Laurel's Little Treasures

Dave has always been attracted to small-breasted girls, but it takes him four years to approach Laurel, a flat-chested classmate, who sates his sexual desires.

Part One

My name is Dave Richardson. During my school years, the prettiest girl I ever had as a classmate was Mary Beth Hodgkins. What a cutie she was! She was in the same room as I was in the fourth, fifth and sixth grades. Mary Beth would never earn a living as a bikini model because she was absolutely flat-chested, but I didn’t care.

Even by the end of the sixth grade in 1976, Mary Beth had no feminine figure whatsoever, but her face, her demeanor, and her general presence were so overwhelmingly beautiful that I decided at age 10 that I was going to marry her. I honestly had great plans to do that someday, but I never saw her again after the final day of sixth grade when we were both 12. When she was nowhere to be found during the first week of the seventh grade, I asked one of her female classmates what had become of her. I was told that her family had moved across the country during the summer. Thus, my long-held marriage plans went swiftly out the window.

Two years later when I started high school, I was pleasantly surprised by the sight of another very pretty girl. All the homerooms were arranged in alphabetical order by surname, so it was just by pure luck that Laurel Rempley was seated two rows away from me. She had come from a different feeder school than I had, so I’d never seen her before. She also lived far enough away from Manchester Heights High School that she rode a school bus every day. In contrast, getting to school was only a 10-minute walk for me.

By the ninth grade, I and all my male colleagues were a generally horny bunch. Female anatomies were often foremost in our lunchtime conversations. There was a girl named Maggie Worthington who was, unfortunately for her, absolutely homely. No one disputed that cruel fact. However, because she probably had the best figure in our age group, she merited a lot of attention from males. About three weeks into the school year, when I mentioned that Maggie held no appeal to me, a classmate named Greg Newburg said, “Dave, you don’t fuck the face.” That seemed to be the prevailing opinion.

When it was obvious that I wasn’t buying into that notion, Greg asked me which ninth-grade girl I fancied. I immediately replied it was Laurel Rempley because of her pretty face. My opinion was greeted with derisive hoots of laughter.

“Titless Laurel?” Greg responded with incredulity. “There isn’t a more flat-chested girl in this whole, huge high school. My 10-year-old sister is built better than Laurel is.”

Steven Connors added his two cents’ worth: “Dave, do you know why her name is Laurel? It’s because she’s built the same as Stan Laurel.” Everyone laughed at that amusing quip, including me.

Out of curiosity, Steve then asked me, “What’s the attraction to Laurel Rempley for you, Dave? Wouldn’t you rather snuggle up to a girl who has something worth fondling?” Then he named half a dozen busty classmates of ours as his ideal examples of teenage femininity.

That question, probably intended to be a rhetorical one, prompted me for the first time to silently think about why Laurel appealed to me. After about a minute I had a eureka moment: Laurel reminded me of Mary Beth Hodgkins—wherever she was. At that moment I realized something else: flat-chested girls appealed to me more than busty ones. I was certain that made me a rarity among my peers.

Laurel Rempley was indeed as flat-chested as Mary Beth was. It was more obvious, though, because I had last seen Mary Beth when she was 12. Laurel had to be 14 years old (or soon would be) which made her figureless frame oddly stand out among other ninth-grade girls. Despite that one glaring shortcoming, I thought Laurel was a true beauty. She was average height; she had long, straight, brunette hair; a gorgeous smile: and what seemed to be a bubbly personality. I only ever saw her in homeroom, however. She was in none of my classes. As a bright student, I was streamed into the more academically challenged courses at Manchester Heights High School. Laurel, I was told by peers who had known her since kindergarten, was barely a C student, so she was enrolled in the general studies program. Therefore, I spent most of homeroom period at the start of each school day quietly admiring her because that was generally the only time that I’d be anywhere near her. I was basically a shy boy, so I never worked up the nerve to say anything more than hello to lovely Laurel.

