By my 17th Birthday, I was on the verge of outgrowing my C-cup. When people thought I was out of ear-shot, I heard words like “well-endowed,” “nubile” and “voluptuous.” But appearances, as they say, can be deceiving. Between sports, a part-time job and honors-track classes, I didn’t have time, or energy, or much in the way of sexual experimentation. For one thing, I was nervous around guys. And guys were pretty much everywhere. Alone I was more relaxed. I enjoyed watching myself undress in a mirror. Sometimes I even took a hand mirror and put it between my legs to study myself “down there.” In bed, I’d caress my nipples and pinch my labia. It was good, very, very good–although I hadn’t quite managed a full-blown orgasm. All that changed the summer I visited Aunt Wendy’s cattle ranch in eastern Wyoming. On the drive back from the airport, Aunt Wendy pulled a small silver flask from the glove compartment of her pickup. “Darlin’, meet my best friend Johnny Walker,” she said passing it to me. “Have a slug.” Aunt Wendy was a year older than my Dad. As children, they were Army brats, shuffling between military bases every few years. By High School, however, their personalities were becoming very different. Aunt Wendy was wild and wayward, my Dad was shy and studious. They were living in Wyoming when Aunt Wendy got pregnant and married a rancher’s son. I knew my parents didn’t entirely approve of Aunt Wendy, which made her all the more alluring. So I tried my best to please her by tossing my head back a taking a long swig from her flask. Of course, as soon as the whiskey hit the back of my throat, I crumbled into a coughing fit. After Wendy stopped laughing and I’d regained my speech, she pumped mamak escort me for juicy news about my relatives. She loved family gossip, the more salacious the better. I filled her in on all the rumors I’d heard, and overheard. And she updated on her side of the family. Cousin Bobby had come out of the closet. Cousin Phil lost his construction job and was living in a trailer park. Aunt Phillis was at a San Diego rehab clinic (no wonder) and while she was away her husband had shacked up with a nymphette hairdresser half his age. “What about your love life, Darlin’?” she asked with a pointed look in my direction. “What love life?” I said, perhaps a little wistfully. “I don’t have time for a love life.” “Figured as much,” she said, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Your Dad was the same when he was your age.” She spent the next ten minutes pumping me for specifics: Had I ever seen a naked man? Touched one? Been touched? I told Wendy pretty much everything, except the part about touching myself. That was just way too embarrassing. As her pickup bounced down the dirt driveway to the ranch, Aunt Wendy winked at me and said: “Nothing much new around here either, ‘cept, maybe the scenery has improved a mite.” When we parked, I saw what she meant. Lunging a pony in the coral was the most exquisite man I’d ever seen in the flesh. He looked about 20, was naked to the waist, and his tanned chest glowed like burnished copper in the Wyoming sun. His shoulders and pecs were perfectly defined, almost as if chiseled in stone, and his abs rippled every time he tugged on the lunge line. His tight, faded Levis left little to the imagination. “I see what ofise gelen escort you mean,” I whispered to Aunt Wendy. “That’s Skip,” she said with a wink. “He’s the ag student that’s helping out this summer. Sure is an improvement over the regular bunch.” That would be the permanent ranch hands, three grizzled old men with weathered faces the texture of lizzard skin and the bad teeth to match. Improvement didn’t begin to describe it. Aunt Wendy wasted no time introducing Skip. He took my hand and looked me straight into me eye. As our skin touched the blood rushed to my cheeks and I was suddenly terrified he could tell how excited just looking at him was making me feel. We exchanged “nice to meet you’s” while Aunt Wendy beamed like a cat that had just eaten the canary. “Does Skip have a girlfriend?” I asked as soon as we reached the front porch. “I have no idea, Darlin’,” Aunt Wendy said as we walked to the house. “But even if he does, it wouldn’t mean a thing. That boy is as randy as a Spring mare.” Skip joined us in the house for dinner, something the permanent hands almost never did. At the table, he was soft-spoken and almost taciturn, although endearingly passionate when he talked about ranching. Whenever he looked at me, I felt as if I were being undressed. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it was flustering. I was blushing and tongue-tied, which was totally unlike me. In my honor, Aunt Wendy had baked Brown Betty a la mode for desert. I was on my second bite when Skip’s fingers brushed my thigh, sending a cascade of little shivers down my spine. I told myself it was accidental, but a moment later his fingers were otele gelen escort back, this time caressing me in a way that could only be deliberate. I considered pushing his hand away, but Skip’s fingers were evoking sensations I’d never felt before. He’d begin by touching just above my knee, then slowly tracing a path up the inside of my thigh. Each time he repeated this caress, it ended closer and closer to the gap between my legs, and my entire body pulsed with a sexual energy and anticipation. A tiny voice commanded me to make Skip stop. But I was powerless against the pent up urges and antificaption that Skip’s magic fingers were releasing. Then, from somewhere far away, I realized another voice was demanding my attention. “I see you still love my Brown Betty,” Aunt Wendy was saying, watching me with a conspiratorial grin. “Oh, my Goodness, yes!” I blurted. “It just keeps getting better and better.” From the corner of my eye, I saw a mischievous sparkle in Skip’s eyes as his fingertips made a final push between my legs. “Mmmmmmmm,” I sighed. “You’ve changed the recipe, haven’t you?” Aunt Wendy’s look darted from me to Skip and back. “Sugar and spice,” she replied in a whisper. “Don’t you just love it?” As soon as the table was cleared, I ran to my room, pleading the incredibly lame excuse of jet-lag. The guest-room had French doors that opened onto a hedge-enclosed porch. The cottage furniture was pale cream and the bed was made with a hand-stitched country comforter. It crossed my mind that there must be worse places for a girl to lose her virginity. My pussy was still tingling from Skip’s caresses. I slipped out of my jeans and checked my panties, the front panel was moist and warm. Looking for a distraction, I curled into a recliner, grabbed the TV remote and channel surfed until I found a fluffy teen romance called “The Truth about Cats and Dogs.” The plot was straight from Cyrano de Bergerac, but at least the characters were sympathetic and engaging. However, if the goal had been to take my mind off sex, it wasn’t working.