I grew up in a port city in the west of England. We lived in a small house on an ordinary street in an ordinary neighbourhood. My dad worked on the ships and was away a lot of the time. When my parents were first married, my mum used to travel with him; but after I came along she stayed at home. I sometimes wonder if that’s why we’ve never been close: she used to like the roaming life - maybe it was one of the reasons she said yes to my dad - and perhaps she resented me for being the reason she lost out.

When I was seven, my brother was born. He didn’t have to take the blame - I’d already done that - and she always seemed warmer with him.

By the time I was sixteen I was more grown-up than a lot of girls my age, but I was shy and solitary and that left me feeling isolated.. There didn't seem to be anyone I could talk to about all the emotional stuff. And there was a lot of that, every night alone in my room, in my bed, in a body that I wasn’t familiar with and that seemed to want something that I wasn’t able to give it, even with my clever and curious fingers.

In the end, I found a refuge. I took a different way home from school one afternoon, and it took me past a small bookshop that I’d noticed before but hadn’t ever gone into. This time I did, and I fell in love with the place. It was very quiet, softly lit, and divided up into little spaces by high shelves crowded with more books than I knew existed. But there were one or two places where you could sit down, and I flopped into a soft chair and felt myself start to unwind. After a while, I took a book out of my bag and started doing some homework.

After that first time, I used to drop in a couple of times a week; and if my mum asked where I’d been, I just told her I’d stayed behind to use the school library.

The owner was an Australian in his thirties, who’d somehow rocked up in my part of the world; and he seemed quite happy to let me sit and work in his shop. When I became a regular, he’d appear with cups of tea, and sometimes there’d be a biscuit too. It wasn’t the sort of place where any of the other kids went. It would just be him, me, and a few quiet customers browsing.

One day, when he was busier than usual, he asked me if I’d like to make the tea. It turned out that he had a flat above the shop, with a stair through a door behind the counter, and a separate door onto the street. He took me up and showed me where things were.

It was a typical single guy’s flat with everything not quite as tidy, or as clean, as it could have been; but I loved the comfort and quiet up there. After that, he’d let me go and make tea whenever I wanted; and after a couple of months he said that if I’d rather go and work at the table up there, I could.

So that’s what I did. I even used to go there sometimes on a Saturday, just saying I was going to the public library. It was a small house, my brother was noisy and bouncy, and I couldn’t get any work done easily there, so my mum just accepted it. Sometimes I’d be out for hours.

We got on very well, the owner and me. He was one of those guys who seemed to know about everything, and whatever I was working on, he always had an interesting angle on it. And he knew how to put me at my ease. He just talked to me like I was a normal human being. That’s quite rare if you’re a girl in her mid-teens, especially coming from a grown man. Sometimes after he’d closed the shop I’d stay for a bit longer, talking to him.

He was tall, not exactly slim, but rangy, with fair brown hair that was always untidy, hazel eyes, and a short, not very well trimmed beard. He had a calm, steady voice, with the accent of his country, and a quiet smile. I found myself chatting away to him in a way I hadn’t been able to with anyone else. He didn’t have a girlfriend. He’d occasionally hint at a past, but I didn’t have the confidence to ask him directly. We settled into as easy a friendship as I could manage at that age; and if I found myself thinking about him in bed at night, I kept it to myself.

But then: it was one Sunday in early Spring; an unusually mild spell. Mum was supposed to be taking us both out for the day; but we’d been nagging at each other all week, I was coming to the end of a heavy period, and I just wanted to rest. After a bit of arguing, she said ok, I could stay at home and look after myself for once. She and my brother headed off early because they were going quite a distance, and they wouldn’t be back until the evening.

I slobbed around the house for an hour or so, but I couldn’t settle; so I put on a skirt, tights, and a loose jumper, threw a coat over it all, and went out for a walk.

It was a bright day with a fresh breeze, and as soon as I got outside I felt a bit less gloomy, although my tummy still didn’t feel too good.

I headed over to the bookshop. Of course it was closed, but I rang the bell for the flat and waited. A bleary voice answered, and when I said who I was, he buzzed me in and told me to come on up.

He was wearing loose three-quarter length pants, tied with a drawstring around the waist, and a t-shirt. He looked as though he’d just got up, and he smelled of warm skin and a bit of sweat, all mixed up with something else that I was too inexperienced to identify at the time but that sent shivers down me.

