Pokey Denise

Denise has always been self-conscious about her small breast-size. She doesn't know that her longtime boyfriend Paul absolutely adores her tiny titties!

Part One

In 1982, the one thing that I, Paul Larrimore, liked the best about my 18-year-old girlfriend’s body was the very same thing she hated most about it: She possessed pokey, barely noticeable breasts. Call me odd, but I thought they were incredibly sexy little things. They were a total turn-on to me from the first day they finally sprouted. Denise, however, desperately wanted a voluptuous chest that didn’t look like a “rack” best suited for a sixth-grade girl. She was not going to get that wish.

In retrospect, it was sort of fitting that Denise Waterford had become my girlfriend during the sixth grade. She was a brunette with dimples and shoulder-length wavy hair. We were both in Mrs. Kendall’s class. Both of us were among her top students. Denise was also an excellent artist. In contrast, I often joked that “I couldn’t draw a bath.” I was honestly attracted to Denise because she had a very pretty face and a warm, truly fun spirit about her. Similarly, Denise said she was attracted to me because I was “a cute, fun boy to be around.” Fair enough!

Unlike my male classmates who were pursuing females for companionship—and other reasons—for the first time in their lives, I didn’t care that Denise was on the lower end of the bell curve in tit development. In those days she had no womanly build whatsoever. Zilch. You will see a great variety of “builds” (if you can accurately call them that) on a typical cross-section of 12-year-old females. Some have been blessed with the torsos the equal of 15-year-olds while others more closely resemble eight-year-olds. There was no denying that Denise fit the latter category.

The first time I took Denise out on a real, official date, we went to a movie matinee. She easily passed inspection for the under-13 admission price, while my age was questioned by the teenage girl who was in the booth selling tickets. Denise, who was a month older than I was, thought little of it at first, but then she became noticeably irked when a 10-year-old girl a few spots behind us in the queue had her age questioned by the cashier. There was only one reason that happened. (Actually, I guess it was for two reasons.) She was precociously busty for her young age.

“That will never happen to me, Paul” Denise grumbled. “I suspect I’ll be able to get into movies for the child’s price when I’m 18 or 19.”

I tried to be a supportive date and friend, so I said what I was supposed to say under the circumstances. “Honestly, Denise, I don’t care about things like that. I asked you to go to a movie with me because I like you, you’re a fun classmate, and you have many great qualities.”

Denise looked at me with an odd expression of wonderment—and then she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me solidly on the lips. It was the first time any girl had honored me in such a way. I joked, “To your list of admirable personal traits, Denise, I’ll have to add that you are a great kisser.”

We became an inseparable couple from that point onward. Fortunately for me, the movie we saw that Saturday afternoon was an absolute turkey and sparsely attended. After about five minutes of tedium, Denise and I wisely retreated to the theater’s balcony and spent most of the 100-minute flick improving on our respective smooching techniques. We both needed the practice. After about 30 minutes, I began pawing Denise a little more liberally than I probably should have on a first date with an affectionate, 12-year-old classmate. Denise broke off our kiss, leaned slightly backward and recoiled. For a moment, I thought I was in big trouble. Instead, she smiled at me and amusingly quipped, “Let me know if you find anything, ” and promptly resumed our lusty embrace from where we had left off.

Part Two

Three years later, when we both started high school, Denise was just one of maybe four freshman girls who did not need to wear a bra. At least Denise had finally sprouted some semblance of breasts during the eighth grade. Two of those other girls were completely flat-chested females. I felt sorry for all of them because they were quite pretty otherwise. Early in that first semester of the ninth grade, I heard one male in my home room, who was unaware that Denise was my longtime girlfriend, make an offhand, stereotypically male comment. He referred to the underdeveloped females as the school’s “Itty Bitty Titty Committee.” It was a cruel description, but it was wholly accurate...and quite creatively funny. I didn’t dare mention the moniker to Denise, of course.

Mostly for Denise’s sake of self-esteem, I had truly hoped one day that she would suddenly show up at our high school, bouncing down the hallway armed with beautiful, round C-Cup jugs (or at least a pair in the size B range). That never happened. By the time I was in the tenth grade, my perspective about Denise’s assets—or lack thereof—had begun to change. Her protruding breast buds with just the slightest hint of developing boobs backing them up were beginning to become endearing traits to me. In fact, I found them downright sexy. Maybe, deep down, I wanted her to look like a youthful, barely pubescent girl rather than someone old enough to drive a car.

When I was 16, my two younger sisters (Colleen and Veronica) were 12- and 10-years-old respectively. They hosted sleepover parties, seemingly one or two Fridays every month, for half a dozen friends. During those events, I often noticed I was getting surprisingly aroused when I’d see our overnight houseguests wandering from room to room in their typical tight-fitting, preteen sleepwear. (Of course, some of the 12-year-olds were indeed better built than my sweetheart Denise!) I dismissed my newfound interest in my little sisters’ pals by convincing myself that if I intended to keep seeing Denise—and I did, as I loved her dearly—I might as well develop a taste for girls who weren’t close to being top heavy. I never laid a hand on any of them, of course. I was content to sneakily admire them from afar.

