("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: writer1.txt (Fm, inc, ped, 1st) Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com) Story title : Writer's Workbook -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Writer's Workbook (Fm, inc, ped, 1st) by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com) Revised 12/13/03 *** It's Fm, fm, incest, and a bit more, but if that's how you select, do move elsewhere. I tend toward the female perspective. We can enjoy sex without loving the taste of semen. If you don't understand, ask a woman. Sure, a kid gets laid in my story, but if you're just a voyeur, why would I bother writing? I didn't invent anything. *** AUTHOR'S NOTES: Writer's Notebook began as a rewrite of "Boy Magnets", a short by Jenny Wanshel. My effort is more than five times the length of the original, but some phrasing retains clear genesis therein. I tried to contact Wanshel, but her e-mail is no longer functional. PROLOG An up-front warning: This is first-hand story about sexual intercourse. As I'm not married, obviously that's one illicit aspect. It's ultimately consensual and pretty normal physiologically, but involves minors. It might be an Fm, fm in erotica classification, depending on how far you want to count. There is a disproportionately high amount of copulation for a balanced short story. Of that I'm aware because I read good literature. But sexual conquest is part of what this story's about. Bear in mind that the sexual act is a temporary endeavor, say ten minutes worth. Friendship, what this story is really about, is for the long haul. This is no novel, but I'd hope that you get some sense of the characters. They have their personalities, even if you don't have their biography. I hope that you at least get to understand me, as I'm not that complex. I fully appreciate why some readers may not care to read about seduction, rape and incest, topics that find themselves in the ensuing pages. It's not by my design, but rather because life's interwoven. As with unhealthy porn sites in the web, you can opt out. I don't think, however, that what follows is bad for you. Ultimately, it's about being healthy. I'd encourage those of you about to exit to not strike all varieties of sexual liaisons from your literature perusal, however. Romantic procreation is the act in the socially acceptable perspective. There are bestiality, sadomasochism and homosexuality out there too, as long as you read for literary merit, I suppose. There are many shelves in the library. Read about what you like, but do read. JOSH I am the last teacher in the world you would expect to have sexual relations with a student. I am good-looking and no slut. My dates have always behaved in a respectful way. There are ways to woo and I ask the effort. I prefer relationships more wholesome than brushing a married guy at the Xerox. What I mean to say is that I don't go around just looking for a lay. I've been sexually active for a little more than ten years and have had intercourse with seven men. If every twenty-eight-year-old professional woman revealed her statistics, we might find a trend among the fast- trackers. I've taught English at Capton Springs Middle School for six years. We're a seventh to ninth-grade, not sixth to eighth as in most districts. Josh Harrison was just an average looking thirteen- year-old in last year's fourth period. He was about five-feet, six-inches, dark hair, blue-green eyes, scrawny and scraggly. Other than details of color, most boys satisfy such description in their mid-school years. I never looked at Josh twice, nor did I register much about any of the other boys, for that matter. They change so fast. I like teaching children in their early adolescence because they're not yet repugnant know-it-alls. They're just curious kids. The girls still have their dolls and the boys still sing in music class. They love discovering new things. One February Friday, as Josh passed my desk at dismissal, I felt his gaze on my torso. I'd worn a blouse that showed just a touch of cleavage. It's not unusual for seventh-grade boys to look down my top. Let them peek, I say. They're discovering the world where girls begin to get interesting. If they're really, really lucky, maybe they see an inch of my crack, interesting to them, anyway. I always wear a bra, for heaven sake! Nothing's flopping around. No one would even notice me on the street. I keep my knees together in class. Giggles about your "beaver" (mid-school terminology) negate a productive classroom ambience. It's just not my nature to prudishly shun normal professional attire. I challenged Josh with my return stare, expecting him to blush and move on when caught. Then, level with my gaze as I sat and he stood, I discerned the protuberance of a simply enormous boner. I didn't recognize it at first, the convexity distending the front of his pants. Believe it or not, I honestly wondered what it was. Then it occurred to me that it was an erection. Kids don't carry armament like that one, though. I of course averted my stare; teachers don't pursue this sort of thing. He sees a little boob; I see a little reaction. Fair's fair. As Josh hobbled out of the classroom, I was surprised to feel the hardening in my bra. It's a good feeling, the swelling of your erectile tissue when a man gently takes your breast. There was another feeling too, the dampness in your crotch that foretells a man's entrance. There's nothing at all wrong with such womanly feelings. It was just surprising with a boy who'd done nothing. I touched my breast and panties to be sure. Josh was really big! For my first time ever, I had actually experienced an arousal from a student! Well, he was kind of cute. I thought about him off and on throughout the rest of the day, fantasizing about that erection. At age thirteen, boys can have eraser heads. That night I dreamt about my little man. I don't remember the entire dream, just that we were alone up high in the Rockies where I was trying to pull his pants down. His trousers kept snagging on his penis, making me unbelievably horny. His rod was so close, yet always hooked behind the cotton. I woke up frustrated and finished myself off furiously. And a kid's harden did this to me! I probably need to reactivate a two- party sex life. That I would do. CINDI My closest friend, Cindi Barton, teaches science. We're the same age, but she took a couple of extra years for her Secondary Ed degree. In the faculty section of the yearbook, she's the one who looks like a student. It's her bright look, even in the photography that defines yearbooks. I'm the teacher that looks frozen. I don't photograph naturally. Cindi has a hundred great qualities. She's upbeat. She's generous. She's honest. She'll pick up on how you're doing. She'll tell you how it is with her. She'll stand up for you. She'll even give you a little kiss right when you need one. She'd never withhold anything that you need to know. But she doesn't bug you with details you'd prefer to do without. If she ever, say, made it with a woman, she'd not chronicle it for my benefit. I've no reason to think she ever did, by the way. I've known her long enough. A thing about Cindi, to put it simply, is that she's sometimes not very discriminate with guys. He's nice, fun, lonely, whatever, and that makes it bedtime! I tell her it works against her because they don't have to earn it. She's my friend, though, and I'm glad she's who she is. I just don't ask where her dates ended up - - under her sheets or his. Does it matter? It's my duty, though, to help her at avoid the creeps. I can tell when she reveals their conversation. Dumb guys think that women enjoy allusions to body parts. She knows I'm pretty astute, a "verbal detective" she calls me. Friends help each other. And she likes me because I'm who I am. She doesn't think I'm a prude because I'm not very forward with men. She's always scoping the guys, figuring whose type they might be. She doesn't just claim the better ones, which she could do. She says that my style costs me because they have to work forever. I figure that it's better to wish for more sex than to wish you'd had less. She agrees in principle. I'm just not the risk taker. She'll put her IRA (the part they make her save) in some flashy startup. I put mine, plus some extra each month, into things like airport bonds. I'll retire comfortably, I suppose, and she'll be penniless. We'll be old maids (for opposite reasons, probably) and she might have to live with me. We wouldn't do well sharing a place now, but we'll be postmenopausal by then. Friendship looks ahead. Cindi and I had a tennis date the next day. The two of us are well matched, but she tends to charge the net too much, allowing me an easy lob. She says that I tend to be too predictable, always going for safe returns. She knows where to go before I swing. Playing doubles, we're better than the sum of our parts. The only ones that regularly beat us are girls who have tennis wardrobes. We just play for fun. Cindi beat me, twelve to nine. We don't play regular sets. Over lemonade afterwards (the looser pays) I told Cindi the whole Josh thing, girl to girl. To the point of him peaking down my blouse and getting hard, it was just chat. There are only so many teachers' tales to tell, so we just recycle them. There's the erection story, the garment-comes-loose story, the start-her- period story, etc. Kids have nightmares that they'll be the only one. How many times have we helped a girl who started her period right there at her desk? Cindi claims to have done the odds: about once per year per teacher. I don't know if she actually calculated it or if it's just her experience. I myself have seen three in my tenure. Visible hardons aren't nearly as rare. I probably see evidence of a dozen per year without even looking. It's the context that counts. An erection from healthy fantasy gets mentioned over coffee, especially if the boy is cute. A boy wagging his biggie at girls I report. It's District policy. School's supposed to be safe from perverts. The fact that I saw Josh's thus wasn't in itself a major deal. A boner falls in the range of normal thirteen-year old behavior. That I found it a bit erotic falls in the range of a normal woman's response. When I admitted that I got excited about Josh's erection, though, Cindi grinned big. If she likes a story, she broadcasts it. If she has an idea, she shares it. She doesn't expect me to always agree, fortunately. Then she became thoughtful. "You know, Holly, at least three professionals are having affairs with students here, two men and one woman. One of the men was caught, but they hushed it up somehow, and he's still poking her. He's responsible about contraception and she wants him to." I shouldn't be that amazed about the males. From the front of the class you see all colors of panties. And leaning over them to help, you'll see their little buds. Their training bras are loose because they hardly need them. I can bet that some of my colleagues get horny, especially with the older girls who have ripe pieces of fruit, so to speak. What's illegal can also be understandable. And girls know what leads to what from the movies. R at Blockbuster means rentable. You can see their sexual awakening in how they adjust their blouses after they get off the bus. It's in their little push-up bras, the undone button, the panty lines through their hip- huggers. They're after the boys and get a man, I suppose. But, if you believe the stuff you read, most of them aren't doing it at thirteen. Fifteen, maybe. Seventh graders are giggling about someone else. There's not much at Capton Springs to titillate a gown female, though. Gender difference in maturation is pretty pronounced. My curiosity got the better of me. We'd gone on for pizza, since neither of us had cooked ahead. "Who was the woman? The one having an affair with a student, I mean." "I'm not telling. I'll tell you who the student is, though. Do you know Zak Gaston?" "Zak in ninth? Seemed pretty average in seventh. What's the attraction?" "Well, he isn't perfectly average, if you catch my drift. The girls in his class know about him." "How so?" "Well, the rumor going around was that he was a virgin because he was too big for any ninth-grader. Truth be told, it was just one girl and they chickened out. Lots of ninth-graders have had sex, you know." "Lots?" "Lots." ZAK'S SISTER Grading papers Sunday bored me stiff, so I called Cindi to see if she was game for a rematch. She wanted some exercise as well. On the way, she described Zak's situation. "Three girls felt Zak's penis at his sister's slumber party. She's a junior. First they wanted him to play strip poker, but he wouldn't. He knew they'd rig it." "It'd be easy," I agreed. "The thing is," interjected Cindi, " you cheat fair so everybody gets naked together." Then she continued, "So three of them snuck into Zak's room in the middle of the night and held the cover over his head so he couldn't tell who. They sat on him and teased till he got hard. He couldn't help it. They had a ruler, so there must have been a bet or something. They pulled his boxers all the way down so they could measure his balls too. After he got his erection, they were nicer. One girl made him squeeze her tits while they did their thing; he liked that part. The last one rubbed herself across his cock, but he didn't shoot, when they were there, anyway. If he had, they'd make a big deal of it." "It would be a big deal," I noted. "They'd start bagging him everywhere, like in the band room." "He knows it was three because they took turns. At the last, they uncovered his mouth and each kissed him. They left three pairs of panties on his pillow. So high school girlish, right? Except for their giggles, the whole thing was perfectly silent, them and him." "Poor kid. They should grab the boys who want them to." I was, I'll admit, fondling myself just a tad, pressing the heel of my hand into my lap. My hand was under my purse, of course. Cindi noticed, but then I don't keep secrets from her very well. "I had your reaction, too," with tiny tongue flip. "What reaction?" I straightened up a bit. "A big purse helps," Cindi perfectly deadpan. And then back to Zak, "He's pretty sure who two were, the way they blushed next morning. His sister could be the other, he suspects, because she's started getting these videos when their folks are out. They have a basement TV. Did you ever see 'Undercover Agent Uncovered'? You should. Zak's sister just wears her summer nightie, even though it's winter, and scoots right next to him on the couch." "Bra?" I asked. "Sometimes when they start watching, but she'll go to the bathroom and ditch it." "And she'd let other girls grope her little brother? She's a weirdo. Just my opinion, of course." "It's not weird; it's just not talked about. She'll just hop into his lap in the middle of the movie and get him to wrap his arms under her boobs. During a seduction scene, she'll snuggle deeper so his erection fits against her crack. He has one constantly." "I wonder why?" "She'll even say things about the movie like, 'I'll bet she never tells,' or 'that one would be a way to start.'" "Why not just say, 'Let's do it too, dear brother of mine?'" I'm direct at times. "Good point. To get more comfy, she'll move his arms up. If he cups one through her nightie, he doesn't act intentional. He can bump her nip, but shouldn't squeeze, if you get the difference. Or she'll tug her neckline out enough for him look right over her shoulder. She looks too." "Tease the guy to death!" "Well, he does sort of like the cuddling. He's just a guy," Cindi justified. "With his sister?" "If he puts a pillow over his lap, she tries to wrestle it away. 'Pervboy peaked and got a biggie! We can't help how we get sometimes, can we?' That kind of stuff." "Poor guy probably wants to slide under the sofa. I say look, don't discuss." "She'll crawl right on top of him in the battle. If a button comes loose and a boob pops out, she claims it doesn't matter because they used to take baths together anyway. They still could, she adds. She makes him button her back in because she says he undid her on purpose." "Would they take their rubber ducky?" I hummed a few bars. "And when her gown rides up, him seeing her panties doesn't matter either, she says, because there's nobody else around." "Like you wrestle in your little panties and he doesn't see everything?" We know exactly how they pull up between. "He sees enough. When he touches a tit in the wrestling, she kind of pauses and raises her arm before trying to escape. If he touches her butt, she giggles that he better not spank her. He's brushed between her legs when he was pinning her, but not long enough to do anything. His touches aren't all accidental, you know." "Don't blame him for this," I warned. "She tries to touch too, her leg between his. Or maybe the side of her arm will get there. Like with her tits, if it seems accidental he'll go along." "This is going somewhere it shouldn't." "Not really. They end up with her thigh on his cock, his hip against her mound, more-or-less even for a makeout, anyway. Nothing really gets anywhere," Cindi giggled at the inference. "She's probably watching his breathing, seeing what's working." "Just a matter of time." This much I knew. "And then Zak found her Valentine's panties in his dresser, bikini ones with little red hearts. Like their mom can't sort their laundry? Right! When he threw them in her room, she asked if she should wear them next time, even if they don't stay up very well. Talk about bold! It's because she knows that brother is a virgin with a big one and won't tell on her. She was the third girl, alright." THIS TEACHER By the time Cindi had spun out Zak's sister story, we needed to get on the court. I aced her twice the first game and she never recovered. I had until lunchtime Monday to wonder about Zak's teacher connection. I don't have a brother, so I've never thought much about sibling sex. I am a teacher, though. "And Zak slept with a teacher?" "This teacher heard a version of the slumber-party story, and decided to help with his virgin problem," Cindi grinned. "He's tried to see her tits in class, so he's not gay or anything. She can tell which boys are ready." "I think there's a law about this kind of help. He's nowhere near eighteen." Ignored. "So this teacher got Zak up on a stool to help in her book closet. He let her hold his waist to steady him. Then she stepped him down and put his hand on her sweater, her soft Kashmir. She'd teach him how to make love if he'd kiss her. Pretty straightforward, don't you think? He was nervous, but he kissed her. She tried to get against him to check him out, but he was too scared right then. They made a plan for Saturday. They're still getting together." "I'll bet it was Jessica Thomas, the shameless tease," I speculated. Jessica teaches PE. The boys drool over her gym outfit. It's like PE staff may have nipples, but real subject faculty may not. I justified my suspicion, "Watch the way Gym Princess stands hands behind her back during hall duty, right at the head of the stairs where it's crowded. Half the ninth-grade boys have rubbed her sports bra collection, I'll bet." "Three-fourths. She's got a column in her grade book with checkmarks. She'd know the exact percent," Cindi assessed. "You just think she puts out because she's got great boobs. Yours are as big, just a bit lower, but nobody thinks you're a tease." Cindi and I spar a lot, thus the 'lower'. Jessica's just taller. "Thanks, Miss High Rise. I forget, how many A's are we? Jessica and I do workouts vertically, not horizontally. That's why." I beamed my sweetest smile to seal my retort. Volley returned! Then I added, "Nobody thinks I'm a tease because of my glasses. And I don't dress to show off. Look what happened from just showing a little throat." "You should, Holly. You really do have a great profile. I've told you that forever. Of course Josh peeked. Why don't you unbutton another button on that thing you're wearing today and see what happens?" She's always trying to get me to do stuff. "Oh my God, no," I giggled. "You make me feel like such a perv. Like this?" I unbuttoned one more button, tugged it down and boldly arranged the lapels. "That's better. That bra has nice trim. Sorry I can't do a hardon for you, but I would if I could, of course. Let's see." She wiggled her knees and looked down. "Nope, nothing. Where's that Viagra? You do want to see Josh's again, right?" "Curious, that's all." "Now go get some catsup and lean over to squeeze it out. I'll see how many watch," Cindi ordered. "No way!" And she probably wasn't joking. "Then better rebutton before you forget," Cindi advised. After school she told me a few more things about Zak. "After this teacher seduced him on Saturday, he told her how his sister was messing with him. I guess intercourse helps teacher trust. Her boys often tell her things. Is 'seduced' the right word if he'd agreed?" "Close enough. Her boys?" I wondered. "There are others?" "It's not like a bunch or anything. Kids need to talk to someone who won't blush." "I see where you're going -- bed our students to build trust." "No way! Plus, if you fucked the class, it wouldn't be special and you'd be back to square one." "OK, so the teacher found out about Zak-boy's home life?" "This teacher has an interest in sibling relationships. Sex is often a bit complicated, right?" "You know, it's good we agree on at least one thing or we couldn't be friends." "We also agree that you can't beat a pure cotton jumper for comfort. Anyway, Zak really likes his sister. He's spied on her, pretty well actually, but it just makes him hornier. She knows, too. Would you leave your door open a crack at bedtime, turn away right when you get naked, hop under the sheet and play with yourself, him still peaking in? The girl's cruel! Well, maybe she's smart. He should slip in and finish what she started." "They'll have a six-fingered baby," I retorted. Minimizing my genetic concern for Zak's offspring, Cindi explained, "That inbreeding thing is exaggerated. The Pope invented it to promote celibacy." As if Cindi knows history! She is Catholic, though. I've gone with her to St. Bernadette's for the choir's Christmas service. She's not a singer because she misses the 10:00 AM mass too often, but when she misses she'll do a make-up. Catholics have such options. Catholic is a real church, in my book, not like these therapy ones with sermons like "Celebrating Menstruation" or "Standing in Struggle against Globalization". The Catholics invented globalization. The poor Father probably quakes when she dutifully unloads her sins of the flesh. As a guilt trip wouldn't work, maybe he assigns her one hundred "Hail Marys" and leaves it to Got to sort out. Lots of parishioners never fuck around and leave the world a lot worse off, so God will let her in. I'll bet the Father knows this and isn't as hung up as the Good Book specifies about the Cindis of his flock. WRITER'S NOTEBOOK Later that day "My Niece, my Daughter" popped into my head as a story title from Zak's point of view. Better yet, "My Niece, my Daughter, my Lover" about an older guy. Writers file away inspirations all the time, in my case into my Writer's Notebook. My Writer's Notebook is where I capture my inspirations, the better ones to be nourished and the lesser to die unattended. I'll jot conceptual plot synopses while the thought is fresh. Rereading, I spot flaws and weaknesses, of which there will be many. You can't pursue a complex tale without establishing guideposts. My Writer's Notebook is a parking place for titles without stories, characters without a home, snippets of unlinked scenes, well-crafted phrases and imaginative word usage from my own reading, all bits and pieces that someday might serve as literary kernels for a work not yet foreseen. My Writer's Notebook is where I note word meanings, for example the disarray about the term "cum". Is it verb or noun? According to American Heritage, "cum" means "together with", for example "our attic-cum-studio". There's nothing sexual about that Latin preposition, other than that you might have intercourse in your attic-cum studio. "Cum" is also a vulgar slang variant of "come, to arrive reach a particular state or condition." Thus we have a slang verb with orgasmic potential. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, "come" as a noun (perhaps originally from "come off") was used 1650 to mean "semen or other product of orgasm". The pornographic "cum" fluid is on record from the 1920's. An inarticulate character might scream, "I'm going to cum, baby, and shoot my cum all over your begging face!" but then "comes" in a properly written text. My Writer's Notebook is undisputedly an eclectic volume, but then perhaps so am I. I PICK UP THE STORY That night in bed I picked up on the scenario where Zak, in Cindi's shorthand, "completes what she started." Consider my Writer's Notebook extension to be like Shakespeare's play-within-a-play. I didn't write it without pause; it took several evenings and it's still in black and white. For a decent short story, I'd need to ad color. I'll tell it without interruption. If you want to personally reflect part way through, though, I'd be honored. It may seem a bit brutal, but keep in mind that under the veneer, they're siblings. Zak slips in and closes the door. Window light illuminates her arched neck, distinct breasts and raised knees, the four protrusions under the sheet. "Zak, what are you doing? Get out of my room!" She pulls her sheet to her neck. "Be real quiet, or I'll tell Mom what you're doing." He's already plugged the crack beneath the door with her throw rug and now he's taking off his shirt. "I'm not doing anything. Beat it," but more in a whisper. He ignores her dismissal and sits on her bed. "Get off and get out, boy child." She speaks a bit more fiercely, but still hushed. "You were twiddling yourself, right?" He puts his hand on her abdomen. She pulls back, but can't go far. "Quit it! I was sleeping," she lies. "Or was it here?" He slides his hand upward. She swats at him with her elbow. "Pervert!" He reaches a nipple, thimble-like beneath the linen. "How'd it get hard, then? It's not that big a tit, overall, but it's nice." A pinch serves as the period. "Quit it and scram. You can't do that!" still a whisper. She swats again and scoots away. He scoots in confident pursuit. "I wouldn't have to squeeze if you'd lie still. You let me in the basement." He pinches again, a bit harder. She tugs his hand off, but he forcefully returns. "Stop acting like a jerk. It's different there because it's accidental and you show a little respect. Plus I'm dressed." She slaps hard at his wrist. "Dressed? I suppose you accidentally sit on my lap, too?" He relaxes his clasp and rests his hand on her ribs. He can feel her breath retreat. "I can't help how you react when we watch that stuff. I don't mind. I do mind you being here now, though. It's my room!" "Let's make it more natural." He reclaims her bust slowly. She twists again, but to avid another pinching, doesn't intervene. He massages one, then the other through the sheet, not much more than she's let him do in the basement. She's quit trying to escape. They've only messed around on the couch, but maybe here would be OK too, she decides, for a little more of the same. She doesn't totally mind what he's doing. Bed's just where they happen to be. If he wants to feel, she'll let him. She'd been getting in the mood when he showed up, anyway. He senses her breathing deepen. Her neck visibly relaxes and her head falls back against the pillow. She expands her chest so she'll seem bigger. "You go out and I'll get in my nightie. We can look at my magazines with my flashlight." She smiles wickedly. He smiles too, but a bit more darkly. "No nighties. Why look at pictures when we can wrestle and see you?" "We can't wrestle here! And stop touching me!" "Let's just chuck this sheet," tugging at its corner. "I'm not cold." "No way! I'm not wearing anything, jerk-off spy!" Some truth there. "You rub them like this," showing her. He's gentle now. She doesn't deny, but scoots farther away and sticks out her tongue. "You treat me with respect! Anyway, I can't wrestle because of the curse." "Nice try. I don't want to finish you off you during your little period either, so I check the wastebasket. It's been a week." His friends at school talked about girls 'on the rag', but he's unsure if they can do it then. "You make me gag, Zak. You lick them clean, I'll bet." She pauses, her rejoinder suddenly no longer that important. His "finish you off" signaled a very different intention. Her mood sours -- he's not like this when they're on the couch. Who does he think he is? "How about I lick you clean instead?" Zak thinks this is a big-time threat. It doesn't occur to her to derail him by accepting. She now knows what he wants and is scared. She thinks quickly. "Oh no, Zak boy, we're not doing that. I'm not on the pill. Leave me alone, asshole," with an elbow punch to his ribs to detour at his embolden roving. He moves his hand toward her crotch. She grabs his wrist, leaving a single hand to hold the sheet. "You knew I'd be in here