Sometimes I just can't help relive the memories of the man across the street. I was fifteen, about to turn sixteen and the man across the street would look at me. He would stop doing whatever he was doing and look at me. The only way out of the house was to walk out the front door or go down the driveway and walk to the bus stop, or to the store. He would sit on his porch, and if I walked out he would stop doing what he was doing and look at me. Of course I knew his name and all, he was our neighbor for a long time, and he knew my name and my grade and when I went to school and when I came home. He was retired.

I ran into him at the store, he was getting his groceries and I was just bumming around. He said I looked pretty, but then again he always thought I was the pretties of the me and my sisters. And he said, he noticed that I had been visited and was getting my boobies. He told me that he liked girls to have nice boobies, not overly big, not overly small, but juuuuust right, and he laughed. He leaned over and whispered and asked me what color were my nipples, if I had brown nipples, he really liked brown nipples. And he took my hand and put it on his pants and asked me if I felt something, because he really felt something when he saw me, and he had something that every girl wanted, pressing my hand on his very hard penis. He held my hand there, and whispered again, what color were my nipples. I told him they were brown just like he said, and he said that he loved kissing and sucking nice new boobies with brown nipples, just thought I would want to know.

After that day I tended to hold my books across my chest when I walked out of the house to go to school. But one day he stopped me on the way home from the school bus and told me to hold my shoulders back when I walked, and get those damn books away from his boobies, he wanted me to walk proud of his boobies, and they were his boobies, he reminded me, show them off, he wanted me to walk holding my 'tits' out.

I went over to his house on a homework excuse, I wore a shirt that showed off my chest, I also wore shorts. I asked him to help me, if he knew about math, to help me with my homework because my mother didn't know anything. He complimented me, told me he liked me standing up straight, point those titties out, he put his hands up in the air in front of my boobs and made like he was turning knobs on the radio. I stood my ground, I held my chest out, until he had to grab and he grabbed and held my boobies and pinched my nipples and asked if he could see my brown nipples.

My shirt off, my naked boobs in his hands, pinching my brown nipples, he leaned over to suck and he held me by the ass, he looked at me and said he just had to fuck. He got my shirt off and my bra fell down my arms, and I helped him get my shorts off, and I felt a bit self conscious when he got my underwear off, I hadn't thought about what panties to wear, I was wearing regular panties like I wore to school, he sat on his chair holding me and looking at me, his fingers slowly running around my pubic parts, he would kiss and suck my tits, now he was calling them tits, as he undid his pants and we walked back to his room.

I knew that I had to lay on my back, and I did and I opened my legs. His pants were off and he was taking off his shirt and then he laid down on top of me and we had our first. See, it was really good, maybe it was that he was so strong, or maybe it was that by then I had a buzz, but it was really good. It is not that I remember the penetration itself, I don't, what I remember is the feeling of being close. There would be many more penetrations, and some of those I remember with great clarity, the pomp, the ceremony, his hard penis in my hand, the penetration. I remember those. But that first time I don't know that I remember the penetration, I just remember that it felt so good I didn't want him to let me go.

That is why I relive the memory of the man across the street. It always felt good, I don't have a memory of it ever not feeling so good. He really did like my boobs, with my brown nipples, and he was good at math, and for that year and half before we moved, I spent a lot of time across the street. My sisters each had their own place to be, they had boyfriends of their own, and I had mine.

I went along and married a man who never quite was the same. It took me a long time to get over the fact that the man I married could not make me feel like my neighbor across the street. He just could never hold me the same. I believe that it is the way that you are held that makes all the difference, in the end the penetration is pretty much all the same, or maybe it is that when you get older you don't let yourself be held like that again.