wondered how much hair he had between his legs. One Sunday, when he was washing himself, I noticed his hairy chest. This only enhanced my curiosity as to his other parts. He was very friendly to me. Often he stroked my hair, chuckled me under the chin and caressed and fondled me frequently. I always went to him smiling when he spoke. Happening to be at home alone with him one day, I thought: “Now is my chance.”
I went up to him and began to stroke his beard. He must have perceived something in my looks which robbed him of his senses for a moment. He began shivering, and put his hand between my legs as if looking for an entrance. I was standing in front of him. I did not discourage any movement on his part, but smiled encouragingly. He pressed harder, but as yet only on the outside of my fluffy dress. I stepped up closer, between his knees, and smiled. His face reddened and he pulled me to him and kissed me. He then lifted up my dress, pulled down my panties and kissed me passionately on the mouth. He next looked at and began to finger my grotto. This sensation seemed different from anything I had ever before experienced, due no doubt, to the fact that hitherto I had played only with boys while this was a grown man. I became so excited that I could hardly control myself. I did not know whether he was using one finger or five. But I did not care. I felt as if I was being poked. Excitedly I began to work back and forth, at the same time playing with the hair on his breast. He took my other hand and placed it on his shaft which he had taken out. It was so large I could hardly get my hand around it.
I started working it back and forth while he rubbed my mound and kissed me. We kept this up until suddenly he stiffened out and twisted and squirmed and began to ejaculate in great drops that squirted far into the room. At the same time, part of the hot and sticky deluge flowed across my hand. I also 'came,' for he had quickened the movement on my “kitten' with his finger as he 'came.' When he had finished, he sat there frightened, telling me not to breathe a word of what had happened between us, to anyone. As I shook my head, he kissed me again, got up and went out. For several days I hardly saw him. He was apparently ashamed. This also affected me, and when I would see him approaching, I would run away. About a week later, while playing in the backyard with my brothers, I saw him go into the house. Since my mother had gone out previously, I knew that he would be all alone up in his room. Without hesitating I sneaked up after him, my heart beating wildly and rapidly, and I quivering in excitement.
When I entered the kitchen, he reached eagerly for me, his hands shaking. I threw myself into his arms and he at once put his hand between my legs and began to finger my slit. We sat down beside each other and he put his tool into my hand. I now had a good chance to examine it, and I must say, even after all these years, having had thousands of shafts not only pushed into my grotto but into every opening in my body, that this was an exceptionally fine specimen of a healthy, strong spear, twice as long as Robert's, somewhat bent, with a large red head; and a great mass of dark hair surrounding it. I certainly could have had a great time with it had I been but a few years older and more developed. I eagerly manipulated this massive member with one hand, as I had learned to do from Robert. When I tired, and stopped working, he whispered: “Go on, my angel; my darling girl; my little sweet-heart! For goodness sake, go on… don't stop!” Much pleased at these pet names, I worked hard and tried to do what he wanted. Soon he 'squirted' so high that the deluge almost struck me in the face. A few days later, during a repeat performance, he said: “Darling, angel, sweetheart.” I was doing my best to please him, throwing my hips around as he was working at my grotto. “Oh, goodness,” he continued, “if I could only poke you right… just once, just one little poke!” In a moment I pulled away, laid on the floor on my back, spread my legs apart and said:
“Come on, try it.” He came over, stooped down, coughed and said: “No, damn it. You're too small.” “That's nothing,” I answered. “Try it anyhow.” Half wild, he got on top of me. He put his hand under my bottom, lifted me up and rubbed his tool against my toolbox. I held on to the monstrous machine, making sure that he rubbed it all over. Between shoves, he asked: “Have you been poked before?” Something warned me to deny it. I did so, but he insisted, saying: “Now, angel, tell me, you have been poked, haven't you? I know it. Who was it? Often? Was it good?” I was breathing hard. I could feel his engine jerking, but I still denied it, saying: “No, certainly not. Of course not. This is the first time.” His breath came faster and the pleasure for me became greater. “Is it good?” he asked. “Oh, so good,” I said. Just then he 'went off,' wetting my belly. “Lay still,” he said, and he wiped me clean.
Now he asked: “Are you telling the truth? Come on and tell me.”
