Charity's Confessions, Part 1

by Charity

My name is Charity, and I have had it a long time. I am old now, perhaps too old for all this. I wasn't always this advanced age but whatever I was, back in what I thought was the eternal spring of my youth, I never thought it would get to this. But the years passed and it has, and so here I am.

Old and worn out in so many ways. Old and... yes, with a spark, still.

A spark? Not enough to start a fire maybe, but enough to keep me warm. Warm memories of what I once did, what I once was capable of. Oh, you laugh, you were once young enough to generate heat? Ah yes, I was indeed... but you won't believe me. Like all the young of today you will look at old women like me as if I was always this age. Look at me askance, as if I could not know what the youth of today know. Could never have experienced what they have.

Well, let me tell you just what I experienced!

Oh, perhaps it will be too much. That you won't like it. Perhaps you won't like the truth that there are women like me. Perhaps, if I am honest, more women just like me than they will admit even to themselves.

Maybe some of them are as old as me. But they did what I did, saw what I saw, experienced the flame of sexual lust that I did.

Lust? You must be shocked! How can old people ever know lust and passion and energy, you say? Well, we did. Trust me, we had it all, for a while. Better still, I had it.

So who am I? Just someone you would pass on the street without noticing, but someone who has desires and a story to tell. I suppose this is a sort of confession, but I don't see any regret in there, other than I wished I had done more and had more fun with girls.

Not boys, not men. To some degree women, but always girls.

So were there men? A few, but nothing special. There was one I married, but that was just something I did once. Let me see... I was twenty three. Or twenty four or whatever age I was, whenever I was married. A young woman, nagged by all to get wed (as if it mattered to them) and build a home and start a family and... Let us just accept the usual, that all young women are expected to face and do. I was a handsome woman, not glamourous (but then in those days people didn't do glamour like they do now) but passable enough. Nice hair, a healthy shape, a good size bust, shapely legs that stockings and heels enhanced. Enough of a look to get a man and keep him.

And yet... there were other things in my life, beyond home building and marriage making. I would look at young girls and think how sweet they were and how pretty and how much I wanted them. Oh, not a child of my own. Not straight away, at least. But want them as in a friend, and a lover. I wanted to feel them as mine. Touch them, caress them, make them want me...

As it happens, I have always looked at young girls, and sometimes they look back and every so often there is a spark there. A spark that leads to a fire of passion.

There had been a girl when I was thirteen. A schoolfriend by the name of Daisy. She was plain and had prominent front teeth but she would look at me as if she wanted sex, and I knew even then that I had something to offer. Something I could use.

I had played with my friend Sally, back when I was ten. We played doctors and nurses and I played with her immature body, as she played with mine. We kissed too and laughed about it. Lips to lips, no tongues because we were innocent. Maybe the last time in my life I was innocent. Sally and I were playing and we were left alone to play, so we could play what we wanted. We could play teenage lovers, even though we had nothing to offer other than flat chests and bald cunnies. But we could do things we liked. Rubbing and gingerly probing and kissing and talking about how lovers would do things to each other, even if we didn't quite know what some of it was.

You be the husband and I'll be the wife, she'd say to me, or I would say you be the boyfriend and I'll be the girl. This is what they do, this what I'd do.

And that was the start of it. Innocent in its own way but it had something about it that seemed exciting. A river or desire was forming in me. But rivers have to flow somewhere, and though many people try to dam it up and hold back the waters, the dam can break. Or you make a hole it it, like I did.

I had babysat cousins and friends and touched them, as they touched me. It was more groping and giggling, and decidedly not romantic. We had been caught a few times, but the message was always the same: it was wrong but we would grow out of it. But no matter how the two things were explained to me I didn't think it wrong and neither did I grow out of it. In fact, the naughty part of it seemed to grow more intense in me. I wanted naughty, and slowly I began to understand that if it wasn't naughty enough it wasn't good enough for me. I liked touching girls and I liked that they wanted to touch me in turn.

