By my 17th Birthday, I was on the verge of outgrowing my C-cup. When people thought I was out of ear-shot, I heard words like "well-endowed," "nubile" and "voluptuous."

But appearances, as they say, can be deceiving. Between sports, a part-time job and honors-track classes, I didn't have time, or energy, or much in the way of sexual experimentation.

For one thing, I was nervous around guys. And guys were pretty much everywhere. Alone I was more relaxed. I enjoyed watching myself undress in a mirror. Sometimes I even took a hand mirror and put it between my legs to study myself "down there." In bed, I'd caress my nipples and pinch my labia. It was good, very, very good–although I hadn't quite managed a full-blown orgasm.

All that changed the summer I visited Aunt Wendy's cattle ranch in eastern Wyoming.

On the drive back from the airport, Aunt Wendy pulled a small silver flask from the glove compartment of her pickup. "Darlin', meet my best friend Johnny Walker," she said passing it to me. "Have a slug."

Aunt Wendy was a year older than my Dad. As children, they were Army brats, shuffling between military bases every few years. By High School, however, their personalities were becoming very different. Aunt Wendy was wild and wayward, my Dad was shy and studious. They were living in Wyoming when Aunt Wendy got pregnant and married a rancher's son.

I knew my parents didn't entirely approve of Aunt Wendy, which made her all the more alluring. So I tried my best to please her by tossing my head back a taking a long swig from her flask. Of course, as soon as the whiskey hit the back of my throat, I crumbled into a coughing fit.

After Wendy stopped laughing and I'd regained my speech, she pumped me for juicy news about my relatives. She loved family gossip, the more salacious the better.

I filled her in on all the rumors I'd heard, and overheard. And she updated on her side of the family. Cousin Bobby had come out of the closet. Cousin Phil lost his construction job and was living in a trailer park. Aunt Phillis was at a San Diego rehab clinic (no wonder) and while she was away her husband had shacked up with a nymphette hairdresser half his age.

"What about your love life, Darlin'?" she asked with a pointed look in my direction.

"What love life?" I said, perhaps a little wistfully. "I don't have time for a love life."

"Figured as much," she said, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Your Dad was the same when he was your age."

She spent the next ten minutes pumping me for specifics: Had I ever seen a naked man? Touched one? Been touched? I told Wendy pretty much everything, except the part about touching myself. That was just way too embarrassing.

As her pickup bounced down the dirt driveway to the ranch, Aunt Wendy winked at me and said: "Nothing much new around here either, 'cept, maybe the scenery has improved a mite."

When we parked, I saw what she meant. Lunging a pony in the coral was the most exquisite man I'd ever seen in the flesh. He looked about 20, was naked to the waist, and his tanned chest glowed like burnished copper in the Wyoming sun. His shoulders and pecs were perfectly defined, almost as if chiseled in stone, and his abs rippled every time he tugged on the lunge line. His tight, faded Levis left little to the imagination.

"I see what you mean," I whispered to Aunt Wendy.

"That's Skip," she said with a wink. "He's the ag student that's helping out this summer. Sure is an improvement over the regular bunch."

That would be the permanent ranch hands, three grizzled old men with weathered faces the texture of lizzard skin and the bad teeth to match. Improvement didn't begin to describe it.

Aunt Wendy wasted no time introducing Skip. He took my hand and looked me straight into me eye. As our skin touched the blood rushed to my cheeks and I was suddenly terrified he could tell how excited just looking at him was making me feel. We exchanged "nice to meet you's" while Aunt Wendy beamed like a cat that had just eaten the canary.

"Does Skip have a girlfriend?" I asked as soon as we reached the front porch.

"I have no idea, Darlin'," Aunt Wendy said as we walked to the house. "But even if he does, it wouldn't mean a thing. That boy is as randy as a Spring mare."

Skip joined us in the house for dinner, something the permanent hands almost never did. At the table, he was soft-spoken and almost taciturn, although endearingly passionate when he talked about ranching.

