Sweet little virgin becomes her neighbors play thing going to and home from school
I woke up that morning like any other, the sun filtering through the thin curtains of my bedroom window, casting a warm glow over the patchwork quilt my grandma had made years ago. Living out in the country meant everything was quiet—too quiet sometimes. No bustling streets, no crowds of kids my age. Just me, my parents on their small farm, and the endless fields stretching out like a green ocean. I was 18 now, technically an adult, but I felt like I was still that little girl who’d never ventured far from home. Homeschooled until high school, I’d only started attending the local public school last year, and even then, I kept to myself. Shy didn’t begin to cover it; I blushed at the slightest attention, my voice barely above a whisper in class. Petite, with long dark hair I always tied back in a ponytail, and a body that hadn’t quite filled out like the other girls—small breasts, narrow hips, and legs that seemed too short for anything adventurous.
The bus didn’t come out this far, and the drive to school was a long one—an hour and a half each way, winding through empty backroads and sparse farmlands. My dad usually drove me, but he was down with a bad back from hauling hay bales, and Mom was busy with the chickens and the garden. That’s when they suggested Mr. Harlan, our neighbor down the road. He was a big, rough man—40 years old, with calloused hands from his job at the mill, a thick beard streaked with gray, and muscles that strained against his flannel shirts. He’d always been polite enough, waving from his truck when he passed our driveway, but something about him made my stomach twist. He was so… imposing. Like he could crush me without even trying. I knew relying on him was practical, but deep down, a voice whispered warnings—warnings I ignored because what choice did I have?
When he pulled up in his old pickup truck that first morning, the engine rumbling like a growl, I hesitated at the door. “Hop in, kid,” he called through the open window, his voice gravelly from years of smoking. I climbed into the passenger seat, clutching my backpack like a shield, my skirt—a simple knee-length thing Mom approved of—riding up just a bit on the worn leather. The truck smelled like oil and sawdust, masculine and overwhelming. We drove in silence at first, the radio crackling with some country station. I stared out the window, watching the fence posts blur by, my heart pounding for no reason I could name. The drive felt eternal, the landscape unchanging, giving me too much time to fidget and overthink. This is wrong, I thought fleetingly, being alone with a man like him, but it’s just a ride. What’s the harm?
A few days in, things started to change. Mr. Harlan—he insisted I call him Jake—began chatting more. Asking about school, my friends (I didn’t have many), what I wanted to do after graduation. His eyes would flick over to me, lingering a second too long on my legs or the way my blouse hugged my chest. I felt exposed, even though I was fully dressed. Then, one morning, as we hit a straight stretch of road, he shifted gears, and his hand brushed my knee. I froze, thinking it was an accident. But it happened again, and again, until his palm rested there, warm and heavy. “You okay, sweetie?” he asked, his thumb stroking lightly. I nodded, my face burning, too shy to say anything. What could I say? He was doing me a favor with these rides. But inside, conflict churned—this wasn’t right, a grown man touching me like that, yet the warmth spreading from his hand felt… nice. Comforting, almost. I pushed the thought away, ashamed.
The next day, he patted the middle of the bench seat before I got in. “Come sit closer, darlin’. Easier to talk that way, and we’ve got a long haul ahead.” The truck had a bench seat with the gear shift in the middle, sticking up like a barrier. I hesitated, but his smile was encouraging, almost fatherly. I slid over, my legs naturally spreading a bit to straddle the gear shift, my skirt hiking up to mid-thigh. As we drove, every time he shifted, his hand would graze the inside of my leg. Higher each time. With the drive being so long, there was no rushing; he took his time, letting the touches build. I felt a strange warmth building between my thighs, a tingle I’d only ever explored in the privacy of my bed at night, thinking vague thoughts of boys from school. But this was real, and wrong—oh God, so wrong. He was old enough to be my dad, my neighbor, someone I should trust. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to protest. He was so much older, so much stronger. What if he got mad? What if he told my parents I was being difficult? And worse, part of me didn’t want him to stop; the forbidden thrill made my pulse race in a way nothing else ever had.
By the end of the week, his touches were deliberate. We’d be cruising down the empty country road, no other cars in sight for miles, and his hand would slide up my thigh, under my skirt, fingers tracing the edge of my cotton panties. I gasped the first time, my body jolting, but he just chuckled low in his throat. “Relax, girl. Ain’t nobody here but us, and we’ve got plenty of time.” His callouses scraped my soft skin, sending shivers up my spine. Shame flooded me—I should scream, slap his hand away, demand he stop the truck. This is sinful, my mind screamed, raised as I was with church on Sundays and parents who preached modesty. But I didn’t move. I sat there, legs parted around that gear shift, my breath coming in short pants as his fingers pressed against the fabric, rubbing slow circles over my most private place. It felt… good. So good it made my head spin, overriding the guilt. A wetness gathered there, soaking through my panties, and he noticed, his grin widening. “See? Your body’s honest, even if you’re too shy to admit it.” I hated how right he was; I liked the way he made me feel, desired and alive, even as tears of conflict pricked my eyes.