Part Two

One day at school when I was 18, a classmate I hardly knew named Owen McNeil, was sneaking peeks at a pornographic magazine during a dull history class. It had to have been published somewhere in Europe because it did not look like any American porno publication I’d ever seen. I glanced at it from a distance a couple of times. The captions were all in English. I noticed the headline about one photo essay was “Flat-Chested Girls are Awesome!” Some of the models I caught quick glimpses of proved that statement to be true. They barely had any tits at all—and I thought that was somehow highly erotic.

When class ended, I approached Owen in the hallway. “I saw what you were looking at,” I told him. “Where did you buy that magazine?”

“You can’t buy individual issues in this part of the world,” he replied. “It’s from Norway. A special edition is produced for subscribers in English-speaking countries. I’m one of those subscribers. Nobody in Norway cared that I was a minor when I first started getting it in the mail. They didn’t ask me, so I didn’t tell them. I get it every month. Those beautiful, blonde Norwegian girls are totally fantastic.”

“I can tell that, even from one row over!” I joked.

Owen smiled. He surprised me by saying he considered this issue to be “disappointing” as it focused mostly on slender, flat-chested models. “Give me girls who have some meat on their bones!” he declared. “I want to see Scandinavian girls with nice, luscious tits—the bigger the better. That’s what turns my crank!”

I swiftly responded, “Call me crazy, but I think the girls in this issue—what little I saw of it—were just my type. I kind of like tiny tits.”

“Yeah, you’re crazy, Dave!” Owen said. “Here. You can borrow this issue for a week or so. I won’t miss it. All I ask is that you just don’t jerk off on its pages.”

I was delighted by the offer and quickly accepted the porn magazine from him. I hid it amongst my binders as I walked to my final class of the day. It was a bit dull too, so I took a few stealthy looks at it to break up the monotony. The beautiful models made me immediately hard. One named Sonja looked to be about 20 years old and had breasts that were only a rumor. I would have emptied my savings account to spend a few hours in the sack with her. If there had been any doubt before, it had dissipated now: When it came to my choice in females, I was clearly a small-tit lover.

When class ended, while 99 percent of my classmates headed home, I instead rushed to the school library. I was a regular there. Mrs. McGuinness, the school’s librarian, liked me. There was a public photocopy machine that costs 25 cents per page (pricy for 1982), but Mrs. McGuinness often let me use the photocopy machine in her office free of charge because she knew it was always for my scholarly pursuits. I deceived her by getting a random encyclopedia volume off a bookshelf and asking for permission to make photocopies “for a history project I was starting”. She said, “Of course, Dave. You know how to use that machine by now. You don’t need my help.” That was the reply I had hoped for! Had she insisted on aiding me, I would have ended up with useless copies of information about the Franco-Prussian War. Since I was on my own, I set the encyclopedia aside. I instead copied half a dozen sexy photos from Owen’s magazine for posterity, plus a surprisingly timely and interesting article about the “appeal of flat-chested females to millions of men.” Apparently, to my relief, I was not alone in my preference.

I left Mrs. McGuinness’ office with the magazine well-hidden again. I went to a distant table, sat by myself, and read the copy of the article I had just made. It was a scholarly piece, penned by a Dutch psychologist. The author claimed that many adult males who liked flat-chested girls often had some unfulfilled sexual desires from their early years of adolescence. In other words, an underdeveloped adult female (such as Sonja from the magazine) often represented a crush a male might have had for an 11- or 12-year-old girl in his past. Screwing her would make up for not screwing the cutie he fancied in the sixth grade. That theory made perfect sense to me. Pretty Mary Beth Hodgkins was still affecting me six years later. I concluded that the only way to deal with this was to have a sexual romp with Laurel Rempley—whom I’d never had a conversation with in my entire life, much less a romantic encounter.

