Tara, Chapter 1

by Chrestomathist

When I was 11, my cousin Rachel molested me. I don't really mind. I didn't enjoy it, per se, but looking back, in a strange way that rough, feral, inept encounter turned me on to sex. Or at least started me on my journey to discovering the joys of sex. And it's been an unusual journey.

Rachel had a severe face, eyebrows always knit together. Black hair, pale skin and a pudgy face with scattered blemishes, not especially attractive, but (now that I am better at evaluating such things) with an ok build. She was 14 when she molested me, and she always seemed older to me than she was. To me, she was one notch under the adults. Some older siblings, cousins, friends of the family, whatever, are nice to you and you thnk of them warmly. Rachel was never mean to me (before the day she molested me), but her serious face and clipped manner of speech was off-putting and intimidating. I didn't like her.

She was babysitting me one night. I was at that age not where I resented having a babysitter, but where I resented having one so close to my age. So I suppose I wasn't Miss Friendly. But don't worry, I definitely don't blame myself for what happened. Just giving you an idea of the dynamic. It started out tamely enough. She wanted to practice kissing — not on the lips, eww!, she clarified, but kissing on the neck, the ears, that kind of thing. She didn't make it sound like something I would like — she wouldn't have cared — but she definitely didn't give me the idea it would be something that would be disgusting and horrifying. Whatever. I let her.

Mistake. Soon enough she was bruising my shoulders by gripping me so hard, she was coating my neck and ears in spit, and I made the mistake of trying to wriggle away. She fought back by slamming me down so my head hit the floor — we were on the floor, in front of the couch, don't ask me why — and my eyes flew open and I gasped. That was a definite surprise. Now it wasn't so eww! for her anymore because she smashed her mouth against mine and started lapping at my mouth and pounding her tongue around in there. Her grip was still tight on my shoulders and I was too stunned to cry and too scared to protest anymore. She started humping me, then roughly rubbing my crotch, which at least freed one of my shoulders. Then she yanked me up into a seated position and pulled my t-shirt off me, that's as naked as either of us got, but she lapped some more at my budding boobs and curled her fingers into a fist in my hair and rubbed my crotch some more, rubbed it till it hurt. The whole thing seemed to take forever but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Then she was wiping her mouth and all "you better not tell your mom" and blah blah, and she had the decency to leave me alone for a while so I could deal with the aftermath.

The aftermath was strange. I was repulsed by Rachel and what she had done, and I was coated in spit and half naked on the floor, but the dominant feeling in me was one that was foreign to me — the subversive thrill of what I have from that moment on called "you're not supposed to." I felt a rush that Rachel and I (as though I had participated in the slightest) had done something you're not supposed to. I had never felt that rush before, and I could tell how addictive it was going to be.

It would be a couple years before I recognized that the rush was amplified when sex was involved. Hell, it would be a couple years before I even made the mental connection between what Rachel had done and sex, after all, we were both girls, and I knew enough when I was 11 and 12 to know that sex was between a boy and a girl (ha!). But recognize that I did, by the time I was 14 myself — actually, 13, a year younger than Rachel had been. I started giving blow jobs to boys not because I enjoyed having a dick in my mouth and smelly pubes in my face, but because "you're not supposed to" give blow jobs to boys when you're 14. That was the rush for me. No one was going near my pussy, other than me, but by the end of the summer of my 15th year I'd done a LOT of things "you're not supposed to," most involving sex. I had had jiz in my mouth, on my chest, in my hair; I'd had a finger in boys' asses, and even (once) my tongue; I'd made a high school senior blow his load all over the band room at school during school hours, I'd finger fucked a female student teacher to a torrential orgasm in the front seat of her car in the school parking lot; I'd even ravaged an 11 year old female cousin of my own, though my triumph was in doing it much more gently, much more consensually, and much better than Rachel had with me.

MUCH better. I remember being obsessed with comparing what I was doing to Laurie to what Rachel had done to me, and making sure every last detail was opposite the horrendous groping I'd gotten. Laurie and I still have sex every now and then to this day, when she's back from college, and it's different than with anybody else — "we're not supposed to," and all that, but I also am always trying to paper over the memory of my encounter with Rachel by making new, better memories with Laurie. That's probably a lot of unfair baggage to put on her, but she hasn't ever once complained.

So. How does a teenager who gets a rush from sexual acts because they're verboten achieve her ultimate high?

I want to introduce you to my mom, Jeannie.