Young stirrings: An intro to Pleasure

Alan D, who in adulthood became an award winning journalist (apparently I had good taste at the age of 7!) was my first. He would coax me to climb over the fence at the bottom of my yard, into the bottom of his yard, where stood the infamous coal shed. About 4’ x 4’ x 3’ – it provided plenty of room to hide behind, out of sight from parents and nannies. Once there, he would lift my skirt or pull down my pink or turquoise panties, sometimes my shorts, to reveal my little pink, fleshy mound.

I liked the attention. I did not stop him. He continued to pry my strong suntanned legs apart to look at the little hole where I peed. I watched as he did this and it sent a warm glow through me. What was this 9 or 10 year old boy doing? I did not know. I was not confused. I was too busy enjoying something: an initiation into pleasure. Apparently something very magical lay between my two legs. He would spread me and put fingers in the crevice. They felt good. I liked those big boy fingers jammed up inside me, hard sometimes. It spoke to his intensity of desire to be deep inside me. At 7, I felt, “oh good, he “likes” me”.

I would look down at his face and see wonder in his intense gaze and the pleasure it was giving him to fuck around with my body. I had never been aware of my body in this way. What was this? Why did his breath quicken at the sight of this part of me, unlike when he looked at my knee or my eyes? What was this warmth that enveloped me both physically and when watching the look on his face. He looked, at times, a bit like the big, bad wolf who wanted to devour something. For some reason, I was not afraid of him. He was my neighbor and sometimes playmate. And then again, he was my neighbor, but the game had changed.

We played differently. He began to trap me under some fencing material called chicken wire- plable, with large holes. I was told to stay there. He wanted a captive and I liked being captured by him. He was in charge and I liked his rules. He would tell me to crouch down and he would fall upon me with the wire there to keep me in place. I stayed still. Cozy. Unafraid. Trusting of my neighbor. Happy to play. He would lift the wire from behind and rub something against me. It was soft and I loved the skin on skin feel of it. He would spread me open and try to get that thing back there a ways inside me. I loved the feel. Part of him was in part of me. What a fun, new game. My favorite.

I knew there was something different about our game because he was making sure we could not be seen. We had to hide behind the coal shed when we played. Perhaps it was because his parents did not like Jews? Yet, somehow British, Alan, picked me to fuck around with (even though he was not hard and I was tiny and tight). We were doing the unspeakable. Physically and culturally. But we did, and all the adult concepts and views on what was wicked and distasteful, sex and Jews, came together in our secret pleasuring.

I am metal health worker and in encounters involving violation of boundaries, I have been the one to help many people with the trauma suffered when they were innocents and had been used in various ways. I empathize deeply and I help them recover. Yet, would they ever guess, and thank god they don’t, as they are true victims, that during some of their outpourings, I am, honestly, getting vicariously turned on like crazy. I also desperately wish, each time I hear of their violations, that I was hearing a story that was mine, rather than theirs. (The brutal, scary cases are just that, and there’s NO pleasure there for me. Obviously, an adult using a child is unconscionable and is a whole different story than the feeling one might get from a peer with whom one is playing and discovering the girl/boy thing.)

Now, my mind and heart know right from wrong, but my libido has a mind of it’s own. It leads me to couple my history of pleasure with the situations of others. Events I would never condone, are the very thing I find myself imagining for myself and I seem to respond to the pure, unbridled lust of it.

I found myself, in one case, thinking “l wish I could have spared you. I wish your grandfather had lasciviously come up behind me, trapped me and cupped and squeezed my newly swollen young tits, had touched me that way instead of you”. In fact, I improvise, like a jazz musician, on the basic story and continue with different renditions. For example, I wish I had felt his hard cock pressed up into my lower back, or between the checks of my ass, as he told me he wanted to fuck me. To which I would have responded, feeling powerful, not powerless: “You can, so long as you also put your fingers, hands, mouth and objects where I I tell you to put them”.

As a teen, I had those warm, exciting sensations, and experiences, way less often than I would have liked. I wanted to be touched all over and fucked incessantly and endlessly. I wanted to re-experience those hungry, clumsy, probing, touching, squeezing shapes of flesh that I first felt at 7, some with bones, one without, traveling over the surface of my skin as well as inside of me. I wanted to be the one to feel that warm, glowing, gush. No trauma here. Quite the opposite. How I wish I’d been there so they would have picked me!

Why might I, so willingly, have traded places with some of my clients? They suffered where I found pleasure, and, because of a fetish, developed at age 7, I still love being trapped and having things of flesh, and other materials, drawn across my receptive body and inserted into my ever appreciative, and ever ready, cunt.

I have always loved the feel of skin on my skin. I can soak up tons of sensual touch. When the touch is “right”, my skin can have, what feels like tons of tiny orgasms. Ask John. He can tell you how he grows hard as a rock at the sight of me writhing in response to the touch of his slow, silky fingers.

Is this a result of touch deprivation or simply how I am wired? Or both? I cannot imagine ever having said no to a peer who wished to touch me, because I never did. We played “doctor, doctor” quite a bit and I was always a willing “patient”. (Still want to find a person to role play that with me. Wonder if it will conjure up feelings I had at 7 and excite the fuck out of me? Any takers?!)

A substitute for love? Why not. When invited, coaxed, hidden, touched, caressed, probed… that’s a lot of attention: a huge affirmation of one’s existence and an object of importance to another.

Introduction to the erotic? Erogenous zones, it seems, lie dormant, in wait, only to be kindled by a lusty explorer. And when these fabulous zones are finally excited, there’s a sound and light show that is not to be believed!! The senses come on line, sounds, smells, sensations, feelings – I loved it all – still do! I seem wired, in such a way, as to be able to turn an old shoe into something erotic. I have been opened, initiated and ushered, unfettered, into the halls of pleasure which, to this day, and till this moment, remains my favorite place to be and be-cum.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ftvg0i/young_stirrings_an_intro_to_pleasure