sooner or later." Impregnation's her problem, not his. She looks for a different angle. "Anyway, I know about the sock under your mattress. Wash it." And then, grasping for advantage, "And so do my girlfriends, but you don't know which ones. We take turns at your keyhole. You're such a pervert." "Maybe two of them got interested enough to hold me down. You're the pervert and couldn't even make me come." "Am not!" with a fierce glare. "You would have, but I didn't want your icky stuff on me." "Well this time it will be up the stovepipe," with a disarming smile. She can't keep his palm from rubbing her pelvis through the sheet. This isn't just a game. Maybe when he came in he wasn't positive, but now he's serious about having her in the Biblical sense, as the guys say. He moves his hand to her thigh and then to her shin. "Penis face! Go wonk yourself." She tries to sound in charge, her old role. Zak continues his business. "So let's take off elder sister's sheet." As she's still clutching it to her throat, exposing her toes is easy. When he bares her knees, she flips face down and tries to burrow into the mattress. Zak doesn't mind; he likes her ass too. At the end, the sheet's a neck scarf, easily pried away. "Frontward, please," to her bare back. No response other than clenching her butt and locking her hands under her crotch. "Give me my sheet!" She doesn't even realize he's got his pants off until his erection prods her cheeks. She looks over her shoulder. "Ugly!" With her girlfriends, it seemed a cute plaything. Now it looks mean. "Well, we'll stick in a girl place where it's dark." He can be crude too. Straddling her, he teases her rear with pretend probes. He's no knowledge of anal sex, but he enjoys provoking. While he pokes her buns, he reaches under her upper arms to again massage her breasts. This is his first for two bare boobs. She shivers. Enjoying her cowering, he takes the time needed to recover her nipples. She doesn't like getting mauled, but not as much as she dislikes being bare bottomed. "Zak, don't do that stuff to me. I never made you do anything bad on the couch. Just go away. I won't tell," almost meekly. She wouldn't. "I know you won't. So how does the video guy turn her right-side up?" he asks the air. "I'll do you with both hands!" She's pleading and he knows it. "You can play with my tits while I do." "Too late. You never delivered on the couch. A bed's for the real thing!" He's still reaching around her. "You can spy on a slumber party. I'll get them to play around and everything. OK?" She tries to smile, but it's patently forced. "I'd rather see you play around." "OK." A ray of hope -- she'd let him watch. Maybe he'd do it with her. "I mean play around while we fuck." "Zak, please don't do it." His hands move to her stomach and lift. Too heavy unless he gets more assertive, and that could make noise. He tries to reach between her buttocks, but she locks her legs together. Reaching around one hip, though, he gets his fingertips to her mons before hands block that route. He'd only touched his own pubic hair before. "Almost got there and I was hardly trying," a whispered boast. He moves to her side. As brother tries to roll sister toward him (hard to defend against without spreading one's legs), she counterattacks. She slugs his stomach, pushes him back with a swift forearm and almost dives free. Naked on the floor is hardly home free, but it beats being naked in bed. It no longer matters to her what he sees. Frenetic blows rain on her assailant, but without room for windup, they inflict little damage. Her fingernails, however, leave marks. Zak, sensing her disequilibria, twists her leg and quickly has her ripely on her back. One of his hands is on her neck, the other on her stomach. Cognizant that neither perch affords much hold, he shifts to her shoulder and hip and pulls her to the bed's center while she gasps for breath. The mattress's softness makes her feel as if she's in a trench. Her hands shield her sparse tangle of pubic hair. Her breasts lay flat and exposed. "Better," he rudely acknowledges. As he's never seen a vulva up close, he jams his knee between her legs and pulls her hands aside. She again counterattacks, flailing at his head and clutching hair too short to pull. His hand closes on her genitalia. He's surprisingly careful, considering that her chokehold is not gentle in return. He breaks free of her attempt at strangulation so that he can talk. "Just relax, will you?" "I'm going to yell!" she hisses, a vacant threat, deep shit for both. "So who rented the movies? How'd you even get a card to that video store? I was sound asleep when you three came in." He pinches her labia, not that hard, but enough to remind her how he'd abused her breast earlier. "Zak, please stop. You'll hurt me." Not knowing how to prevent him, she begins to cry. "If you want to cry, I don't care, but keep it low. I'm going to do it to you so it won't hurt." It won't hurt him, that is. Oblivious to protest alternating between pleas and defiance, brother begins to explore. He wiggles a finger downward and finds her moist. Was if from before or is it from what's happening now? Maybe it's a little of each. "Don't! Please don't!" She tries for another throat clutch, but is again thwarted. She readies for a harder pinch, but instead, he finds her entrance and pauses. "Ready?" It's actually a question. "Pig!" But from somewhere, she senses the onset of unwanted thrill. She ceases trying to hurt him. He fingers her vagina a bit rudely, just his middle digit to not exceed her capacity. She tries to squeeze him out, which just means he pushes harder. She's not at all ready, but he has no standard for comparison. "Was this what I interrupted?" now giving her full ins and outs. He doesn't know diddle about how it's properly done. She's panting, probably only twenty percent from the encroaching warmth, eighty percent because she's stopped sobbing and is really upset. If she twists, his finger hurts her, so she lies in stillness while his hand actively humiliates her. "Anus breath! I'll finger fuck your ass some day. I'll tie you up and make you cry. A bunch of us will take pictures for our scrapbooks," she threatens as the tingle grows. She grabs her pillow for protection, but doesn't know what to do with it. "I'm not tying you up, am I? Fair fight. I'm just doing you with just one finger." He then adds, "Why not help me out? A way we saw in a movie." "You down and I use a corncob, shithead!" He'd enjoy making her kiss his cock (How would he know? He's never had it done.) just to make her gag. But he also knows that she's sly and might use the chance to flee to the lockable safety of the bathroom. Or even reverse things and make him ejaculate before her. So he doesn't crawl up on her chest. "That was just to get you stretched," tough-boy talk. Imperatives and insults cease. Real rape commences without sound, violence from here on out. As her nipples remain fully erect in the ensuing fray, one can only conclude that coitus and violence occupy proximate places in the human brain. His knees push hers to either side. She thrashes so much that the headboard rattles. With noise their mutual enemy, he takes her pillow and jams it between bed and the wall. It does the trick. They resume battle. She reaches for her other pillow, but he grabs faster and forces it under her butt. He wants to make her moan, getting fucked deeply. She twists right and left, but never off the pillow that helps relieve the pounding. Gasps and little murmurs, obscene mainly, punctuate both sides as her defenses wane. She doesn't surrender when his penis breaches her. She involuntarily gasps at its brutal suddenness and pulls free, but he penetrates again and this time she can't retreat. His eyes are shut in concentration. She plummets his back with inward flays from the elbow. It accomplishes nothing, but she doesn't know what else to do with her arms. He locks a hand under each of her shoulders to still her. Her thwarting pelvic maneuvers and clenched canal limit his insertion to just a centimeter at a time, but it's relentlessly one-way. The abrupt and contorted friction hurts her, but she's glad because she knows it's hard on him as well. In ruthless coupling, they labor together in adversarial alliance. She doesn't surrender when he escalates their rhythm. Between male and female secretions, she's now better lubricated and his strokes find her length. With her hips elevated, he probes her depth. Reaching her heels around, she kicks into his calves, but that, of course, only invites his thrust. She stifles a moan, partly for the noise concern, but more to just deny him sensing she's turning the corner. She lifts her torso free of the mattress, his weight with hers, but only to collapse back in futile exhaustion. She not as much fights her desire as she fights its revelation. Coupled to her brother, she knows she'll climax at whatever cadence he beats. But as she owes him no predictability as payment, she randomly rebounds. He knows that she's trying to frustrate him, but doesn't care. As she writhes beneath him, Zak sees her cheeks redden, her pupils loose focus, her forehead bead with salty sweat, her mouth form an oval. Contradicting their verbal abrasivity, their muscular reciprocities assume the smoothness of fresh butter. She doesn't surrender even in orgasm, hot and angry at loosing. His weight plasters her as she spends herself, pushing and pulling; she's not sure which anymore. It's a full climax physically, one in which female fluids expel, but rape's not a sexual act; it's dominance. Her sexuality and his power thus intertwine. She knows she shouldn't feel the wholeness of it, but she feels the wholeness, none-the-less. They're both glad for the pillow stilling the headboard. She has tears again, from the rawness, from the satisfaction so abruptly and involuntarily broadcast, from the confusion of it all. The boy she loves best in all the world just violated her! How can something so imposed feel so ordained? She kisses him, but doesn't know why. Zak, perhaps because she's made it uncomfortable for him too, holds off until her orgasm subsides, her sexual defeat conceded. He's felt her thrashing, thrusting and now twitching. Her climax was far beyond the performances watched from the hall. He's not sure how he stayed on. He watches her as she rocks them to sustain the vestige of carnal subjugation. It's a tender look. She deserved it, even needed it, but he didn't want to hurt her. He kisses her to tell. They each know that his winning was making her climax with him on top. He vanquished her far better than either thought him capable of. It was, after all, his first time. She didn't want to loose. I FINISH THE STORY Seeding her is victory's bounty. She's required to welcome each little sperm wiggling its flagella as it swims into her womb. Zak saw a movie of them in Ms. Barton's class. Some kids tittered about it afterwards, but Zak saw power in finding the egg. It's his right to send them searching. As he tenses to release, he has tears too, a predator's tears for his prey, a brother's tears for his sister. Ravaged as she is, however, she's still controls her senses. Crying has ceased. She knows that he, unlike herself, will moan. She's at least salvaged a morsel, denying him the audibles. If a parent hears now, she'd be no better off, so freeing her arm, she covers his mouth. He grants her that license. Only as he succumbs to climax does she become the stronger. She knows she could expel little brother now, semen wasting in the air. Maybe she could grab him and spray his face or smear her tits with his produce and make him lick them clean. The little guy's defenseless, hers to make regret stealing in her room! She could humiliate him into a new relationship, even. He, after all, humiliated her. Her girlfriends would say to seize the moment. But instead of denying him the triumph, she delays beneath his loins, letting him broadcast within her, paying him homage, accepting each sperm. Zak senses her ultimate supremacy and understands her gift. In allowing him, she's preserved his conquest. It's something only a sister would do who loves her little brother. As he pumps, she reflects. Maybe she should have just let him seduce her on the couch. It would have been a better fuck, though probably not a better climax. But then she decides that this little jerk, her rapist kin, will never even get a kiss from her, here on out. The kiss she just gave was the last ever. She'll just ignore him all the time, mealtimes, whenever. What right does he have, attacking like some big stud? Her orgasm was no credit to him; being primed was her own doing before he even showed up. She's royally pissed, even while trying to prolong their genital union. She's mad at him for doing it. She's mad at herself for doing it too. Her nipples disappear. With his last virile throb, she bucks him off, again the elder. "Gotta force the chick, you horny jerk! That was so pathetic that no girl would let you. Moaning like a wimp. Afraid to look! I'm telling everybody. Go pay some whore to teach you something." They lay side by side. "And let go of my tit. You don't even know how to hold it!" "Hey, I rode you out," he retorts with a bit of boast. A wrinkled nose in return. "Beginner's luck. Only because you caught me naked, asshole! I was in a weakened condition at the moment," with a hint of girlish giggle. "Does "asshole" mean you'll show me how, sex expert?" "Forget it, pervboy. Now out! You get another dinky boner thinking about me, you've got your little sock. And I've got my allies. We'll fuck you raw both ways, next slumber party. Just you wait! We'll give you Kotex for your bleeding butthole. And you'll probably like it because you're a fag. You wanted to rear-end me, but I stopped you." She hooks a leg over his, a hint of future rules. "And I'm not a beginner," he argues unconvincingly. "Liar, liar, pants on fire. You did OK, though, for a know-nothing. Gotta start somewhere." "You did OK for a bitch. Only a lezbo would fight back so much, though," looking at his arm. "You shouldn't have pinched. A girl's delicate," delivered with her best pout. "So I take it that this is a better way to hold it?" he asks, knowing full well the answer. "A little bit. It's because I'm remembering the last video, not creepo you. In the movie, he kissed each one once." Two kisses, as ordered. "And one more where he shouldn't, remember?" she adds. "He did it without permission. Just one, though." "I'm remembering that last video too," he declares. "Let me guess. His got a smooch too, right?" "Without permission," he adds. "Even Steven," her ruling. Exchanged kisses. In another few minutes she announces, "Finally alive again. I was wondering if you had a disability, one that therapy doesn't help. Maybe something you caught from your sock." "So now she's my doctor. Will I ever escape?" "When you get to be older than me. Is that pillow stuck back there still? You cover your mouth yourself this time because I'll be occupied. Now flat on your back, boy wonder." He ignores the mouth bit but grabs her waist. "You fall off the bed like a spaz and we're up Shit Creek!" Sister and brother to the end. He has a few scratches and she's sorer than need be. Both sleep soundly in their own beds and argue next morning about who gets to finish the granola. When mom's not looking, he grins, pokes a finger through his toast and wiggles it at her. She gives him the finger back, no toast involved. Then she grins as well. One suspects that she had getting laid planned in advance. She'd have demanded to be the boss, though. Perhaps she didn't know how much of her honor would find itself on the line when he started removing the sheet. She defended herself well; she'd no escape. So what if she paused for him to seal his conquest? She loves the little guy. Always has. Always will. To balance the great screw, there's still a little penalty. It's a couple of weeks before she's assured of no conception. She's not that sure why she risked impregnation, but knows that vulnerability was the right culmination. She's happy that he came into her room, even if she never admits it. A brother can tell. Two endings: one that sham rape at video-time finale becomes their habit, Cindi's worldview, that is. The other, the more sophisticated end (and thus harder to write) is that after their tryst, they see each other in a deeper, post-coital way. No more porn together to get titillated. No more brushing on the sofa. No more bedroom doors left open for spying. Just a brother and sister who battled to their very best. A brother and sister who know that he won and she chose to let him be the victor. They'll always share respect. Of course they'll make love again, many times. They'll fuck lesser partners. Zak's little account was fun for me to rough out. Rape fiction usually doesn't make much use of dialog, two voices chronicling the coercion. Maybe I could nurture Zak's tale into something more literary, something beyond his sexual odyssey. Writers need to exceed their experiences. As I said, I don't even have a brother. ZAK'S TWO PROBLEMS By Tuesday we were back to Cindi's analysis of the real Zak, not the fictional rapist. "But he has two problems: One, even after that Saturday with the teacher, he wasn't that good. Two, he doesn't know if she'll go along," Cindi continued the following day after seventh period. "The first one's where this teacher's helping out, right? His sister needs to enjoy how he makes love from the very start. She's going to keep seeing him every day. It's not like a relationship you can dump. Incest is forever, they say." Cindi loves the "they say". "Sister and brother slipping away from the family reunion for a half-hour, even when they're old and one's married! They can catch each other's eye across the living room and two minutes later be naked on the guest bed. So Zak needs regular lessons from someone who knows her stuff." "For educational use," I ruled, whatever that means. Everything everywhere's educational, or at least can be. "Getting her spread's pretty easy," Cindi continued, "once he's confident how to finish her off. It's porn video night. They're already on the sofa, nobody else around. Given what Sis does, she'll cave in quick enough. She'd never tell if he forced her, what she deserves, but he can get there being sweet too." "I agree. Things can go wrong when you force," I reflected. The rape tale I stuck in above might not have worked out. Mom could come in. Sister could get messed up. Someone could get a black eye. She could get pregnant. Cindi continued, "While they're watching, he tells her how frustrated he is with his girlfriend's kisses. Sis will sympathize and they'll start smooching, practice like. Then he can say that she's so fine that he'd rather not even bother with that girlfriend any more. They'll French and he'll touch her breast sort of accidentally. She'll probably giggle and ask if his girlfriend fell for that maneuver. Sis won't move his hand away while she asks, though." "Why start now?" "He can give her a long deep kiss while he unbuttons her. She always undid them before, right? She'll whisper he shouldn't do that because he's not her boyfriend. Then she'll add that they could pretend." "I'm with you so far," I encouraged. When Cindi gets one of her yarns started, you just sit back and enjoy it, maybe hand beneath purse so she'll know you're enjoying how she's telling it. "After he begs a little, Sis will let him slip off her nightie. It's not like he hasn't seen her moons before. But it's a little different now, totally topless. He can say hers are so beautiful that he wants to kiss them. She'll say OK, if he's careful. She'll remove his shirt, lean him back and straddle him, dropping them into his mouth. I presume that she's smart enough to know the way." With my friend Cindi, who needs an adult video? "'Naughty little brother,' she'll tease. No sense him denying the obvious." "So she's just in her panties?" I ask. "He'll plead that they'll always love each other and should prove it the real way, a boy's classic line. Her tits prove that she wants to too, he'll argue. He really loves her. Please let him show her how special she is. She'll like it. They can just do it part way." "Adam told that to Eve," I offered. "And they still begat Cain and Able," Cindi finished. "And they had to have begot some girls too. Sex with your sister is a Biblical fact, when you consider that there was a next generation." She lost me there. It must be something from Sunday school. Cindi returned to her sexology lecture, "Zak can be sliding her hand down his front while he talks. She'll sit up a little so it's easier for him to push her hand lower. She'll be so docile that he'll have to squeeze her fingers around him. See how much he wants her? Then he'll work her fingers to undo his pants. She doesn't just grab, right?" "Right," I agreed. "She already felt it with her girlfriends, of course, but she'll act like this is the first time. 'Oh, Zak,' and that line. With her girlfriends, it was pretty much in the dark. Not now. She'll push his underpants all the way off and then scoot down to rub her tits against it to get a better view." "She has to hold back a little. He's supposed to be making her, not her, him," I noted. "Right, so she'll say that they'd better not because their folks will come home. He just points out that they've still got two hours. She'll rise up enough to slip off her undies, maybe even the Valentine's ones, while she thinks. "She warned that they didn't stay up very well," I reminded. "He'll get her legs apart while she decides. She'll lift up to get his dick aimed. It's because I love you too, she'll rationalize just before she pushes down." "I still don't think that you should do it with your brother, but at they al least both want it," I conceded. Cindi just presumes too much rabbit mentality. Cindi's already embellishing her tale. "They're not all that good, but they'll like it and promise to last longer next time. He has to wear a rubber in the future, she'll declare. She'll teach him how to put it on." I was thinking how strange it must be to feel your brother inside you the very first time. Cindi thought a moment, "It might not take that much gab if they wrestle just after a hot movie. She'd be easy to flip. She doesn't need panties because they used to take baths together, tell her. I think it's better to go slowly, though." "So do I. Getting nude is half the fun." I was ready myself by this point for my own bedtime reflection. I'd get nude first too. "What do you think: there on the couch or hand-in-hand up to her room? It would be more special where she could see all her girly things like Raggedy Anne, I say. She'll probably have a rubber ready that she can say a girl found at school. That way she's protected from the very start." "Who's seducing whom?" I admitted my confusion. Cindi, of course, thought it was obvious. "That's the plan, anyway," Cindi ended the scenario. "Sounds better than raping her," I agreed. I liked her Raggedy Anne bit. My friend Cindi has an eye for detail. I think we both came up with decent stories about Zak and his sister's first time. Mine was a bit more emotional; rapes are. Cindi's was a bit sweeter. If she'd park her fanny, instead of running around all the time, and write her fantasies, Cindi could have something good. I've told her that she should read a variety of authors to learn their styles. Fat chance! Cindi returned to the teacher. After all, Zak's teacher, not sister, got him first. "So when this teacher unzips him, you know what she finds? Eight inches and he's only fifteen. It even curves up! Imagine when he's in college, hung like a horse. He'll have to have cock-reduction surgery!" "No way! They just curve up in pornography." "For real!" Her eyes were wide. "I'd be afraid of being banged in the cervix if he's a beginner." Women don't exaggerate like men do. "Not a problem. And he comes about five times in one session. That's what you have a younger lover for. You don't have to worry about him not getting up again. Making it stay down is the trick. Fight him off when you start getting sore, not like some forty-five-year- old Wendy's manager who rolls off you and takes a nap." I considered for a moment. "Zak's not my type. I don't want a boyfriend just to train for some sister," Cindi laughed as we returned to the here-and-now. She knew where I'd been: I'd rather be the sister. "Yeah, too bad Zak's taken, isn't it? I was just thinking about this teacher. Fucked today and forgotten tomorrow. Oh, well, fun while it lasts. Your Josh might be longer term." "Well, I don't really think I'm going to go trolling for a thirteen-year-old." But I did, of course. CINDI ON FAMILY TRAVEL By Wednesday lunch, sexual-information-repository Cindi was in her element. We opted to drive to Salad Supreme. "Here's some stuff worth knowing," as she drug me to her Hobbling Honda (her name), "if you're an author." Cindi's picked up that most English teachers would rather be writers. Cindi's approach is to help with ideas. I like hearing interesting items and Cindi knows a few. She also, of course, just likes to talk. "Her bed and the couch aren't the only places for a sister to get what she needs. Forget Zak and his sister altogether. The slumber party and video watching make it predestined, right? The teacher just moves it along." She thought a bit. "Basically what takes time is getting to where you can tell each other that you want to." "Like fuck?" "Maybe nothing has really occurred between you before. You just like each other and you think thoughts. It can happen in the strangest places, say if the two of you are together in the back of your folks' car, dozing on a long trip, and he's up against you. His arm will just be a little too much across your front. Your knee will be a little too much against his." Cindi was off again. She winked when I moved my purse to my lap. Somebody might look in the car window. "It's nervy at first and you'll both be cautious, but after a bit you'll both figure that the other's asleep and you'll get closer. When his arm feels your nipples getting hard, he'll realize you're letting him. "It's quiet, except for the car radio. Your mom, if caught glancing back, may say something like, 'They're cuddled up just like when we'd put them in the stroller together, hun.' Your dad will be deciding where to get gas. Probably you should shift yourselves to get as much as possible out of Mom's view. "He'll be cautious because he's still not really sure. Undo the lower button of your shirt to tell him where. It's a magic moment when he slips up inside your camisole. His giveaway is when he rolls toward you, knees apart. Brush a finger beside his zipper; he wants you to know. Like he'd be stiff if he wasn't having a good time?" "So I suppose you unzip him then for a blow job?" suspecting that Cindi hadn't figured out where this was going. My leading the plot would prove that she was winging it. "You're not stupid, for Pete's sakes! You leave him zipped. If you can pull a blanket over, rub him really slowly, just fingertips on the outside, not push-pull like you were parked somewhere. Don't stop, even if he shakes his head. It takes longer on the outside, but he'll love you for it. His pulse is a good way to tell what's coming. Did I say that? Naughty me! The pulse thing only works when he's motionless, not a normal boy-milking. Help him hide his wet spot when you get out of the car, right? You made him do it." Poor guy. I hope he's wearing a long shirt. "If it's a family vacation you're on, the motels will have two queen-sized beds usually, one for the folks and the other where the two of you glare and stake out very opposite edges. But of course, nighttime changes things. It's really risky doing it in the same room, but kids are a little stupid sometimes." "Your story proves that," I ruled. "If either of you is a virgin, at home's safer. But if you at least know a little, basically aim for about one-fourth speed. That's actually the best thing about with your brother; you're forced to find the quiet ways. You could never trust a regular boyfriend to go slow with you. Even if you can't start real sex until you get back home, there'd still be fun stuff if you're careful about noise. Run the air conditioner for the hum." "You lie! You can't have intercourse with them in the room!" I declared. "Sure you can. Dad sleeps like a log after all that driving. Claim the bed away from the window, since light from the parking lot can silhouette you if you get two deep, so to speak. Quietest is you on your back, one knee up, his thighs under it and scissored around your other. Your heads are way apart, right? You're in good positions to coordinate. Plus it doesn't hurt your back." "Give me credit, Cindi. I know sidesaddle." She's always trying to educate me. "By the third night you'll have it to a science. TV off after the weather. Thirty minutes till mom and dad are out of it. Underpants off. The main thing isn't that you screw; anybody can do that. It's that you trust each other." "Under the covers, right?" I was thinking detail. "Absolutely. Whatever gets the bedding wet doesn't matter