Its My Life One

I am going to try and tell the story of my life in writing for the very first time. I was not sure about what category to enter my stories in, because there are a number of possibilities.

Non consent/reluctance was a possibility, because very little of what I experienced was my idea at first. Although I was manipulated into doing almost everything that you will eventually read about, at least in the beginning, I wasn't really forced. I was merely in love and more than willing to do anything to please my man.

That willingness led me down a very strange and twisted path that I would never have traveled otherwise, and into many crazy and warped scenes that I was never even aware existed. Having said all that, is this a cry for sympathy? A plea for help and forgiveness? A diary of yet another victim of society?

No. Because I regret virtually nothing that you will read here and in future installments. I don't enjoy the manipulation or the coercion that took place in my life, but the rest? For the most part, that I loved. I loved it while I was doing it, and I love remembering it now. I hope you will enjoy reading about it as well.

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Chapter One: Growing up.

Rebecca was the name I was given, and I was to end up being the middle child of the five that my mother bore with the three husbands she would have. We lived in a very crowded little house in an area just outside of Utica, New York.

Life was okay growing up, since I didn't have much around that seemed much better to compare it with. My mother had a lot of domestic strife through all the years I lived with her, and it was her poor decision making regarding spouses that was the trait that my three sisters and I was handed down. From Mom right on down to all four of us, the common thread was we all married young and we all married dumb.

I was married before I was twenty, but before I did I managed to squeeze a lot of fun out of single life. Back in the sixties, sex was a lot more enjoyable than it is today, and in the isolated area where I lived it was just about the only thing there was to do, so we did it.

I wasn't known around town as a slut or anything like that. People weren't as judgmental then, partly because everybody was too busy doing it. I was a little wilder than some, and not as wild as most. I didn't have to go looking for fun either, because it always seemed to find me. Let's just say I was agreeable.

Sex went by an informal barter system as far as my girlfriends and I were concerned. It was a given that if a guy took you out, you had to give him something.

As I recall, a trip to the drive-in was worth a hand job. Depending on how much the guy spent at the snack bar or how good the movie was, he might get head.

Taking a girl to the stock car races was pretty much a guaranteed blow job, since that involved considerably more expense on the guy's part. Same for a date to a concert. Steppenwolf was my first concert experience, and I had such a great time that afterward I was sucking my date's cock joyfully as he barreled down Route 5 on our way to a secluded spot.

He was enjoying it a great deal as well because he didn't pay attention to how fast he was going, and I had just gotten him off when I heard the siren of the cop car that had just lit him up. It took some quick work to get us both presentable by the time the policeman got over to his window.

I suppose that being taken to dinner, meaning one that didn't involve having a tray hung on the window of your car that is, would involve more. that would mean giving it all up. That was not something that happened very often in my social group.

To the reader today it may seem like sex was a pretty casual thing, and for the most part that's a correct assumption. Back then and back there, there wasn't a lot to do besides fool around. Nobody had any money to speak of and there were not that many other things to do in our neck of the woods that didn't cost dough.

Add to that the fact that the sexual revolution had found its way from the west coast to Utica in the late sixties and early seventies and that seemed to validate our behavior in many ways. Having an Air Force base located close by was the icing on the cake for all us girls.

Finally, and most importantly, you didn't die from having sex back then. Having the grim reaper looking over your shoulder like it does today kind of puts a damper on the promiscuity, or so it seems to me.

Despite the less than puritan spin I've used to describe myself and my lifestyle in those younger days, in reality I was probably one of the tamer girls around. Although I was pretty liberal in dispensing the hand jobs and the head, and pretty willing to let the guys fondle anything they wanted to grab, I was still able to count the number of guys I had gone all the way with on one hand with enough digits left over for a peace sign until I met him.

Chapter Two: Mike.

It was love at first sight for me when we met. Mike had everything I had ever dreamed about, and from the first date I knew that we would be husband and wife someday.

What exactly did Mike have that I prized so dearly? As stupid and as shallow as it seems today, the two things I wanted most in a man were a hot car and a big cock, and Mike had them both.