That morning, he didn’t stop at teasing. With the long drive ahead, he pushed my panties aside and slipped a finger inside me, curling it just right. I whimpered, my hands clutching the seat as he pumped slowly, his thumb circling my clit. The pleasure built relentlessly over the miles, my body rocking with the truck’s motion. I tried to stay quiet, but moans escaped my lips—soft at first, then louder as the pressure mounted. “That’s it, let it out,” he encouraged, speeding up. I came hard, my walls clenching around his finger, my body convulsing in spasms as I squirted a little, soaking his hand and the seat. A cry tore from my throat, waves of ecstasy crashing over me, making my toes curl. But he didn’t stop; his finger kept thrusting, relentless, drawing out the orgasm into rolling waves that had me curling up against the door, gasping and trembling, my mind a blur of bliss and shame. “Good girl,” he murmured, finally pulling out when I was boneless. He held his finger to my lips, slick with my juices. “Clean it up, sweetie.” Too dazed to resist, I parted my lips and sucked, tasting my own tangy sweetness. It felt dirty, but I did it thoroughly, wanting to please him, to be good for him. Why? Because the way his eyes darkened with approval made me feel special, wanted—even if it was wrong.
We weren’t done. The drive was only halfway through, and he fingered me again, building me up slower this time, making me cum twice more before we reached school. Each orgasm was intense—my body convulsing, squirting onto his hand as I moaned louder, my shyness cracking as I whispered, “It feels so good, Jake… don’t stop.” He chuckled, keeping his pace relentless until I was curled in a ball of aftershocks, my thighs quivering. After each, I’d lick his fingers clean, swirling my tongue eagerly, working hard to do a good job, to show him I appreciated how he made me feel. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I was spent, my panties soaked, legs jelly. But he wasn’t finished. “Your turn,” he said, unzipping his pants. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, intimidating. “Suck me off quick before you go in.” Right there in the high school parking lot, with students milling about in the distance, I leaned over, taking him into my mouth. He was already hard from touching me, and it didn’t take long. I worked hard, bobbing my head with focus, wanting to please him perfectly. He groaned, thrusting shallowly, and erupted in my mouth—a big, hot load that I gulped down eagerly. I liked the taste, salty and musky, like a forbidden treat. I swallowed every drop, wiping my lips as I grabbed my backpack and hurried to class, my heart racing. This is so wrong, I thought in the hallway, but God, pleasing him feels amazing.
The rides home were mirrors of the mornings, the long hour-and-a-half stretch giving him ample time to torment and please me. He’d pick me up, and as soon as we were out of town, he’d order me to strip. “Clothes off, darlin’. I want to see all of you.” Blushing furiously, I’d comply, peeling off my blouse, bra, skirt, and panties, folding them neatly on the seat. Naked except for my sneakers, I’d sit in the middle, legs spread wide around the gear shift, exposed and vulnerable. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on my skin, my nipples hardening. The internal war raged— this is immoral, degrading, I should tell someone—but the way he looked at me, hungry and approving, made me crave more. He’d finger me the whole way, sometimes with one finger, sometimes two, stretching me, making me cum over and over. I’d moan loudly, unrestrained in the privacy of the truck, my cries echoing as orgasms ripped through me—three, four times per drive. Each time, I’d convulse, squirting hard, my body arching as he kept going relentlessly, his fingers plunging until rolling orgasms had me curled up, begging incoherently. “It feels… so good, Jake… oh God, yes,” I’d gasp, my shyness fading with each drive, replaced by bold admissions of pleasure. After each climax, I’d lick his fingers clean, savoring the mix of my arousal and his skin, working diligently to suck every drop.
Sometimes, he’d pull over midway, dropping to his knees between my spread legs to lick and suck my juices hard from me, his beard tickling my thighs as his tongue delved deep, lapping up my squirt with greedy slurps. It sent me over the edge again, my hands in his hair, pulling him closer despite the voice screaming this is wrong.
And I’d make him cum too, every afternoon. Sometimes I’d stroke him while he fingered me, our hands working in tandem over the long miles. Other times, after I’d cum multiple times and was boneless from pleasure, he’d pull into a secluded spot or even the edge of the school parking lot if we were running late. “Finish me,” he’d say, and I’d suck him off, bobbing my head eagerly, focusing on every detail to do a good job—swirling my tongue, taking him deep until I gagged, then pushing through because I loved pleasing him, loved the grunts of satisfaction. His loads were always big, filling my mouth, and I’d gulp them down, relishing the taste.