Part Three

I was still painfully shy around most girls, so I procrastinated before approaching Laurel. The following week a new semester was beginning. I had already accrued enough credits to graduate, so I signed up for a general bookkeeping course because I liked keeping track of things, I liked orderliness, and it looked good on a résumé. To my surprise and delight, I saw Laurel Rempley. She was in a class with me other than homeroom. (She still had a torso that could be mistaken for a teenage boy’s which made her the butt of jokes told by my lunch buddies.) Another thing that delighted me was that she waved at me when she saw me. Of course, I happily waved at her, too.

Bookkeeping was a cinch for me. I would breeze through the daily assignments in short order, seldom making an error. (Occasionally I hoped I had made an error when my figures did not balance. I liked the challenge of pinpointing where I’d gone wrong!) Laurel was not having much success with the course. I could see it on her pretty face. What a wonderful opportunity to finally talk to this beautiful, albeit underdeveloped, girl!

After class one day, I built up the nerve to say to her, “Laurel, I can tell that you are struggling with this course. I’d love to help you get through it, if you’ll let me. I’ve always been rather fond of you from a distance, but I’m shy by nature and have difficulty talking to girls—especially beautiful ones like you.” I noticed my palms had grown sweaty just by saying that to her.

Laurel looked at me with an odd expression. It was difficult to gauge. It seemed to be a combination of disbelief, relief and affection. “You’d help me, Dave? Really?” she said.

“Sure,” I responded. “I figure I should get to know you before we graduate. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had. I also meant every word I said. I think you are lovely.”

“You’re as nice a guy as I figured you were four years ago,” she told me. “Gee, I wish I had approached you back in the ninth grade. I’m kind of shy myself, Dave.”

I suggested we get together in the school library after our last class and begin reviewing every lesson in the bookkeeping course until she understood them fully. She reminded me that since she was a bus student, she could not linger too long after the final bell. However, she offered a solution. “I live about a 30-minute drive from here. I could give you my address and you could come to my house tonight any time after 6 p.m. In fact, why don’t you come right away and have dinner with my family. My mother would be thrilled.”

I accepted Laurel’s offer right away, but her last sentence puzzled me. “Why would your mother be thrilled?” I asked her.

“I haven’t had a boyfriend or anything like that since the sixth grade,” Laurel replied. “Mom can’t understand why. I know the reason, though. In the seventh grade, my nickname among the boys my age was ‘Kansas’ because I was so flat. Things haven’t improved much in five years.” She pointed to her chest to unnecessarily illustrate what she was talking about. “Boys usually don’t fancy girls built like me.”

I smiled only after Laurel smiled. “Hey, it’s quality that matters—not size,” I said. By the time our bookkeeping course had ended, I was hoping to personally find out if that was true.

When I made the drive to Laurel’s house, I discovered her home was in farm country. (I should have figured that out by her peculiar address that featured a concession and lot number.) Her parents held other jobs and were just part-time farmers. They had no livestock, but several fields of carrots, potatoes and corn. The Rempleys’ home was huge, considering just four people lived there: Laurel, her nine-year-old brother Philip, and her parents.

Laurel was right. Both her parents were thrilled that Laurel had a rare male visitor. “Laurel used to have boys by the dozen come to see her when she was 10 and 11 and 12,” her mom told me during chitchat. “They haven’t been a round in years, though. I don’t get it. Laurel is such a pleasant and pretty girl.” I understood it perfectly, of course, but I dared not say anything. I also noticed that Mrs. Rempley was quite a pretty woman, but she was not especially well endowed, either. It must be a family trait, I figured.

We had about an hour to begin working on bookkeeping before dinner was served. I discovered firsthand that Laurel was not the brightest penny in the jar when it came to academics. She even struggled with basic arithmetic. She required a calculator to do simple addition and subtraction. Nevertheless, I got her to understand the logic behind the double-entry system of bookkeeping. When her fictional accounts actually balanced, she almost leapt for joy. She embraced me, which I had not expected. I liked it very much, of course.

