Late Blooming A Vignette

I was in my final year of high school and, at eighteen, too old to be as sexually-inexperienced as I was. I was even "stuff-that-hardly-counts-as-sexually" inexperienced: it's not that I had never been kissed, but beyond that, well...let's not dwell on it, I was inexperienced, ok? I know that some girls are able to wield geekiness as a way of being sexy, but for me it was never more than a way to be awkward around people. It's not that I just hid in corners or something: I was in the debates club and worked on my high school newspaper, that sort of thing, but I was never very outgoing, and certainly wasn't a person who could have initiated things with anyone. And although I had guy friends, none of them ever tried to initiate anything with me - at least, till the events of this story. Looking back I suspect that I just hung out with a group who were as timid about sex as I was.

Anyway, I did hang out with a group, and there was a guy in it, who for all you know was actually named Gordon, and I kind of had a crush on him, and thought that maybe he felt the same. I'd always sit next to him when we were all at lunch together, or sit next to him on the couch if a bunch of us were watching TV, which was usually at his place. Until one time I didn't sit next to him, because there were a lot of us and the couch had filled up, so I sat on a cushion on the floor in front of him (I'm only 5'3" and generally small), leaning on his left knee. I found I liked that, so I started sitting there all the time, whether I had to or not. He started resting his hand on my right shoulder when I sat there, which might have been why I liked it.

Now, usually there were a bunch of people, and they'd come and go, so we weren't alone most of the time, but sometimes we'd be the last two at his place. And one of those times, as we were still watching TV and talking, he took his hand off my shoulder for a moment, and then when he put it back, it wasn't on my shoulder anymore: he'd reached lower and across and his hand was now resting on my left breast. I didn't know what to do! He'd been saying something, I have no idea what anymore, and he just kept talking about that, and he didn't do anything with his hand, if you see what I mean. It was almost like it was an accident, except it obviously wasn't that, his hand wasn't just flat, it was cupping my breast, and although they're not big there's no possibility that he didn't know what his hand was doing! (While writing this up I have realised that he must have had to sit in an odd position to be able to do this.)

I was ok with this, but there was no way I was going to

say

anything about it, so I didn't say anything, and I didn't do anything, and we just sat like that. We didn't acknowledge that he was fondling my breast, and really he wasn't fondling it: his hand was just there. Inexperienced as I was, I began to doubt myself: I thought that being felt up involved more, you know, actually being felt up? But what did I know? Maybe this was just the way people did it?

Odder still was that that became our new normal when we were alone. I'd sit in front of him like that, and he would rest his hand on my breast, never doing more than that, and neither of us ever admitting in any way what was happening. To the best of my recollection we had never even kissed each other at this point! It was as though it wasn't occurring.

Until one day.

I was sitting in front of him, we were watching some movie, and I was very aware that there was no hand on my breast, and I missed it. But then I felt his fingers lightly stroking my cheek. Again, he didn't say anything about it, I didn't say anything about it, but it was nice. I felt very tingly from his touch. His fingers traced along my jaw line, then slid down my neck, barely touching me, giving me goosebumps. The goosebumps got goosebumps as his fingertip slid inside the collar of my blouse, still tracing along the line of my neck, slipping down to my collar bone, then back up again. I didn't dare move and break the spell, but I'm not sure I could have had I chosen to!

Still stroking lightly, his fingertips traced that boundary-line of flesh that was just covered by my collar, running along behind to stroke the back of my neck then shivering forward again. I held my breath as his finger traced down the inside of the vee at the front of my blouse, tingling its way down my chest till it hit the top-buttoned button, then tracing up the other side. That was not coming anywhere close to my breasts, honestly, but I was completely fixated on the sensation of his fingers, as he traced up and down that vee over and over.

And then he stopped. At least, his fingers stopped tracing the vee. They stopped at the bottom of the vee. And then I felt some fumbling, and while my perfectly-still body conveyed the message "I am entirely unaware of what is going on" my brain was screaming "HE'S UNDOING THE BUTTON!" As indeed he was, my brain was absolutely correct about that, and after a moment his fingers began retracing the path of what was now a somewhat more-plunging vee.

And then a second button followed. And another, and another, still with us both putatively watching the movie, as though what his hand and my blouse were doing had nothing to do with us. But by now my blouse was largely undone, and the meanderings of his fingers had pushed it quite open. His fingertips were no longer tracing the vee - they were tracing down the curve of one cup, across the middle, and up the curve of the other cup.

I nearly exploded. I had never felt such enormous excitement before, and yet somehow I managed to keep my body absolutely calm and still. WHY I did that is a mystery to me now, but at the time it seemed quite important. It might only have just barely been my breast he was stroking along the edge of the bra, but there was no way I could think of his fingers as merely running over my "chest" any more.

Then he pressed just a little, and moved his fingers the slightest amount, and suddenly his middle fingertip was just under the edge of my bra. Another fingertip followed, and another, and he paused for a moment, perhaps (I see now) waiting for my reaction. After a moment frozen in time, his hand slowly slipped inside my bra, sliding downward, gently caressing its way across the curvature of my flesh, coming to rest in its familiar cupped position. But this time, of course, his hand was resting on the skin of my bare breast, my very stiff nipple pressing into his palm. It was ecstasy. And then - he did nothing.

I thought to myself that I should say something, anything, something to convey that I was OK with this, gods was I ok with this. And so, my brilliantly articulate debater/newspaper writer brain caused me to blurt out "Gordon, that's good!"

And that, after a moment, made him laugh. Which made me laugh. Which made him laugh harder, and we both kind of lost it for a moment.

We were laughing hysterically, which meant we weren't frozen anymore and he ended taking his hand away from my breast, and I turned to face him, so he leaned down to kiss me, and it turned out that was pretty nice as well. And, you know, my blouse was still unbuttoned, so I mean, what were we going to do, no point wasting all the effort that had gone into that, right? And so he slid his hand back inside my bra, and it turned out I'd been right all along, usually there was more to this than a hand just resting there!

That was as far as we went that night, though we had other firsts later. But that night, finally, by my last year of high school, I had at least been felt-up! And my brain was right: it was good.