He just picked me up and carried me into the nearest bedroom, which happened to be mine. Once in there he tossed me face down on top of the bed (my bed), half on and half off, and casually held me there with one hand placed in the middle of my back. His other hand was busy pulling my panties down and off, leaving me lying there naked.
Looking up I could see myself in the mirror of the dressing table. Again, my dressing table, my mirror. Why couldn't he have dragged me into some other room? There I was, stark naked, pinned to the bed. His hand lifted off my back and I could see what was coming before it happened. His hand came down firmly on my bottom.
"Stay still," he told me.
I didn't see that I had much choice. He was bigger and stronger and probably faster than me. Even if I scrambled over to the other side of the bed what good would it do? The door was behind him and he'd closed it.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded.
I was watching his face in the mirror and he rolled his eyes as if to say give me a break. What the hell do you think I'm going to do? I was also able to watch the rest of him, and he was stripping off his shirt. I was able to make a fair guess at what he intended to do.
With his shirt off he started undoing his trousers and very quickly slipped them down. My bed wasn't a particularly high bed. I suppose it came up to about mid-thigh on him. That meant I could see his naked body all the way down to mid-thigh, although my eyes couldn't seem to drop below groin level. He had an erection. From my point of view a huge erection, although if asked he'd probably say just average. If it was just average them I'll make it a point to seek out men who are below average in certain areas. Way below.
I was, at this stage, eighteen and a virgin, but while I was going to be eighteen for a number of months yet I didn't expect to remain a virgin for that length of time. I can sometimes read the future and all indications were that I would soon join the ranks of ex-virgins. There was at least one significant pointer indicating this and I was looking at it in the mirror.
I lay the blame of the situation in which I found myself squarely on the shoulders of my parents. They knew I couldn't take any time off work. It was our busy period and I wasn't entitled to any leave yet. So when they decided to go on a cruise I naturally pointed out that I couldn't go with them but that I'd be quite happy staying at home by myself.
My father was in half agreement with this. He didn't mind me staying at home, but not by myself. My aunt and her new husband had just sold their place and were looking to rent for a couple of months before the deal on their new house was finalised. They were going to come and stay with me. Oh, happy day.
My aunt was rather, let's say bossy. It sounds so much better than dictatorial. Her new husband was OK, if you like mice. Her brand new stepson, aged about twenty, was also OK, although not a mouse. He seemed to be able to stand up to Auntie with no problems. It seemed that he was also moving in with us for a few months.
Almost from the moment she walked in my aunt tried to lay down the law to me. I very politely pointed out that I was living in my parent's house, and I was of age, and I knew the rules that my parents wanted me to follow, and she could take her edicts and shove them.
After that initial confrontation my Aunt and I avoided each other. I got along OK with my new uncle and I rarely saw Jackson, my step-cousin. He was always out, either working, or playing sport, or out with friends.
So on this particular day I was home alone. Aunt and uncle and Jackson were all at work and I had a rare day off. I was using it to do my housework, tidying my room, and doing my laundry. It was doing the laundry that was my undoing.
I'd finished everything I had to do apart from loading the washing machine and while doing that it occurred to me that as I was going to get changed anyway I might as well drop the dress I was wearing into the machine, and I promptly did so. Seeing I was only bumming around the house I hadn't bother with a bra that morning, knowing I'd put one on after I'd showered an got properly dressed, which I'd do after my housework.
So I'd just hit the start button on the washing machine, standing in the laundry with my boobs hanging out, when in walked Jackson. (I'll correct one thing there. My boobs were not hanging out. They were jutting out proudly, not needing artificial support to hold them high.) Bloody Jackson just picked me up and carried me to the nearest bedroom - like I said, mine.
Now he was standing behind me, naked, and I could see him reaching for me. His hand closed over my mound and he started rubbing me there. No way was I going to take that without some sort of protest.
"Jackson, you can't do this. Just stop and think for a moment."
He did stop to my surprise.
"I think that you have a choice. You can shut up or you can get your bottom smacked. The decision is yours."
"What sort of choice is that?" I demanded and then yelped as he promptly slapped my bottom.
"Were you saying something?" he asked, hand poised, and I kept my mouth shut, watching that hand rather nervously.
It came down again, but not to smack. I was back on my mound, getting thoroughly acquainted with my private parts. I twisted and squirmed but it didn't help. His hands were all over me, rubbing and probing. It wasn't long before he was parting my lips and sneaking his fingers inside me, testing my hidden depths.
The man knew I was a virgin. I could feel him pressing lightly against my hymen, making sure. Swine. He kept probing and stroking and feeling me up. I knew, in theory, that the area around the clitoris is very sensitive if someone touches you there. Even if you touch yourself there by rubbing yourself. (Or so I've heard. Not that I've ever actually done that.) I was now finding out that the theory was understating the sensitivity.
Jackson was deliberately touching me in that area, seeming amused by my reactions and the involuntary noises I made. And he couldn't help but insult me.
"Hot little thing, aren't you," he said. "Let's see if this helps cool things down."
He took his hands away and I immediately thought, "Oh, no. He's going to do it." I was watching him in the mirror, horrified, dreading the thought of that big cock of his attacking me. Instead of moving closer he seemed to be shrinking. Him, not his cock. It finally dawned on me that he was getting down onto his knees for some reason.
The reason became clear when his mouth settled on my pussy. I nearly bucked off the bed with shock but he'd anticipated that and his hands were firmly attached to my hips, holding me in position. Cool things down? He'd been joking. He knew damn well that what he was doing wasn't going to cool anything down, especially me.
I'd been heating up, reluctantly, from what he'd been doing with his hands. Now he was bringing me to the boil and holding me there, tormenting me. His tongue went everywhere his fingers had gone and it was wet and slippery, seeming to be everywhere at once.
Having his fingers probing lightly around my clitoris had been bad enough. This was a hundred times worse. I screamed and protested and was ignored, his tongue continuing to extract its toll, turning up the heat and driving me wild.
