Premature Ejaculations
My dalliance with dooverlackies started late. Indeed, I’m embarrassed and ashamed that it started as late as it did – and distressed that I wasted so much time before I knew – intimately – what is, I swear, the greatest delight that human life has to offer. So I’m not going to tell you how old I was when my practical research into dooverlackies and their joys began. Let’s just imagine I was 21 and, for my first real adventure into the dooverlackie wonderland, she – sweet Julia - was 18.
She was so lovely and I met her quite accidentally when I went over to her place to talk to her sister. She was slim and blue-eyed and she had the most wonderful legs – as I thought then and I believe I wasn’t far wrong, even after all this time – that I had ever seen.
But I tried to put aside my more obvious lusts – I was pure; she was pure. We were two young people who felt strongly about the more noble aspects of life, people and relationships.
So I fell in love then – already I think - with her perfect, symmetrical features, her lovely eyes and her natural, unaffected manner.
That first time I saw her, I like to think I had everything pretty much under control. Admittedly, I was even then a little tongued-tied and rather overwhelmed by her beauty; but I managed somehow to cover it up – I thought. I told myself that I saw her – almost - as just another beautiful girl and, if I knew that, on meeting her, I stuttered a bit, I was to all appearances – for others, even her sister - pretty much relaxed and in charge.
I must say though that I loved the way she moved – the grace of her walk, her poise, the natural charm that she embodied in everything she did. I did not then even dare to imagine more erotic possibilities; those occurred to me only later. If I was dooverlackie-deprived, I was also dooverlackie-free. In other words, at that stage I was not – as I was later - so much subject to dooverlackie power, simply because I had very little idea of how much I was missing – the more’s the pity.
If I have developed a “fetish” with maturity, it is quite simply for sweet dooverlackies and all they can offer the worthy – and sometimes even the unworthy – male. Of course, that isn’t really a “fetish” at all; it is so natural as to be the expression of nature’s intent itself; and research into all the admirable qualities of dooverlackies and the joys they can bestow is not really a task – nor a scientific quest – but a pleasure-seeking adventure in which the rewards are great and marvellous – and there waiting for you to reach out and take, at the end, so to speak, of your throbbing, tingling prick. The more you know and appreciate sweet dooverlackies, the more blessed your life will surely be.
From that first meeting with Julia, I did not take any initiative to see her again. In fact, I didn’t need to: I realised that I would, with my normal circle of friends – including her sister – inevitably come close to her from time to time.
Our second meeting was quite – and note this word – serendipitous. That’s a big word that turned out to apply to a big occasion. In those days, I used to ride fairly regularly, from the edges of town, out into the bush, mostly in the area of the sheep and cattle country of Gundaroo.
I’d been out riding – and thinking about buying a property out there, if I ever got enough money together – when I saw her – overtook her, actually – riding home.
We got to talking and I accompanied her right back to the stables; but she was reticent – shy – reserved – call it what you will.
I wondered why and inevitably closed up a bit myself. I didn’t want to. She was even more lovely in riding gear than when I’d first seen her. The young can sometimes be just as crude as we older fellows get conditioned to be: with her legs apart bestride the horse, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to be – that’s me and not the horse!! - between those lovely legs.
Then, when we got back to the stables, she didn’t dismount. She just continued to sit in the saddle, watching me.
I was mystified.
She was embarrassed.
Finally, she had to confess – up to a point. “I’ve had a little accident,” she said, “I’ve got to get it fixed – privately. You go ahead…”
I know how disappointed I looked.
She smiled and blew me a kiss.
“I’ll be seeing you,” she said.
Later, I heard over the grapevine what had happened.
That afternoon she’d had a good ride and her horse had been a bit more spirited than usual. Whether that or something else was the reason, she’d split her riding pants.
She couldn’t dismount until she got me away safely.
When I heard the story, I got a raging erection – nothing exceptional in that, the way I was in those youthful days – just thinking about the split – and where it lay…
Somehow it made me feel – quite irrationally – that I was closer, more intimately associated with her. My chances – of love – were better. Silly, I know, but young hopes run like that.
Well, anyway, that was all for that afternoon and, since I went home alone, I went home rather deflated.
But all was not lost.
She’d said, “I’ll be seeing you” and -
As good fortune would have it, a week or so later arrangements were made for a game of tennis to which both she and I – quite separately and not as a couple – were invited.
All right, you might say, what was the danger - or the possible good fortune - in that? You have a game of tennis, with a group of other people. So what? How could that lead to any dramatic change in your relations with this girl or in your evolution towards a more mature sexuality?
It wouldn’t – not necessarily.