because the motel people deal with stains all the time. The maid never knows who was where. As if she doesn't change other kids' beds afterwards!" She then added, "It's healthier if he doesn't have to pull out, though. He can buy those gimmick rubbers when you get gas at a truck stop. Like 'Tickle her Pink.'" "Or how about 'With Vibration Ribs,'" I offered. "There's the 'Super Capacity Retention Bulb,'" Cindi quoted. "'Micron Thin, yet Steel Strong,' as I remember." We were on a roll! "'Fifty Percent Performance Improvement'. As if!" "How about the 'Stays Lubricated Throughout.' In rainbow colors, even!" I just made that one up, but by adding the little detail I made it sound real. "The 'Pressure Enhancing Form Fit.' Sounds like your bra, Holly." "'Flavored to her Taste.' Oh darling, I crave a Strawberry Shortcake." ''Extend your Power! Assure your Comfort!' as if it's for the guy!" "Oh, God, the 'When her Security Counts' for such an infrequent concern," I matched her. "How do you know this stuff, Holly?" Cindi knows that I've never been too far from what they sell in Wal- Mart. "My friends in high school had collections in their lockers. Some really did have little ribs." Why do we clutter our minds with this stuff? Because it's so funny. "Just leave it in the sheets for the maid to toss," Cindi resumed after we settled down. "She'll hardly speak English, anyway. If you threw it in the wastebasket, mom would see it right off. Dad, if he ever looked in the trash, would probably fill out that little 'How'd we do?' card on the table and note that this is supposed to be a family motel." "He thought I was a slut," I said. Cindi paled. "Oh God, I didn't mean that, Holly. I was just smarting off." "That's OK." It was. "Keep going." "As siblings are genetically the same, you naturally climax right at the same minute even while you're learning. DNA." She just says stuff like it's fact. Her degree's in science education, not scientific science. It got my mind off dad, her precise intent in offering such a preposterous statement. "Doubtful," I challenged. "Can they automatically double jump rope together? Same thing." Hackneyed as it is, practice makes perfect. Cindi's logic: "Twins can sometimes tell when the other one is in trouble," as if that validates the DNA explanation. The girl may teach biology, but I'd not want her, say, inventing new chemicals. "How'd we get on special rubbers?" I wondered. She concluded, "So anyhow, Zak's way isn't the only way." CINDI ON MOMS The next chance we had time to really talk, Cindi paused and became pedantic, Cindi style. "A sister and brother can sleep together a bunch if your folks' bedroom is downstairs. Avoid creaky floorboards and figure out whose bed is quietist. You may have started on good motel springs, but your set's been in the family forever. Set an alarm to get back, especially if dad gets up early to read the paper. Mom does the sheets, so put something down like a dark blue towel. "Cindi, you read too much." "The thing is, a mom's hard to fool. She has an eye. Like a blue towel she never saw in the bathroom turns up in the hamper. Heck, she could have even been awake on the trip and knew the one-knee-up. Two bits of evidence that she's onto it: at the motels if she always claimed the side of their bed next to yours; and after the trip if she gave you the 'When a girl starts heavy dating, she's in charge of consequences' talk." I didn't buy it. "Their mother knows? I doubt it." "What if mom slipped over and got in on brother's other side? Dad's snoring away still." Cindi's eyes sparkled at the scenario. "The three of them?" "Probably not going to happen, you're right. But wow! If I were the mom, though, I'd want my baby boy just to myself. Up to the mom-joining-them-point, though, it's absolutely realistic: secret sex in the same motel room, leaving the rubber in the sheets." "If you say so," I yielded. "You may never know how much mom knows. It would depend on how she grew up. It's not like she'd just say OK. What do you think?" "My mom would have made me wear a chastity belt with pointy things," in my best poor-me sigh. "And one more evidence," Cindi concluded. "When the folks come home earlier than expected, mom makes a big racket at the front door." Then Cindi remembers something. "I read this one where mom catches the kids in the act, doing it all wrong. So Mommy teaches them separately. They call her Mommy, even during. The three end up in bed together." "Weak plot. Four fuck scenes." Cindi's library! "Would you believe eight? No, seven. Mommy has this bridge foursome where the hostess always provides little prizes! They first make brother keep the score and have a great time saying 'Rubber'." I'm laughing so much. "I'm going to end up each doing something very solitary to myself right here in your Honda. Stop it!" It's dangerous when your best friend knows your weak points. Cindi just needs a nom-de-plum and a stenographer. "OK, I added the bridge club thing," brightly confessed. "The prizes wouldn't be your sort of literature. Sister gets to help." "Thanks." PARALLEL TALES The mom knowing aspect has literary possibilities. I've jotted some plot lines in my Writer's Notebook. Detail, connectivity, personality and atmosphere change a plot line into a story. Obviously, I've work to do if I practice what I preach. I have in mind three plots of three acts each. Plot Line 1 Act I: Mom, fourteen, slips into her brother's pup tent on the family camping trip. She heard a bear! They'd climbed to Broad Oak Flats that day and he'd tugged her up when the trail was steep and carried the pack all the way. At the flats, they dozed in the shade, her head on his shoulder, secure with his arm lazily crossing her Smiley Face T-shirt. She was pleased how he wrapped around her chest. She could tell from how he adjusted his wrist that it was on purpose. At that age, they're just pointy, but he liked them and he's sixteen. As she crawls in with him, he sees her ribcage through an undone Turtle Time flannel PJ button. A small breast nuzzles his side as she whispers of the bear's certainty. She presses his ear to her chest to prove how scared she is, that bear was so near! When he lifts his head from her heartbeat, she puts his hand where the button is open and closes her eyes. But she's not sure. Maybe he wasn't even aware up at the flats. But she could tell he was from the way he twisted to hide his front. Should she roll away and redo the button just undone? But it can't be that bad or all her friends wouldn't do it. His sister looks so sweet, so cuddly. He should shoo her back to her own tent. There was no bear! Someone might hear them! Probably not, as their mother had sited their tents to the far end and it's both dark and windy. She's still too little! Actually, she seemed plenty ready this afternoon. He parts the open button and traces a rib. She offers no evasion. He's eroticized sister's image before, his virgin. He's only made love with one person, and that person is special. He planned not to do it with anyone else till he marries, but would another take his sister as gently? They each await the other. He pauses a long moment and undoes the remainder of her PJ top. Moonlight from the tent window, triangular and high, illuminates small erect nipples. She stirs, smiling with eyes yet closed, draws her knee across his thigh and giggles at her discovery. He's surprised when her hand follows, but not enough to thwart it. They kiss. In pulling off her happy turtles, the two forget about predatory wildlife. Act II: Mom, years later, and your brother watch National Geographic's "Arctic Survival" at the hotel while you and dad stay for the evening rides at Seven Seas. They'd had a fun day, mother and son on the rides, shrieking and laughing depending. On the spooky tunnel boat ride, they held hands in anticipation of each fright. Exiting, he noticed her nipples as she pulled him back to the line. "That was fun!" When they this time reached the dark passage (strategically situated, one can be sure, for teenage couples) Mom told him that here is where every girl gets a kiss, just a little one. Turning to collect, her breast fully passed against his arm. The peck she received was enough. When after that she'd brush against him in queues, he'd liked it. They'd kissed final farewells before being strapped into the Missile and kissed again to celebrate their live return. Mom's nipples were really big, he noted. Waiting for the hotel shuttle, she'd locked his arm against the side of her chest. He thought people might think that she was his date, pressing like that. In the elevator, he'd even taken a little initiative with his elbow, as he knew she'd like it. She emerges from the shower in her cream-colored nightgown. An undone button reveals the inside of a pale rounded bosom. "Let's see what's on TV," as she flops beside him. She rests your brother's head on her collarbone, cheek on flannel, switches off the bedside light and strokes his hair. As she recalls each ride of the day, she casually guides his hand to the undone button. As she closes her eyes, "Arctic Survival" shows polar bears mating. But inadequacy grips her. To him she'd be only a mother. He's probably thinking at the braless wonders that swarmed around them all day. Hers were once as high. She'll let him drift into sleep; he's just a boy. What if dad and you return early? But this yet feels so inevitable. To your brother, mom's eros beckons, but he too hesitates. He should extradite himself, check their schedule for tomorrow's events. But he can still feel her ample softness as they rode the elevator. He knew that she could tell. The open button draws him as it before drew his uncle. He's imagined mom in bed before, what dad must do to her. Would she let him, his first time? Each knows the other is waiting. He pulls her fabric a millimeter, as if rolling a finger. No response. He does it again, but this time sliding the flannel enough to accentuate her breast, so close. He pulls the gap across to expose a handsomely upright nipple backlit by the TV. He's not forethought a response should she object, but there's no need. She's breathing deeper, her chest rising higher. He undoes the other buttons, one by one, and watches the antics of polar bear pups until she smiles as if awaking. As in the tent, years before, knee crosses thigh. Not a giggle this time, but a deeper breath of decision. He's surprised when her hand follows, but not enough to thwart it. As they kiss, she uses the remote to kill the TV, the wolves and killer whales already forgotten. When you and dad got back, the door was chained. It took a while to wake mom up. Even across the king size you and your brother shared, you knew he was shaking. The wimp only went on the Missile, you scorned. You road it fearlessly and you're just twelve. Act III: Cindi's vacation story expanded. Mom lies still and alert in the Bear Paw Motel room. You two were hardly snuggled stroller-like in the back seat this afternoon, but then how could you have known what she knows. She couldn't see much from the front seat, but she will now. Mom knows your impatient toes touch as you wait. She sees how his hand burrows to you under the sheet. She sees your eagerness as the bedspread wrinkles, hips lifted to disrobe. Actually, fourteen- year-olds hardly have hips. She's not surprised at your rush to copulate, all three of you having thought of little else for hours. She watches your brother slide upon you in your not-so- silent coupling. She hears your stifled gasp, audible above the distant noise of late-night traffic only to one who's herself experienced him. She knows that it's your first. You'll perfect your technique in your own bed; this time is just about doing it. Mom's swept by both orgasms, though she's not sure how. My basic change from Cindi's tale is that you would be a virgin, as was mom with her brother. Cindi's protagonist knows where to get rubbers. First with her brother, then with her son and now she watches the torch pass. Thoughts of bears (black the first time, white the second, and now highway neon) intermingle with memories. Working title: Bears to Bared. A title so totally terrible wouldn't get in the publisher's door, but you must admit it sticks. It all happens on vacations. It's about desire, hesitation and yielding. Intercourse is both release and receipt. Sexual union reconciles vulnerabilities. Plot Line 2 Act I: Mom and her brother in the boathouse, years ago. It's raining and they're soaked. They'd canoed to the sand spit, changed under their towels, splashed one another in the shallows and changed back. Their modesty was that which a bath-size towel affords. As putting on her suit top backwards, twisting it around, up and over, and getting into the straps couldn't be done under a towel, she just held her top against her and had him hook her from behind. If he peeked a bit, it was reciprocal and passed unspoken. Brothers and sisters can do that. It was fun burying each other in the sand. When he patted the sand down over her front, she pretended not to notice how his fingertips burrowed to find fabric. She almost replied in kind to his trunks. The sand pile on his chest prevented him from seeing to what degree his condition showed, so pronounced that she had had a difficult time not brushing it. Fourteen-year-old girls back then didn't take initiative (unless you credit her resourcefulness in blocking his view with the sand). Her girlfriends had stories about how their boyfriends made them feel it. They said it was gross, but they all kept right on making out. The foretaste of rain provided the pair an excuse to disengage. Neither was sure if anything had transpired. They now sit on the pile of life cushions, drenched, waiting the storm out. Mom starts shivering. His arm encircles his sister's innocence as she curls into his lap, their scant warmth doubled in sharing. He cradles her back, then her neck. Then he cups her breasts, small and firm, but tiny compared to the pair he's fondled other afternoons. They both pretend that tits are just another part to make warm. If she'd pushed his hand away, he'd have stopped, but she whispers to make her warmer. He slips down her shoulder straps and unfastens her wet top. She sinks deeper against him. Out there on the sand, he'd been aroused, so much in fact that he didn't even care if she could tell. But he didn't know what to do. Here in the boathouse, rain drumming on the shingles, he does know. It's not just that he wants it; it's something that he can make happen. They love each other, he whispers. He knows that's how smart guys start. She mummers accord. After a moment of fruitlessly fishing for what next to say, he blurts that he wants to make love with her. It's just natural when you want to make somebody happy, he justifies. He knows he should have arrived there more subtly, but it just came out. She doesn't respond, but her hand tightens on his. Then she says that she loves him too, but they can't. She's not ready, her words measured. Well, he is, he tells himself. He squeezes her hand and says that that he knows that she wants to too. Part of her is scared, he acknowledges, but the other part, her real part, says do it. It's OK that she wants to make love. He knows the reference to "love" weakens her resolve. He'll not say "screw", or even "have sex". She states with more certainty, no. It's not right. But, he rejoins, the part of her that says yes, that wants to make love, is still there, right? She admits as much, but it's only a little part. It may seem like just a little part, he suggests, but it's the part of her that wants to be happy. To deny what she's thinking is not fair to herself. He assures her that she'll be good, that it will come naturally. They'll go slowly. She's going on fifteen; it's how you grow up. She'll like it, feeling him inside. She'll know what it's like to come together. It's so good. When she doesn't reply, he touches her palm to his heart. It's OK, he promises. Feel how his heart is beating. It does feel OK, she finds as she massages his chest with the flat of her hand. That part of you wants to touch more, he encourages. Go ahead. I love you. Things seem dreamy. Maybe he's right. Moving lower, her wrist finds his waist, then his penis. Accidentally? No more than when he was burying her in the sand. Her hand closes about him. You make it that way, he assures her. She's not scared because she loves her brother. He's right about the part she needs to acknowledge, so she can love this part of him too. Why shouldn't she? Everything has its first time. Why save herself for some flake boyfriend? He lets her hold him until she's sure, here in the boathouse. As they so draw upon each other's reserve of warmth, of passion, their lips meet. Their wet clothes they drape on the canoe. She lies back, sensing that he knows how. She assumes maybe it was with Sandy Lewis because Sandy wears a black bra under her T-shirt. But he wouldn't have loved Sandy. He possesses her quickly, as he's been primed too long to protract his performance. She'd not come her first time, anyway, he justifies. This was so easy, her brother tells himself afterwards. If he'd had known how easy, he'd have popped her cherry months ago. Act II: Your mom and your brother in the same boathouse, twenty-odd years later. You and dad are reading mysteries in the cabin up the hill. The other two were hiking when the storm hit. Rain isn't uncommon in late afternoon. Sharing the one poncho didn't work, even with her draped over him like a backpack; it just made them trip in lockstep. Finally they whooped and sprinted toward the boathouse, soaked anyway. She hadn't explicitly planned to take him to the boathouse, but once there, it's beyond her control. The place is piled with the same aquatic paraphernalia it contained all those years ago. Boathouses are very traditional. "This storm might last. Let's dry this outside stuff off," as she peels off first her jersey and then her shorts. The wetness accentuates the contrast of two dark circles and one dark triangle in her underwear as she hangs her garments to drip. "You too," she orders. Your brother complies, hunching his legs. She pretends to not see how his undershorts, soaked as well, cling. "Over here," and pulls him to the cushions behind the canoe. "It's too cold. Let's make a nest." She snuggles to his side, sensing control. "Better like this," as she slides onto his lap. She wraps his arms around her stomach such that a forefinger rides against her bra and his other hand rests against her panties. "Keep me warm." He hopes she can't tell what's happening to him, but with the recklessness of his fourteen years, doesn't mind if she can. The difference is that the first time is seen via virginal eyes. She was indeed freezing. The second time is seen through mothering ones. She brought him to the boathouse for this purpose. Her shiver is something other than thermal. Mother and son massage one another against the cold, fingerpainting their warmth. She slides her torso down and his fingertips ascend. "It's raining harder," she whispers, as if she's not noticed his palm against her chest. She reaches behind to rub his ribs. His thumb finds a nipple. Chill might explain its fullness, but is that the real explanation? She draws the heels of her hands to his hips. He peels down the damp fabric and envelops her. It had never occurred to him that he'd be feeling up his mom. Wow! How can she deny their bond? Her son is too precious to be squandered on someone who loves him less. He may be just a boy, but he's her boy! When she grips him as a woman would a man, he's embarrassed, but she knows he won't deny her. Mothers kiss sons and sons kiss mothers the world around. Their kiss, however, continues. Then with her brother and now with yours, the indestructible, indecipherable, inconsiderate tags sewn into the seams of Coast Guard approved flotation devices poke Mom's back. At the end, though, what's under her is of little concern. Up in the cabin, you'd switched off reading with your flashlight when the two finally made it back. You didn't want him to know you'd found his magazine. You decided you were reading it so you could tell your friends. At twelve, you knew the facts, but here was so much more detail, like how happy a girl feels when she makes love. Someday! The two didn't know you were still awake. Whatever Mom giggled about "on the life preservers" made you think that they'd capsized. You'd thought that they were on a hike. Act III: Two summers hence, again dusk at the lake. From the path, Mom sees you and your brother docking in the rain. You've been to the sand spit. When you're together as a family, you've always worn a bra, but when you took off for today's outing, you were just in your T-shirt. It's not that you really need a bra, Mom agrees. Except, of course, if you get caught in a storm, cotton clings. Mom grins, remembering boys. Getting soaked herself, she approaches the boathouse from the far side, the rain masking her whereabouts. She knows where her kids will be. Listening from below the eves, she knows you're already cuddled. She can tell by your comments when you kiss, when he claims your breast, when you lie with thighs intertwined. She charts your alternating mummers of caution and encouragement as he strips away your wet things. She knows he's naked when your voice breaks, never having seen an erect male before. When you touch the penis that's going to ram between your legs, you in sincerity ask, "Can I?" You say, "If we make baby girl, let's name her 'Nida" to mean niece and daughter. Get it?" Mom hopes that it's the nervousness that makes you caviler; you couldn't be serious! On the other hand, there you two are without any birth control. Pauses in the whispers cause Mom to suspect that he's readying you. There's no ready quip for the finger; it's easier just to kiss. After what seems a lengthy period of positioning, he asks, "OK?" It's very quiet and then you reply in the affirmative, albeit not with much certainty. Mom expects you to moan, but you mark the moment with nothing audible. The rhythmic swishing of ultimate affection begins. Mom knows that swish. Mom wonders if you might be crying, but you keep telling your brother you love him, that this is what you want. At the same time, you don't seem to advancing. After a period, however, the swishes evolve into thrashing sounds and your phrases devolve. The two of you are hardly silent at the end, caught between pubescent confusion and grownup aspirations, your brother torn between proving his kindness and celebrating his conquest. You're just a blabbermouth, before, during, and after a less-articulate digression, after. He was so big, so sweet, so masterful. You're already the self-appointed historian. Mom figures that if he were such a lovemaker, you wouldn't be commenting; the first time is great only in magazines. She, of course, reads what you hide, part of a mother's responsibility. When she goes back up, Mom tells your dad that you guys must have canoed to the far side and might not be back for a while. She'd planned to leave a blanket forgotten on the canoe, but never got around to it. But as she recalls, you'll forget about those tags. Working title: Boathouse Revisited. That part's a joke, of course, as I'd not want it a spoof on Evelyn Waugh's PBS series. This tale would be a gentle one about sharing affection, sexual union seamlessly melding their love. Plot Line 3 Act I: Mom provoking her brother and involuntarily (but ultimately not unwillingly) paying with her virtue. I have the Zak bedroom story already. I'd just make him the older sibling. It would add flavor to include some period references to ninth grade, how her lava lamp, say, makes a pattern on the ceiling. To vary the style, I might work the dynamics into her diary. Fourteen-year-old girls express themselves with flair, upper case being a favorite. Sixteen-year-old boys will hardly write their name. You discovered her diary when you cleaned the attic, but you never told her. Here are some of Mom's entries. Mom calls her brother "t". (As if the reader would be fooled.) Note the E.E. Cumminga. dec 27 we watched noel's present her name is noel and she's under the christmas tree with the lights blinking dec 31 resolution 1 make first string resolution 2 make love jan 9 t could see my pink bra with string straps and rubbed the sides during the movie i picked up the tv guide so he could see the movie was about going for a walk in the woods jan 24 we watched motoman t knew i didn't have a bra on and got a boner almost got topless when t turned me upside down and totally saw my blue panties feb 13 i left a little valentine's present with t's underwear feb 16 t threw my panties back but i think he got off about them feb 17 i wore the heart panties like i promised his cock stuck out when we were fooling around and he had to stay on his stomach jenny will have an orgasm she saw it with me before anyway but it's sexier one on one feb 23 we watched blonde bomber twice because it's so funny t put his hands inside during the last part both times to make me stacked like the star feb 26 felt t's cock when he couldn't tell he beat off afterwards and i could hear mar 3 t rubbed against my hip but quit jenny wants me to score mar 9 i know t felt between my legs but didn't let on mailgirl was so hot that we undid most of my buttons t gave me a spanking and let me rest my head on him mar 17 i think i almost made t come in his pants jenny wants to watch with us and spend the night it's to fuck t but she won't admit it i won't let her we'd seen the movie before but i didn't remember its name and the boxes just have typed labels so it wasn't my fault it was called kissing cousins mar 19 t knows i play with myself he thinks it's too dark in the hall to see him spying i should get him to do it too where we can watch each other kind of risky asking mar 21 i left my door open and t watched me go to bed i don't care if he sees my ass i know he wants to have sex mar 31 during the movie i sort of rubbed myself where t could see i wanted him to rub himself too but he wouldn't apr 6 t sat on my lap when we watched and i put my hands around right on his lap i was going to mess with his belt but the movie finished apr 14 yes! yes! yes! t came in and made love i didn't want to but he was so horny i cried at first but i think it went pretty good i don't feel that different like the book says like this should be such a big deal jenny will be totally jealous i think he's done it before with an older girl apr 15 jenny said she could tell as soon as she saw me we did it again after lights out t wore a rubber because i said he had to i fixed my bed better may 3 we were rocking and didn't hear mom come up the stairs we thought they'd gone to bed when we heard her it was almost too late we lay still she forgot something fortunately and turned around it was exciting and made me totally ready but t was still scared i made him finish may 9 fucking's rad but it's not fair that because i earn babysitting money i have to pay for the rubbers jenny's mad that i won't ask t to go steady with her he's too old for her plus i don't want him to sleep around on me Act II: Mom and your brother, again rape resolving in compassion. I've got some details from Cindi on how to make him do it. Guys get hard just before they wake up because they need to pee. You just hop on. Sounds weak to me. An alternative mom-rapes-son situation might involve him getting spanked for whatever reason and then a kiss to show him that it was done in love. Maybe getting spanked would get him up (Cindy says some guys do) or maybe it would be the kiss. In either case, he ends up inside before he can retreat. I'd build the story over his early teenage years. Every kid does something wrong if a parent is on the lookout. Mom would sit on her bed. Spankings would be over her lap, totally in line with what most kids receive, actually believing that punishment is for their own good. Then she'll rule that his jeans afford undue padding from the spank count his transgression merits. Unbuckle so she can swat the rear of his underpants. From there, he'll soon have to remove his jeans before bending over. No reason; she's the boss and it's not that big of change. She'll stand him underpants-clad before her while she weighs how many spanks are merited. A kiss would still be the closure, of course. Punishment time progressively finds her dressed more causally, perhaps in her bathrobe. As she positions him, he gets a little accidental breast or maybe sees her bra. It makes getting spanked a bit more tolerable. Though they're alone, she has him shut her bedroom door. A few incidents later, him bent over her lap, it's easy for her to slip his boxers down to spank his bare butt. The next time, she pushes them to his knees so she can swat his bottom properly, then right off his ankles. Her robe is sufficiently open to feel his penis against her bare thigh. Her blows aren't severe, but she rubs his butt a little between whacks to mitigate his discomfort. She trails a finger around his rectum now and then to watch it involuntarily contract. Brushing against Mom's chest, bouncing on her leg, feeling her fingers