Laurel went to the kitchen to get us some cold lemonade. I overheard her tell her mother that I was helping her out enormously and that I was “a really sweet guy.”

“You should make him your boyfriend immediately!” Mrs. Rempley said in a voice I could hear clearly, too.

I couldn’t resist chiming in from a distance, “I’m all in favor of that! I think Laurel is adorable. I should have told her that when we were in the ninth grade!”

Laurel returned to the anteroom where we had been working, set down the two drinks, and promptly surprised me with an excellent kiss. “How’s that for a start?” she said shortly thereafter. I approved.

Mrs. Rempley was a superb country cook. The roast beef dinner she served was wonderful. Her father and little brother were both sports fans, as was I, so we had plenty to talk about during the meal. Philip told me he was “glad I was her sister’s boyfriend”. Laurel blushed. I said, “Everybody here wants me to be your boyfriend. Does that include you, too?”

Laurel rose from her seat and kissed me again. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I noted. “You’ve got me.”

I travelled to Laurel’s house every day, including Saturdays and Sundays, for the next two weeks. I was fed at least one if not two meals by Mrs. Rempley who seemed to be as smitten with me as her daughter was. I likely gained five pounds. I figured my own parents would list me as a missing person if this went on much longer. Frankly, my parents were also relieved that I now had a steady girlfriend, too.

On one Saturday, when we finally got to the point where Laurel had caught up with the rest of the bookkeeping class’s lessons, we were alone in her house. Philip had a softball tournament 40 miles away. It was an all-day event, so Philip and his parents had left early in the morning and wouldn’t likely be back until at least 8 p.m. I borrowed my mother’s car, as usual, and arrived at Laurel’s doorstep at 10 a.m.

It was a typical session of learning that Saturday. When Laurel’s number’s balanced, she let out a whoop similar to the one she had on the first day I had tutored her.

“You are unusually happy about getting the accounts to balance,” I noted.

Laurel explained, “Yes, so now we have the rest of the day to ourselves. That’s a first. Since you started coming here, Dave, we’ve done nothing but bookkeeping. It’s a bit of a bore.”

“Okay, let’s do something more exciting,” I suggested.

Laurel promptly planted herself on my lap and gave me a few romantic kisses. “Is this what you had in mind?” she asked me.

I decided to be totally honest with her. “The kisses were a positive start, Laurel” I said. “However, I really want to fondle your tits for hours and fuck your brains out!”

“I can’t believe you said that, Dave!” Laurel quickly responded.

“Neither can I—but it’s the truth,” I said sheepishly. For a moment I thought Laurel would run me off the premises for being so brazen.

“I’m actually flattered,” Laurel said to my relief. “The last time I did anything remotely sexual with a boy was when I was 12 years old. I’m now 18, like you, and I’m long overdue for a fucking—good, bad or otherwise. But I don’t understand your fixation with my tits. I’ve hardly got any. Every ninth-grade girl in our high school has bigger breasts than I do. Believe me, I’ve checked! It’s really very embarrassing.”

I took a deep breath and said, “Laurel, honey. I think your tiny tits are extremely sexy! They absolutely turn me on! I’m getting an erection now just thinking about them! Trust me, there are plenty of guys like me out there who are excited by flat-chested girls. We’re generally not upfront about it, though, because most guys are turned on by girls with big whoppers.”

This was clearly a revelation to Laurel. She needed clarification. She asked me, “Dave, you’re telling me that you’d rather have sex with me than with Debbie Ferguson, Kathy Stewart, or some other girl who’s built like those two are. Is that right?” Debbie and Kathy were generally considered the sexiest girls in the senior class at Manchester Heights High School. They were ranked 1A and 1B in most boys’ minds.

“Yes, absolutely!” I said emphatically.