Sally was fun for a time but perhaps a warning she had from her mum was the limit. She suddenly got scared and wouldn't do anything, so I looked round for others who would. I reasoned that there was no point in waiting and hoping. I was eager, and needed sex though I didn't really understand it as a need. I looked, and found some and along the way learned to keep my thoughts to myself. I learned to look for looks and glances, those long dwelling stares that made themselves known to you, rather than ask directly. I became subtle and careful, and would respond to a certain look or gesture. I would snatch moments to feel up another girl, or have her feel me up. It would be in the school toilets, or behind the bike sheds at the end of the palyground. Some girls would go there to smoke, but I went there to kiss and touch. And as my breasts grew so did theirs, and I pulled and pinched the emerging mounds and teased growing nipples and got my hand inside blouses and bras and had my swelling boobs pinched and squeezed in return.

Every so often too I got my hand up another schoolgirl's skirt and got her to put her hand up mine. Usually pushing against the damp crotch of our thick, navy blue knickers, but every so often going inside and feeling. And even when we had our periods, I still ventured there and even more wanted to be fingered in my most messy state. That was why Daisy was so good. She would do anything I wanted. She was the first girl to bite my clit, the first one to put her tongue in me. The first one to breath the smell of my aroused slit.

There I was with my school knickers round my ankles, my legs as far apart as they would go, and her plain face looking up at me as she nibbled my cunt and tickled my pulsing little nubbin. I almost said I loved her, but that would have been a lie. I liked the sex, but I saw nothing in her to love. Even when she kissed me in the height of my monthlies, I never said I loved her. But I did say I wanted more, and the girl was happy for that. She was happy she was wanted and I was happy to want her to do more.

I suppose that Daisy taught me my most valuable lesson in life. You don't have to love someone to want sex with them. In a way, love gets in the way. Love means all sorts of things, and while it may be lust at times the ardour cools and then there is no lust. You may develop other feelings, but that spark of lust will fade. So the way to keep it alive is to be in lust rather than love and move on to new experiences, new people.

But, you say, you married?

Yes, because I felt obliged to. Back then women weren't expected to stay single. It was socially unacceptable, a curse of the family, and even a stain on their own lives. A statement of failure if you didn't. But after Daisy I understood I could use people. I could give something in return for something I wanted, or needed. I could do it for pleasure, for lust. I could do it to keep the peace even. So I met Tommy and got married and it kept the peace because it showed I was normal and acceptable. Indeed there was lust even in heterosexual events and in time it faded, but the thing I most wanted never went away.

I looked at girls and I wanted them to look at me.

For me, Daisy was the great breakthrough. She was willing and happy to do things. If I said I wanted to pee on her, she would accept it. Oh, not at school. Even I knew the limits. But when we were alone at her house, up in her bathroom, she would lie naked (or if I demanded, in her clothes) in her bath and I would straddle her and pee on her. Then she would kneel up in her piss-sodden clothes and lick me to satisfaction.

I even got her to hold her hands out and hold my stained jamrag as we called our sanitary towels, and then kiss it and tell me she wanted me. Wanted me any time of the month.

But then there was something else I wanted, and the thought when it came surprised even me. We were at her house one evening and her parents went out having told Daisy (and me too, I guess) that we had to babysit her little sister Pearl. The brat was four and fat. At least, I thought she was fat, though perhaps it was just what they call puppy fat, the way some little girls are round because they have no waist or bust yet. I had just turned fifteen and I had those things, or at least had started to have them.

This kid though was round, and she was young. A brat, who provided she slept while Daisy and I had sex in Daisy's bedroom with her mum and dad out, was fine. But the brat woke up and bawled and Daisy –– who was halfway through rimming my tender young bumhole while I fingered myself –– felt she had to see to Pearl.

When Pearl continued to bawl I wandered in to the small bedroom the brat occupied. She was in a bed and Daisy was bent over, trying to calm the kid. I went up behind Daisy and fingered her from the back (we were both naked) as I looked over her shoulder, watching what she was doing. I wanted the kid to go back to sleep as I wanted to cum (I had understood what that was from various experiments of masturbation and allowing and demanding Daisy to do things to me) and Daisy's eager tongue up my back hole was a good way to help. But the brat was awake and Daisy was busy so I told her the kid needed a good licking to calm her.

That was the moment, I suppose, that I changed from being a lesbian to a sadist. In the nicest possible way, of course.