between each slap, watching how her skirt works up, thinking of the promised kiss will sooner or later excite him. When she feels him erect, she'll alternate the spanks to rock him side to side. She wants him to like it. He himself has started shedding his shirt as well, since he can tell she likes it off. He'd never be doing this, of course, were it his decision, but she's his mom. Not long thereafter, Mom's scoots to the middle of the mattress. He has no choice but to strip to his underpants and stretch out face down bedside her. In matter-of-fact manner, she pulls off his shorts. Rather than tossing them beside his other clothes, however, she flips them behind her. Rather than standing him afterwards to be kissed, she turns him over so that his pink erection pokes above his sparse brown pubic hair. Smiling, she leans for her caress. In the process, her elbow prolongs his excitement. He's eager, actually. She lets him close his eyes and thrust involuntarily. Their kiss lasts until crawls over her to retrieve his underpants. At the end of a few such lessons, exposure seems to him just another aspect of getting spanked, and not the worst part by any means. He's noted that sessions only happen when Mom and he are home alone. If Dad has an Elks meeting and his sister is out, Mom almost always finds toothpaste stuck around the sink, his toothbrush establishing the culpability. Creatures like routines, five whacks in this case. Getting ready takes longer that the spanks. He's aware that none of his friends get so penalized and would never tell his buddies about ending up naked and aroused. They wouldn't understand. Their moms are not so pretty. He hardly notices when she slips a leg free of her panties, wraps her thigh over him and rolls him against her. The tip of his erection is against her before he knows who's where on the bed. Startled, he looks down. He's never seen female pubic hair before, much less a cock pressed in it. In his confusion he softens and is worth zero. The way to make the story real is to contrast his emotional confusion to Mom's manipulation. For every sentence about erotic foreplay, another needs to explore thoughts. Here's a draft of the aftermath as a script. "M" is Mom and "S" is son. M: Oh, God! What did you do? S: I didn't do anything. I was just... M: You didn't do anything? Look down there! Like your penis wasn't in me? S: We were just kissing and... M: And you raped me. You could go to jail! S: No, Mom, I didn't. Really. M: You didn't? You think I couldn't tell? S: Mom, please... M: Well don't cry, at least. S: I was just... M: What were you thinking? S: Please Mom, I didn't even... M: Did you ejaculate? S: Did I what? M: Did you come inside me, like when you masturbate? S: Mom, I don't... I mean not very much usually. M: Lie number two: everybody does. Did you masturbate while you planed how to rape me? S: Mom, I never... M: Like you weren't getting yourself ready? S: No. You mean? M: I mean getting hard like you like to get. Your erection, that's the proper name for it. It's kind of hard not to notice, so there's lie number three. S: It just happens when I lay on you. M: It's called having sex with a woman. S: I mean when you spank me. M: Like it just happens that you try to see my panties? S: I can't help it. M: Do you make girls your own age have sex? They're prettier. S: Mom, you're pretty. I've never even done it before, really! M: Being your first makes it OK? Well, maybe you just lost control. So, did you climax? S: I don't think so. I mean I hardly knew what was happening. M: I'll bet you did because you're all floppy. Well, it doesn't matter because I'm protected, thank God. I didn't, though. S: Didn't what? M. Come. S: Mom, we were just kissing and all of a sudden... M: And you were fucking me, right? I was trying to get away. S: It happened so fast. I don't exactly remember everything. M: You're stronger. S: I mean we were just kissing. I got spanked. M: And you figured raping me made it even! S: I didn't figure anything. Maybe it just accidentally got there. M: Well, you got your penis in me, even if it wasn't something you exactly planned. S: What's going to happen? M: I won't tell Dad. He'd go bonkers. S: Thanks. M: But don't expect me to forget. You can't forget making love. S: I'm sorry. It really wasn't on purpose. M: And don't think that you're too big for spankings. I've half a mind to give you ten right now. The least you can do is rub my back to show you're sorry. You hurt my backbone, I think. S: OK. Is this alright? M: Yeah, good. Reach up and undo the strap, but don't peek or anything, as if it makes any difference now. Pull the sheet over my butt, though. S: I'll help with more stuff around the house. M: I guess I'm not surprised. When I was fourteen, I didn't always know what I was doing. Sometimes the guy just needs to get it off. S: I didn't plan to. M: Well, if you loose control, still remember the girl needs to be treated like you love her, even if you're making her. S: I'll remember. M: Like get her naked so her clothes don't get all messed up. S: I'm sorry what happened. M: And tease her till she gets in the mood. It won't hurt then. S: I do love you, Mom. M: I know; I love you too. You didn't want to hurt me; I could tell. S: I don't want to hurt you ever. M: You're pretty big, but not that big. S: I don't mean that way. M: On my own bed, even! S: It's just where we were, I guess. Really, I never planned it. M: Well, give me my kiss that got interrupted. S: Sure. M: Not like that. A real one. You just laid me, remember? S: Mom, I might, you know, get... M: Another erection? S: Yeah. M: Well, say it. S: An erection. M: It's natural: So give me my kiss. S: Mom? M: Yeah. S: Thanks for being cool. M: You're just a kid. S: Do you want me to take off your dress? All the way, I mean, so you'd be more comfortable. M: Like nude? S: I mean... M: You want to see my breasts? S: Yeah. M: Then say it. S: I want to see your breasts. M: Have you seen real tits before? S: Not really. M: And if I say no, I get rolled over anyway? S: Mom! M: You're getting an erection? S: Maybe a little one. M: And you want to make love. S: Mom, only if it's OK. M: Do you know the difference between a rape and lovemaking? S: No. M: Twenty minutes. S: Oh. M: Do you get it? S: I don't think so. M: You can reach around and rub my front, but don't look. S: You don't mind? M: A girl always minds when a guy's scheming. S: Is this OK? M: Lightly. S: Mom, just roll over. M: Are you going to make me make love? S: Yes. M: You can rape an old lady, smart guy, but I still deliver spankings. S: Mom. You're not old. M: Well, they're away for maybe two more hours. Now about that kiss. S: OK. M: No, turn off the light first. After real intercourse, it occurs to him that whatever happened the first time wasn't that. Climax takes time and afterwards you know. That first time will always be a mystery to him. They always start with a spanking, their routine. After he's an accomplished "rapist", he won't be worth zero. Act III: Mom witnessing you get yours. Mom's darted home from the Elk's dinner and hears noises from the basement. I'd lay out the floor plan so that she can negotiate the steps undetected and spy from the landing. This rape might be less restrained, as you've been a scrapper for fourteen years. Your brother just has your exits blocked. He tackles you, pulls off an article of clothing, and lets you escape. It's more fun that way. Mom can tell how you avoid kneeing him, not wanting to terminate the battle too quickly. Mom can tell, at the end, when you could have escaped, how you trip into the sofa instead and then covered your eyes. He triumphantly claims the lace briefs that you thought Mom didn't know about. Moms go through dresser drawers. He's had a three-pack of Trojans in his drawer for months and Mom's displeased that they're not produced now. Stupid boys! On the other hand, maybe this wasn't planned, just something that got going. You chose to wear those panties, didn't you? He couldn't very well excuse himself to go find his condoms. She winces at the fortitude with which he reams you. Where's his finesse? Two years at it and he still forgets. Well, don't blame her. She knows your tears are real, becoming a woman, but she knows it's best with your brother. When at last you surrender, clasping his back and raising your hips, Mom's pressing into her skirt. He now works you like the lover she knows. You're both panting. To her approval, it lasts twenty minutes if you count the disrobing part as foreplay, not violence. She knows your orgasm, though brief, is real; you wouldn't know how to fake it. As the two of you bask in the aftermath, Mom slips back to the Elks Club where it takes a few minutes in the parking lot to celebrate her vicarious victory. Your dad is still telling his Air Force stories, just to some different Brothers. She joins a wives bridge game that she knows will keep them there till closing. Before Act III, any version: Mom's been suggesting that you get on the pill, not, of course, because you need to, but rather to make your "monthlies predictable." She got you to switch from mini pads to insertibles because they don't show. She knew he'd fuck you. After Act III, any version: After her children's consummation, Mom and your brother will shift to the frequency of Mom and your uncle, occasional forays for fondness. On one day she had intercourse with both her brother in the car and her son in the attic, but the timing was just coincidental. You now service your brother's incendiary carnal hunger. An established bedroom routine ensues, codeword "upstairs". "Did you use my towel upstairs?" or "I'll bet I left that Newsweek upstairs" casually at the dinner table means, "Let's make love." Mom notices the odd sentences, puts two and two together and sometimes tiptoes to monitor. You and your brother each go out like everybody else, of course, but coming home is the highlight. If neither of you got laid, together is how you release. If each of you scored, it's how you relax. Mom has her needs too. Perhaps she'll take a lover. After all, she's hardly forty. But with only three acts, stop the story here. Would she have? Only a good one. She took up tennis, private lessons twice a week in her cute white outfit. She'd do errands afterwards, might be late getting home. You remember the year because you and your brother had that hour to fool around if you didn't have volleyball. You borrowed Mom's racket once and paid the $4.00 court fee when you finished, sticking the change in the strings and zipping shut the case. You borrowed the racket two weeks later and the dollar was still there. At the time, you were just glad to find your money. Mom never did seem to learn much of a backhand. The club pro would have had a shower, you now realize. He was nearer your age than hers, but she'd always acted young. I like the sense of perpetuation stairstepping down the family tree: fm, Fm. I could make it a trilogy, "Home Schooling". I like how the title connotes little darlings shielded from the sex, drugs and videotapes fostered by public education. The nine stories would resemble a tic-tac-toe board. Each column is a different plot line: row 1, Mom learns; row 2, Mom teaches; row 3, Mom watches. A fourteen-year-old virgin surrenders in each square. You get the idea. Cindi thinks I'm being anal retentive with the ages and all, but I don't think so. Somebody needs to think these things through. When I told Cindi my roughed-out options, she voted for the boathouse because they could be in swimsuits. I expect such from Cindi. From a writer's standpoint, rape is more emotive. One can a fuck a million ways, but most fuck tales seem to be photocopies. Balancing paragraphs, crafting complimentary verbiage, avoiding repetition yet placing necessary benchmarks takes craftsmanship. It might be fun to follow a single plot line through each of their eyes, a la the Japanese "Rashomon". I must never loose my Writer's Notebook. Never! CINDI ON SIBLING LOVE "Anyway," Cindi returning back home, "take turns who gets to be on top. Being the guy doesn't make him always the boss. He may be able to kowtow a girlfriend, but not his sister." Cindi and I totally agree on the top thing. That's one thing we owe to the bra burners. Most guys can shoot while riding a bicycle, it seems. For a girl, it's the little changes in pressure, the modulated speed, the eye contact, how you got there, what you'll do afterwards. Looking down, you see the synergy. "The first time you look down to where your hair is mashed together, you'll realize it's perfectly matched. You'll just start laughing. Siblings don't need to explain stuff or act cool with each other," Cindi observed. "He won't always remember to bring a condom, so keep some where mom won't look, like in the drawers of your rag doll. Put the foil and the used ones back in the same place. It's easier than having to get rid of the stuff every time." For being sort of off the wall, my friend Cindi is remarkably organized. "Brothers subconsciously want to get you pregnant; it's natural instinct to expand the clan. I heard about this guy who gave his sister a sleeping pill every night so she wouldn't know who'd knocked her up. She'd have an orgasm, though, even asleep." "Do you actually believe that?" I challenged. "The way I heard it, she put vitamins in the pill jar and just pretended to sleep, as best she could anyway, while she bounced him all over the mattress. He didn't know that she was on birth control, so he just kept trying. Or maybe he knew that she knew but wouldn't let him if she had to open her eyes. Make sense?" "Could be, I suppose," Cindi conceded. "I've had orgasms in my sleep, though, really good ones." "Spare me the details. Anybody give you a nice cocoa just before?" She grinned, a bit more shyly. "Save bathing together for when the folks are gone. Towels around the tub because you'll slosh. Turn off the lights and burn a candle so it doesn't look so much like a bathroom. It's romantic, even if he is your kid brother. There'll be bubble bath in the cupboard from when you were ten. Did you know that for its thickness, a bubble is stronger than steel? And if you spill your wine in the tub, who cares? If your brother's cool, he'll let you fingerpaint a tux on him first." We laughed at the scenario. It seems to me like you'd rather get out and onto a fluffy towel, but maybe if you had a big bathtub. "Get him really soapy. It's hard to use a rubber, though, so bathe together at the right time of the month. Also, when your folks are away, use their bed because that's where they made you two. Squeak City! If you try new stuff, do it when they're out. Like a lawn chair could collapse." Giggle. "A lawn chair? You're outside?" My hand's under my purse again, but Cindi's mind was elsewhere. "It's summer." "Somebody might come along!" I warned. "Backyard and it's getting dark. You grilled cheeseburgers." "Well, maybe." "Teach him to do you with his tongue." Cindi had her eyes shut. "A brother will stick with you all the way up and all the way down. It's about caring. He hooks his elbows around your hips. Plus, a guy always becomes a better fucker when he realizes it's not just a dick thing." My though on that would be, what would he want in return? And with her pert little smirk, "Plus you can still date around because, of course, you'll never marry each other." She fluttered her eyelashes. That was about the funniest lunch hour I've ever spent. We were late back to class, so the students were pleased too. I know that Cindi has a brother. I've met him and he looks just like her. But have no idea about anything else. The girl knows more weird stuff! A POEM Cindi approaches life via such little wisdoms. I prefer verse. Innocent, as my brother draws me to my bed. Raggedy Anne smiles from her shelf. Claimed, as my brother kisses my chaste lips. Proud, as my brother awakens my yet-emerging breast. Presented, as my brother disrobes me as a woman. Raggedy Anne watches. Trusting, as my brother lays me back. Hesitant, as my brother lets me look. Raggedy Ann looks as well. Trusted, as my brother maneuvers his manhood into my awkward hand. Loved, as my brother prepares me, hips on pillow, moist where he ventures. Loving, as my brother lets me prepare him. I do well. Supple, as my brother parts my thighs for initiation. Welcoming, as my brother parts my truculence. Raggedy Anne thinks of Raggedy Andy. Brave, as my brother brings me pain. Ample, as my brother arrives. Wanton, as my brother feeds what's latent. Satiated, as my brother fulfills me, pubescent fantasy made real. Celebratory, as my brother enjoys love in return. Validated, as my brother gasps, siblings now wet together. Possessive, as my brother shrinks and slips free. Content, as my brother rests his head on my heaving chest. Raggedy Anne won't tell. Secure, as my brother speaks of tomorrow. Raggedy Anne will be there too. Let me be honest, lest you think I spew lyric. It was over the weekend that I worked it out in my Writer's Notebook. Well, maybe it is a little sappy, but I like it. Writing, like everything else, takes work. English, an amalgamated language, often has approximately- equivalent Romance language and Germanic language root words, I tell them. "Satiated" would be the former. Think "-ion. Satiation's a word." Something a bit more abrupt like "filled" would be Northern European. Romantic usually works best in poetry. Being structured, not free verse, is just me. Poetry reminds you what simple words really mean. Take, for example, the fifth line where "lay" means to recline in the transitive sense. Thus "getting laid" which we commonly equate to copulation actually refers to being positioned as the subjugate partner. Take that, fraternity boys! My poem's about your wedding night, not a marriage thing, but when you're first your brother's bride. It's the meat of a romantic novel, title in raised silver by the grocery checkout. Probably not with a brother, though, if it's sold beside Sunset. The store would have company policy. My speaker, revised for supermarket sales, would be a scullery maid who's taught herself to read by the light of a taper. He'd be the Earl's youngest son who dreams of freedom. They'll sail to France (never Germany) in the last chapter. Six weeks to write. Just one culmination in the whole novella. Five thousand copies a month in sales. I'm rich! When I read my poem to Cindi, she liked how I worked in Raggedy Anne. Girlfriends understand stories unspoken. The following day she recited her poem which, as she pointed out, actually rhymes. If you are a loyal sis, Give your bro a Frenchy kiss. 'Cause you'll never find another Who'll screw as sweetly as your brother. A Cindi classic! AABB. She was pretty proud. She pointed out that as I couldn't do a chemical equation, scientists have a more well-rounded degree than do language majors. Perhaps. TROLLING Ordinarily I wear sensible underwear, but as it happened, Friday morning most of my sensible underwear was in the hamper. What I save for dates was clean since I hadn't been on a date in months. Sometimes a single dad of one of my students will take me out and we spend the evening talking school, nothing related to underwear. It wasn't a conscious decision, but I just happened to put on a bra that rounds me out, not something crude from Victoria's Secret, but one in which you could easily tell I was a big girl. I got the thing at Sears, so it's not that expensive. Looking back, though, I wonder if my Josh dreams and Cindi's suggestion didn't conspire in that day's attire. I wore the same blouse as Monday. Usually I'd never wear the same thing in a given week, but Cindi has an eye for effect. At the end of fourth period I couldn't resist. I undid the button and tugged my collar as Josh passed my desk. Sure enough, he peaked. I was to believe that he was reading the blackboard behind me. I couldn't help but teasing as he really is a nice looking boy. So I leaned over my desk to inquire about a homework assignment. I took a deliberate breath to expand. He noticed alright, evidenced by his reddened face as I droned about the assignment. Josh nodded agreement, clearly not hearing a word. I snuck peeks at his crotch. Whatever was behind his zipper jutted as before. I'd even say it pumped a little, but that may have just been my imagination. This was like zoological courting in a PBS documentary. If Josh had realized his message, he'd have covered up. "So you'll do the references like the worksheet?" with a smile as I sat back up. Straightening up deprived him of the neck view, but displayed my tits hardening. Would it show? In this bra when my nipples are erect, they poke out nicely. I looked down and could see the bump on my left. Would he notice? I was afraid to look up to check his gaze, but I'd not think that he missed my development. He wasn't walking away. As there were others still in the room, though, this little game of I'll show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours had gone far enough. I'm not a slut. "Yes, Ms. Rennick," he choked. He'd seen me, alright. "Good. See you Monday." I smiled again and tried to meet his eyes, but he still wasn't looking me in the face. When I got up to erase the blackboard, I looked like I'd been swimming in the Arctic Sea. Fortunately, best I could tell, only Josh had seen. I refastened the button and thought grammatical rules until my mammoral swelling subsided. That night I dreamed about him again. I had no problem getting his pants down this time. He was thick between my legs and I was gasping and moaning and about to come for what seemed the longest time. There were leaves around us. I woke up wet, put fingers inside and rubbed forcefully until I came. Usually I touch lightly to bring on the mood. This orgasm just kicked in and lasted almost as long as a real go. CINDI'S GUIDANCE Saturday, per usual, we played tennis. Our minds were working elsewhere, though. "Josh's such a little dreamboat," Cindi commenced. "I watched him in Science around the World all week. God, I'm envious that he has a crush on you. We're doing 'Chemistry in China', now. They invented gunpowder before they had guns. The Mings or Tings or somebody like that. So, what happened in class yesterday?" I told her all the gory details. She wanted to know how big his bulge was, whether any of the other boys noticed my boobs, whether any girls saw his erection and which bra I'll wear Monday. "Heavy and reinforced. If anybody else saw, to kill all recollection." She tried to convince me to go braless. It works if you're built like her, but it's a mistake for a D. And there is in fact a teacher's dress code at Capton Springs. I convinced her that I was going to wear what I usually wear, regardless. "He really is good-looking. Have you thought about it?" she asked. "About what?" "About whether you really want to do it with him," in Cindi's pedantic tone. "You mean have sex? He's thirteen years old!" "I know, but look, you're dreaming about him. They say that once you dream about a dick twice you're going to get it. Especially if the dream leads to certain personal activity." Cindi can be outrageous! Who says that? I never said anything about any personal activity; she just knows me pretty well. It's for when you're stressed out. "He's not a man, he's a boy," I argued. "He's big enough. So, what do we have here? Just a young man, a sympathetic older woman and a little private instruction. Teachers can make love with students in France, you know. Over there it would be considered perfectly normal, like eating snails." She laughed at the thought. "Cindi, you fibber, you've never even been to France. Nobody considers it normal here. I could go to jail." "It's biologically normal. It's how we all got started," the science teacher in her. "Look, if you get called into the office you just deny everything and I'll back you up. We were somewhere else when the boy says you were doing it. And if they don't buy that, I threaten to expose the male teachers. It's not fair you should get fired while they get covered up. Or feign victimization. Or say you are differently enabled with regard to age preference." We have to fill out special lesson plans for students diagnosed with weirder conditions. The "back you up" is the absolute truth. Cindi would lie her pants off to cover my butt. Hell, she'd do more than that. Friendship is about caring, even when it costs. Being single can be so lonely that sometimes you want to just talk about even the weather. Marrieds assume that we hang out with other twenty-somethings at clubs. Like I'd go by myself to a bar? We don't have that much support outside of work. Cindi will feed me a crock if she can get away with it, but when push comes to shove, she's there with me. And I'm there for her. "He probably wouldn't even want to," I demurred. "You can't make a guy." STORIES Cindi cited her "references". "I read about this teenager, still with her cherry. This great-looking guy tricks her and ties her to this bed and rapes her for half the story. The title is 'The Four Poster' because when you're tied to one, you're really spread. He takes pictures so he can blackmail her. And while he's humping her she really comes, her first time. But she can't tell him because it's a rape. Says, 'Ow!' but thinks 'Wow!' you know. She forgets the hurt part. Not that I condone rape, especially of a virgin." "It's why women join the NRA," I explained. "Pull out your handgun and waste him." "That's an advantage of big holsters," she nailed me. "You're safe if I'm around," I assured her. "So afterwards she escapes and comes around and ties him to the same bed, makes him take Viagra, and rapes him back! She comes super, but won't let him get there. Just almost, over and over. He begs and begs, but nope! She finally unties one hand for him to beat off. She takes pictures of him doing it because he's too goo-goo to even notice. So they each have something on the other. The story ends with the idea that they'll keep tying each other to that bed. So what you do is rope him up, royally ride him, accidentally loosen his hand and doze off." "Cindi, you're a sex fiend trying to make me one, too! That's pornography getting passed off as postmodern empowerment. Give me a break! Tying someone up is terrible! You should read real literature where you have to use your imagination now and then." Great plot line, even so. My bed's just a regular one, so it wouldn't work, I realized. "The story doesn't tell you everything," a bit affronted at my criticism of something I'd not even skimmed. "And how can you climax without letting the guy come too?' I wondered. "Don't know. Bondage stories deny the guy until the Mistress decides, so there must be a way. Make him do bizarre stuff first, like wear a used napkin instead of underpants to a business meeting where he has to stand up in front. You're where just he can see you masturbating. Do you have a Bat Woman outfit, per chance? Your leather bra would do, the one with rivets." So we went round and round about outfits and didn't play tennis very well. Cindi convinced me that my libido was completely wrapped up in this and that I wouldn't be freed until I gave in. "It's about six inches long, has a head, Josh has one and you want it. You know you do." "Old as the hills: a dollar bill. Yes, I suppose, at least in my dreams." "If we didn't dream about sex after going without for a while, we'd loose our ability, they say." "A while" for Cindi is probably a few weeks on the outside. She knows that it's a lot longer for me, but she'll never make that distinction. In her mind, we deal with the same stuff. I really love that girl! "And Holly, get protected. A boy's sperm count may be low, but it only takes one." CINDI'S LITTLE FRIEND By Monday, I'd thought more about Josh. "But suppose the kid doesn't have much heft, so to speak, assuming it ever comes to that?" I asked her. I was picturing a skinny little wiener that wouldn't even touch the sides of my vagina. Sara Happ-Stevens, MD discusses the problem in her "Working Woman" column. "I checked Joshboy out in my class and you're OK. They don't know what we see from the front, do they? He's thick enough. Isn't that why you noticed him?" "How could I not? It was right there!" "The boys in front, anyway, one by one you get to know their dicks. Some teachers learn their faces too, they say," perfectly timed. "When you start, you can tell more from where it isn't than where it is. After a while it's easy, even if you can't get them stiff. Could you tell that Martin had a hardon in staff meeting last week? He tried to face the board, but from where I was, it just helped." Martin Conway's our principal. He doesn't parade his dick around, despite Cindi's assertion. "Principals carry around large key rings," defending my supervisor. "Like a long, cylindrical one? Were you wearing anything special, Holly?" in her best breathy voice. "Right, my wet T-shirt! Give me a break! Wasn't that the day you forgot your skirt, girl?" "You've probably had other boys get stiffies," Cindi continued, "but they weren't big enough to see. You noticed his because it -ahem - 'stands out'. Anyway, I know someone who can find out." "Who?" "A boy in