“Well, in that case, I won’t make you wait even a minute longer!” Still happily sitting on my lap, Laurel pulled off her pink t-shirt, exposing a set of breasts that were little more than buds. (Laurel wasn’t wearing a bra; she didn’t need one.) Yes, to me, those tiny tits were the sexiest sight imaginable!

I wasted no time fingering her nipples with my thumbs. The moment they were hard, I sucked on them with great enthusiasm. I licked the general area all around them. I switched from Laurel’s left tit to her right tit regularly. I fondled the left one while I sucked on the right one, and vice versa. I plastered them with kisses. In other words, I was having the time of my life--and I didn’t want it to end!

Laurel was enjoying the sexual attention I was merrily providing to her. At one point I thought I heard her purr like a cat! I took that as a compliment. “You really do get worked up over small tits, Dave!” she said with amazement.

“What was your first clue, Laurel?” I sarcastically said between licks.

Laurel laughed loudly and said, “You must let me return the favor, Dave.”

She didn’t need to elaborate. I dropped my jeans and briefs to the floor. Laurel descended to her knees and gave me an enjoyable blowjob. I didn’t really know how good it was because I’d never had one before.

Laurel admitted, “I’m way out of practice doing this, Dave. The one and only boy’s dick I’ve sucked before today was Tommy Spencer’s. That was back in the sixth grade. He didn’t last 10 seconds before he came, so I didn’t learn much from the occasion.”

“I’m sure Tommy fondly remembers it, though,” I joked. “He was a lucky fellow. I’m also certain you were a beautiful girl when you were 12, Laurel.”

I didn’t come. I told Laurel I had to come on her tits—not in her mouth, not on her face, not in her pussy. I had to come on those tiny treasures. That was absolutely my goal. She now fully understood my obsession. Still, she and I disrobed fully. She had shaved her vagina, which, combined with her lack of boobs, was another level of arousal for me. I hadn’t left my chair during this sexual encounter, and I still didn’t. Laurel rode me. I tried my best to continue licking her tits while she bounced up and down on my stiff rod. She had a lovely, tight pussy, but her buds were still her best feature in my opinion. I adored them.

When I felt an orgasm mounting in my balls, I lifted Laurel off my lap and put her in a standing position on the floor. I placed my throbbing penis between her treasures and, seconds later, I ejaculated far better than I ever had to Owen’s nude Norwegians. I counted four jism shots. The first three were sizable cum blasts. The last consisted of a few dribbles.

“I hope I did better than Tommy What’s-His-Name from the sixth grade,” I joked. “You were a great sex partner, Laurel—just fabulous.”

Laurel and I ate a lunch of sandwiches and homemade chocolate cake that her mother had prepared for us before she went to Philip’s softball tournament. We cuddled all the way through it—with my hands constantly drifting to her flat chest. She surprised me by saying what I dared not say. “Dave, we’re probably incompatible for marriage. You and I are far too different. My schooling will likely end once I graduate from high school. You’ll go far in university, I suspect, and do something wonderful with your life. I’ll likely be content as a housewife for someone.”

“He’ll be a lucky guy!” I felt compelled to add.

Laurel kissed me on the cheek and continued, “But in the meantime, I think we should have as much sex as we can. I enjoyed it, and I’m sure you enjoyed it, so why should we deprive ourselves of having a terrific time with each other? Don’t you agree?”

I quickly concurred. I was amused that Laurel didn’t keep it a secret from her mother, who didn’t seem to care. “Dave,” she would ask me whenever I visited, “Are you here for schoolwork or for fucking?”

“Both!” I’d usually reply. Once I honestly noted, “I could suck on your daughter’s sexy little tits until I’m 80.”

I didn’t see much of Laurel once I began university that autumn. We swiftly drifted apart. I was startled five years later when I heard she’d ended up marrying Steven Connors, the guy who once likened her to Stan Laurel. I suppose that was no more surprising than when I got married at age 24 to Debbie Ferguson, one of the most voluptuous girls during my four years at Manchester Heights High School.