Whenever he looked at me, I felt as if I were being undressed. It wasn't necessarily unpleasant, but it was flustering. I was blushing and tongue-tied, which was totally unlike me.

In my honor, Aunt Wendy had baked Brown Betty a la mode for desert. I was on my second bite when Skip's fingers brushed my thigh, sending a cascade of little shivers down my spine.

I told myself it was accidental, but a moment later his fingers were back, this time caressing me in a way that could only be deliberate. I considered pushing his hand away, but Skip's fingers were evoking sensations I'd never felt before.

He'd begin by touching just above my knee, then slowly tracing a path up the inside of my thigh. Each time he repeated this caress, it ended closer and closer to the gap between my legs, and my entire body pulsed with a sexual energy and anticipation.

A tiny voice commanded me to make Skip stop. But I was powerless against the pent up urges and antificaption that Skip's magic fingers were releasing. Then, from somewhere far away, I realized another voice was demanding my attention.

"I see you still love my Brown Betty," Aunt Wendy was saying, watching me with a conspiratorial grin.

"Oh, my Goodness, yes!" I blurted. "It just keeps getting better and better." From the corner of my eye, I saw a mischievous sparkle in Skip's eyes as his fingertips made a final push between my legs.

"Mmmmmmmm," I sighed. "You've changed the recipe, haven't you?"

Aunt Wendy's look darted from me to Skip and back. "Sugar and spice," she replied in a whisper. "Don't you just love it?"

As soon as the table was cleared, I ran to my room, pleading the incredibly lame excuse of jet-lag.

The guest-room had French doors that opened onto a hedge-enclosed porch. The cottage furniture was pale cream and the bed was made with a hand-stitched country comforter. It crossed my mind that there must be worse places for a girl to lose her virginity.

My pussy was still tingling from Skip's caresses. I slipped out of my jeans and checked my panties, the front panel was moist and warm. Looking for a distraction, I curled into a recliner, grabbed the TV remote and channel surfed until I found a fluffy teen romance called "The Truth about Cats and Dogs."

The plot was straight from Cyrano de Bergerac, but at least the characters were sympathetic and engaging. However, if the goal had been to take my mind off sex, it wasn't working.

The lead characters had were having marathon candle-lit telephone conversation which turned out to be the prelude to an erotic, but frustrating phone-sex scene.

Frustrating because when Janeane Garofalo asks Ben Chaplin, "O., where's your hand?" I was wondering the same thing? But in the movie, Janeane and Ben are hidden beneath all kinds of blankets and sheets. Almost without thinking, slipped my own hand down the front of my panties, closed my eyes and let my fingers glide between slippery wet lips.

Maybe it was because the scene on the TV had ended. Or maybe I actually sensed someone watching. But when I opened my eyes and shifted my gaze from the TV screen to the patio, I almost died of humiliation.

A shirtless Skip was standing in the open door, his eyes focused intently on my crotch. My expression must have been priceless, a combination of horror and embarrassment. Instinctively, as the blood rushed to my face, I clamped my legs together in panic.

When Skip saw my legs snap close, his face broke into a smile. I was trying to scream, "Go, away. Leave me alone!" But it wasn't working. Instead, my eyes were drinking in Skip's beautiful physique, that chest, those abs, the strong farm boy arms and hands. God, those hands!

If he'd said something, anything at all, I probably would have screamed for real. But he didn't. He just looked at me with unmistakable desire in his eyes and smiled. His look made me feel sexy and attractive and, even more important, it made me comfortable with the idea of sharing a private sexual conspiracy.

Then he looked down. Not at me, but at the front of this own jeans. He followed his gaze with his fingers. He unbuckled his belt in a single fluid motion, unsnapped the top button, and slowly, almost teasingly, began to lower his zipper, revealing a growing triangle of brilliant white cotton. The adrenaline surge caused by the embarrassment of being caught with my hand in my panties was suddenly being transformed into a massively amped up sexual jolt.

When the zipper was all the way down, he opened the front of his jeans as far as they would go. I could see the outline of his cock pressed against the front of his briefs. Even the little ridge around the head was clearly visible.