class. I think they have gym together so I'll just ask him what he sees in the shower." "Oh my God! You can't ask another boy to do that!" "In this case, I can," pleased with herself. "He's gay. He tells me everything and I keep secrets. Students need a teacher that they can trust, right? I'll tell him I know a girl who's interested in Josh Harrison and wants a full report." Only Cindi could pull this one off! How on earth would you ever begin discussing such stuff with a student? "Well just don't mention my name," I demanded. Thursday afternoon, Cindi caught me. "I spoke to my little friend." "And?" "Josh has a big one, alright. My buddy said he'd like to handle it, just like you." I must have looked appalled. "But, me being your trustworthy pal, he doesn't know who 'you' is," Cindy assured. My eyes must have brightened. "Tell him thanks." "He owes me. I leave my book closet unlocked during my off period. Two rules: his friends don't know that I know, and they've got to use condoms for whatever they do in there. I don't want sticky on my lab stuff. Plus they need to learn safe sex." "Everybody is getting laid at school except us!" I frowned at the thought. Then I smiled, imagining Josh's "a big one, alright". When you're not getting laid it's good to keep your mind occupied. The next day, Cindi slipped me a note. "12: Chile, Mexico, Paraguay, Argentina, Colombia, Malta, Netherlands, Panama, Philippines, Zimbabwe, Burkina Faso. 13: Guyana, Korea, Nigeria, South Korea, Spain, Syria" At lunch I asked what that's about. "Age of consent. It's sixteen here, so either take him on a little trip, wait forever, or live a little. They like 'em young in South America, don't you think? Where's Brukina Faso?" "Island off Florida. I take my Boy Scout troop there for campouts to earn a special merit badge." You can fib when your knowledge is superior. "Need an assistant Den Mother? I know the square knot. Where is it really?" "Africa, I think." I dreamed about Josh two more times over that weekend, and had some pretty serious fantasies even while I was awake. Mostly I dreamed about getting rodded silly. I was a kid too. My father couldn't stop us. Cindi said if you dreamt two times and this was four! The thing about Cindi is that sometimes her heart works faster than her brain. She probably offered her closet because she felt sorry for gay kids. I don't believe in promoting homosexuality in the schools. They should use the boy's bathroom, or whatever. I was very pleased at the Josh news, although I knew that you couldn't always tell from locker room reports. If you want accurate data you need to ask a girl, and there weren't any girls who had seen Josh's. Yet. FOUR TOPICS Cindi and I talk about lots of things, our tits being four of them. All that week, erotic trivia kept creeping into our minds. Monday's banter: "I was the first girl in my class to wear a real bra," I reminisced. "The boys were talking about me then, just like we're talking about them now. I got a real cup when I was twelve and boys were always trying to bump me in hall. It got old real fast, having to hug my three-ring binder. I let Ryan feel me where we stored our instruments, but that started getting out of hand when he told the other trumpet players, so I quit band. I didn't need all that!" "You seem to have come out of it OK, Holly," Cindi reflected. If she were a shrink, she'd point out that I still hug my notebook. Plus maybe I liked playing clarinet. "Like at prom? I wore a low cut and when I came downstairs my mom said, 'Oh, I didn't know the senior class was going to see the Grand Canyon!' Right in front of my date! I could have died. Steve knew all about my canyon, but for my mother to say it!" Cindi had her story. "God, that's terrible. My brother used to tease about how flat I was. He wasn't trying to be mean, but I still didn't like it. He told me that he had growth lotion that was one hundred percent guaranteed. I pretended to believe it, so he put some cold cream in a green jar, came up and had me take off my shirt. I must have had ten treatments. He knew that I wasn't that dumb. We were just having fun, not really going to do anything. Back then, I still had hope. After then, I wasn't as shy about him looking down my top or maybe doing a little something if we were horsing around. A few years later I offered to apply some guaranteed growth lotion on him and we laughed at his trickery. "The worst was in the ninth grade," she added. "There were these boys who used to bug me about wearing falsies. We were playing this game where you have to do a dare or take a forfeit, and they dared me to take my falsies off. I said no way; it was just how they made my bra. They decided my forfeit was that they would all get to feel me. When I started to skedaddle, they pinned me and they all took turns. Since I had no tits under her nipples, my bra just slid up. "I fought, but they just thought that made it more fun. I didn't yell because I didn't want some old person to find us. But not one of them said anything mean about me being small! They acted like mine were cool. They didn't know I had even little ones because I always wore padding. "Then some of them started saying that they should get to goose me too, for fighting back. I got scared then. I didn't know if goosing meant outside or inside. And then Justin, who wasn't even especially my friend, said that that wasn't fair to just add forfeits. Maybe some of the others thought that way too, or maybe they just were nervous, but once he said it, they didn't goose me." "That's how gang bangs start!" I noted. Boys-will-be- boys! Yuck! "The funny thing is," Cindi continued, "I ran home feeling happy. They liked my little ones! And getting felt up made me pretty curious about goosing. So the next week I told Justin thanks for making them stop. He was nicer and he could goose me if he liked. I had my best panties on because I thought he might lift up my skirt to do it. He looked around and answered, 'Later, 'when we're alone.' But he never tried to collect, sorry to say." "You should be glad. Give a guy an inch," I left it unfinished. "My forfeit at least gave me enough confidence to chuck my padded bras. I started noticing how guys would check me out when I'd go without, even. The school wouldn't let girls with big tits go braless, but ones like mine didn't count. I could play guys like puppets! In Chemistry, the fastest guy would get the lab bench directly across from me. I'll bet a lot of dicks got beat after watching me at the water fountain. I still wish they were B's, though." I'd just as soon share some of mine. "Be happy, Thimbleina," I consoled. "Look at these! For one thing, bras cost a lot for a damn seam that shows! I'd love little wispy triangles like yours. How'd you like setting off the metal detector at the airport? Security has to run that little wand over me to check. They all know. They only let females wand females, thank heavens. When I lean, all anybody sees is a big crack. When you bend over, cute little cups." Cindi picked up on the leaning forward bit, "And if I hunch my shoulders together, they can see the real deals. I have to loosen my strap before, though, to work well. You can't retighten your strap back up in the classroom, so last period's the best." I laughed, though I wasn't sure about the school bit. "Bras just buy me a little future. Your future is guaranteed," I sighed. She continued, "The obvious nice thing is that I can go without after work." "Like obvious to the bag boys at Kroger's, right?" I couldn't miss that one. Most probably had her as a teacher. That adds some eros. "Hi, Ms. Barton. Let me push your cart." They'll let her lift the loose items, one by one, out of the bottom. She probably put them there for such purpose. "Come again, Ms. Barton." Cindi rolled her shoulders and giggled, "They're just boys. Girls their age have bigger." I challenged her prepositional phrase, "You're sure about the 'after work'? I'm thinking of certain sweaters." "Well you can tell, I suppose, due to your suspicious nature. I don't run up and down the stairs for them." "It's their angle." Our code for mine is "heavy weapons". Hers are "Colt 45's", hand size and, in my estimation, aimed 45 degrees outward, 90 being straight ahead. She insists that she's 60. A math major was doing his geometry thesis using a big wooden protractor, she says. I doubted that one; math majors lack the social skill for such research. "They study cones in geometry," she insists. "Spheres too," to get my goat. Cindi noted, "They say that size correlates zero to breast feeding. If we'd get pregnant together, we'll have a contest! OK?" "Right here at school!" I accepted. "Working mothers won a lawsuit about it. We'll let the cute boys collect the data." "Like Josh, right? To be scientific, we'd want the same seed, probably the same evening. Anybody who works here come to mind?" Get yourself pregnant for some milk production contest? If I'd been fast enough to agree to a double date, shall we call it, I'd have won. Neither Cindi nor I approve one bit of these girls, some well educated even, who try to get impregnated by some tight-jeans stud. Like they think it will be so cool to push their little stroller around the shopping center, the self- centered bimbos! Think of the kid! But I missed my chance about a double date. A breast-related topic perked Cindi up. "Ever play 'Thirty Seconds of Bliss'? Everybody draws a card and the highest boy and the highest girl go into a closet. He's not your boyfriend or anything. Thirty seconds and you can't say no is the bliss part. Everybody counts down and they open the door. If the couple isn't more- or-less back together, it's pretty funny." "It sound's like a derivative of Spin the Bottle," I noted. "The way we played, though, you just had to kiss with the others watching. Nothing else. If some smart ass tried to French to show off, you could bite his tongue to show who's boss. The girls would cheer and the other guys would snicker. Women's Lib, but we didn't know it." "Well I played the real way and goosing can be outside or inside. It depends on how much of the thirty seconds gets spent doing other stuff. Tiny tits don't take much time, usually, so we'd get further." "Thirty seconds total? You didn't get too far." "Not in the closet. Most of the girls wanted to go in with some studly, but my favorites were shy guys who'd never done anything. They'd still be fiddling with my little strap when I'd have their zipper down. I'd always get them back in before thirty, though, because they were my friends." She sighed, "Back then, being small wasn't a problem. Schoolboys aren't subtle about conquest. When I cozy up on a guy's arm now, though, I'm not sure he can even tell I'm there." I had her here. "You know Martin's motorcycle. When it's sunny and I walk home, he sometimes pulls up and offers me a lift. He gets a front full, shall we say, but it's kosher because it's just the way you ride. I don't want to fall off, do I?" Cindi thought a moment, "No, you hold on tight, maybe about at his belt buckle. It is interesting that he's going your way, him living more towards the river. Ask him in for a beer. Tell him you subscribe to Premium." The cycle sure elevates his cool principal image, I was thinking. Why would he care about cable channels? Cindi pined dramatically, "Well, that explains why guys take Holly, not poor Cindi, on motorcycle adventures. Do you get to go to that Hell's Angels convention in North Dakota? They showed the girls riding around topless on TV, but fuzzed their nipples." "Sorry about that, sister." It's not just boys that like to talk about tits. TEACHER TARTS Coffee time on Tuesday, Cindi had a Cindi thought, a thought sufficiently astray to not slow your knitting speed. We'd together taken up the art only recently. I was yet on a Swedish pullover, the bulky style where size is vague. Cindi was on her third cardigan, as the first two didn't fit. "Did you ever get a lift from a cowboy trucker who has a little bedroom behind the cab on his eighteen- wheeler? A little cubby decorated with pinups." Pregnant pause and an only-Cindy grin, "Me neither." She lifted her imaginary CB. In her attempt at Texan, "This is Highway Trapper, good buddies. Caught me a nice little northern fox. Should have a nice pelt. Honk if you pass us at the Claymore Pull-off. I'll leave my top lights blinking. 10-4." Another short story right there. I wonder if any of those numbers mean sexual stuff? So I contributed a detail about this Road Trapper guy. "And I'll bet your eighteen-wheeler dream boy is actually nice inside. He'll pull into a Truck World and say 'Wait here, honeybun. I'm going inside to get a little something. There's Tickle her Pink, a kind that's Micron Thin and Steel Strong, this new Pressure Enhanced one, whatever you like. Got a dollar?'" Cindi couldn't even hold her coffee, she thought it was so funny." As we parted, Cindi reached over and squeezed my crotch. Not a lesbian thing at all, just sort of a salute. "From Josh," she said. I giggled in embarrassment. Did anybody see? Then the rat leaned over even more, two bra cups worth, rested her hand on my knee, looked me in the eyes and softly cooed, "Holly, after all this talk I really need a quick shower. I'll suds your back. We know each other really well, so it's not like we don't like boys too. If you don't want to, we can just watch each other. We'll pick up some wine coolers." I turned beet red. She's my friend, but not in a million years! We each know that the other takes care of some of her personal needs. It's for if you're tense. But never at each other's place or anything! I've only seen her bottom in the pool shower. She left me appalled for the longest time and then lost it, about falling off her chair in mirth. "I totally got you, didn't I?" Looking back, I should have drawn her hand up further and responded, "Cindi, your itsie-bitsies are so precious. I'll soap them how you like it best. We could pick up 'Sorority Secrets' to watch first. You'd love how the suds scene leads to pledge initiation. You know how fraternities have a big wooden paddle?" Nothing beats outdoing someone who's trying to pull one on you. Of course, I was too astonished right then to respond in kind. "Sorority Secrets" is lame. The bimbos have exactly the same silicone boobs and totally shave. Why would they take turns doing different jobs on each other on the same red sofa? Plus sororities, being racist, wouldn't have a Black, an Oriental, a Native American, an Hispanic and a geek girl who doesn't get it for the longest time and then webmasters their anonymized greekcollegechicks.com. They seduce their professors to stay in "State U." Nobody calls his or her college that! Whoever made the flick should actually host a website, since video buffs would look for it. I looked, anyway. A 1-900 number: "Hi, big guy. I'm Tami. Wanna hear how I became Homecoming Queen? You can be the talent judge. Want me to get comfortable?" I'd write the $2.29-per- minute breathy scripts they read. Cindi says that we could do the web site, even if we didn't make the movie. You can't copyright porn, according to something she read. "We talk like a couple of tarts," I admonished. "We are a couple of tarts. Teacher tarts!" I thought about my breasts on the way back to class. When I look at myself in the mirror they look big and soft, round and smooth. Would Josh like me bare- chested? Like any decent woman, undressed I feel exposed. Maybe he shouldn't see me slutty naked all the way. A moment later, the enormity of "all the way" hit me! This was not just about breasts. It was about intercourse, even if I'd admitted it only in my dreams. Cindi knew it before I did! Should I go for it? I would probably be his first woman. Would he being a virgin make it wrong? I've never screwed one except for Steve and that hardly was sex. Could I even get into his pants? Could he get it into me, him being young? The questions themselves aroused me, hormonal confirmation to the affirmative. I realized the common answer: think possibilities, not limits. I would fuck little Josh Harrison, thirteen years old! Thus I started down the road to being a statutory rapist. JUST IN CASE I wasn't sure what would happen, but I refilled my pill prescription that afternoon. Cindi doesn't use the pill because she doesn't like messing with her body chemistry. It's the same reason she doesn't do drugs, other than we do a little marijuana on special occasions. Grass is organic. Being off birth control, she has to be vigilant. She wasn't in college and had an abortion. It makes her cry, what they did. Her so-called "boyfriend" didn't even go in with her! She goes to church and I basically don't and we're together on this: no matter how small, a baby is precious. Cindi doesn't buy into the Pope's line, though, that it's a baby before the sperm arrives. Her guys wear condoms. I didn't want that distraction for Josh's first. Plus, he never wore one in my dreams. On Wednesday, I cornered Josh to ask about the assignment. The drop-dead date for the draft was Friday. He apologized and asked for an extension. "Can't do that, but I could give you some direction if that would make it easier. You need to show me what you've got." I was just teasing myself with that last bit, I admit. He was thinking that it was his writing. "Uh, thanks, sure, I guess." He didn't seem unhappy with the idea. Maybe he'd see more boob. "When are you free tomorrow?" "Second lunch." "That doesn't work. After school?" "I think so." "Well, I'll see you and your assignment here after seventh period. Don't be late." Thursday morning I took extra care with my hair. I wore what I consider a very attractive black party dress, zipper in the back, a too-low-for-school scoop neck. I added a light sweater to cover me up. I chose a nice little pair of white undies. It wasn't the right time of the month to start my pills, but I still had my diaphragm from college Student Health. It looked OK. I got fitted when I was a freshman because I thought a coed might need one a lot. Not exactly. I didn't have the gel any more, but I could go without. Over my Cornflakes, doubt descended. What if I just couldn't? It wasn't as if I'd forgotten how. But what if I just had some sort of paralysis and jellyfished. Maybe I should wait a few days to prepare myself. Perhaps I should loose a little weight. Then I heard Cindi's voice and she wasn't even there! She said that this would be my day, that I'd do great, that I'd get to places I'd never been before. Remember every little detail for her. You can't let your best friend down, Holly. I returned to my room to look at my bed; picturing goals is an age-old motivational technique. The visible Cindi, of course, noticed my dress right off and waved in the hall. She beamed, wiggled her shoulders and mouthed, "Hook's baited." Nobody else around would have understood. Nobody else would have caught my blush. Perhaps I was a bit distracted. In first period I realized I'd misplaced my notes on "Mexican-American (a.k.a. Chicana/o) Literature". I winged it because I know enough off the top of my head. My assessment is that Afro-American literature has a solid foundation because it matured under systemic adversity. Think Richard Wright. Mexican-American literature, to me anyway, lacks some of that depth. The characters are Hispanic because they call each other things like "vato". The stuff is written in English, of course, but they use "abuela" as if "grandmother" slipped the author's mind. Of course I don't say this in class. I presented the same material in second period, but by then I actually had it pretty well organized. It was a long day, and by third period I did perspire, but the fan helped. I unbuttoned the sweater at one point, but there was too much showing so I had to button back up. I looked like one of those wenches on the covers of the bodice-ripper books. If Martin Conway saw me he would either send me home in the middle of the day, or ask me to stop by his office to discuss my lesson plans. I could hear it now, "Ms. Rennick, could you please lean over here so we can read this file together?" Not really. I like Martin as a supervisor. He respects me as a teacher and is just being friendly when he gives me a lift. MARTIN Cindi thinks Martin has such a fine butt, but she always appraises guys by appearance. She says that he slept with a teacher at last year's State NEA, but she wouldn't say whom. "They ran into each other in the elevator after the banquet and got to talking. They went up to his room to watch HBO because neither of them has Premium at home. It was the James Bond one where he's captured on a submarine and the Captain, this bitch who dresses like a fish, interrogates him in her cabin. Ever see it? He's a charmer in his tux. After you-know-what, he escapes in a torpedo." She doesn't read and then she watches such crud! Like a Captain would dress like a fish? "They sat in the hotel room chairs for a while. Then Martin went down the hall for some 7-Up. When he returned, this teacher was sitting on the bed and Martin sat beside her to drink his pop. When he reached for the TV Guide, he brushed her back. Then she knew he was OK with her staying. They just lay back and undid each other while they kissed. She was wearing a black bra and pantyhose. Guys like black, but the pantyhose was a pain to get off. But how was she to know they'd meet in the elevator? They talked more than they fucked. He was really gentle." "She could have worn a fish outfit to the banquet," I suggested. I never run into anybody in a hotel elevator. Maybe she was just riding up and down looking for a friendly face. "Next morning in the shower it got athletic and they ended up back on the bed soaking wet. It was so fun that the two didn't get back to the conference until between the workshops. They'll watch TV again at this year's NEA, same evening. She can save a night's room rate, maybe $80, and still claim per diem from the District. It's legal. He'll bring wine and she'll make something to nibble on, a veggie plate where you make little swans with the radishes, maybe. They don't date, though with all his evening meetings, it would be easy." Leave the guy alone, Cindi, I thought. I know it's you and he's married. I didn't say it though, because if she'd wanted my opinion, she'd have said it was she. I'm not going to weigh in on a once-a year affair between adults. Until the veggie plate, I thought it was Jessica Thomas, but she's not in NEA. Coaches have some other organization, probably more inspiring. A homemade snack is so Cindi, even if she can't cook, peeling each little radish, thinking about getting screwed. I figured out why Cindi wanted me to tell Martin that I have Premium. He'd know that I know something about NEA and what? It's hard to follow a Cindi scheme sometimes, but it usually ends up under the sheets. What did she do here? She told me that Martin makes love gently and discretely and that this other teacher's now out of the picture. What didn't she do? Cindi didn't let on that she was the one so I wouldn't feel I'd stolen him. The girl's so selfless! If I got an affair going, she'd bug out of next year's NEA rendezvous. I don't like the idea of mixing intimacy into a professional relationship, though. I have though, I'll admit, paid more attention to Martin's trousers since that conversation. HOOKING HIM Being their teacher isn't the same as being their boss, if you catch the difference. And here I was at school in this outfit! Maybe I should get Martin's feedback about attire, just once. Supposedly he's gentle. Just kidding, I won't. It was all I could do fourth period not to stare at Josh. I deliberately avoided calling on him, although he seemed to be looking my way a lot. My ass in that dress probably made more cocks than his swell. It's not that I have a thing about by butt; I like a little less, even. But I know that boys like to gawk at what's on display. For lunch I had an apple at my desk. Cindi stuck her head in. "Sometimes you can't find what you need when you need it. These were just in my purse, and I backup's always smart." She slipped me a small plastic bag containing several foil-wrapped packets. She didn't want me to get pregnant, but probably more so, she didn't want me to have a last-minute excuse to let myself down. I'm sure they weren't "just in her purse". "Ribbed?" I asked as I put the items in the bottom of my purse. When you're already nervous, it's easier to wisecrack than to just say thanks. "Just good ones. Bye." She kissed the air. Fifth period Thursday I have free, but I didn't want to go the teacher's lounge dressed as I was. I graded papers instead. Pretty bad stuff, so you just say things like "Potential for improvement if sentences are completed." I wasn't actually thinking too much about what I was reading, so maybe I graded a bit high. Sixth period was basically diagramming sentences. They complain, but by the end they're better writers. As I really didn't want to be in front, stretching around to write on the board, I put teamed the students and they raced. I'd read a sentence; they'd discuss and write their answer. Time pressure helps them be decisive. If they're wrong, they at least find out. If they just wait for someone else to decide, they'll agree and learn little. As teams are ruthless on one another, I don't need to point out an error; the competition will. I was starting to get tingly below my desktop. And after seventh period (diagramming again), after the last student had left, I was alone in the classroom. There was Josh, the door latching silently behind him, thanks to the fire marshal. I smiled, swallowed, wiped my brow and casually took off the sweater. Starting is hard. "It's a bit warm, don't you think? They always turn off the air conditioner when school lets out," I offered, bending over his assignment. I'd practiced every bit of my little strip tease. His eyes bugged as he ogled my eyeful of d‚colletage. I wondered if he smelled the musk. Without the sweater, my boobs advertised themselves, but I pulled my shoulders back to help. I couldn't decipher the expression on his face without staring and I didn't want to do that. Cindi's little gay friend, whoever he was, was right. I had been inspecting other boys for comparison, and Josh's immediate arousal was again very distinct, the third time I seen it so. And I couldn't do anything about it because we were in a classroom and there were at least a hundred people still in the building, any one of whom might walk in for any reason. My mind plays games, though. I fanaticized him at his desk, my leaning over from behind, bosom on his shoulder, steadying myself with my hand on his thigh as I corrected a spelling error. His free hand would slide up my calf, our mouths turning together, his fingers now on my panties, my hand on his zipper, pulling the tab, grasping his gigantic penis, laying myself back on my desktop. Get real, girl! We're in Capton Springs. He'd have run out the door by step three and District Security would be mobilizing. I'd planned to think about my bed for focus, but instead I thought about my book closet. I could get up on the stool for something on the top shelf and Josh could steady me. With his arms all the way around me, I'd get inadvertently groped. Then what? It's too risky at school for a novice seducer. I reminded myself that seduction takes time. I'm not a Cindi. I cleared my throat, there seemed to be something in it, and addressed Josh, teacher to student. We sat down, the two of us, not touching, not sending smoldering glances back and forth (as if he would be so bold, the shy kid) and went over the assignment for ten minutes, then another ten minutes, as I still heard voices in the hall. I wanted as few as possible to see us leave together. I offered him a ride home and he accepted. I'd no back-up plan if he'd said no. "You know, I've got a lit book that might help at my house. We'll swing by and get it on the way," another rehearsed line. My house was the only place I'd try anything. My voice sounded distant and funny, as if someone else was talking. "Sure." Here we go! My heart pitter-pattered against my rib cage as we drove, him far to my right, toward my bedroom. REELING HIM IN We drove mostly in silence and pulled into the garage. I closed the garage door with the remote control so no one could see us get out of the car. Exiting, the back of his shirt pulled up enough to reveal an inch of his back. It was as if I were stealing a view of him dancing. I had a perfectly good excuse for us dropping in. I really did have a short story book he could use. He really was my student. And yes, I had probably broken one or two District rules about being alone with students, but they were there to keep the male faculty off the girls. I imagined the inquisition if things went wrong. "Which book? Why didn't you have it at school if it's something they use?" We entered by the side door. I ditched the sweater and slipped out my shoes. "Mind taking off your shoes too? I just mopped." As I got the volume, I gave my "Would you like something cold to drink?" We walked to the fridge where I got him a soda and stood by his side. "How about some popcorn? I'm