Sometime during the tenth grade I acquired the quirky nickname “Gumby”. I don’t know who started it, but I eventually had a eureka moment and figured out why it had been foisted upon me. There was a 1950s and 1960s Claymation children’s TV series called “Gumby and Pokey” that was still airing on Sunday mornings in my part of the world. Since Denise had what were commonly referred to as “pokey” breasts, according to 16-year-old male logic, it stood to reason that I ought to be called Gumby. I accepted this barb for a while until I began hearing it more frequently than my real name.

“Come on, guys, give me a break! I’ve had enough of that!” I responded one day. “I get the Gumby and Pokey allusion. If you actually got to know her, Denise Waterford is really a super girl—and I actually like the way she’s built. In an odd way, I think it’s very sexy.”

That remark resulted in a few guffaws. One uninhibited classmate named Tommy said, “I guess Denise must have another part of her anatomy that’s truly fabulous to make up for the deficit on her chest.” I was going to take offense and defend my girl’s honor, but I thought better of it. I just waved my hand at him dismissively and walked away before our verbal exchange stupidly and needlessly escalated into a fight.

Honestly, I didn’t know if Tommy was right or wrong with his theory. This was 1980. Virginity was still popular among high school girls—who indirectly forced it upon their sexually frustrated boyfriends, even those who had been with them since middle school. Denise and I had never gotten to the ultimate level of romantic intimacy yet. Groping and petting had often occurred—but that was seemingly our limit. It had never been formally discussed between us, but we seemed to have come to a tacit agreement about this most basic human activity. Besides, I came from a highly conservative and moderately religious family, as did Denise. Sexual frolics were supposed to be delayed until marriage—especially if you were a female.

One Saturday in April 1982, I was visiting Denise’s house. I had been invited as a lunch guest by her mother who often referred to me as her “future son-in-law.” (That was a nickname I tolerated—and very much liked. I had that same aspiration.) After we finished our meal, Denise and I sat on the couch in her rec room and started to watch television. Whatever program was on the tube did not capture our attention, so Denise began a romantic but serious conversation with me. She wrapped her arms around me to draw me close to her. This was a little uncommon because I was usually the instigator of most of the amorous behavior in our relationship.

“You know, Paul, ” she began, “I don’t think I tell you that I love you as often as I should. You’ve been a wonderful boyfriend for a long time. How long has it been? Six years?”

“Six years, two months and 18 days, ” I replied. “But who’s counting?”

Denise was startled by my detailed answer. “Did you just pull those numbers out of the sky or have you been keeping track all this time?”

“To be totally honest, Denise, ” I told her, “it was a bit of both. Our first date, the one at the movie theater, was on Saturday, February 8, 1976. The other day I was thinking about us—as I often do—so I did the math for a bit of fun. Aren’t I a sweet boyfriend?”

“You certainly are! Even I wouldn’t have recalled the exact date!” she replied and then kissed me passionately.

When our kiss ended, I told her, “That afternoon six years ago I was scared to death, but I seemed to recall we did a lot of this type of activity during our first date when we moved to the balcony.”

“Yes...and you got a little bit frisky with your hands...but I liked it!” she confessed. “Then she whispered, “For old times’ sake, please do it again, Paul.”

“What if your mom catches us? That wouldn’t end well, ” I noted.

“First, it’s not really sex. Second, Mom won’t catch us. She’s tending to her garden in the back yard. It’s a nice spring day so she’ll be outside for hours with her flowers. That’s her favorite hobby.”

“Well, since you are my favorite hobby, Denise, I agree. Let’s pretend we’re 12 years old again and we’re both horribly bored by the terrible movie I took you to see.”

“Okay. I think we’ve already replicated the first five or six minutes, ” Denise said with a sexy smile. “Let’s move on to what you did at this point in 1976.”

Denise took my right hand and placed it on her small left breast. “Paul, I believe you began to caress my chest. I had nothing for you that day. It’s only slightly improved in the intervening six years.”

“You are a great kidder, Denise, ” I told her.

“I’m not kidding, Paul. My figure is pitiful. I’m sure you’ve noticed that.”

“Well, my dear, ” I replied, “you may have noticed that I love you unconditionally and I don’t care about your bra size. In fact, I very much like girls who aren’t especially busty. I always have. I think that makes what little they have extremely desirable and sexy. Shall I prove it to you?”

“Okay, ” Denise agreed with a giggle. “You can have fun playing with my little titties. I guess that’s long overdue. In exchange, I get to have fun with your private equipment, Paul.” She pointed to my groin. “I’ve often wondered how much you possess down there. Girls think about their boyfriends’ assets, too.”