Daisy to her credit did what she was told. Had she said no and told me to go away, I guess she would have been another Sally. A step on the way, and soon left behind. But she said yes. She did what I told her. She had to strip Pearl, get her out of her PJs, and hold the brat's little chubby legs apart. I would position myself over the child and start to lick the kiddie's cunny. In theory it was fine, and for a brief while it worked. The kid stopped bawling and I thought good, it would go to sleep now. But when I stopped licking the brat began howling again. In frustration I sat on its face, saying it should lick mine.

Daisy should have said get off her, you'll suffocate her. But she didn't. She stared and held the struggling brat's legs to hold her still. For some reason I settled my weight on Pearl's face and the brat was struggling for air, and I grabbed the kids arms and pinned them down. But most of all I enjoyed the sensation of the kid's face under my crotch. The child was crying and bubbling under me and getting weak, and as I didn't want it to stop I eased up, let it get some air, and then settled back down. I did that for ten minutes. Sit, wait, ease up, sit back down, wriggle and enjoy. Daisy just stared at me, watching me suffocate her little sister with my pussy.

Almost suffocate her, but not entirely. I probably had no intention of actually smothering Pearl, but we were interrupted as the phone rang and Daisy fled to answer it. Probably her mother and father checking up that little Pearl was okay. I got off and let the kid lie there, but at least she wasn't crying quite as much and hey, I had really enjoyed it. But I didn't want the sounds of the kid crying to drift downstairs to the phone so I knelt by Pearl's bedside and clamped one hand over her little face and the other arm across the child's bare chest, stopping her lifting her arms to fight me off. As I did it I got a lovely feeling in my belly. I suppose it was, even by all the things I had already done, the most exciting thing of all. I was in control of a person. Totally.

Of course I had controlled Daisy to a large degree, but she was supine. She went along with it. If I said lie still I want to piss on you, she did. If I slapped her arse, or her face, she let me. It was good but it was easy. But this was different. This was controlling a reluctant being, and I loved it. The brat bubbled under my hand but my plan worked. She was quiet enough, and in a few moments Daisy came back. Without a word she resumed her grip on her younger sister's legs and I got back to sitting on the kid's tear-streaked, snot-covered face (having wiped my snot covered hand in the brat's hair). Maybe Daisy understood at that moment what was important. It was my pleasure in making the toddler suffer. She watched and held the kid's legs as I did my settle and smother and release routine, until I had the orgasm I wanted. Pearl must have been exhausted from it all because she quickly fell asleep. We covered her up with a blanket and went back to Daisy's room.

I felt utterly aroused and my friend and I talked about how good it had been. Daisy was allowed to finger herself and rub as we talked, and I decided that Pearl needed more correction, as I called it. But the child needed to do two things first of all: she needed to know I was in charge and not tell anyone what had happened. Pearl promised she would keep the kid quiet, maybe tell her parents her little sister had some nightmare if it came to that, and persuade her to keep quiet. Apparently the brat liked ice cream, so we decided the kid would be bribed with a few cones and choc ices, too. It was good plan and I celebrated by having Daisy rim my arse to my satisfaction.

The danger point was the next morning when the brat woke and told her parents what had happened. But apparently she didn't. She was fairly docile in the morning, Daisy told me, and never mentioned anything about it. Maybe, I speculated, we wouldn't need the ice creams after all.

For the next few days I began to think about what I could do with Pearl. Daisy was important, but suddenly not as valuable to me as this small girl. I got Daisy to bring me pictures of her sister and I started a photo album, called Pearl's Punishment book. Next to the pictures of the kid I wrote little pieces describing the child's fate. It was pretty innocent, as far as real sadism might go, but I liked it. I hid the book in the day and would get it out at night and rub my cunny as I read and re-read my entries. Thinking of things to do to the child wasn't hard, but there was a limit to how much I wanted to write compared with how much I actually wanted to do.

As fate would have it Daisy's family went away a few days for a two-week vacation. Left alone, I masturbated furiously, and even experimented with sitting on an old doll's face to get off that way. But it wasn't the same, and the plastic nose of a doll was no substitute for a real child's nose. In desperation I took the first gamble of my young life. I decided I would find a child and get off on the brat's face.