kind of hungry myself." Turning, I gave him a little tit on his arm, not much, just setting the mood. My leaning so far toward him to get the contact seemed a little awkward, but so what? He paused a moment, perhaps pleased with the proximity. While I microwaved a bag, the Lite kind, I showed him my collection of refrigerator magnets from trips, especially National Parks. I told him how at Grand Canyon you can see three million years of geology. I've no idea about the three million, actually, but the Ranger gave an informative lecture. Josh wouldn't be that concerned with the exact number, anyway. Over the breakfast table we made idle chitchat. My breasts showed as nicely as before. My neckline opened just the right amount. He could stare all he wanted in my kitchen. I tried to relax him a bit with an account of riding a sled that got turned around backwards. Telling it relaxed me a bit too. "If you're not in any hurry, why don't you have a look at the book while I go change. I really need to get out of this tight dress." Boy, did we know about the fit! Time for him to be more than just a spectator, I thought in my room, pulling the dress over my head. I felt good about not freezing up. I pulled the dress back down and deliberately jammed the zipper, which was not easy, believe me. It took about five tries. I returned to the kitchen. "This zipper's stuck. Do you think you could get it free?" I felt his strong hands, those of a boy beginning to be a man, brush against my shoulder and the back of my neck while he worked on the mechanism. When the zipper finally came loose he went ahead and pulled it all the way down. I didn't have to ask and I'm afraid I'd have lacked the nerve to have explicitly done so. He could see both my bra strap and my panty top. Perhaps the carefree attitude I was endeavoring to project led him to complete the unzip. It's said that the small of a woman's back is her sexiest erogenous zone. I've never believed it, but was hoping it was. I wished I'd gone ahead and worn my undies with little bunnies. I pulled at the dress a little, exposing my shoulders. I sighed gratefully and thanked him, complimenting him on his strong hands, hooey of course, but what boys like to hear. I hoped he was taking full study. I couldn't see his face, with my back turned, so I turned around, clutching the dress to myself in what I thought to be a come-on way. (I may have seen this in a movie.) I smiled and looked into his eyes. He looked a bit dazed, but he looked back steadily for one long glorious moment. "You're welcome." "Be right back." I turned and made my exit, swaying my hips (what was that movie?), knowing that he was looking at my round ass. And getting hard again, I hoped. I grabbed my purse on the way out. I'd seen that look that said that he saw a woman, not a teacher, and he wanted me to see a young man in return. That look was more significant than his boner. I shakily inserted my diaphragm. I put Cindi's little bag on my dresser where I could see it. I didn't need the contents, just the encouragement. I changed into loose shorts and a blouse shear enough to show bra through. What I really think works is seeing the strap part widening into the cup. It would be just another Sunday newspaper paper ad not looking through the blouse. Subtlety makes things work. Slutty girls don't know this. You could sure see my nips now, even when they were subdued, but I plucked them out a bit anyway. The top two buttons I left open, the first because it was supposed to be and the second because it wasn't supposed to be. I looked at myself in the mirror - rounded curves, pert nose and pretty face. A girl should compliment herself now and then, no mater what she's wearing. A virgin wants me, even if he doesn't yet know how much. I want him. I know exactly how much because Cindi told me. I set my glasses on my dresser. Once a guy broke my glasses while pulling up my sweater. We learn from experience. SPILT MILK I walked back into the kitchen. As I expected, the undone buttons drew his attention. I sashayed a bit to make sure. I poured myself a glass of milk and as I turned around, I tripped and spilled it all over him. Yes, it was deliberate. But it all felt so natural it seemed like an accident, even to me. "Oh my God, I'm sorry!" I covered my mouth in mock horror. "Don't move. I'll clean you up." I grabbed some paper towels. When I reached around his back to dab at his far shoulder, my breast found his near arm. I'm not sure if there was any milk on his far shoulder or not. Bra bound, as I was, I knew I felt firm. "Here, let me get that spot. This is going to stain, I'm afraid, unless they're washed right away." I leaned into him for yet better contact. I'd like to have wiped the front of his trousers. Cindi says that I should have, acting astonished at what I came upon. According to Ms. Big-Talk, once you've grabbed it, it's yours. I was just a bit more cautious about a thirteen-year-old's. As I mopped his far side, I worked my breast back and forth on his biceps, steady and slowly. He pressed into me, and then, to my chagrin, fell into a counter rhythm. Perhaps he though he was sneaking a feel, that I wasn't noticing. "Shouldn't I be heading home?" haltingly, his arm provoking my engorged nipple. "Can't send you home like this. Your mother would kill you. We'll throw this stuff into the washing machine real fast? It won't take any time." His biceps descended into my valley while I kept vaguely wiping at his ribs. "You call home that you're going to be a little late." "It doesn't matter about the time. My folks are gone till 8:00 and I'm just supposed to hang out and do my homework." Back over the crest he climbed, pausing at the peak to again confirm my protrusion. "Good." This was better than good, actually. "We got your assignment together after school, didn't we?" Down the outer slope he traveled. I pushed back enough to squish my boob inward. He surely knew that I was helping. Figuring that I had him interested, I reluctantly disengaged. "Just go in there," indicating the bathroom, "and pass your shirt and pants through the door. I'll find you a robe or something." I'm guessing that massaging my tit disarmed any objection he might have had to my authority. A minute later he opened the door opened a crack and thrust his clothes through. "Did your underpants get wet too? Better give them to me." I was a bit shameless. "'SOK," the adolescent monosyllabic affirmative. "I've seen underwear before. I won't blush." He reluctantly surrendered his khaki boxers. Except for his socks, I had a nude boy in my bathroom! Now what? Enter and insist on a bath? "Here, let me wash down there. Why, Josh, you're a man! How wonderful! I'll get in with you." Another Cindi-type scheme not pursued, thank you, though in retrospect it might have worked. Once he was naked, he'd have had no defense against my soapy washcloth. Well, I had to wash his clothes, for sure. I started the presoak and got out the laundry powder, as Josh wasn't going anywhere in just his socks. Back to my bedroom. Ryan's pajama bottoms, light blue, were the only choice. Quite past tense, I'm afraid. A stretchable waistband. The top was there too, but we didn't need that, now did we? "Here, wear this. Can't find the shirt. See if it fits." "'SOK," from behind the door. Cindi says get the guy into something feminine. Extra panties are all you've got that fits him, you say. To his mortification, silkiness is arousing. Casually comment that cross-dressing is getting to be pretty popular these days for straight guys too. But I couldn't do that! "Come on out. Let's have some tea while the clothes are washing. You don't need a top." SOFA He emerged somewhat sheepishly and we went into the living room where I made him sit on the couch. I left to start the tea, then came back and sat down next to him, trapping him against the sofa arm. I learned that one from getting trapped myself. I denied him defensive pillows. "So, tell me about yourself, Josh. What are your hobbies?" "Oh, I don't really have any hobbies." It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk, all bare-chested as he was. "You know, I think you're the best teacher in the school. I really like your class." He kept glancing at my open buttons. "Why, thank you, Josh. And may I say that I enjoy having you as a student," leaning toward him appropriately. "I'm not the best student, I know." "The best student isn't the one who gets the highest grades. It's the student who learns the most." I let my knee touch his thigh. "I'd come even if I didn't have to." "I know you would." At least, I knew he'd come for the pleasure of ogling me. "I know you've been late with assignments because you want them to be perfect." I shifted so that my thigh matched his. "I don't want to disappoint you." Oh Josh, I don't want you to disappoint me either! "You won't. You are a very promising young man, Josh. I have great hopes for you. Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?" Boy, there's a question I've never asked a date before. "I don't know. I think about a lot of different things, you know, but it's hard to settle on just one. What Dad does is interesting; he's a software engineer." He bit his lower lip awkwardly and lifted his gaze from my chest to look me in the face for a few seconds. "You're a nice strong boy, Josh. Look at those muscles." I gave him a playful squeeze on the biceps. "Do you go out for sports?" I let my grip linger into a touch. "A little baseball but I'm not on the team." I'd hoped that he'd say he was a wrestler and could show me some pins. I'll bet slut Jessica Thomas sees his jock strap when they do tumbling. When a mid-school girl makes a soccer goal, her little nips about explode. PE must be fun to teach. I didn't like the idea of Jessica teaching Josh, though. Without underwear, even with his knees together, the outline of his penis was fairly clear. The light blue pajama fabric shadowed well, revealing the form beneath. Girls look for showable fabric when they buy blouses. Silk is absolutely the best. The pajama fabric would slide, just a bit now and then, but what was within didn't. That's how I knew he was about half hard and appeared to be circumcised. It looked just as thick as in my dreams. We chatted inconsequentially. I patted his arm before I had to get up to restart the washing machine. When I brought in our tea, he had shifted position so that I couldn't see his crotch as well. Out of embarrassment? "I'll try not to spill anything this time," I promised. We made more small talk with me doing about ninety percent and drank the tea. I found out that he was pretty good in math, and he liked movies (Star Wars and that sort of thing) and had once collected bugs, although he had lost interest in that lately. He kept sneaking little peeks at my legs, which I crossed and uncrossed for his benefit. Time to try something. Behind me was a comforter I crocheted myself. "Aren't you cold? I am." No wait for an answer. "Here," tossing the cover over his chest and snuggling in with him. His arm nuzzled my right side, then slipped over my breast, a good sign. It slipped back, pausing as before on the jewel. A very good sign! "Warmer?" My right hand casually slipped behind his elbow and found the top of his thigh where I rubbed the pajamas a little. "Are these OK?" A nod. "They're not too tight or anything? You must be a runner." My palm moved to the inside and began to trace a little figure- eight. Oh, kiddo! Under the comforter, the out-of-sight bit loosens some inhibitions, at least for me. I'd probably not be rubbing that part of him otherwise. VIRGINITY I recollect being under a blanket at a football game, more fun because the people around couldn't tell that we got my bra off. I mean totally off. I was really firm back then and hardly needed one anyway. Cindi lost her virginity under a beach blanket, she claims. The way she jabbers about guys sometimes, I'm surprised she ever was one. It was on some sort of Catholic youth outing, but it wasn't a Father or anything. That's totally terrible, what's in the papers! Cindi says that if the priest messes with any St. Bernadette alter boys, she'll perform a sacrament to guarantee that he'll honor his vows forevermore. Her description included a more explicit "cut the fucker's dick off", but sometimes you need to tone things down in the rewrite. A Priest with young girls at least is natural. Cindi had a nun teacher who had a side job as a call girl! Sister didn't even need the money. The police gave her this special license because the Chief went to that church. All the kids in Cindi's school knew about it, even how much she charged. It cost more if she wore her black habit. One of the boys saw her in disguise when his folks were driving him to Karate lessons. I wonder how much of that story is true? I'm absolutely nonsexist: Fathers shouldn't and nuns shouldn't because that's part of their deal. Cindi at fourteen had this wide-eyed longing to make love (her term, not mine). She decided that the youth outing was an opportune time to move forward and chose her partner, inexperienced as well, on the bus. All the kids knew exactly who the virgins were, both sexes. An amazing percentage of those who weren't had traded theirs with someone else on that same bus. I think that's good, being of the same religion. She started him lotioning her as soon as they found a spot away from the sponsors. Instinct led from there. He never hesitated until right at the last when he was afraid about a baby. Quick-thinking Cindi told him that she was on the rhythm method. She didn't even know how it worked, but he knew even less, only that it was approved. She had a tiny climax, so she thought at the time, anyway. She realized afterwards that the "love" part wasn't essential. It was just neat! I wonder sometimes if all this attention to "the Virgin" doesn't just make Catholic kids focus on the loosing theirs? Some of Cindi's friends could tell when the two we're doing it and bought her a snow cone afterwards. Josh again was brushing me, knowing that it was allowed and lacking even the flimsy excuse of my mopping up spilt milk. He got my blouse fabric to slide over my bra, a more-intimate tactile communication. I wished I'd taken the thing off. I rotated more towards him in case he wanted to rub two, but he stayed on known territory. His eyes seemed focused on the wall. My hand slid to the inside of his thigh, tracing a bigger figure-eight. The side of my palm inched higher and higher. I figured I'd soon encounter something amazing. I anticipated he'd use his free hand to undo my top. After all, he was already feeling one breast. It would all be under the comforter, so discrete. I'd have to acknowledge him then, perhaps with our first kiss. With our mouths engaged, he'd capture my far boob. I would fully clasp his penis. But despite my hand creeping up his PJ's, he didn't invade. If anything, he leaned away, as if ill at ease under the comforter. Leaning away was the exact opposite of my inclination. Maybe the comforter wasn't the best way. ERIK Kissing returns me to Erik. Erik was a year behind me. We'd played a lot together as kids. We'd even peed together when we were little. Long after my girlfriends had subscribed to the Gap-standard outfits and priorities, Erik and I would bike from the Outcrop (this muddy, brambled hill ascendible by only the valiant) straight to Hello Ice Cream to split a sundae. Another day we might play with my dolls. I never told the other kids about that. We invented what we called "Double Pig Latin" and one summer won the twelve-and- Under Doubles tennis championship in the city tournament. As we liked each other for better reasons, making out came easy. We'd bonked each other for years with birthday balloons, rolled up Mad Magazines and other nonlethal weapons. Then once while walloping one another over whether you collect Monopoly rent if you're still in Jail (you don't), he kissed me. We were both surprised and got right back to buying properties. I bankrupted him because I owned Park Place. Then we chased each other to his tree house where we taught ourselves kissing the right way. I was fourteen and probably six inches the taller, so I'd sort of scooch down. I guess we were standing up because it seemed safer. Kissing is a normal phase of sexual awakening. Everyone remembers something similar. But for me, it was something more. It was, for all practical purposes, my first male kiss of any kind. It was from someone who liked me for being me, for whom I had value. The kiss ratified it. Dad had made me a slut, but now I could be a good person with Erik, at least. A tree house is a good place to kiss, up above the world. We, of course, came to sit side by side, and then because it worked better, stretch out together. Nobody was on top, though. We wouldn't just smooch willy-nilly. One of us would try something and the other would say if they liked it. Then we'd try it in reverse. After we bumped teeth a few times, we decided that bit wasn't too cool. On the other hand, flipping our tongues together was pretty neat. It was erotic, but we hardly knew anything. If I were wearing a dress, he'd be first up and last down so he couldn't see my panties. Of course, he'd seen me in my underwear a hundred times because we'd stop by my room when we'd get out of school. That was different because we weren't kissing. FOOTRUBS Back to Josh, the present, not the past. "Teaching is so hard on my feet. Mind giving them a rub?" An old chestnut. "OK," with a bit of blush. The foot rub brings to mind a great getaway. Neither Cindi nor I had plans for last Thanksgiving. She saw this ad about flying to Las Vegas and staying in Caesar's Palace. There were cheaper places, but the package was so good that you'd not want to skimp, a phone in the bathroom, even if you'd never use it! The Strip is totally fabulous and totally idiotic. We got great meals, turkey, of course, given the weekend, for not much and traipsed from one overstated Wonder of the World to another. The visitors are more interesting than the waterfalls. And the shows! No reason to pay $39 for some has-been when the lounges have the up-and- comers for the price of a margarita. We thought we hated country music until we saw it. The music's about getting through life, not being disillusioned with it. The performers know who's sitting at the tables. "Where y'all from?" "Tallahassee," the table next to us. "Tallahassee! We got stuck at the Motel 6 when our transmission went out, you know. Stewart here on pedal and the service manager got to talking. Turned out to both be Baptists, you know. They invited us to their potluck and we set up and played sacred songs, plus a few requests. What a blessed evening that was!" Then you start chatting to folks at that table because you've been to Tallahassee too. They think that teaching mid school must be so hard with all the gangs and things. Cindi bought a CD from Stewart between sets. Why do they wear their hats inside? We don't allow it at Capton Springs except for Sikh kids. It was the favorite thing we did in Vegas, going to that show. The only thing we really needed to pay for was the Liberace Museum, ridiculous on one hand and good for hours of discussion on the other. Elvis and Dolly Parton were free, handing out coupons for $0.99 shrimp cocktails. Cindi took my picture with the King. Dolly had me beat by a mile. Gambling we limited to the quarters we could bring. I just brought what I could legitimately garner. Cindi, of course, bought some rolls at the bank, but it still wasn't much, considering. Cindi said that we might meet great guys, but the ones we saw appeared to be losers. "Didn't I see you in one of the shows?" that sort of pickup. "Probably, I do security" usually got rid of them. Hell, we didn't need boyfriends. At the pool we gave each other great foot rubs after all our exploring. There's so much more to life. But back to Josh. I tossed the cover out of reach and took off my socks. "Take yours off so I can footrub too." I liked the mutual thought of us both taking things off. I flopped back from him on the sofa, both feet thrust against his thigh. Two things accomplished, one being the view up my shorts. Things look provocative when they're not quite accessible. I've always thought Fredrick's of Hollywood to be appalling. Can you believe, for example, that a guy would want to find you wearing crotchless panties, if they really sell such things? Would I want to see some turkey standing in the bank queue with his dick hanging out? Give me a break! Josh's stare up my legs was hardly furtive. I twisted a bit to help. Two, even as Josh reached to rub my toes, I raised my heels onto his thigh. His penis angled towards the side of his abdomen away from me. Had it been on my side, I'd have scored a perfect hit. As it was, I could just feel his root. Josh's fingers enumerated my toes and then begin, more and more firmly, to massage the soles of my feet. It felt erotic to be sure, but also just warm and relaxing. He didn't move my feet, but when he started on the insides of my ankles, I rolled my legs outward. Even from my angle I could see my shorts open more. Acting like he needed to better inspect my toes, he dropped his head for a clearer northern look. I pointedly looked away. He's just thirteen. I hope nothing peeked below my panty hem, but if a few strays did, I couldn't fix it now. Josh started rubbing my calves. Without even planning, I shoved my feet fully onto his lap. My right heel rode up and onto the taught ridge in his pajamas. He didn't pull back. I expect that he wasn't sure if I knew what I had mounted. Fat chance. It was easier for him to not acknowledge my foot. The deeper such a dilemma for him, the better for me. "It feels nice, Josh." My footrub, we'll say. He was unyieldingly hard, according to my right foot, anyway. When he moved even a little, I could better sense how aroused he'd become. We're talking rock! And I was gaining confidence in my ability to lead him along. I wasn't that sure about each step, how he'd react. Rather, I was learning tactics. Watch for feedback. Don't presume initiative from him. Expand his boundaries gently. A well-executed seduction requires educational psychology: make him want to learn before instructing. Too bad they make Ed Psyc so boring in college. My foot rode him. I didn't know a thing about his testicles and only a hint about his glans (the "vascular apex of the penis, the acorn or mast of the oak and similar fruits", a vocabulary word I'll not add to my class list. Nomenclature is one aspect about sex about which I know more than does Cindi.). But what I'd felt of his shaft I liked a lot. My goal, though, was more than just tactilely confirming his erection. Copping a foot feel might throw a schoolgirl into chaste ecstasy. Forget the chastity for me. Should I try to masturbate him with my foot? It might work. Moot point. Our foot-rub, cock-rub (well, actually just touch, as I wasn't really rubbing) slowed, him still no higher than my calves. I'd distracted him, I guess. I was afraid that his excitement having been revealed, he might fear he'd done something bad. Good boys (which he is) shouldn't get hardons for their teacher. You better, buster! I slipped my foot along him pretty blatantly. I wanted him to know that I wasn't displeased. BACKRUBS I toyed with the idea of turning around to put my head on his lap so he could massage my forehead for a supposed headache. I'd have liked nestling my cheek you-know-where. But that leads to oral sex, not intercourse. I envisioned climbing over him to get something from the end table, a body-entwining possibility, but I didn't see anything to reach for. I did think the scenario through, though: "Oh, Josh, I'm sorry. I just slipped. What's this? Is it you? It's so big! It's my fault, isn't it? It must be so uncomfortably cramped. Here, let me," Cindi-style. Let's get him involved, I thought a bit more strategically. "You know, I get a bit of a backache sometimes, after working." Actually I do, from hauling these heavy tits around. "Would you rub my back?" The backrub's another classic and embarrassingly obvious gambit, but perhaps not for someone thirteen. "Um, I don't know how." I'd thought of taking this somewhere else, right there on the couch. Lap sit, back rub, around the front, knee, upper thigh, that route. But sitting on the couch, you're not likely to both get buff naked and I wanted that too. His asking gave me an idea. "Oh, I'll teach you. Sit up with your back this way." My foot came off him with a snappy farewell salute and I sat up too. We'd both have called this a good day already. I slid behind his shoulder and proceeded to rub his neck. His skin was as smooth as a baby's behind and his muscles showed early promise of power. He really should go out for sports, I thought. Reaching around to knead his chest, I maneuvered my breast again against him, getting above and then sliding down along his shoulder blade. He crossed his legs for obvious reasons, missing my smile of accomplishment. "Do you like the way I do it?" I guided myself back up. "Massage is about pressure at just the right places." My hand on his front held him proximate, but he would have leaned my way on his own. "It feels good." My hand? My breast? Down his arm I went. Josh and I must have exchanged some primal message, because he turned fully away from me. Now both bosoms were working him. My right hand cupped his pectorals, my left his abdomen, so I could guide my torso fully against his bare back. My lower left fingers found his elastic. I lightly popped the waistband to remind him how far I'd descended. He seemed to give me a little shakeoff, nothing I couldn't have overridden, but something I'd respect. "It does feel nice, doesn't it? It gets even better if you lie down." He looked at the sofa. "No, not here, you're too tall. How about the floor? I know, let's try the next room." I led him into my bedroom, undoing another button on the way. Cindi's noontime bag was right there. Basically, so was Cindi. "And you can just stretch out flat." Josh stretched out as bid and I started pounding his back with a gusto that made him yelp with surprise, but then he got into it and so did I. Not an hour ago we'd been in the classroom. Now here we were on my bed, neither of us wearing very much, an attractive woman (so I flatter myself) entrapping an innocent youth. I felt good about it. As only moments before I'd all but had his cock in my hand, it might seem backwards that now I'd be drumming his spine. But think about it. The joy of sex isn't just the orgasm. It's working on each other slowly, approaching copulation in engaging ways multiple times, protracting a two-minute servicing into a thirty-minute celebration. Good girls know this, but sluts don't. I pounded him right down to his buttocks. In massage, after you pound, you lightly rub, or so I told him anyway. I did so onto his pajamad butt. Nice big circles. He tensed at first and then relaxed. I ran my fingertips up and down his cheeks a few times. Once more I could sense his muscles loosening. As he didn't protest, I fingered his crack nice and firmly. "Like it?" He didn't dare answer. HIS MASSAGE "Roll over. There's more." I thought that he might resist for reasons of modesty. If so, I planned to get him up on hands and knees and massage around his waist from above. But Josh's resistance had already melted. He rolled to his back without protest and earned my best smile. I only needed a glimpse. His cock, clearly formed under the PJ's, was only half hard, to my surprise. If I'd just had my fanny handled the way I handled his, I'd have been totally charged. I started massaging his chest, with its utter lack of chest hair. I brushed his nipples lightly, noting with satisfaction their hardening. He was looking where my blouse was parted. With three buttons undone, my bra wasn't much covered. Given where I was above him, he could hardly look elsewhere. "You have to get close to massage right," I explained. He didn't ask why the masseuse unbuttons. Straddling a leg, I continued to poke and rub his chest and shoulder muscles. Then I deliberately brought my knee up to where it just touched his balls. Your knee can't feel much, but balls can feel your knee, I'm sure. He'd been so into looking into my blouse that my leg shift per se perhaps didn't register. Knee against testicles probably now did, but he'd no escape. He knew I'd already footed his cock and hadn't plucked him when he was ripe for picking. Probably this contact too was just accidental. I've never made him chronicle my genital touches, as perhaps he doesn't even know. I sensed he'd lost his erection. Being a kid can be confusing. That's why teaching is so much more that lecturing from the syllabus. This story makes that much pretty clear! As I continued, I moved down his ribs, explaining massage theory and flattering him on his really fine build. As I felt his penis against my thigh whenever I leaned forward, I leaned forward a lot. My eyes, however, didn't venture to it as it again lengthened. He may have been thinking of it like a squirrel on a tree trunk -- if it doesn't run, it's invisible. In the kitchen, on the sofa, it had