Mike was a big, burly guy who stood about 6'2" and weighed around 200 pounds. Not really muscular but not flabby either, he towered over me by almost a foot. He had a hairy chest that turned me on as well, and all these physical attributes helped me ignore the fact that he had kind of a horse face. Didn't matter anyway, because I was in love.

What did Mike love? Although he said he loved me from the start as well, the only two things he showed reverence and adoration to were his hot cars and his big dick. I guess that means at least we had something in common that drew us closer together.

Our first date was going to see "Dirty Mary and Crazy Larry" at the drive-in. I didn't know it then, but this would be the cinematic pinnacle for us, as I think we saw every other film of that genre ever produced since then. 'Eat My Dust', 'Death Race 3000', 'Cannonball Run', 'Smokey and the Bandit' and every sequel were required viewing for us. Not that I minded, because at least I wasn't stuck in the house.

We had to watch the movie, since Peter Fonda and Susan George were roaring all over the screen and making the cops look stupid. Mike got a little irritated when I pointed out that a previously cracked car windshield had fixed itself between scenes, so I kept quiet for the rest of the movie.

After intermission was a movie that Mike wasn't interested in, so after we finished the popcorn and downed the rest of the six-pack of Utica Club we had snuck in, we started to make out. Mike decided that we should get in the back seat because the bucket seats and the stick shift of his Dodge Charger made it tough for us to get at each other.

As we necked, my hand slid down to Mike's crotch, where I found the expected bulge ready and waiting. I squeezed and pulled as best I could through the jeans, and was pretty impressed at the size of the package in my hand.

"Here, why don't I make it easy on you," Mike said as he unbuckled his jeans and raised himself off the seat to get them down past his knees.

His cock was stretching his white underwear almost to the breaking piont so I helped him off with them, and his cock swung back hard against his stomach as they came down.

"Oh, you got a real big one Mike," I said as I took his cock in my hand and ran my hand up and down the shaft.

Although I usually said that to most guys who had an average sized cock or better, it was no exaggeration as far as Mike was concerned. My hand could not quite fit around the shaft and it was plenty long as well, and this was something that Mike was quite proud of.

"Thought you'd like my cock Becky," Mike said as he practically glowed in the dark with pride. "Never seen one that big before, have you?"

"Are you kidding?" I said with the right amount of awe in my voice. "Mike, you're so big I can't believe it!"

Well, I had seen and felt a bigger one, but I didn't think this was the time and the place to tell him about it. Plus, he was beside himself when I spoke in awe about it. This would be the first of countless times I would be involved in needing to heap praise on his member for his glorification, but it was new for me at the time.

I leaned over Mike and ran my tongue over the mushroom crown of his cock, caressing the raised ridge and dabbing at the tender opening, before I slid my mouth down the shaft. As I went down further and further on him with each bob of my head, Mike squirmed and groaned more and more. Finally, when my nose was nestled in the hair above his cock, and my lips were planted tightly around the base of the shaft, Mike discovered one thing on our first date.

I was one hell of a cocksucker. Long before I saw the movie Deep Throat, or even heard of it, I was swallowing dicks with unbridled enthusiasm. Big one, thick ones, long ones and short ones. Didn't matter to me, as long as they were clean and didn't smell bad. Nobody taught me, I just went ahead and did it.

I didn't know that you weren't expected to take the whole thing in your mouth, I just assumed that was how it was done. Later when I would talk to other girls and they complained about choking and gagging, I didn't know what they were talking about, because it never bothered me. In my mouth and down my throat as easy as pie.

Guys appeared to like it as well, judging by their reactions. It didn't hurt that I would swallow either, which was another thing I didn't know was not an automatic either. Except for the first time when it caught me by surprise, it would be rare for me to gag on a guy's load.

I could sense when they were about to cum, and discovered a way to block the blast with my tongue at first before letting the rest spurt harmlessly into my mouth. The taste wasn't usually that great, but what the heck?