Skip smiled again, even more invitingly, but I was still in too much shock to respond. Eventually, he frowned and with a melodramatic flourish he mimicked me by snapping his legs together and pulling the front of his jeans together so that his briefs and his cock were hidden.

I'd never played, "I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours." But if I ever was going to do it, this was the moment. Slowly, I opened my legs, acutely aware that even in the dim flicker of the TV, Skip could see my fingers were inside my panties, and perhaps even make out the dark, damp spot I imagined was visible on the crotch panel.

He answered by letting the front of his jeans fall open again. Then he motioned to my t-shirt and softly whispered "take it off."

I withdrew my hand from my panties, which somehow boosted my confidence, and lifted the hem of my T-shirt, revealing my tummy and eventually, my sports bra. Growing bolder, I stood up, facing him and lifted it completely over my head.

His widening smile was all the encouragement I needed, in another instant, I stripped off my bra. I stood wearing only my panties. I was amazed at my own brazenness, and at the intense feelings that felt like electric shockwaves surging through my whole body.

Skip responded by sliding his jeans to the floor and stepping out of them.

We stood for a long time, studying each other. His skin glowed with a deep summer tan. Every time he moved, muscles rippled and flowed.

I could see his cock getting harder inside his briefs, as I'm sure he saw the wet spot spreading across the front of my panties. I noticed his rib cage expanding and contracting with excitement and then realized my own breathing was faster and deeper as well.

Finally, Skip slipped his fingers inside his briefs and wrapped them around his cock.

My own fingers were shaking and I felt a cross between intense sexual excitement and a desperate need to pee. With his eyes fixed on my fingers, I slipped my own hand back inside my panties.

I pressed my middle finger between my lips and it slipped inside with almost no resistance. Lost in my own pleasure, I must have let my eyes flutter closed. When I opened them again, his briefs were gone, replaced by a triangle of pale skin with a puff of pubic hair and a beautiful hard cock that glimmered in the dim light.

Again, I felt a twinge of embarrassment when I realized he was waiting for me to pull down my panties. He finally put his hands on his hips, as if to demand I that I fulfill my end of our unspoken bargain. Then he looked into my eyes and whispered, "please let me see you..."

That was all it took to overcome my last shred of inhibition. Watching Skip's twitching cock, I hooked my thumbs in my panties and slowly exposed my own little patch of blonde pubic hair. Then lower, until I could feel the cool air on my wet pussy lips.

In an instant, Skip's hand was wrapped around his cock and I was fascinated by the speed and vigor of his strokes. His hand was barely visibly except as a pale blur.

After a moment, he paused. I thought he might have cum, but he was just waiting for me to join him.

What followed was an erotic symphony. I would finger myself while he watched intently, then for a few bars he would take over while I looked on. We traded back and forth like this, each time the sexual tension growing more and more intense.

Then came the point where I just could not stop. I felt my orgasm building from deep inside and rather than pause to watch Skip, I just kept speeding up faster and faster, my finger deep inside, my thumb pounding my clit.

Arching his back, Skip grabbed his cock again and began matching my own frantic pace.

I came with my eyes closed and every muscle of my body clenched in beautiful agony. When I finally opened my eyes, Skip was looking at me in amazement. As I lowered my gaze, he gave his cock several violent strokes, took a step closer, pointed the swollen purple head directly at me and orgasmed.

Long cords of white cum pulsed out of his cock tip and splashed across the floor with almost balletic majesty. Something about the utter eroticism of it caught me off-guard and I found myself staggering backward to the recliner as another powerful orgasm ripped through me.

Afterward, I found myself naked in the recliner, my legs spread and the room filled with the tangy aroma of sex. Skip was kneeling on the floor in front of me with his face nuzzled against my inner thigh and his tongue tracing wet circles towards my pussy.

"I think this is going to be the best summer of my life," I whispered to hims as my head fell back into the recliner and felt Skip's warm tongue slip between my swollen labia.