I took a pledge in high school to remain a virgin until I was married. I came from a conservative religious family and the church was my harbor in the stormy sea of adolescence. Frankly, it didn't seem like a big decision at the time. My best friends were members of the same church and several of us took the pledge together. We bolstered our pledge by prayer as well as counsel from the preacher and church elders on how we should conduct ourselves to avoid stoking the carnal fires of teenagers.
Not that panting boys besieged me. I was as ordinary as a girl could be: average height, average weight, brown hair, and brown eyes. The only exceptional thing about me was my tits. They were exceptionally tiny. Barely an angle interrupted the geometry of my chest. My nipples, however, seemed, well, large and obscene and embarrassing. I kept them well covered as I did the rest of my body, usually wearing loose skirts that reached below my knees.
My senior year, when I was eighteen, I had my first boy friend. Donald was in my church and had also taken the pledge. Neither of us had a car so our dating was mostly confined to church parties, studying together, and watching television. We cuddled some on the sofa in our TV room and kissed chastely -- but we never, never allowed our hands or mouths to stray to forbidden zones.
That remained true for several weeks, but one night, sitting on the sofa together, Don moved his hand from my shoulder to my waist, his fingers running slowly over my chest. It was an accident and I giggled but his mouth found mine and he pushed himself close to me and his hand ran down my back and under the waistband of my skirt.
We drew apart after a minute, both embarrassed by our unseemly grappling, but we sat a little closer than usual the rest of the night and I opened my lips when he kissed me. Our next date was another descent down the slope of sinful acts. We sat together on the sofa and his hand again found its way to my breast and, this time, it stayed there while we kissed, and I broke one of the rules I had learned for preserving my chastity. I took my feet off the floor.
We had several sessions after that and I got used to his hand on my breast and even allowed his fingers inside my blouse and under my bra to feel my large, embarrassing nipples. His hand often ran over my buttocks and pulled me close to him and I could sense the hardness of his penis beneath the fabric of his blue jeans.
Well, all this kissing and feeling, we agreed, violated neither the letter nor the spirit of our pledge of chastity. Rather, we were experiencing a permissible sample of the delights that would await us when we were married -- as we would be within a short time after graduating from high school. And, oh dear God, how we looked forward to fulfilling our religious obligation to procreate.
It was Christmas vacation when Don came over late one night to watch a movie. My parents had already gone to bed. I was in my flannel pajamas: long, loose trousers held on with a drawstring and a untucked top that buttoned down the front. I thought about getting dressed, but the pajamas were modest, and, sinful though it may have been, the thought crossed my mind that his hand could find my breasts easier under the loose top of the pajamas than if I put on a bra and blouse. It didn't take long for him to discover that.
We lay on the sofa side-by-side and, for the first time, a boy's mouth found my nipples. They were so hard and big and embarrassing and he sucked and sucked them as I turned onto my back and he rolled over on top of me and he pressed against my groin. He began to hunch, his body driving harder and harder against mine, and I spread my legs, and he pitched wildly back and forth, breathing hard and moaning in ecstasy, and then he collapsed, his labored breathing hot against my neck.
I wasn't quite sure what had happened -- but I thought he had "climaxed." I was not entirely innocent of climaxes. I had discovered masturbation much earlier in my teens and, although I considered it a minor sin, I didn't resist doing it on occasion. But I didn't have much idea what happened when a man climaxed. "Cum" was a word that still wasn't in my vocabulary.
What I now knew was that the hard member in his jeans quickly went away after his last spasm and he relaxed in my arms, not even able to respond when I twitched my hips to enjoy better the feel of him. He laid his head on my bare breasts -- only a month before the notion of uncovering my breasts for a man would have been unthinkable. Once, in the community swimming pool, my top had slipped and exposed a breast to a whole crowd of boys. It had been weeks before I got the courage to return to the pool. The boys called me "buttons."
Don was concerned that his passion had repulsed me. I assured him it had not and we prayed over the matter. We concluded that our passions were a healthy sign from God of the wedded bliss that soon awaited us. We should restrain ourselves, of course, to demonstrate our strength and avoid temptation. But God recognized that mankind was weak and sinful and would forgive us. We would, we affirmed to each other, keep our solemn pledge of chastity.
It was only two nights later that the same thing happened again, and this time I wrapped my legs around Don to and moved in concert with him. He cummed again, and I suppressed the wish that he had lasted longer for I was nearly ready myself.