I told him that I had seen it done and pointed to the other room. “Yes, yes. Your father and mother.” He wanted me to tell him all, and, as I told him what I had seen and heard, he played with my slit until I again went off. I did not tell Franz that I had been poked by a grown-up man, although he was always talking of Mrs. Rhinelander, dreaming about her…
CHAPTER SIX
After the delightful experience with Mr. Eckhard- for that was the bearded boarder's name-I began to look around for other grown-up men, imagining myself sitting on their knees and playing with their shafts. I looked at many different men. They would stop and stare at me, astonished. One man turned around once and winked at me, but I did not follow him, although I was much excited. After this incident, I often walked out on the streets, hoping to meet a second Mr. Eckhard. At one time, having gone farther away from home than usual, I got lost. Soon it began to grow late and got dark. Presently I met a soldier. I smiled at him, and he looked at me in astonishment, but kept right on walking. Since no one was in sight, I stopped and turned and saw that the soldier had also stopped and was looking back at me. I again smiled and he beckoned to me. My heart was throbbing and my grotto burning, I was so excited. Nevertheless, I stood still, much frightened and yet wildly curious. He hurried back and with a very sober face asked me: “Are you alone?” I nodded. “Then come,” he said, and he led the way round to the bushes. Still frightened but highly elated, I followed him. We had scarcely reached the bushes when he threw me down on my back and at once got on top of me. I felt his big stiff shaft as he pushed it against my slit. I put my hand down and tried to guide it into me. I hurt at every movement, but I said nothing. At last, almost wild, he made a strong effort. I felt the head going into me. It pained me so that I wanted to scream, but I bit my lips to keep quite. I did not want him to stop. Suddenly he 'went off.' Jumping up like a rabbit, he then ran away, not even looking back at me. My insides burned something terrible and I could hardly walk.
But I had been poked. Really and truly poked. All the way in. I had at last lost my maidenhead. As I came out of the bushes and started walking away, I saw the soldier urinating against a tree. It was not quite dark and I began to get scared. I still had no idea of where I was, but I began to walk wildly in random directions, hoping to discover some familiar landmark. I had hardly gone a hundred yards when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Frightened, I turned around and saw a ragged boy somewhat older than myself.
“What did you do with that soldier?” he inquired. “Nothing!” I replied. “So, nothing! I saw it all!” “You saw nothing!” I shouted, almost crying. At this he put his hand between my legs, feeling my still-damp fleece. “You wench,” he said, “I saw the whole business. You were poked by the soldier back in the bushes.”
“Well, what do you want?” I asked him. (I saw that there was no use of further denial.) He stepped up closer to me, squeezing my mound and said: “I want to poke you too, do you understand?” “No! No! Get away, get out of here.” But he slapped me in the face. “I'll show you who to push!” he said. “You'll poke a soldier; me, you want to push away! I'll show you! I'll follow you home and tell your mother. I know you.” With a jump I stepped aside and started to run, but he caught up with me, took me by the shoulder and was about to slap me again. When I saw that it was no use, I said: “All right, come on. I'll let you poke m%.” We went back to the bushes and I got down. He lifted my dress and lay on top of me, saying: “All afternoon I have been waiting for some girl to poke!” “How did you happen to see me?” “I was lying on the grass when the soldier came to you and then I followed the two of you.” He had a nice, pointed spear and poked quite well. I soon began to enjoy it, wondering why I had tried to run away from him. The boy must have enjoyed it too, for he was working like clockwork. Although it was quite painful, I was a very proud girl. Again I was being poked like a grown woman. It took quite a little time for the boy to finish, but at last he was through, at which he jumped up and ran away, and I started walking again. Presently I recognized a familiar building, found my street and made my way home. When I arrived, I found that father and mother were gone. They probably had gone to the inn for the evening. The boys were asleep and Mr. Eckhard also was asleep. When I came in, however, Mr. Eckhard awoke and he whispered to me.
I stepped up to him and he put my hand on his shaft, which was standing straight and stiff. He was completely naked, and I could feel his thighs, stem and sack-in short, everything he had! “Don't you want to diddle?” he asked. I answered: “Not tonight!” He tried to put his hand under my clothes but I drew back, afraid that
