Old Enough To Vote But…

Old Enough to Vote But…

Old enough to vote but not yet stroked; just out of high school awaiting acceptance to university and still a virgin. It’s depressing being eighteen but folks not seeing you that way or treating you that way because of your build; having mostly fresh, mumbling early teen boys hitting on you or worse yet old freaks that see you as jail bait but are willing to take the chance. The only guys of the ‘right’ age to approach you almost always turn out to be downright jerks or the shy inexperienced ones too timid and indecisive to take the lead and take you to the heights of pleasure your body so badly wants. That was a page from my diary a long time ago.

I was puttering around my garden on a windy afternoon as best I could with my heavy seven and a half months pregnant belly, tending to my flower plants while enjoying the strong wind and weak sunlight playing against my skin. My thin cotton maternity dress was being threateningly blown around my ripening body; luckily it was not too short. At age thirty eight I was preparing to bring forth my fourth child after a long break.

As I bent over to spade around the root of a plant I heard a sudden piercing whistle that left no doubt about its nature or direction. I truly felt as if the sound had struck me on my stuck out ass. I straightened up more out of annoyed curiosity than anything else and glared at the source of my interruption. I looked into a leering face that was stamped with as much lechery as the gone whistle. The owner was a man who looked to be in his mid-sixties or thereabouts. As he stared lustily and unabashedly at my pregnant body I felt like hurling the spade at his old ass, but that feeling of hostility was fleeting for it was quickly replaced by a sweet blast of nostalgia, brought to life by the combination of strong wind, the whistle and my billowing cotton dress. I was also a little bit tickled by his forwardness, because I have a weak spot for much older men. I quickly glanced at a patch of buttercups and my mind took me back to a time long gone but yet alive in a special corner of my heart and memory. I felt a pleasurable tingling; so instead of throwing the spade I threw a pleasant smile and a little wave of hand at the old guy who continued on his way, shaking his head in a manner that suggested he was regretting his age and longing for younger days.

I watched him disappear around the bend just as a sudden drizzle pelted down from the sky. I hurried indoors, still feeling the tingling in my body. Smiling inside I went to my bedroom and headed for a window where I looked out at the falling rain and a mental vision of my past. Lost in sweet revelry I brought one hand to my lower stomach and rubbed it gently as the other hand crept up to my bosom, brushing against a bra-less nipple that was quickly hardening. It wasn’t long before the hand on my stomach ventured lower and came to rest in the area of my swollen groin. I bent over to better touch my tingling crotch. My other hand pulled at a long hot nipple and I hissed softly. I waddled over to my bed where I lay on my back with legs bent at the knees and spread wide. I moved aside the leg of my underwear and gently patted my wet pussy as I thought of that day long ago.

It was a hot and windy day and I was hurrying along the street thinking with watering mouth about the ice cream I was on my way to purchase. I was dressed in a short armless pink blouse that hugged my bare ‘A’ cup breasts and left a few inches of my smooth chocolate tummy outside. Below the blouse was a short loose pink skirt of light cotton material that blew freely in the wind. Looking up the street I saw the familiar figure of Mr. Whyte the neighborhood builder/repairman; he was attending to his gleaming black bicycle which seemed to have slipped its chain. Mr. Whyte was a man somewhere in his forties, I believed. He was a short and wiry individual of a light complexion and curly brown hair due to his mixed ancestry: black, and a couple of other races, maybe East Indian, Portuguese and Amerindian or whatever. He had the reputation of being a ladies man, and had deep brown eyes that seemed to look right through you to your private parts and thoughts. He would stared strongly at me with a slight smile whenever we passed each other on the streets or he rode by our house on his bicycle with its ever present tool bag.

When I was about fifteen feet away from Mr. Whyte the wind upped strength and lifted the flimsy skirt up around my waist. It took a little while for me to get it back down. I heard a low whistle that was as sexual as a whistle could be, and as I passed by him his words tantalized my little girl mind.
“Yellow, girl, yellow,” he said, referring to the colour of my nylon underwear. “Nice little buttercup, yellow and mellow, my favorite color and favorite flower, you are my little flower girl.”
I lowered my head shyly but looked at him sideways and managed a little trembling smile. To say I was delighted was an understatement. I’d never been talked to so sensually and directly by any male. I felt a tingling sensation take over my entire young body; it felt as if all my pores were exploding. I quickened my steps against my will and hurried away enjoying the rapture I was caught up in.

When I got home I quickly deposited the ice cream in the refrigerator, telling my mother that I would eat it later after I’d bathed. I headed for the bathroom and standing before the mirror, quickly lifted my skirt up above my waist looking dreamy eyed and appraisingly at my yellow panties and my ‘buttercup’. I slipped out of my skirt and blouse and just stood there looking at my blossoming body, feeling all grown up and desirable. I was a mere four feet eleven inches in height, weighing about one hundred and five pounds, a considerable amount of which was settled in my ass hips and thighs. I pulled up the waist of my panty causing it to cling snugly to my virgin mound, accentuating its plumpness and giving it a nice little camel toe look. I will admit that my mound even without hair to pad it up in my underwear was a sizable lump, more than the normal size. I knew this from comparison with other girls when we showered after games. So I can imagine why Mr. Whyte whistled when he caught sight of my nylon covered crotch; it was quite a handful by any standards. I turned around and examined my round, full ass, the crack of which the panties had slipped into. I was pleased with the sight of the rounded cheeks and felt my little yet to be touched pussy pulsing as I became turned on just looking at my sexy young body that glowed like polished chocolate. I brought one hand up and tweaked both little nipples pulling them outward firmly. With the panties crotch now sunk into my tight but wet little crack I rolled my hips and made little humping movements against the damp fabric.

A minute later I pulled off the panties and stepped under the shower. As the water engulfed me I used one hand to massage and pinch my little breasts and nipples while the other hand flittered over my stiffened clit. After a while I parted my crack and slipped a finger into my hot slick tunnel and began finger fucking my little pussy frantically. I came quicker than I’d ever come before, moaning and whimpering as my legs give way to my explosion and I sunk to the floor thinking about Mr. Whyte and the suggestiveness of his whistle and nice words.

That night I lay in bed for a couple of hours conjuring possible sexual scenarios as I played with myself. After a couple of intense orgasms I dropped off to sleep and dreamed of being fucked by a number of men who resembled Mr. Whyte, and sometimes took on the shape of dogs and horses and monkeys.

The next time I crossed paths with Mr. Whyte he greeted me with a charming smile and said:
“How is my little flower girl today, eh, buttercup?” my head immediately felt light, like I was intoxicated, and all the pores on my body rose to salute him. I smiled and without daring to look into those piercing eyes told him:
“Fine thank you Mr. Whyte.” And started hurrying away, not knowing what else to do.
“Call me Bertrand.” he said, behind my retreating back.

From that day onwards whenever we met he would call me buttercup, but the little girl in me could not get me to say Bertrand to his face, sometimes being seen as ‘little’ can make you think you’re little, so I reserved that luxury for my mind and quiet whisperings when I was alone in my bedroom or bathroom pleasuring myself.