It was worth it to have the guys at my mercy. The feeling of power I enjoyed when I had their cock in my mouth was something I never had at any other time. I wasn't stronger than the guys, and I usually wasn't smarter than most of them either. When they were all excited and were begging to cum, well that was when I had the upper hand, and I loved it!

Mike was loving it that night it in the back seat, and he was able to hold off on cumming better than most. He played with my breasts through my clothes for a while before caressing my hair as he guided my head up and down.

"Oh! That's it Becky!" Mike groaned as I took him deep, feeling the head of his dick graze my throat. "Suck my big dick! Oh man that's so fucking good. Take it all baby. Oh God! Gonna cum! Arrrghh!"

I felt his shaft tighten and jerk as my tongue instinctively diverted the first few spurts before my mouth slide back down the length of Mike some more as he shot his load.

Asparagus was my first impression of the taste of his cum as I milked the residue out of Mike with my hand and mouth. They all have a taste, and asparagus isn't bad, especially compared to some of the funkier varieties I've sampled.

"Oh man Becky, you are so good!" Mike said as I sat back up in the seat and pulled back my hair. "You're as great as I heard you were!"

"Oh, somebody's talking about me?" I asked, in a more than a little pissed off tone.

"Dave Sheldon. Man, he told me what an incredible cocksucker you were, and damn was he right!"

"Dave Sheldon can go fuck himself, that asshole," I spat out, mentally adding him onto the list of dicks that would never cross my lips again. Getting your cock sucked and telling the world I did it was no way to win my heart.

"Guess I shouldn't have said that, huh Becky?" Mike said while wrapping his arm around my shoulder. "He didn't say it in a bad way. He meant it as a compliment."

"I don't give a shit how he meant it," I said hoping that Mike would get a hint. "Stuff that goes on between two people is supposed to be private."

"You're right," Mike said. "I'd never tell anybody anything about stuff I do. Dave's kinda immature anyway."

"He's an asshole," I reitterated.

"I'll bet his dick isn't as big as mine either, is it?" Mike asked.

"No way," I told Mike, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear, and even though it meant breaking my own code about such things, I couldn't resist a jab of my own. "We only went out once and it took me forever to find his puny pecker, and it wasn't worth the effort."

"He said he fucked you."

"He's a liar too," I added truthfully. "I'm very particular about who I go all the way with, and I would especially never do it on the first date with anyone."

That was true, as Mike would later find out that night. I made him wait until the second date the next weekend. In the back of Mr. Parry's field on a blue blanket under a full moon with mosquitos chewing us up like you wouldn't believe. One of us came. That's my memory of the first time my future husband and I made love.

3. About Becky.

Now that you've met my husband, I might as well tell you about myself back then. I was born on Groundhog's Day which is my lone claim to fame. I've got dark brown hair and matching eyes and about 5'4" tall with weight about 120. A very average girl with ordinary looks, totally non-descript in every way.

I liked school as much as it liked me, which is to say not much indeed. I had a very low opinion of myself and my talents, or lack thereof, so I helped things along by putting little or no effort into it. I lasted until the eleventh grade, when I finally said to hell with it, to the school system's relief as well as my own.

Other girls went to BOCES or cosmetology school to learn a trade, but I didn't bother. There was really nothing I was that interested in or was very good at, besides the aforementioned cocksucking skills that I apparently possesed. The only ambition I did have all the way through my teenage years was for a position that was already taken. I wanted to be Cher.

Cher, like in Sony and Cher. How I idolized that woman! I tried to dress like her, talk like her, and tried to get her mannerisms down. That brushing the hair back off the shoulder even became a trademark of mine.

So I walked around with bell bottom jeans and love beads all during my teens, and really up to when I got married and even a while after that. I grew my hair long, so it was halfway down my back and tried to get my voice to develop that hoarse tone of Cher's. Why I did this was beyond me, but it was something to do. Guys seemed to like it, and I know Mike did.

Four: Behavior modification.