He took one look at me, and said, “You look wrecked. Need to lie down?” I nodded.

He took me through into his little bedroom. I‘d been in there once before. He’d come up from the shop to find me sitting cross-legged on the double bed with my work spread all around me. It was easier than trying to organise everything on the table, and though he raised his eyebrows, he didn’t seem to mind too much.

He straightened the duvet - it was still warm - went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a mug of coffee. I’d taken my coat off and I was lying curled up on top of the bed. I started to sit up. He put the coffee down and picked up a towel. “You have a rest,” he said. “I’m going to have a shower.”

I flopped back down onto the bed. “Not for a minute,” I said. “Please. Just talk to me for a bit.”

He dropped the towel on the floor and sat on the end of the bed. “What gives?” he asked.

I found myself telling him about all sorts of very personal things. Home. How I didn’t get on with my mum. My dad who wasn’t there. School, and how hard it was to be friends with anyone. I hadn’t realised how much it was all upsetting me, and my tummy was hurting again and I started to rub it. I got more and more teary.

He moved a bit closer, and touched my shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Poor you,” he said. “Anything I can do?”

I took his hand in both of mine, and held it; and he held mine back. All kinds of thoughts and feelings ran through me. Mostly I felt very, very close to him. Like I’d suddenly realised I had a best friend. After a few moments, without really thinking about it, I put his hand over my sore tummy, just below the belly button. It was big, warm and comforting.

“Achy?” he asked. I nodded. I knew that he understood why.

He was looking at me, very kindly, but with an intent expression. He sighed. “Come here,” he said.

He lay down beside me and got me to turn away from him. Then he put one arm under my head and the other hand over my tummy, and curled around me. Spoons. It was my first-ever time. He rubbed my tummy in small, gentle circles. I put my hand over his.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said.

“It’s nice,” I replied, feeling his heartbeat in my body.

His breath was warm on the back of my neck. His chest lay against my back. I loved the feel of his big arms around me. His warmth, his man-smell. My heart was jumping and - I realised - my nipples were hard. He was keeping his stomach and hips clear of me. When I snuggled back against them, I felt the warmth of his tummy against my bottom; and - something else. It took me a couple of seconds to realise, because I’d honestly never, ever thought that I’d be attractive to him in that way; but when I did, suddenly it changed everything. Everything I felt about myself and my body. Everything about him and me. He shifted away slightly, but it was too late. I knew; and he knew I knew.

The hand on my stomach, with mine resting on it, stopped its circling, and moved very slightly up - underneath my sweater. The thumb stroked upwards, and lightly touched bare skin. His lips were against my neck.

Feeling very daring, I moved his hand higher, above the waistband of my skirt. Under the sweater, I wore only a bra. He must have felt my heart pounding. I squeezed his wrist, stroked it; Please, I was thinking. Please.

He held still for a few seconds as if he were struggling with himself; and then, ever so gently, the hand on my bare stomach moved up to lightly cup one breast.

I arched back into him, with a little mew; and this time he didn’t pull away, and I felt him against me. All of him. He was kissing my neck now, playing with my breast; and I found myself floating in an ocean of feelings that I’d never even imagined.

I pressed and stroked the hand that was caressing me, half turned my head, and rubbed my face against his. He kissed me properly then, his mouth rough on mine; and then, without rushing it but quickly, expertly, he laid me on my back, lifted my sweater above my breasts, and pushed my bra up to join it. His t-shirt was off in a second, and he was kissing and mouthing my chest and teasing my nipples until I was mewing like a demented kitten.

I stripped my upper clothes off myself, and when he took me in both arms I was topless. He held me firmly but gently - he understood how tender my breasts would be - and I felt the rough hair of his chest against my own skin. He kissed me again, running his hands all over my naked back, and I just held him and let him, let him do whatever he wanted; wondering if he was going to stop and praying he wouldn’t.

After a while, we slowed down.

He came up to kneel above me. His pants were loose over his lap but I could see what was in them, and I’d already felt it.

Slowly, deliberately, he unzipped my skirt. Pulled it off. Stripped off my tights. Just my panties left. His hands ran up and down my bare thighs. I’d had my arms across my chest but now I let them fall back above my head. Even with panties on I felt my nakedness as I’d never felt it before - not even alone in my bedroom, studying myself. I wanted to be naked for him.

“I’ve got my period.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“It’s almost finished.”

“Have you ever..?”

