explored, but as I turned thirteen and then summer hit, I was able to get myself under a semblance of control. I was still masturbating two or even three times a day, but I alternated between clitoral and vaginal orgasms. Anytime I had a private moment I would undoubtedly have my hand down my pants or up my skirt, gently rubbing my clit through my panties, or if I were in private with little to no chance of discovery, I’d have my jeans down around my ankles along with my panties, thrusting the handle of my hairbrush up inside me in short powerful movements.
Kari experimented too, but it was only later when I found out. Not only that, but Kari wasn’t especially successful in her attempts at self-pleasure. Her mom might have given her the right equipment, but as we were to find out later, it would take a bit more for Kari to find her happy spot. I however needed an orgasm daily, almost hourly. Hiding it was difficult, especially around my best friend, though my parents seemed oblivious. I was just a teenage girl going through puberty who wanted to be left alone in her room. What’s suspicious about that?”
When school started that fall I discovered that I had matured a little more than I thought. The first big issue was that I had moved from a training bra into something a little more curvaceous. This drew a little bit of attention from the opposite sex, but my penchant for wearing blue jeans and button up blouses or tee shirts, made me rank pretty far down on the “hot” scale for most teenage boys. Of course I was an eighth grader too and most eighth grader’s thoughts about the opposite sex are limited to who has cooties. But I admit it was that year that I started thinking about boys. At first I noticed their hair. I know… strange right? But I have a fetish for messy hair. Short messy hair. Not long greasy hair. Kari thought I was really odd because I was interested in the short, thin, nerdy guys. She was already blossoming and while eschewing the cheerleading squad and the prerequisite dating schedule being a cheerleader imposes, Kari was already “going with” one of the football players.
Personally I didn’t understand that. “Going with” didn’t mean they went out on dates. It meant that at school they were “boyfriend and girlfriend”. I have to admit, the first time I saw them kissing I was a little shocked. Not about the kiss, but because it was Kari doing it. Of course Kari was also starting her lifelong obsession with making men do what she wants. Despite her family’s wealth and a hefty allowance that made the paltry few bucks I had from my dad look like chump change, she would badger whatever boy toy she currently was “going with” into bringing her chocolate, snacks, and all sorts of crap.
In retrospect I think she was probably giving them more than just a hot girl on their arm. In fact, now that I think about it, it makes a lot more sense. Maybe I should ask her. I suspect that she was probably letting them touch her, or giving them blowjobs or something. In any event by the time we moved from junior high to high school, Kari’s romantic interests and experience was well established.
We continued to see each other though. Nothing could separate us and I remember a few rather embarrassing evenings were I was dragged along as a third wheel on a date. You can imagine my discomfort sitting in a movie theater, trying to enjoy Toy Story 2, while my best friend’s date pawed her breasts and did his concerted effort to perform a tonsillectomy on her with his tongue. Things only got interesting when Kari let him pull up her skirt and I noticed she wasn’t wearing panties. My eyes widened as she spread her thighs and let him finger fuck her. I totally forgot about Toy Store 2 let me tell you.
Yeah. Good movie. You should see it some time.
But even the realization that Kari was “getting some” while I was still hammering away with a hair brush handle, wasn’t enough for me to put my discomfort at getting involved with a boy aside. Instead I concentrated on perfecting my art: masturbation. I got so good at it that I could drive myself over the edge in four or five minutes, clitorally or vaginally. That really increased the pace of things for me and I went from two or three sessions to five or six a day. I started carrying baby wipes with me because I reeked of sex, something that Kari had to politely inform me of one day after I returned to class room the bathroom with a flushed face and hands smelling of soap that did little to mask the musky scent of my arousal.
But all was not well in Kari-land, despite her interest in boys and our rock solid friendship. Her parents, never really comfortable with each other, had taken their personal disagreement in a new direction. Kari was a bit tight lipped about it, but I knew something was wrong. I’m ashamed to admit I badgered her to tell me, but when she finally did, I was glad I had done it. Her parents were separating and her dad was moving to north Houston.
Kari is not an emotional person. She’s like an ice princess, cold and aloof. Of course that attitude hides this core of exquisite loveliness and deep caring that she would be ashamed to let people know exists. She loves very hard and very deep. I knew she loved her dad very much and that she and her mom didn’t exactly get along. She wanted to go with him, even if it meant leaving me behind, but her dad said she had to stay with her mom. Not because he didn’t want her, but because Kari’s mom had already said she’d fight for Kari to stay with her during the divorce.
It was hard for Kari. I’ve seen her cry two times in my life. This was the first. She blamed herself partially, though not for causing the schism between her parents, but for not being able to seal it together again. I think intellectually she knew that her parents were just not compatible. Her dad was a workaholic introvert while her mother was a socialite who resented being dragged to the middle of Nowhere, Texas. The moment Kari’s dad moved out, before the divorce papers were even printed, her mother was driving the twenty or so miles to downtown Houston and going to the posh clubs and bars she craved.
I’d say Kari rebelled, but to be honest, she was already rebelling, and as I moved from fourteen to fifteen and summer hit, Kari’s rebellion took on a new shape, one that involved me in ways I couldn’t have even begun to imagine.
Coming of Age - A BDSM Romance is available in e-book form from the booksellers bellow!