Denise quickly removed her top and exposed her small, white brassiere. I immediately began to feel an erection building. The bra came off as I undid my trousers. I quickly stepped out of them. Denise surprised me by pulling down my briefs without the slightest bit of hesitation. My rising penis sprang out at her. “I like what I see so far, ” she merrily commented.

“So do I, Denise. I think your titties are marvelous.”

This was a new experience for both of us. I removed my shirt because I thought that was the natural thing to do. We kissed for a while. I loved the feel of my sweetheart’s pokey breasts against my bare chest. My dick was now fully erect and ready for whatever fun we could have together without experiencing vaginal intercourse. I happily manipulated Denise’s small but lovable tits, squeezing them gently and working on making her nipples hard. Meanwhile, Denise slowly tugged on my shaft. Her gentle touch was wonderful. She looked at me, I suppose, to find out if what she was doing was correct. I gave her the proper feedback. “Oh, yes, Denise. You are doing just fine. I’ve never been harder in my life.”

“I like the way you feel my boobies, Paul, ” she said. “You’re doing great, too!”

That comment gave me the confidence to lean forward and suck on her left tit. Denise didn’t object, so I began to vigorously squeeze it and lick on her nipple. A few seconds later, I changed sides and did the same thing to her right breast.

This went on for several minutes. Somehow, I managed not to fire a load of jism. It became much more difficult to control myself when Denise asked, “Paul, is it okay if I suck on your penis now? I really want to try that.”

I laughed and told her, “Denise, no normal male past the age of 11 would ever say no to a girl who asks that question!” Denise went right to work and took my dick in her mouth. To make things easier, I stood up while Denise performed fellatio while I remained seated. It allowed me to continue fondling her goodies.

“How am I doing, Paul?” she asked me sincerely.

“Just fine, honey, just fine, ” I told her sweetly. “Besides, it’s almost impossible to give a bad blowjob.”

After about a minute I said, “I’m going to come, Denise. I can feel it. Let me come on those beautiful tiny titties of yours. It’s been a longtime dream of mine to do that!” I positioned the head of my rock-hard dick squarely against Denise’s right breast, and gave the stiff shaft a couple of quick jerks. A gusher of sperm flew out. Its power and sheer volume took both of us by surprise. It splashed mostly on Denise’s torso and under her chin. A few strands were dangling from her hair, too. Other globs of cum had dropped onto the couch and onto the carpet.

“Yahoo!” I said softly. “Denise, you have no idea how good that feels. I don’t want to wait another six years, two months, and 18 days to do this again. That was wonderful! Thank you!”

I‘m not sure Denise heard a word I said. She seemed totally focused on the mess I had made with my terrific ejaculation. “We need to clean this up immediately, Paul, and hide the evidence. I hope we can. I’ll get a roll of paper towels.”

We both pitched in. I was very helpful in wiping my cum from Denise’s chest. In fact, I spent more than ample time cleaning her tits, even to the point of licking them again. “Please stay focused on the task at hand, Paul, ” she cautioned me. “There are traces of your cum everywhere. They all need to be removed while Mom is still outside in the garden.”

“Are you joking?” I asked. “I am focused, Denise. I couldn’t be more focused.”

Denise need not have panicked. Her mother stayed outside in her garden for another 45 minutes. By that time, all the telltale physical evidence of our fantastic sexual encounter had vanished. Denise made a point of not putting the used paper towels in the nearby garbage pail. She put them instead in a plastic bag which she took to her bedroom for future disposal elsewhere. My sweetheart was indeed a clever girl.

We put our discarded clothing back on and resumed our hugging and kissing. I couldn’t help but openly reflect on what we had just done and how pleasurable it had been. “Denise, ” I said, “just imagine how good that would have felt for both of us if I had ejaculated in your vagina?”

“We’re going to have to wait until we’re married before we find out for sure, ” she informed me. Then something occurred to Denise. She playfully asked me, “You said earlier that you’d always been attracted to flat-chested girls. Whose breast buds have you been staring at besides mine?” She proffered the other members of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee as possible candidates.

“No, ” I said. “I have to admit I enjoy leering at Michelle Lowry’s chest. She’s built exactly like you. Her budding breast are a major turn-on for me. I get a stiffie every time I’m near her. It never fails.”

“I don’t recognize that name, ” Denise replied with noticeable concern in her voice. “Who is she? Does she go to our school?”

“Heck, no!” I replied. “Michelle is an 11-year-old friend of my sisters. She’s a slim, blonde-haired beauty with pokey little tits. I wouldn’t mind taking her to the balcony for a romantic grope!”

Eight years later, in the summer of 1990, Mrs. Waterford got her wish: Denise and I were married. With great self-control, we had abstained from intercourse from the age of 12 until our wedding night when we were both 26. Our first daughter, Emily, was born about nine months later. Oddly, when she was 12, Emily was among the bustiest girls in her sixth-grade class. Go figure!