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This is Chapter 2 of my autobiography and it's titled My Time as a Sea Scout. Click on the book cover to purchase from Amazon.
It’s 1967, and I’m thirteen.
I’d been a Sea Scout since I was nine. My Dad had taken me boating on the river for as long as I could remember, and I just loved being on the water, so joining the Sea Scouts seemed a natural progression.
The problem was the Skipper. He was an old man (actually, I think he was probably in his early fifties, but that seems like an old man to a thirteen year old.) He was married, with a couple of grown up kids. His official Sea Scout title was Commodore, but he got all of us to call him “Skipper.” Privately, I called him The Groper.
At thirteen, I was just starting to develop, not like the young teenage girls I used to teach before I retired, with their Lara Croft chests, big hips and periods for the last two or three years. Still, I had a pert little ass and small breasts with dark nipples that pushed their way through the tank tops that were part of our summer uniform, especially when they got wet. Which was often.
In retrospect, I don’t really blame the old bugger. He probably wasn’t getting any at home, and here he was, surrounded every weekend by tight little bottoms in tight little shorts. I’d started masturbating that year, so I was often aware of the way my shorts pulled tight against my clitoris when we were hiking out. Hiking out is when you sit on the rail leaning out as far as possible to prevent capsizing. Maybe I sometimes even moved a bit more than necessary to get more stimulation, and then I could feel my nipples swell and tighten. That’s when I first noticed the Skipper staring at me, with a funny look on his face...
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