Chosen by Sharon
Two teenagers enjoy sexual experimentation when she babysits for her little brother while her parents are out drinking.
An excerpt:
They clowned and tumbled and sometimes fought on her lawn while Sharon held court as she did every Friday, sitting on the top step of her front porch. Her perfect heart-shaped face smiled down at them: Classic Snow White face, black hair, black eyebrows, large blue eyes, white translucent skin, high prominent cheekbones, small red mouth above a delicate porcelain chin.
As they cavorted for her attention, they stole looks at the body below the face, archetypal Earth Mother body, all curves and roundness beneath the skirt and blouse that could hide nothing because it was all so prominent; the large round breasts, the round hips and buttocks, the round thighs, stirred their adolescent glands as a classic figure could not have, because nothing was left to their undeveloped imaginations.
"Hey, did you hear this one?" the oldest and most obnoxious of them called. As he sang/chanted, his eyes kept darting to Sharon to make sure she was listening. "My brother lies over the ocean, my sister lies over the sea, my father lies over my mother, and that's the beginning of me."
Smirks and smiles and snickers. Sharon showed small white cat's teeth in a grin. "That's awful," she said.
"How 'bout this—I'm looking under, the skirts of wonder, that I underlooked before. First come the ankles, then come the knees, then come the panties that blow in the breeze. No need explaining, the thing remaining, is something that I adore. I'm looking under the skirts of wonder, that I underlooked before."
"That's really awful," Sharon said, standing up. That was their signal. "I better go in now."
They began to disperse, sorting out their bikes in sullen silence in her driveway. Art lived just two doors away, so he never brought his bike. He loitered in the driveway, watching them as they snuck quick glances at Sharon, who still stood there imperious, looking out into the street, ignoring them. Bikes began to whir away. Art watched them go, heard their voices without hearing any individual words, walked slowly down the driveway, turned onto the sidewalk, head down. Then he looked up at Sharon's rounded silhouette against the white, lighted door.
"You can stay for a while," she said. "Come on and sit down with me." Her parents were out drinking as they did every Friday and she was sitting for her baby brother.
So he sat next to her on the top step of the porch. She leaned toward him. "You don't show off like them," she said. "Don't tell dirty jokes and things."
"No, I—" Blood pounded in his head. Her face loomed. He put an arm around her shoulders; faces touched, dry lips touched dry lips, but then her tongue was there, moistening, and his tongue touched hers, and both arms were around her, round soft breasts grew flatter against his hard straight slender chest.
"Maybe we should go inside," she said, standing and taking his hand. On the couch, they kissed wetly again; his hand was surprised that her back was not soft at all, it was solid flesh, bones beneath, but her hip was softer, her thigh was softer, rounder, his hand went around it toward the inside—
Her breath against his ear: "Boy, you're sure going awful fast. But you can't—that's not—I can't, I don't wanna get pregnant."
"But you wouldn't, not from touching—"
"Wait." She pushed him away, held him at forearm's length, Snow White face pink now; his hand was still hotly on her thigh, her eyes were large, her black eyebrows raised, her heart-mouth curved in a small smile. "I like you," she said.
Blood was still pounding. "I like you," he said through the noise of the blood in his head. "I love you," and his hand rose from her thigh and grasped the breast above. She pushed at him, twisted away, and stood up.
"Wait," she said again. "We can't—we just can't do things. We can't—but here—" Her hands went to her back, he didn't know what she was doing until she pulled the bra out from beneath her blouse and put it on the coffee table. Then she unbuttoned the blouse and opened it. Her nipples were so small, such a pale pink, that he could hardly see them.
"Oh God," and his hands reached for them.
"No," she said. "Wait. You can look at me, they all want to look at me, I know, I'll let you—here, you can look." Balancing awkwardly, a hand on the arm of the couch, she stripped her panties down and off and sat again, a little farther from him now, leaning back into the corner of the couch, pulling her skirt up.
She had so much hair there, such a tangle of hair; he leaned forward, peering between her round white thighs into the darkness—"Don't touch it!" she said, "Don't—here, you can touch me here, I think that's okay," taking his hand and pressing it against a breast. The large breast was soft but the little nipple was hard as his hand worked against it. "Oh God," he said again.
And she was touching him through his trousers. "Now you gotta let me look, too," she said.
"What?" Absorbed in what his hand was touching, feeling, what her hand was touching, feeling.
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