My g-string undergarments where rubbing up and down my labia as I was walking towards the table. I was certain that my pussy scent would end up soiling through my skirt. “Must…learn…self…control,” reciting in my head while each footstep clinked onto the floor with my stiletto heels. While trying to refrain from pussy juices gushing in my panties, I sat next to Jake. Abruptly, I felt a slight hand pulling my black pencil skirt, slowly. My thighs were quivering, yet he was nonchalant. I had to keep a poker face. Self control was not an option. The viscosity of pussy juices flowed freely on Jake’s finger. I had slowly exhaled. “Count each time my finger is inserted in you,” he whispered in my left ear. When he finished stroking my pussy with 233 strokes, Jake guided my left hand to my labia. There, under table and tablecloth, my clitoris was fully exposed to the air and hidden from the world. “Slowly, insert your left index finger in your cunt, five times.” Glancing looking into. Mom told me on the ride home that she got chills when we did 'Oh Holy Night', that was how good it was.I could see the Porter clan becoming a family band, maybe becoming Oregon's answer to the Cowsills or the Osmonds. Of course neither of those family groups had found widespread recognition yet, so I had to explain to Mom and Dad, who at least I could explain it to. I threw in the Jackson Five while I was at it, but I didn't say a word about the unappealing morass of weird that was Michael Jackson's later life.That discussion led to a longer one once we got home about upcoming events, looking towards what we could use to our advantage, of course.There was little I remembered about the remainder of 1961 that could be used to our advantage. There was no SuperBowl yet, as the AFL and NFL would not merge until 1970.The Rose Bowl was a big event each year, and I even knew who won this year. Not because of the teams, or anything special that happened on the field. I remembered it because.
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