been difficult, but not impossible, to keep the banter going, school, sports, sleds, whatever. Here on my bed with me rubbing him where I was, idle topics wouldn't work. How about, "So who's ahead in the NBA?" while I'm cupping his scrotum? Better to cut the gab. I swept my hand yet lower, my fingertips now on his abdomen. His penis jerked just inches away. I began giving him luxurious strokes with the flat of my hand, right down to his waistband, wiggling my leg in the process. He involuntarily wiggled back, but at the same time, looked concerned. His face had pinkend. Cindi says that I was lucky he didn't shoot right then and there; sometimes it only takes a little wiggle. I couldn't tell if I was lubricating or not, but suspected so. I leg-pressed his cock another moment for good measure and shifted back on the bed to inspect. He knew what I was looking at. It was big, rock-hard, straining visibly against the fabric. He was now red- faced and breathing deeply. I was tempted to just reach out and feel that big dick, so protruding and vulnerable, a flagpole. He couldn't have stopped me. Instead, I tried to look nurse-like. "Don't mind about that. What happens on the massage table doesn't get discussed elsewhere. It happens when a healthy person gets a low massage -- a natural response, nothing you can help". The "massage table" bit added a touch of propriety, I thought. I've never actually heard the term "low massage", but maybe this would be it. "I'm not looking." Clearly I was looking, but I needed to deny it for his sake. I don't know if he believed all of it, but he sort of had to. I was on top. "Just let do what it wants," as if in this unequal contest it could do otherwise. "We'll be careful." Josh needed to see things from the "we're doing it" perspective. I ran my palm up the outside of his near hip, across the top of his PJ's and down the other side. I pointedly raised my wrist to avoid his erection, a you're-safe-with-me maneuver. I did enjoy pulling the fabric across it, though. "Did it feel nice?" I grinned. I was pretty pleased with my leadership. "Uh-huh." He could barely speak, his tongue seemingly larger than his mouth. I can always claim that I was asking about the massage and Josh can claim that he was too. Cindi later made what I'll bet is a correct analysis. Most guys, decent ones anyway, don't advertise their assets. Codpiece fashion never lasted. But if you make a point that it's no big thing to you, the same guys quit worrying about it. I could have fucked him right then and there. He couldn't have got his boner down before I'd have had it in me. I suppose male teachers usually score at about this stage. Get the girl hot and poke her while she's still confused. I'm not that way, or at least don't want to be. But letting my mind wander in that direction opened it for a little sleuthing. Cindi said that two males at Capton Springs make it with students. Robert Sasser who teaches Social Studies has to be one. He has neither honor nor finesse. He presumes that I thrill when he brazenly scopes my bust. He all but told Cindi that she'd like his skill in bed. I told her to avoid any guy who assumes he's doing you a favor and she went with my assessment. But a mid schooler might succumb to the asshole. The looser can't score with us, so he goes for the kid who stays after to get help with her assignment. That protracted rub by the refrigerator told me that Josh's performance increases when he feels in control. I didn't want to fuck him; I wanted him to fuck me. Cindi agrees that the two are different, but says it doesn't much matter once you start. For me it did. MY MASSAGE "I can tell you like it, Josh. It's kind of a special feeling, isn't it? Now you massage me. I'll lie down on the massage table." Sitting would allow him to conceal his arousal, at least partially, and cool him down. And as he sat up I turned away from him slightly, not all the way. "Do you mind if I take off this shirt? It's hard to massage through." I thought I needed some reason. Josh's mind had certainly been inside it for some time anyway. "You don't have to." "It's OK. I'll be on my stomach." Not for very long, I figured. "Remember the rule about the table. You'll not tell that I took it off." "OK," all the acquiescence I needed. I peeled off the blouse so that he could glimpse my profile. One-look girls in bras walk straight toward you. Two-look girls in bras cross in front of you. Same bra. Same boobs. The effect is just better from the side. Josh seemed unsure where to begin, kneeling beside me, hunched a bit forward, aware of his still-tented pajama front. So much for him cooling down. He didn't have the "getting massaged" on which to fall back on now. "Start with my shoulder blades." A safe place for young hands. He began to rub. I begin to tingle. "Work down." He did so. On the way down, he lifted my bra strap to rub beneath, a sweet touch. "Lower." Arriving at my butt, he kneaded one cheek and then the other. Wow! A couple of touches slipped to the flesh of my thighs. In the literature of foreplay, anal touching gets ignored because authors just want to skip to giant cocks and blowjobs. Girls love getting their ass rubbed. "OK, Ms. Rennick?" "Do it more. I really should be undressed under the sheet. Should I?" The choices, were we to go that way, were winners. Should I be on my stomach nude and let him to work the sheet off me, or should I turn and have him work my front through the sheet? I answered myself, "Maybe later after you have more practice." I left the future to his imagination. Like I did to him, he ran his hand up and down my crack. A dream student! I spread my legs sufficiently, but he didn't go deep. But then, I hardly did on him, either. I expect my shorts were hiked up where he could again see panties again, but he didn't let on by flicking the hem. "Start at the top again, but this time with more pressure. Make it even. Each the same." I could have cared less about sameness, but the next instruction needed the reason. "Get over me with your leg so you'll be even." Josh didn't understand. "Put one knee over here," patting across my opposite hip. Josh performed per instruction, his knees now straddling my thighs. "Now press." He shifted his weight forward, palms on my shoulder blades, and delivered a half-dozen nice kneads. I was paying less and less attention to my shoulders, though, the object of his ministrations. (That's such a good word. I don't get to church except with Cindi sometimes, but in his way, a minister is there to help you to a better place.) I was feeling Josh's crotch sliding against my rear. Rubbing for his masculine pleasure was the press I invited. "That feels great," I offered, raising my hips. "Harder down there." Sensing my acquiesce to his need, he abandoned any pretext of a backrub. He pinned my shoulders to the mattress. His penis, barely restrained, boldly furrowed my cheeks up and down while my bottom flexed against him. He surely wasn't concerned about shielding his arousal now. Twice he went too far on the downstroke, his cock catching on my butt. Thank God I still had pants on. I managed to raise my torso with my elbows. Reading my mind, his arms encircled me, crushing my breasts. He wasn't fondling. He was just clasping to stay on top, grinding himself against me. The poke of a hard dick is unmistakable, both in shape and resilience. That's supposedly the fun thing about slow dancing -- work a thigh in there in the middle of a number and he can't get away. If you're as good as a certain human biology teacher I know, you can make him shoot his wad right there on the dance floor. You kind of have to hold him up. So she says, anyway. I don't know much about erotic dancing, but I do know something about full frontal hugs. It's a way for you and a guy who's just your friend (and should be nothing more than that) to acknowledge one another. You'd not let him squeeze your boob, but you love how he rubs your bra strap. You love how he pulls you firmly against him for that extra moment without turning sideward. It tells you you're a girl. You're both behaving within limits. After a moment, though, you better end the hug. Josh's bulge was getting too lively, as I could hear his quickened breathing. I could hear the sliding of fabric against fabric, that rhythmic brush-brush. As much as I did like his rear attack, I had to restrain him. At his age, he wasn't planning ahead. TOPLESS "Can you unhook my strap?" No need to come up with some excuse about too tight or whatever. I couldn't just tell him to fuck me. He and I didn't yet share that sort of explicit vocabulary, but he could follow little steps. Releasing his clutch, he fumbled with my hooks as eagerly as would any boy in the backseat. The mysteries of bra closure have never been completely clear to the male sex. With big boobs, a guy can't just pop you out. Eventually he got them loose and I rolled sideways clutching my loose undergarment. "Let me see you." He raised his hips enough for me to complete my rotation. I, of course, didn't need to see him at the moment, but he needed to see me still holding my bra. I left it there and flopped my arms outwards. When I'm on my back with nothing to hold them, my bust lists outward. The valley between broadens to ribcage wide enough to draw your hand without feeling more than my breasts' inner edges. I could look down my valley and see the angle of his penis lifting up and away. I didn't sense that he wanted to yield the advantage of his straddle. I didn't want him off, either, other than we still had some clothes do dispose of ("of which we needed to dispose", if this were being graded). I liked seeing him readied for sex. "I'm ready too," I encouraged. Josh touched my sides, one hand on either, and then drew his hands together over my stomach. Thinking that he was heading into my pants, I sucked in my tummy. But his fingers crept up to the protrusion of my breasts, the unhooked bra still providing a scant degree of cover. Josh's hands parted to trace the outer boundary of each bosom. Had he worked his hands up the valley, he'd have felt the tautness of the skin. As he had encircled the outsides, however, he encountered softer flesh. His fingers crept up the overhanging slope. I moaned, which for a brief second seemed to confuse him, as he froze. But I was smiling, again thinking of Erik. ERIK AGAIN Later on back then, Erik and I would climb up to the tree house and he'd touch my chest. It was never surreptitious. Like seeing my panties, he'd only bumped my front ten thousand times when we were doing other stuff, but that wasn't the same. At first it was just with one finger. I'd sit very still while he traced me. We got to where he'd touch inside my shirt. I think we were both surprised how he could make my nipples change. We'd giggle when it happened. If it was after dusk, we'd take off my blouse and the breeze would blow on my bra. Then we got to where, if it was dark, he could take off whatever I was wearing on top. Most of what I wore back then just slipped up. Finally, and this was a long time later, we'd take my top off, even during the day. That other boys made such a deal about them made me want to share them with Erik. We'd sit way in the middle of the tree house, though, nervous that someone might come by and peer up. Once Erik's mom came looking, but we got low. That was always one of our funniest stories, me bare-tit up in the tree, her calling, "Erik, Holly. Suppertime!" He kept rubbing, just to get one over on his mom. It was never "me letting him". We spelled out no rules; we just understood. I'd sit in front miles above the ground while we talked about everything. We liked talking. Massage just made it more fun. Sometimes I could feel his erection against my tailbone, but that wasn't something that we chose to pursue. He trusted me to not rub against it too hard. I'd seen his underpants bulge five thousand times before, but just accidentally or when we were changing. He never had an erection down below; I would have been able to tell. In the tree house it wasn't scary what I felt against me. I liked him feeling the way that he made me feel, though he'd not tell me more. I knew about erections from oblique references in Teen Girl stories. Those were the years when I started to want to be an author. Erik taught me that sex has a temporal dimension. In a tree house, nobody can sneak up on you, so you choose your right pace. We were more sensual together in the tree house, just kissing and playing with my boobs, than our classmates who mindlessly fucked on some sofa. With other boys, by breasts were different. A neighbor boy (not Erik) would try to look in my window. I shut the blinds after I found out. It was nice to get attention from Erik, but not from a pervert. When I started going out, not that often, my date might go for my top before we'd hardly kissed. It was never, "What do you want to do?" I might have replied, "Smooch me up and then you can feel," but no such luck. So dating didn't always go that well. Their competition was a boyfriend who would like me even if I were flat. When we got new band uniforms, everybody got measured and they put the sizes right on the tag so that next year they could redistribute them by fit. Except for fat Ronelle who played drums, I had the biggest bust. You just looked at the labels. I was rather proud, at least till some of the trumpet players decided that that made me a target. Having something special isn't always so great. Now, years later, they're still attractions. "You can look," I murmured to Josh, happily showing off for him. Permission granted, again he climbed, the tips of his fingers now within the outer edges of my cups. The bra slid upward and off. My breasts were bare. "Oops!" I giggled, bouncing a little for effect. My nipples stood out like acorns, small ones anyway. Josh's eyes widened. He had to have already known their dimensions, but now they were wobbling before him. WHICH REMINDS ME OF SWIMMING Cindi's little strawberries are a maroon shade, no secret in her casually-cinched bikini. She has this theory about swimming that everybody gets to see and touch everything. Keep in mind that her coming of age was at that beach outing. People always associate the environment with their first time. If there was a song on the car radio, that tune gets you thinking zippers. Swimming and sex is a fashion conspiracy, Cindi figures. (Of course, she also sees conspiracy between McDonald's and Burger King to make milkshakes devoid of dairy products.) Speedo trunks. Bikini bottoms cut to exactly where you shave. I thus need a wide cut. Remember when tops just revealed the shape of your nipple when the water was cold? The new nylon shows the Technicolor of your areole. They even sell net tops. Those baggy trunks that cling around a guy's cock when he climbs out! He'll towel off right there in front of you. They never have one on, though, after doing laps, opposite to our nips. We help out, of course. Undo your strap to tan your back and then get up on your elbows to look around. Cindi makes me if we're where we don't know anybody, like in Las Vegas. Watch some centerfold type lift her waistband enough to show a little hair while she Coppertones her tan line. Guys line up their Spandexed equipment due north. If there is an outside shower, swimmers pull their elastic out to let in both fresh water and furtive peeks. There's a lot to see at the pool. Cindi's right about the touching part, too. Getting tossed around in the shallow end, every part of you seems to bump against every part of him. There's piggyback at the four-foot where he sits on your shoulders and the back of your head makes him hard. Or you get on him and he teases you. He'll ask you for date later, presuming that you're always like that. It's just the pool. Watch a swimming lesson on the breaststroke. You know exactly where the instructor is going to support the pubescent girls. Or a Junior Lifesaving instructor fondling each right breast to teach the cross-chest carry. They queue up for it. If the teacher's female, she'll have the boy students hold hers and she'll bump their peckers. When I took lessons, the lady teacher held this guy up to learn the backstroke. He got a boner because every arm stroke bumped her bosom. She steered him around where all us girls could see. His name was Ray, so we'd refer to him as Raised, but not to him directly. It wasn't his fault. Cindi and I saw this maybe-twelve-year-old girl get this guy twice her age to drag her around so she could practice the frog kick. She held him around his waist until she could slip her wrist down where it counted. Cindi knew she would. He spent a good ten minutes just floating her around where his hips were just submerged, her arm having worked around until her hand was in front. Or inside, for all we knew. It's hard to see below the surface. She was grinning like a jack-o- lantern. Or watch couples lotion each other, whispering as fingertips access where the sun never will, right under his balls, for example. At the beach, watch the guys bury a girl in the sand or the girls bury a guy. Either way, they get petted. I've never seen anyone mind getting buried. Take a couple carloads of high schoolers, both kinds, on a Saturday. Would they take off their pants to play badminton? Hardly. To play croquet? Nope. To go skinny dipping? In a minute! See? After they get dressed again, the boys go right back to sneaking neckline peeks and the girls go right back to not flashing panties. Speaking of kids, there's Cindi's version of the urban legend about the Kentucky summer campers and a sleeping bag. The boys elect a girl and the girls, a boy and the pair shares the bag while they change into swimsuits. The others keep their eyes out for the counselors. The pair's not doing anything explicit, just jostling together as they wiggle out of their clothes. The two try to conceal from the others what might announce a wayward rub. Such things happen when you're jammed together naked. But, in the story, they get stuck and the others gather round to see why. When their friends unzip the sleeping bag, each of the couple has one leg in his or her own suit and one in the other's. The two can't move without initiating accidental intercourse. So the other kids just zip them together again and gently rock them side-to-side till it happens. Cindi, as you'd expect, is an urban legend transponder without peer. Urban legends have three characteristics. One: attribution to a reliable source who's never quite specified, a cousin of a friend, for example. Two: embellishment with authentic-sounding detail, Kentucky in this case. Such detail morphs as the legend spreads. Three: practical unlikelihood that the listener chooses not to challenge. Can you realistically imagine each getting one leg wrong? I have my higher classes rewrite urban legends into short stories. They thus start with a decent plot, often concerning a hook-handed escaped convict and two teenagers parked. Sorry about the digression. Cindi has about fifteen rules about sex under water. "It's better if you're holding onto something fixed, not just floating." Or how about, "Unless you're sure they'll be absolutely nobody else in the pool, wear a two piece?" Duh, why's that, Cindi? Like it you would even feel it? At River Sands, I watched Cindi expose her little orbs about twelve inches from a guy's nose, lotion his thigh and run her elbow back and forth over his crotch, all at the same time. She just had some extra SPF-12 coconut and we were leaving. He was kind of a pudgy guy, maybe thirty-five. Cindi nodded me over to block the view from the lifeguard tower so that I could see, but nobody else. Her arm held down his loose suit so his erection wasn't that obvious. She rumpled my towel over him before he climaxed. She knew I'd be OK about it being my towel. To me the story's not erotic; it's about being nice. It wasn't as if doing a guy made her come as well. He smiled goodbye to me too. Most big pools have a little pool for kids. It's a good chance to chat with moms your own age. We admit we envy each other. Plus swimming's safe exercise, not like jogging where you wreck your knees. Plus you get a tan. Plus you can read. So it's more than just Cindi's theory about swimming and sex. Hanging out at the pool frees you up to enjoy yourself. TOUCHING Small-busted women can have extraordinary nipples, but big-busted women rarely have small ones. I'm no exception. Mine are just a tad darker than my skin, each encircled by an inch of areola. I don't know if Josh had already noted the circles through my bra. He might have. The guys I've let inside my bra of course knew about my nipples. When my buds more-or-less blended in to my overall shape, nobody could tell much from the outside. As mine came into their own in high school, however, I had to wear thicker fabrics. I didn't want the class to see when I had to give an improv in Speech. Lots of girls just showed off their little nubbins, but I don't nip for the guy on the street. It's almost impossible to mask full nipples when they're erect, but that doesn't happen to me that much in public. Maybe I show something at the pool or if I'm really into exercise, but it's OK then. Being the teacher seems to keep them down when I'm in front of the class. That they'd recently taken off a few times on their own at school was related to Josh. Back on my bed, "Oh, Ms. Rennick," Josh croaked. "Can I touch them?" as if that wasn't exactly what he was doing. "They're so pretty." "Call me Holly. You can touch them all you want. We're friends. They are pretty, aren't they? You liking them excites me too, and not just up here." It was so comfortable with that bra off. Right about here the phone rang. Being somewhat indisposed, I let the machine answer. "Hi, you've reached 761-5472. We can't come to the phone right now. Please leave your name, a brief message and your number and we'll get back to you. Bye," spoke mechanical Holly. A familiar voice, just a bit low, "Hello. This is World Voice. If you could save five to thirty-five percent on your phone bill each month, what you do with that extra cash? We'll call you back soon to find out. Thank you from World Voice." OK, Cindi. Josh covered me with his palms and then pulled his hands back until my breasts were again fully bared. He brushed them and then lightly squeezed. He squeezed again. He hefted my boobs to feel the weight. He pushed them together and let them slide out, the tips rippling between his fingers. He brushed and petted them lightly. My areolae goosebumped. "I'm not hurting you, am I?" "No, Josh, them sticking up is how a woman shows she's turned on. Sometimes they do it just when a girl just thinks about a guy. Like when we were by the refrigerator, but I didn't want you to know," fingers crossed. "I could sort of tell." His admission bore a hint of insecurity. Was it OK that he'd noticed? "I thought you could. The way we were standing, your arm." Josh started to look concerned. Cindi says to make him squirm a bit before you let him off the hook. "But I didn't make you stop because you were so gentle. Could you feel my bumps? I wanted you to." "Yeah, I guess I could a little," Josh admitted, still not too sure about associated guilt. "And snuggling on the sofa, I wanted you to feel inside my blouse, how you got me hard again." "I thought maybe you'd let me, but I wasn't sure. It was fun even being on the outside." His honesty surprised me. "It doesn't matter now, does it? I love how fun things just keep on happening." Josh seemed relieved, fondled me again, but then furrowed his brow. "Is this OK, us in here?" "We're just on the bed, not in bed," I rationalized. "I mean me touching you?" "Josh, it's a way of sharing things that are pretty special, isn't it? On my bed we can get really comfortable. "Don't you love how soft it is?" Then I addressed what was probably his concern and certainly mine, "What we do is our secret." A nod. "It's only wrong if one of us doesn't want to. You're having fun too, right? Girls can pretty much tell how a guy's doing." I thrust my pelvis, in case he'd any doubts. "Like when you gave me the backrub, you had fun." I paused. "And I really like you on top of me now, where a man would be." A grin. "On the sofa we'd be so cramped," I compared. Actually, I'd have been thrilled even if we were on the kitchen floor. Sexual satisfaction doesn't that much depend on overall comfort. People screw every possible place. But turning his question to one of location seemed a handy diversion. Cindi thinks I was pretty smart. I'm sure he though that he'd gone plenty far, getting me bare chested. I knew that I should pull him forward to kiss my tits. But I wanted more than sucking. Change one letter, a Scrabble move. MISSED VICTIMIZATION With me pinned down as I was, he could have raped me, then and there. There could even be a story in it, a few pages for my Writer's Notebook. In my draft, I'd not have Josh take me as I had Zak commandeer his sister, though. I'd start off my story acting confused. "Josh, what are you doing? Let me up! My top off doesn't mean it's OK. It's broad daylight! Don't you want to kiss? Gently! Girls are delicate. That's nicer." When his intention becomes undeniable, my story character offers increasingly weak protests, "We can't make love. We're not married. We're not even on a date. I'm your English teacher!" To claim me, he has to battle a strong female. He's just the stronger. I'd squirm while being disrobed. "Oh, Josh, please not my panties! I'll be naked!" I'd use one arm to shield my top, the other, my bottom, neither thus being effective. "Well, don't stare!" I'd beg, affording him every view. After being stripped (perhaps a page of item-by-item deprivations), I'd negotiate, "OK, look but don't put your hand down there. Oh, I didn't know you knew how to do that! OK, for ten seconds, that's all. And don't ever tell." (Perhaps I'd be engaged to another. Pledged silence thus takes on an engaging aura of unfaithfulness.) He would pry my knees apart. Ten seconds would become sixty, but I wouldn't watch the clock. As he liquefied me, I'd ask, "We're just fooling around, right? Try it on my little thing right there." A little wiggle to steer him. (I'd not exactly locate the "there" in my story. Let the reader imagine.) He'd find where he really needs to go. "Wait, I never said inside! That's too deep. One finger works better. Not too fast." I'd start to push back a little more forcefully. When he exposed his member, "Oh, Josh, I know I teased you a bunch, but I never thought you'd be so big! Can I touch it if I promise not to squeeze?" (I, of course, would break that promise within a few paragraphs.) As he positions himself, the story-me acts confused. "I thought we were just going to kiss." (The writing trick is to sound confused to Josh, but be transparent to the reader.) I'd pound his back when he falls upon me. "You're squashing me. Let me go! Oh, you really are hard! Scoot further up. Just on the outside, OK?" As I, subtly to my rapist, explicitly to the reader, ready myself, I'd warn, "I don't think I'm big enough. Oh, God, Josh, kiss me while I think." It's easier to think intercourse with your legs spayed. I'd lie motionless as he penetrates, and only then buck in protestation, my heaves increasingly in sync with his testosteronic thrusts. "Josh, not too far." (I'd make sure he made it in all the way, of course.) My protests would punctuate the rhythm of human coupling. "We shouldn't go all the way the first time. Shouldn't we slow down?" as I accelerate. "We're just pretending, right? You're getting slippery, naughty boy!" Denial and acquiescence would devolve into rhythmic gasps as he assumes command. "Just this once, then." Overpowered by his discovered manhood, I'd convulse in shuddering climax held back until he was likewise committed. I'd contribute a few theatrics to compensate for his lack of experience. (Readers like a bit of theater.) As we relax, he'd be still within me. "Oh, Josh, we shouldn't have made love without my permission. No guy's ever laid me like that before." (Actually, this bit's up for grabs. Should I be a virgin in the story?) Then after a pause I'd reflect, "The way we were rubbing, I couldn't help how I got going. When a girl makes love, she's got to finish. It doesn't mean that I ever said you could, though. Did how I moved help you come?" Hardly a question, but a way to frame things a bit more mutually. (The reader by now knows it's not mutual at all. The cute part is how Josh has it backwards.) Afterwards I'd assume the supplicant role, employing the first-person plural. "Josh, we can't let anyone know. Things just got a little out of hand, OK?" He would still be holding me, escape precluded. And after a bit, "Josh, you're getting big again! Are you going to love me some more? If I promise not to escape, can I show you something? Please?" (My story has to end with a future.) My fictional Josh's dalliance would be ratified. I'd have been violated by a seventh grader. Was I raped in my story? The reader knows I wasn't. Imagining such a tale excites me almost as much as if it really happened. Oh, the liberty of fantasy! I'll edit an anthology "Rape in Creative