The first time that I saw Caroline’s pussy I was thirteen. She’d lured me away from a dungeons and dragons game with a Yoo-Hoo and some salty language whispered in my ear. It was mystical and fuzzy; I wanted to touch it. She told me she would never show it to anyone else. But when it came time to show her my goods I chickened out.
When I was sixteen I saw it again. We were at bible camp hunting mushrooms. She let me kiss it. It was salty and moist and tasted a little like the morels that we were supposed to be hunting. I came in my shorts from the excitement and was too embarrassed to talk to her the rest of the summer.
When I came home from boot camp she enticed me away from my buddies with a six pack of Pearl and some even saltier language. Now a world-wise Marine, I was prepared for action. A chicken-head rubber I bought in Tijuana adorned my member. It opened before me like the curtains of the whorehouse I had visited with my first weekend pass. She told me that she had never done it before and I was too stupid to know the difference.
The last time I saw Caroline’s pussy was yesterday. It beckoned to me from the bedroom. The kids were asleep and the kitty needed scratching. Still salty and sweet perhaps wiser from childbirth. It’s forever the like the forbidden peach in her short and curly Garden of Eden.