I thought the local park was probably the best place to go, but I didn't want to be recognised. I caught a bus to a park a few miles away and one I knew had some woodland, and one where I would be anonymous. I wandered round this park trying to find a lone girl of Pearl's age but it was impossible. Little girls, even then, didn't wander off on their own. I began to think I should go home and wait for Daisy and Pearl's return when two things happened that put a new slant on sex.

First of all I found a boy, and I also found his grandmother.

I had for some reason utterly discounted boys as a sexual object. Perhaps no surprise as Sally, Daisy and Pearl and those other casual gropes were all girls. Boys were, even then, weird creatures I had no interest in. I was aware of them at school and they did annoying things like trying to twang your bra back and look up your skirt (girls in my youth all wore skirts to school), and make stupid conversation. I knew they got sexually aroused (there had been a mini-scandal when three boys had been caught wanking each other at school) but I couldn't see the point of them. Now there was a boy, about twelve, who was staring at me with what I called "the look."

I have no idea if such a look was more my imagination, but he was on his own and staring at me. We were near the trees so I took his hand, led him into the densest part and made him lie down. I hardly spoke to him and didn't even ask his name, though it turned out to be Peter, and I shucked off my pants and settled on his face. Now I understand that boys have cocks and their things get hard when aroused, and I saw what happened when I sat on Peter's face and rubbed myself over his nose and mouth. His thin cotton shorts tented up and I told him to free his penis. His willy, as I called it. He did and I was amazed at what I saw, the way it stood up and the shape of it. But I carried on trying to smother him and as I sat facing his lower half I had trapped his arms by his side with my knees. I enjoyed that he couldn't move but perhaps he was just submissive and didn't want to. He wasn't crying like Pearl but he was making a helpless sort of noise, either for air or he thought it was what you did. I have no idea, but I was enjoying this. More, I began to have ideas. Close to me were some stinging nettles and I had a crazy notion I could sting his stiff cock as I moved over his face. I grabbed one nettle (which incidentally hurt my hand) and jabbed the leaves at his cock. The effect on him was electrifying. His blubber became a deep throated, painful moan and I loved the sound. I loved hurting his pathetic stiffy and I was rubbing my slit faster over his face. His small cock was showing blotches of red and white from the nettle but was as hard as before. Better still, I was pressing my cunny down on his face and I had the idea I was about to smother him fully.

I came for the first time like that, and it was the first of many orgasms sat on someone's face.

Now at this point I suppose I had reached a crossroads. I had cum on a boy's face, having hurt his ridiculous erect prick, and maybe some girls would have gone on the become doms. Women who want to hurt men and get off on it. In which case, my Sally, Daisy and Pearl events would have been just experiments, or passing phases. But a woman saved me and kept me interested in females more than men. It was Peter's grandmother.

By rights all hell should have broken loose when she came across us. She had come looking for her grandson and I hadn't, as it turned out, chosen the quietest place in the park. She saw me through the trees, saw what I was doing and yanked me off her son. She told him to get dressed and for a moment looked furious at me. She was a big woman with, as it turned out, heavy boobs. But looking at her bust was a long way from my mind. She was authority and unlike other incidents where I had encountered the anger or disapproval of adults, this was coming from a complete stranger. I had no idea what she would do to me. I was terrified, understandably enough. I had taken a risk and it had backfired. I stood shaking and thinking if Daisy's family had stayed home none of this would have happened. But it had.

The boy Peter hastily straightened himself and I saw he was crying. I wasn't sure now if it was the pain of the nettle or being caught, but oddly he stopped figuring in my life at that moment. Peter's grandmother told him to get off home and not to be so stupid in future, and then she turned to me.

As I say she was a big woman and I remember she had a shock of red hair. Looking back and now I know how old she was, she was younger than than I am now. While to me all adults were ancient she was in fact a reasonable 42. I wish I was in my forties now, but I'm not, and back then anyone older than nineteen was ready for the grave as far as we teens were concerned. I had had a wonderful orgasm and now I felt terrible. I braced myself for an onslaught from this mountain of a woman, but it never came.

Instead the woman, whose name was Di, was to show me more of what I wanted. But I will write about her and how she changed my life the next time I get the opportunity.