This went on for weeks, the routine embedding itself in my life. Shame warred with desire; at night, I’d replay the drives, my fingers between my legs, cumming to the memories. Why didn’t I stop it? The pleasure was addictive, the secrecy thrilling. I knew it was wrong—taboo, potentially dangerous—but the way he made me feel, cherished and electrified, outweighed the guilt. I worked so hard to be perfect for him, to moan just right, to swallow every bit, because pleasing him made me feel powerful.
Then, one crisp autumn morning, after making me strip and fingering me to two shattering orgasms already—each with convulsions, squirting, and his relentless thrusting until I curled from rolling waves—he didn’t head straight to school. Instead, he turned off onto a dirt road, hidden by overgrown bushes, the truck bouncing over ruts until we were deep in the woods. My heart hammered. “What are we doing?” I whispered, my voice small, still naked and trembling from my releases.
“Time for more, sweetie. You’ve been such a good girl, takin’ my fingers, suckin’ me off twice a day. Now I wanna feel that tight little pussy around me.” He killed the engine, the silence deafening. I shook my head, panic rising—this is too far, too wrong—but he was already pulling me onto his lap, my legs straddling him in the cramped cab. My naked body pressed against his clothed one, the gear shift forgotten. His cock pressed against my slick entrance, hot and insistent. It was massive, far larger than his fingers, the head alone stretching me as he nudged in. “Please,” I begged, not sure if I meant stop or go, the conflict tearing me apart.
He didn’t wait. With a grunt, he thrust up, burying himself inside me in one hard stroke. Pain tore through me at first—sharp, burning—as his enormous size stretched my virgin walls to their limit. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, struggling to accommodate him; he was so thick, so long, filling me completely, pressing against places I didn’t know existed. It hurt, like I was being split open, but beneath the ache was a fullness that sparked pleasure. “Shh, it’ll feel good soon. Just relax,” he murmured, holding me still as I adjusted. He started moving, slow at first, letting me feel every inch sliding out and slamming back in, his girth rubbing my sensitive spots. The pain faded, morphing into ecstasy, and I clung to him, gasping, my body betraying me as I rocked back, meeting his thrusts. It was rough, animalistic—his hands bruising my hips, beard scraping my neck as he bit down. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, pounding deeper, his size making each thrust a struggle but one I craved, the friction building to unbearable heights.
I came first, harder than ever from his fingers, my moans turning to screams as I shattered around him, walls pulsing and squeezing his massive cock, squirting onto his lap as my body convulsed wildly. But he kept going, relentless, thrusting through my orgasm into another, and another, until rolling climaxes had me curled against his chest, sobbing with pleasure. “It feels so good… your cock is so big, Jake… I love it,” I babbled, my shyness gone, telling him everything as waves crashed over me.
He flipped us sometimes, bending me over the seat to take me from behind, his huge length hitting deep, making me struggle with the intensity but loving how it filled me utterly. Other times, I’d ride him, straddling his lap, bouncing with excellent rhythm—up and down, grinding my hips in circles, my small breasts jiggling as he sucked them hard, his mouth latching onto my nipples, tugging and biting. I worked hard at it, wanting to please him, to make him groan my name. His size made it challenging, each downward thrust stretching me anew, but I reveled in it, the pain-pleasure mix driving me wild. He’d cum deep inside, his big load flooding me, hot and thick.
Afterward, he cleaned me up roughly with a rag from the glove box, but not thoroughly—cum still leaked from me as I dressed hurriedly. We made it to school late that day, and as I sat in class, I felt it seeping out, soaking my panties, a constant reminder. I squirmed in my seat, face flushed, trying to focus on lessons while the ache between my legs throbbed, a mix of soreness from his size and lingering desire.
From then on, the dirt road became routine, squeezed into our long drives. Mornings or afternoons, he’d pull off, fuck me hard in the truck—sometimes bent over the seat, my face pressed to the window as he pounded me with his massive cock, making me struggle and moan; other times on my back in the bed of the truck, under the open sky, where I’d ride him, bouncing rhythmically while he sucked my tits. I’d cum multiple times, convulsing and squirting, telling him breathlessly how good it felt, how I loved his size despite the stretch. He’d lick and suck my juices from me afterward, his mouth devouring me until I curled from more orgasms. He’d fill me up, and I’d sit in class or at home with his cum leaking out, a secret shame that made me wet all over again. The fingering continued too, bookending the fucks, and I’d always lick his fingers clean, gulp his loads morning and afternoon. Sometimes, after a drive full of my orgasms, I’d finish him in the school parking lot, sucking hungrily as cars passed nearby. It was wrong, so wrong—immoral, risky—but the way he made me feel, the joy in pleasing him, it was everything. I was his, and despite the conflict, I wouldn’t trade it.