"Roll over," he said. "I'll do the fronts."
By that point, I was no longer thinking clearly. I knew only that nothing I had experienced had ever felt this good. In its own right, that was amazing.
Here I was, a college freshmen who had never been kissed, never touched a girl.
However, I had experienced physical pleasure, even if it only was at my own hand -- and I do mean hand.
A few years earlier, I had discovered masturbation, albeit quite by accident in the shower one day.
It felt pretty good, the process, I mean, but the run up -- there's a term -- was not nearly as good as the final result. My first orgasm frightened me nearly to death. Based on the intensity, I thought something terrible was happening to me.
I survived, though, and as it says on every shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat.
The pleasure related to the tickling, though, was different. While it felt nice to stroke myself, the goal was always to produce an orgasm. The preliminaries were just that, the means to an end.
Tickling was just delicious. It always was, and the legs and sides carried that pleasure to a greater height.It caused me to shudder and at time barely be able to endure it.
Still, hungry for more "new sensations," I flipped over.
He started over again at my ankles, as always, barely touching. The feeling was different as he worked his way over the fronts of my calves, which were covered lightly with blond hair.
At times, he was touching only the hair, brushing his palm over it, making it stand straight up.
When Bobby moved past my knee, something else stood straight up. Embarrassed by the small, white tent, I began to roll over.
Bobby laughed.