When I accepted the invitation to play, I did not even know that she would be there so, when I saw her in her tennis gear, the impact was all the more overwhelming. That was because the dress for tennis is intended to leave the limbs and body free. For women, it is not quite like wearing a topless bikini but it goes a good deal of the way – rather more discreetly – in that direction.
The dress for tennis did for her what its plumage does for a bird of paradise – but with much less pretension! It just shows the simple contours and hints – more than slyly but still modestly - at what is beneath the only partly concealing sporting gear.
When I’d seen her fully dressed, I’d just about fallen in love with her already.
When I’d seen her in her riding gear, I’d been pretty much gone a million; and, after I’d heard the story of her riding pants being split – just at that critical point between her legs where her sweet little dooverlackie resides – I’d had an erection pretty well all the time since.
Now that I saw her, certainly not fully undressed, but with some of her intriguing attributes partly revealed – her lovely legs and just the suggestion of her neat but full breasts nudging against the thin, silky material of her shirt – I felt a wave of desire that I’d never felt before for anyone. It was then that the first irresistible urgings of the dooverlackie kind began to form: I had to have her – but first I had to get to know her.
The power of the dooverlackie is infinite. This I should have known but that day we played tennis together was the first time that its power – as well as its sweetness – began properly to dawn on me.
Even so, to start with, my control wasn’t too bad. Of course, at just the sight of her, I could feel my prick begin to stir in my tennis shorts; but, in those days when I was so young and inexperienced, I could so easily get an erection from the least stimulation - from an advertising hoarding of a half-naked girl or by sitting next to almost any half-comely female in a streetcar – that my erection on seeing her in tennis gear wasn't anything to write home about.
My prick was no more than a good barometer of the healthy state of my youthful yearnings. When it first caught sight of her in tennis gear, it sprang to attention; but, when I told it to behave itself, it did its best to comply.
The real challenge came when the club captain called me over.
“Oh, Jon,” he said. “Would you do something for me? Have a hit-up with young Julia here? Keep her amused and warm her up like - until we can fit her into a mixed doubles.”
It was only then, when I was directed to play this fun game of singles with her and he led us over to a separate court, where we’d be alone, that my control started – dramatically - to fade. As I walked close beside her to the court, any remaining control just about completely collapsed in a ragged heap. However, my prick didn’t collapse with my control. On the contrary – and of course logically – the more my control collapsed, the bigger my erection grew. I could feel him swelling almost by the second – and he had a mind and will of his own. If I were to play even just a few games with her, I would have to look at her - all of her - and I couldn’t do that without getting an almost trembling desire to make love to her, right there on the tennis court.
All that was par for the course: I was young and it was, even at my rather advanced age for a virgin, quite a normal response. Nature always meant dooverlackies and erections to go together and the one to encourage the other.
Certainly, that was what happened now.
I felt the encouragement – in the tingling of my prick - long before I had any hope of being able to catch the slightest glimpse of the actual sweet, sweet honeypot that had so generously started the delicious tingling.
As I’ve said, she had lovely legs – the loveliest legs I’d ever seen, so lovely that now – and with a crudeness that I knew was unseemly - I couldn’t look at them without imagining what it would be like to be between them – to slide my prick into that intimate territory where her legs came together, at the entrance to her delightful little dooverlackie itself.
The actual tennis play did nothing to lessen my arousal. Indeed, as I ran around the court, the friction of my clothing against my body seemed to me to cause my already formidale erection to be constantly stimulated to even bigger things. It destroyed any small vestiges of control I could still claim; and I thought she must be aware of the effect she was having on me, however much she pretended to be oblivious to everything except our game of tennis. For her, I imagined, the only “love” was the score in our tennis knock-up.
At one stage, she hit a ball that was obviously over the line but – being a gentleman - I called it in. She ran up and for a moment I thought she was going to kiss me over the net; but she just sort of blew the kiss to me and said, “Mnnn…thank you!”
Hurriedly, I had to kneel down and pretend to tie my shoe laces.
That teasing and titillating is, I came to realise later, part of the dooverlackie technique: it exerts its power without ever conceding that it has anything but sweetness, sweet pleasure and sweet encouragement to offer.
It wasn’t just when she blew me the kiss, more often it was just to cover up my persistent embarrassment from the bulge in my shorts, that I had constantly to kneel and pretend to adjust my shoe laces. By the time the club captain finally came to my rescue – we had actually played only a couple of games - those laces had been tied every thirty seconds over a period of ten minutes or so – and the bulge still made it clear to anyone who bothered to look just how desperately randy I was. I still did not know, from direct and personal experience, just what it was like to have a fuck; but, that afternoon, God knows, I was desperately anxious to have a try.
“Now, Jonathan,” the captain said, “you can’t monopolise Julia the whole time. You have to give others a go.” – he grinned – “Me, for example….”