Mike and I got engaged almost right away, because I knew I had found my dream man. Mike's reasoning was probably that I was a good catch because I could suck a mean dick and would allow myself to become whatever people wanted me to be. Someone to be shaped like clay into someone of your own design, with little or no resistance from yours truly.

The first change Mike made in me was my bras. Brassieres were something totally unnecessary, according to Mike.

"I really like it when my girls go braless, Becky," Mike informed me a few weeks into our realtionship. "I like it when her tits are swingin' around and everybody else can get jealous because they're all mine."

I had no idea who would get jealous over my breasts, because they were pretty small. Like Cher at the time, I had a modest endowment with my breasts being only the size of tennis balls. My aureolas were large and my nipples thick and that combination made my boobs look even smaller still.

"You've got small tits," Mike had said to me on our first date, letting me know something he apparently thought I was unaware of, and he informed me that this was a handicap. Something he was willing to overlook for the sake of love, he had apparently decided in his magnanimous fashion.

"Maybe if you don't wear a bra they'll get bigger," my unlicensed Dr. Mike informed me. "Either way, I like them out of the harness."

That was that, and from then on I was wild and fancy free. And to my surprise, they grew. Straight down. In no time at all my perky little 32B's, left unshackled and unsupported, became what was referred to at the time as banana boobs.

Low hanging cones that sagged far before their time, and while I found that there was definitely a following for that sort of look, it was still rather troubling for somebody like me who was intent on being the next Cher. Cher's breasts had a little of the banana look about them back then during her pre-implant days, but hers had more substance to them. Mine just hung there, as my personal Sonny stood guard and kept track of all the envious ones who looked at them.

The next change about me was hair, and while this was at least something that I could understand, that didn't make it any easier on me at the time.

One of the things that turned me on about Mike was the fact that he had a hairy chest, and the rest of him was furry too. Most of the guys I had been with were not that hairy, and I discovered that it was something that turned me on a lot about Mike.

On the weekends of that first summer that we were together, we would head to the state park to swim and hang out. It was a time where bikinis were very skimpy, and the first time we went swimming, Mike took one look at me and was enraged.

Mike's eyes had gone directly to the area below my waist, and I wasn't sure what he was referring to when he asked me what I had done. "Your hair! What did you do to your pussy hair?" Mike said as he waved toward my crotch in disgust.

When Mike and I had become intimate earlier that spring, he seemed very pleased that, despite my shortcomings in the breasts department, I had what he lovingly referred to as, "the hairiest pussy in the world."

He may very well have been right, given the half Italian and Greek heritage I had, as I did seem to be rather well endowed in that area. When it had come time to put on the bikini that summer, I did what I had always done.

I shaved the hair that grew on the insides of my thighs and had yearly threatened to turn my tringle into a delta that went from hip to hip. Also removed was the very obvious trail of hair that wound it way from just below my belly button and down to where it met the jungle that swirled around my pussy. The rest I left untouched.

"You didn't expect me to walk around with hair sticking out of every part of my suit, did you? I asked in shock.

Yes he had, I was informed in no uncertain terms, and I had greatly disppointed him once more.

"Look around here, will you Mike," I told him. "How many women do you see walking around with hairy crotches? They'd throw me off the beach!"

"The hell they would," Mike snarled, threatening to snap the neck of anyone in or out of authority who would dare comment on my excess fur. "You've got a incredibly hairy pussy and that really turns me on! Why are you ashamed of yourself?"

He then happened to point out a few girls who were indeed unashamed of themselves, as he put it, to show off their bodies as they were. This was the wild and carefree seventies after all, and not the waxed and plucked 21st century look of today.

"You don't seem too shy about showing off how little your tits are!" Mike said in ending the argument, and I stayed silent, unwilling or unable to mention that it was he that had picked out the bikini I was wearing. Not to mention the fact that I was not the one who had insisted that I go braless to flaunt my alleged shortcomings.

No matter. After that day I no longer trimmed my pubic hair, and by summer's end my treasure trail, as I later heard it referred to, was back in all its glory. The hair between my legs was sprouting out in full bloom as well. At least Mike was happy, and that was all I cared about.