“No.”

“You haven’t even seen..?”

“No.”

“You’ve no idea, have you?”

“No.”

He undid the tie at his waist. Turned away from me while he slipped them off.

When he turned back, he didn’t try to hide anything.

I suppose the only penis I’d seen up to then had been my little brother’s. I knew about erections, but I’d never been able to really imagine what one might look like; nor how big it would be. All I knew until that moment was that I could just get one finger inside myself but that my first man would very likely have to tear me getting in.

He had a full erection. The foreskin was peeled back off the head, which was slick and shining. He waited, while I looked. My head couldn’t take it in. My body didn’t care. Or rather it did - passionately.

I spoke for my body. I said, “Do what you want with me.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then he leaned forward, his face close to my panties. Put his mouth against them. Breathed out, long and steady. Oh, the heat of his breath, there… even through the panties and the pad. I’d never, ever imagined that a man would go down there like that; certainly not while I was…

But then - then - I thought I’d pass out - his tongue slipped under the edge of the panties, under my pad; and, like a slippery, live creature, began to explore my lips. Touched the opening; and roved, gently, curiously, over my clit. My aching body throbbed. I reached down, took his head in both my hands, caressed it.

I had no more doubt, in my mind or in my flesh, about what I wanted to happen.

“Please,” I begged him, “Do it to me. Take me. I want you to.”

“Girl… If I start… If I even touch you with it just once, down there, I swear I won’t be able to control myself....”

“Yes...”

“...even if I know I'm hurting you...”

“...oh yes...”

“I’ll just go on until I’ve done what I need to...”

“...please yes...”

He was breathing hard.

“You don’t know what you’ve been doing to me, girl. That time I came in - you on the bed - your skirt hiked up - showing it all...”

I arched my back, looked up at him, not quite meeting his eyes. “Take me.”

He reached down to the floor and picked up his towel. Wrapped it round a pillow and put them under my hips. Then he took hold of my panties and pulled. I felt my last protection peel away from me, slide down my legs. Saw him throw them aside. He opened my knees. Looked. I felt ten times more naked - utterly open to him, powerless, lost; but desperate for him to take me. For his rough man’s body.

He lowered himself. His stiff, naked cock, his lust.

I let my legs go wide and oh, the first, the very first touch of it against my lips… He let it slide to and fro, up and down, over the folds of the lips, over my clit, through the blood-pink juice that was seeping out of me. Unbearable, the need, the wanting.

One last time, I begged him - “Please. Now. Take me. Please.”

He held me down by the shoulders and came into me mercilessly, with all his weight behind it. For the first couple of seconds there was only pain; and then I felt the lovely mass of his cock inside, stretching and filling me. I gripped his arms with both hands and held myself open - to the pain, to the man, to the strange wonder of penetration, the new world. My breath tore through me, bringing strange, animal noises from my throat.

He was gentle, strong, relentless. His prick inside me was a burning rod. I learned, that day, that pain can also be pleasure, when it comes with such ecstasy. The beautiful pain of each thrust, the beautiful pain and the impossible joy of his cock pushing into me again and again, forcing my tight muscles to let it through, giving my starved cunt, at last, all that it hadn’t even known it needed. And now his finger was back down there, finding my clit, stroking it: it was torture, and it was bliss; and I yielded myself completely, and the pleasure and the pain were the same thing, and then my orgasm took me, swept over me, and I clawed at him as I came; and he stiffened too, and he came deep inside me, filling me until I overflowed.

I felt, was, completely fulfilled. Full-filled.

He withdrew, and looked down at me. Then he put two fingers between my legs to take some of the mess that was leaking out; and in a gesture that was like a ritual, marked my stomach, my nipples, my throat, and my forehead with it. Finger strokes like brush-strokes.

My period blood. The blood of virginity’s end. Semen from my first man. I took some on my own fingers, sucked it off, dipped them again, offered them to him. He took them in his mouth. They came out clean.

We lay together, loving, intimate. Kissed, touched, murmered. After a while we did it again. The pain already felt familiar, just a necessary presence, this time. I wouldn’t feel it again.

Much later, he made sure I got home safely. By the time my mum and my brother arrived back I was in bed with a hot water bottle, and she never knew I’d had anything more than period pain.

I healed after a few days. But everything had changed for me. I had someone. I felt owned, possessed. I was his. My cunt was his. As it would be for the next few years.