She's accepting our love. I knew she had to. But I needed more. A lot more.It was a Thursday. An autumn evening. I felt anticipation. I planned this for so long. So long...She passed by my house as I was "tending to my garden" near my backyard. I waved to her and "fell" over my rake. She looked scared, frightened that I may be hurt. She came to help me, out of concern and love. Yes, that was it. LOVE. I told her that I may have broken my ankle. I needed her to call for help. I told her to go into my kitchen and use the phone on the wall to call 911. She went inside. But as soon as she walked past my doorway I ran in after her and stopped her. She was petite, so small. She needed me to take care of her. She wanted me to. She loved me. I knew others wouldn't understand, so I locked the door, that way they wouldn't be able to tear us apart. I unplugged the phone in the wall before all of this anyway, so even if she came in and dialed faster than I could run, she wouldn't have been able. We spent a lot of time together, shopping, cooking, vacationing we were use to seeing eachother naked or walking around in our underwear. I guess I became the friend my dad never was to her. Mum taught me about the birds and the bees, and I found myself better prepared when I started puberty. But preparation could only do so much for me, at 13 I found myself becoming a man. I masturbated for the first time in my bedroom, fantasizing about a girl in my class at school, and was very surprised to find hot, sticky cream covering my hands and the blankets. I realized it was cum, remembering what my mother had taught me about my body. I rubbed it into my stomach and chest, not really understanding yet what had happened, but wanting more. I soon found myself in a jerk-off frenzy. Two, three, five, a day. I couldn't stop myself. Imagination wore out as a means to satisfy myself. I began to search through everything for stimulating pictures: the lingerie section of mums catalogs. I would have.
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