Writing" and get published. Sir Walter Raleigh, "I throw this humble cloak over yon puddle, oh Queen Bess", was ruthless (twice jailed in his youth), conceited and greedy. Here's John Aubrey's account of Raleigh spied having his Lordly way with a fair maid against a tree. "Nay, sweet Walter! Oh, sweet Walter," she protested weakly, but "as the danger and pleasure at the same time grew higher, she cried in ecstasy. She proved with child." The tough ones to include in my anthology would be the violent ones. How Malcolm X practiced on black girls says a lot about racism. No porn, though. Here's why. "She was swimming alone at her favorite secluded spot in the river. She was totally nude because she'd forgotten her tiny bikini. The cold water made her 38D tits feel great. She lay on her blanket, rubbed her giant nipples for wanton pleasure and began to drip juice between her legs. She rubbed her sweet pussy until her pink clit could easily be seen. Suddenly she heard a noise and looked up. A man in a mask!" There's so much trash that a quality analogy might prove difficult. The way I see it, having been raped is a women's lib solidarity credential, "Another Angry Rape Survivor" button for the arm-in-arm braless march. I know a woman who was "mentally" raped when her flute teacher had her hold her elbow horizontal and rubbed against it while he beat the rhythm. Wait a minute! Would you sit there, play Washington Post March with repeats and then at the last bar notice what you'd been elbowing? Well, maybe you would, but it's not rape. Heck, Josh could have balled me just by falling forward and kissing, what an older guy would do. His cock would have poked me where it counts. He'd pull down my pants and go to it. Wham. Bam. But Josh was just infatuated with my big breasts. BELOW THE BELT "Josh, you can lay beside me," I whispered, patting the bed with my left hand. He obediently fell to my side, still panting. For him, he'd gotten really far. He'd felt big tits, his teacher's, even! My bra was still strapped over my shoulders, but with my arms free, I slipped it off. My left hand grabbed his right and thrust it on the mattress between our hips. For sure he thought I was holding his hand to end our tryst at second base. But then I turned toward him, caught his far shoulder with my right arm and pulled him to his side. Our mouths met. My experience over the years is that guys loose interest in kissing as they gain interest in screwing. Why spend the time? Women, on the other hand, see kissing as part of the sexual encounter. Ms. Joy of Sex even claims to have reached orgasm while only kissing. Myself, I think it needs below-the-belt encouragement. Kissing's where adolescent boys are fun, though, even if they aren't practiced. It's more than your mouth being occupied while he tugs away your underwear. Josh didn't seem as unsure here. We had only begun melding our lips before his tongue ran behind my teeth, I expect to show me that he'd been around the block a few times. I tongued him accordingly, sighing a few encouragements about "great kisses". I let him run the show for a minute. He wasn't that original, but he was enthusiastic. I keep pointing out that I always had my objective. You can't be a good teacher without goals. Frenching was a step towards mine. With our mouths still working one another (Cindi has a great story about wearing braces), I intertwined the fingers of our clenched hands, the ones on the mattress, and thrust my pelvis forward trapping our locked fingers between. My knuckles pressed his penis; his knuckles, my pubic mound. To confirm my offer, I drew our hands an inch toward our stomachs, and then down. Then up and down again. The third time I wasn't leading. It was pretty constrained with the back of our fingers, me feeling through one layer of pajama bottoms and him still outside my shorts. My knuckles could tell that he was circumcised from the ridge around the head. My hawk eye hadn't failed me back on the sofa. He maneuvered into my symmetry, so he'd found something also. We untwined fingers and turned our hands outward. Fingertips are sensitive; ask a violin player. My conquest was straightforward. I encircled the object of my fascination through the fabric, lightly at first. It was fat enough for me. I squeezed. He squirmed, but not away. When I explained the maneuvers to Cindi (it took a couple of tries, as she kept assuming that it started off with him groping), she thought it was cool, something worth remembering for a shy boyfriend. She'd call it the "Holly". I giggled to Josh, "This was getting hard when you rubbed my back and bumped my butt." I limited my prior knowledge to just getting the backrub, not chronicling the entire learning process. Bringing us to the present, "You'll tell me how to make it feel good, OK? I won't reach inside or anything. I just can't believe how big it must be." I worked his length and then touched the bulge of his balls. I didn't grab, as boys get ball ache, so I'm told. I did cup them enough, though, mentally noting both their symmetry and individuality. "Your balls," I told him mater-of-factly, "feel cute." I'm sure boys don't think of them that way, though, so I grasped his pajama-clad shaft again firmly. "But this is my favorite." I was again doing what a girl's hand does best. Josh's was what a girl likes best in her hand. I gave him a little nuzzle. "Josh, it isn't fair for just me to get to fool around." SHORTS SHEDDING His exploration remained circuitous as I was yet too clothed. His hand moved to my thigh and then back up and under the fold of the cuff. His fingertips brushed the lower edge of my panties. I doubt that he'd ever touched occupied panties before. "Josh, you can keep going," I encouraged. He'd find my wet spot just under the hem. Josh's hand tugged my cuff upward. But the higher he ventured, the tighter my shorts pulled into my crotch. I unclasped his pajamas, extracted his venturesome hand and pulled his palm to my navel. Cindi says that men don't like to be guided, but Josh, at this stage anyway, wasn't quite fully a man. Almost, though. Josh now revealed that earlier he must have been studying my fastenings. His thumb slid directly to my snap and undid it with a single twist. He had my zipper down before I could roll to afford him better access. He quickly returned to a perch just below my belly button, perhaps uncertain if he'd moved too fast. "That's more comfortable," I smiled and squeezed. I imagined a video camera above us. It would see us kissing, both topless. It would see us thrusting, not the coordinated pressures of coitus, but rather in spasms of bodily acquaintance. Our hips tented together would hide our hands. To me, this would be one erotic video -- one copy only for Cindi to watch. KS AND CO I was rather proud of my accomplishment thus far. Nothing by power. Nothing by surprise. Nothing by misrepresentation (not much, anyway). Getting to different places takes different kinds of work. Teaching work, 192 days, gets you to a place called "new contract". Cooking work gets you to a place called "banquet". Writing work gets you to a place called "publication". I do some work better than I do other work, so arrivals take different times. Sexual work gets you to a place of many names. Cindi doesn't call work work; she lives on serendipity. A teacher finds herself in a classroom and helps the kids. A cook in a garden sees some herbs. A writer doodles and a book appears. Good stuff happens if you let it. Put both genders together and mating happens. Teaching, cooking, writing and fondling are just good parts of being there, for Cindi not activities toward endpoints. We drove to Colorado once. If you precalculate driving hours, a Kansas day ends up being either more- productive work or less-productive work, depending on road conditions. Either way, it's work. To Cindi, checking out before 10 AM and checking in before 8 PM is all you bother to aim for. What happens between is Kansas. How'd we do? We're eating a complementary donut in the lobby of the Jaybird Motor Lodge, Salina, KS. Jack and Twila, owner/managers, went to KU. As they now run a motel, maybe they were English majors. KU's pretty good in creative writing. Every Big Ten (Big Twelve now, maybe) championship that KU ever garnered is celebrated on the Jaybird's walls. "10 percent discount to Jayhawk alumni" is on the marquee, but Cindi and I wouldn't lie about something like that. Kansans notice the practical. "You girls need to fix that suitcase handle before it comes off," suggests Jack. "You take it up Main to the Ace. Ronald there has some little bolts and keeps his electric drill under the counter. Tell him Jaybird sent you, me, not the place. If he has another customer, they have a real nice aquarium. Coffee's to the left, twenty cents in the little cup. You'll see it. Ask Ronald to feed them after he fixes the handle. He'll explain their names." Now we're in Columbine Organic Coffee Shoppe, Aspen, CO. Our "hostess" exuberates, "These Scenic Mountain Wall Plaques do look like wood, don't they? But they're made out of a new material that's dishwasher safe. Two coffees come to $2.74 with tax." $1.37 a cup? The Shoppe did have a decent selection of refrigerator magnets. You have to drive through Kansas to get to Colorado. You have to bed the boy to fuck him. Is it "work"? You vote. Say you threw a piston in Kansas, so to speak, and waited in the Salina Public Library for the repair. The librarian eats at Sammy's Coffee and Cream and invites you along. You never made it to 11,000 feet. Would your trip be a bust? PAJAMAS AND PANTIES Josh's hand descended as far as my open zipper allowed, light little spirals, almost bouncing, testing the cushion of pubic hair beneath cotton. A finger now rested against the clef of my labia, pushing into the depression. He was at the door and I was waiting within. We were panting, almost now in unison. Still a bit unsure interpreting my willingness, though, his fingers again slid up to the frontier of my bush, safer territory. My shorts still hung on my hips, in his way. I bounced a little until he sensed the issue and pushed them to my knees. I wiggled them to my ankles where I hooked a leg with my big toe. "We didn't want those, now did we?" sending them flying. My undies would be his most-rewarding obstacle. During my shorts shedding, I'd been stoking him through his PJ's. Give me an A in Penis Management 101. PM 101 is about exploration and enticement. My boyfriends could attest that I passed. PM 201, I suppose, is more about fulfillment. I've been around, of course, but maybe didn't finish that subject. Redbook says you're best at about age forty, but Cindi says early twenties. She's so cocky sometimes. She'll read my eyes, not my too-quick laugh, and add that the fast starters often slow down because they rushed. Redbook knows their stuff, she'll assure. Probably not all that true about forty, but that's Cindi for you. I rolled back enough for us to see our hands playing. The video camera would have now had a proper shot. His tented bulge, my target as we progressed from classroom to sofa to bed, would dominate his half of the composition. "Aren't you glad we found these nice pajamas?" He sheepishly smiled. Actually, I was also pouting about the PJ's owner, Ryan, who does educational assessment for the District. Nice guy and decent looking. Basic flaw: fondness for the familiar. He needs his PJ's for an overnighter, for example. He'd always fold his pants over the chair. Breast play, condom, him superior, about twelve nicely-driven strokes. Not much kazzaz, but so what? I always came. Cindi liked him too, but never slept with him, a true test of sisterly loyalty, since she could have in a minute. Then Ryan met a textbook rep and got engaged. I still see him at work occasionally. The story of my life. Josh had before seen my panties from the back (in the kitchen), from the bottom (on the sofa) and with my shorts unzipped, at least a V's worth of front. Now he could see them in total, how the labial ridges contoured, how the cloth crept into my valley. I rolled out my thighs and arched my butt to pronounce the topography. "They're just white," I observed, striking a nonconversation topic. "I have some prettier ones," I added for no known reason. I thought of offering him this pair as a little memory, but decided that I didn't want evidence floating around. Cindi totally agrees. His middle finger brushed over my upright clitoris, though I suspect that he didn't realize it. He instinctively pushed the fabric into my crack. I instinctively pushed back. I'm not sure what significance he placed on the spot visibly dampening the cotton. I gave him a nice kiss for his effort. I ran my hand over him, squishing with a little more pressure the tip of his dick. A penis can take some abuse, even enjoys it. I ran my forefinger around its outline, treating its circumference as something special. If I seem a bit caviler about Josh's, remember, though I'm twenty-eight, it was special! YET REMEMBERING ERIK I felt Erik's penis when I was sixteen. Our folks knew we went to the movies, but didn't see it as dating. I guess to us it wasn't "dating" either, as it never involved asking out. We were kissing at CinePlex, my leg against his, his hand on my knee. You have to put your hand somewhere. Then he squeezed my thigh, something new. I doubt that he'd planned to, but if he had, it would have been OK. I pressed his leg harder to tell him I liked it. Then he crawled his hand under my hem, most definitely new territory. He'd never rubbed my leg in the tree house, perhaps because a tree house is for kids. At CinePlex we were a little older. Some big decisions take very little thought, or, perhaps more honestly evaluated, stem from subliminal thought over a long period. In any case, I kept my left hand above my skirt to look like we were still holding hands. This wasn't for somebody else to see. I pinched me legs shut and he stopped. I was in control and he was letting me be. But then I rolled my thighs a bit apart to not be too much in charge. Erik may have been marching nowhere, but now he had his orders. He spread his fingers on my inner thigh and drew them back together. Each sweep concluded with his hand a little higher. Like in the unprinted lines near the end of Teen Girl stories, his little finger found my panties. Everything until then was more as if we were playing together, childhood extension. Touching panties made things different. After the movie we moved to the back seat of my folk's Volvo. (I drove because he hadn't finished Drivers Ed) I let him lift my skirt and touch my panties until he found the front of my outer labia. I raised my butt. I expected him to stop, but Erik then lifted the elastic and touched my pubic hair. I didn't know what to do, but it felt OK and I trusted. The fact that my butt remained arched communicated something. He didn't go much further, but we knew I was his. From my knee to my crotch is only about twelve inches, but a tremendous journey for Erik in just one evening. On later dates we'd skip the movie and just park. We'd do just a tad more each time, pacing ourselves. There, we were smart, I suppose. We'd already hung out together for years already, so why rush sex? He learned how to part my lips with two fingers and use a third to stroke, dampening me with anticipation. If we were by ourselves, he could pull my panties down a little bit. If we perceived someone else in our vicinity, he'd just slip inside the elastic. Erik eventually inserted his finger. I'd been wearing Tampex, so it wasn't even uncomfortable. I may have been a bit directive, but I really wanted him inside. I wish we could "loose one's virginity" to a finger. I didn't come or anything, but it was good. I'd always liked being close enough to feel his penis pressing my body. He'd not twist away when our fronts pressed, not minding me knowing when he was hard. We'd turn to better rough ourselves together. Soon would be time to directly touch. It wasn't that I wanted to squeeze him erotically; I just wanted to share my moments. It didn't take much to slide onto his pocket and run unencumbered over the folds of the denim. I crept until I encountered a ridge firmer than that of bunched fabric. My fingernails drug against the barrier. I think he wanted me feel him much sooner than I did. It was natural to finally grasp his jeans, trapping him between fingers and thumb. Only when I started to rub big circles with my palm did I realize how big a boy could get. When Erik first climaxed, I'd been fondling through his sweatpants. It was innate, when to push, when to pull. He helped. His hips begin to rise with each stroke and, all of a sudden, he sucked a giant breath. I didn't register the full significance until I felt the wetness and knew immediately from a circumspect True Teen account. I didn't move my hand away. "I didn't mean to," Erik's embarrassed apology, as the event subsided. "It's OK. We're friends. Actually, it's pretty special." "I just got carried away. I'm sorry." "Do I get any credit?" He looked at me the longest time. Then we kissed. Then we laughed. After that time, I'd do him a lot through his pants. "Samretabe", in our secret language. He let me pick the moment to reach inside. We'd stopped on the way home from a school play. I remember unbuttoning the lower half of his shirt. Pulling the end of his belt from its loop. Unhooking the buckle. Popping the snap. Sliding the zipper. Finding the elastic. He was facing me, straddled with one knee on the edge of the seat to make my moves very easy. His pubic hair was sparse and wiry. His penis felt like a banana, bigger than when felt through his clothing. Maybe he was even a little bit proud. I was proud of him, anyway. I was chicken to find his testicles, though I knew where they would be. I was having my period. He knew that without me telling him or him poking around. He always just knew and he'd treat me with honor. This was the right night to feel him because we couldn't go further. I was careful as I masturbated him flesh on flesh. I got seamen on my new blouse, but I told him that it was my fault and it would wash it out. I sponged it off the next morning after I could look. We were hesitant to see ourselves, so we'd find a dark place. When I'd inadvertently glance his penis, I'd not stare. In darkness, my little triangle looked black. Interestingly, this was the time when we ceased going in each other's rooms after school. I'd get topless in the tree house and we were familiar within each other's laps, but I didn't want him to see me in bra and panties searching for my tennis shoes. Funny years, those! I didn't even know that I wanted to be masturbated too. Truth be told, I didn't realize that he could help with my personal habit. Teen Girl titillated about making sweet love, not getting beat off. As I didn't explicitly instruct him about my clitoris, he just went for the general rub and wiggle of middle finger. Finishing it off later under my sheet, I knew how a real climax felt. Sooner or later he'd have found the way. Maybe I'd just have taught him, special friend to special friend. We would have had real intercourse eventually, perhaps after lying nude on one of our beds when the parents were away. We'd have had the lights out, still. Then we'd make love, double virgins. But his dad got transferred in the start of my junior year. The last day we climbed up in the tree house and did everything we knew for the longest time. It was the only time I fully saw his erection. It was our last time together, so our rules didn't apply. He saw between my legs, too. We'd even taken a blanket, probably each hoping. Had one of us even breathed the word "love", we would have completed the act to the best of our ability. Instead, I suppose we reasoned that intercourse was forever and he was leaving. It's my great regret. I had make-out dates with other guys afterwards. Getting braless under the football game blanket would be one. I missed Erik, though. Looking back, Erik and I loved being in Kansas. Colorado would have ended our trip. When Steve asked me out my senior year, I knew I'd settled for just the destination. PERMISSION Josh was no Erik in terms of egalitarianism. Josh's thoughts were about being in charge, how he got me into bed, kissed my tits, pulled my shorts down, etc. Let him have that male satisfaction. Neither Josh nor I yet had touched genital skin. But I'd not trade this foreplay for championship intercourse of the dinner date variety. If I'd been thirteen too, we'd have climaxed just rubbing each other. The reward of sex for a thirteen-year-old is in its novelty, not the physicality. But hesitancy persisted. "You know, we can stop if you want to," I offered. Something wouldn't let me lead the kid where he didn't want to go, no matter my need, no matter that I knew I could rape. I'm not a predator. He, not me, must decide. Cindi at first couldn't believe that I offered to quit, but then she said she respects me because it's what a Catholic should do. "Ms. Rennick, please let's not stop now. I won't do anything you don't want to do. I promise." OK, I'd tried. He was hot to trot, but it was right that I checked. I kissed him again so he wouldn't reconsider. "If you want, Ms. Rennick, I'll put my hands out where they can't touch you. But please keep doing what you're doing. You're so neat!" He was worried, but not a worry that would worry me, if you follow. "We both want to touch, Josh. I know that you'll treat me gently. And I know you'll not tell the other boys. I want you to be the only one. Being together this way means we trust each other. You can do anything to me your body wants to. Anything. OK?" "And you can do anything with me too. Don't tell my folks, though." "I promise." No problem there. "You know more about things than I do," he acknowledged. You're right about that, Josh boy. I shivered, probably nothing that Josh could sense, the twitch marking the moment where design irrevocably yields to wantonness. A girl organically knows that there's now but one outcome. Cindi calls it her "pre- sex buzz". She's never had the shiver and then didn't score, but if it did happen (say there was an earthquake), she expect that she'd feel more violated than if she hadn't wanted to and got fucked anyway. Josh wouldn't abandon me now; I knew he wouldn't. His last thought, "Is it OK, Ms. Rennick, on top of the covers?" He probably wished we were in the dark. It's something more than shyness. Making out is best in the evening or under a sheet, someplace where touch reveals what sight can't. Erik and I liked evenings. Hell, but right now Josh couldn't stay till sunset. And I wasn't about to forfeit the visuals. Cindi would shoot me. If my imaginary video camera were doing its thing, I'd have had a ruler ready to cinematographically resolve the length question. "Josh, here on top you can see my breasts. You like that, don't you? I want them where you can look. It's really better if there's nothing in the way." NUDE BOY Time to inspect the merchandise. We'd hit the bed with me at four to one advantage: blouse, bra, shorts and panties to just his PJ's. Now we were even, one to one. Successful seduction ends when it's zero to zero. "It's time to get all the way nude, Josh. You ready?" "If you want, I'll let you see," his offer. "But you have to promise you'll not say anything." It didn't occur to him that in normal foreplay, the girl first strips (or, better done, is stripped). As it had worked out, it was boy first, girl second. Either sequence works, of course. I think that him first naked s one reason Cindi finds this story so interesting. Her experience is basically the bra, panties, boxer order. I promised Josh nothing about not saying anything, keeping Cindi in mind. "It wants to come and play with me, doesn't it?" He didn't reply, but lifted his hips. He was ready. I drew my hand to his waistband and, in full view, lifted the elastic. Believe me, when Cindi heard this part, she'd run out of words, maybe the first time ever! His penis pointed toward me, erected a little above his abdomen, round and flushed. Careful to not contact his manhood with more than my gaze, I pulled the elastic out and down. He automatically lifted and I bared him to his thighs. His squirming ceased. With most events, you forget some of the details. In this case, I have no idea what happened to his bottoms after that, but I do know that they played no further role. I lay my head on his chest to get a closer look. Oh, Josh, I thought, you hold no secrets. I've given you most of mine and will soon surrender the remainder. His abdomen was almost hairless except for a spray of black hair around the base of his cock and lightly covering his balls. I cupped the latter in one hand and held his erection in the other, turning it for better view -- ramrod straight, brownish pink. The skin was stretched as taut as a balloon. It's interesting how skin so extended can still be so loose in the middle, though. I could see the veins. His organ was about seven inches long, like the hard muscle of a man's biceps. Projecting from his slender body, as it was, his manhood was all the more impressive. I suppose that big tits on my medium bod do the same. It's about relativity. Cindi was impressed, anyway, when I described Josh's anatomy. The next week I found a cucumber of almost the same size and handed it to Ms. Cock Judge over lunch. "I'd like to have this in my vegetable bin," she said, biting off the end. Did we laugh! Cindi says that every cock is been different, that each has its own personality. I should make up some fond little name, she thinks, for Josh's. I didn't. I wouldn't want him naming my boobs. The stuff penned about "beautiful cocks" is just bad writing. They're not beautiful; they're interesting. What can be beautiful, at least if you believe art history, is a woman's breast: two colors plus shading, continuous curves and focal points. The Old Masters seemed to prefer B cups, but then, if they'd gone erotic, they wouldn't be in the museums today, would they? I imagine that they fucked like we do today, though. "It's really gigantic!" Lame choice of adjective, but it's what he wanted to hear. "Oh, Josh, this is exactly how I wanted you to get! I'll be careful." I begin to stroke before he could formulate a reply. He was quiet, watching my fingers close about him. I begin the stroking sequence in silence, then fell into nervous chatter. "It's OK. Really, Josh. An erection is how a man shows a woman what he can do. Seeing it big makes a woman want to be even sexier. You're right not hide how you like me to hold it. You're supposed to get like this for me." My helping hand was slow and commanding. He was biting his lower lip again. "You are very well-developed. You don't mind if I say so, do you? It's man-sized for sure. You know, I'll bet that's the biggest one in the seventh grade." As if I were the school nurse with a book of measurements, calling, "Ms. Barton, I'll need a centimeter confirmation here." He actually blushed when I praised his dick. My banter sounds banal in replay, but he needed the purr of a voice. I remember a composition class where we discovered the challenge of making real conversation seem interesting. People don't spontaneously vocalize logical, profound, woven word patterns. We mostly babble. I'm not pretending that I wasn't doing so. I'm a good talker and he's not much of a critic. Probably Cindi scores more often because she's a better talker. "Is that really true? About me having a big one, I mean?" You get my point? "I bet I can hardly get my hand around it." I could put my hand around it, of course. I'd already done the same encirclement through the pajamas. We watched his mobile skin slip up and slip down, him bouncing to help. "Ms. Rennick, are you going to, you know, make me get wet?" "No, Josh, you're big enough to do more. Look how it's making itself slippery to help. You want to put it in me, don't you Josh, if I show you how? Then we'll be happy the same way." A nod. FALSE START I pointed his penis toward my chest. "Does it want to first feel my titties? That's a good way to start. They want to." I slid down enough to drag a bosom across his penis. "Hello, there." I think he about came right there. It was kind of fun. "Hi," was all he could reply, catching onto the game. I drew my chest melons up his abdomen, moving sideways to bring them into his face. "Hi, Mr. Tongue," leaning yet more over him. "Hi." Lips encircled an ample nipple. The suction drew my excitement up my ribs. I continued to stroke his penis, the slickness of pre-cum enhancing my manipulation. Was I even thinking? I buried his face deeper into my tits. Suddenly he gave a sort of strangled gasp and semen spurted against my side. "Ms. Rennick!" Josh looked terrified, as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden. Shit! I'd been concentrating on pleasing my boobs too much. I'd worked so hard to bring him this far and we had only to get his cock into me for the load to have counted. I was concerned, but not surprised. Now I was going to find out if he could get hard again like Zak Gaston, if Cindi had it right. "Oh, Josh, you can really do it, can't you? Make sperm." I'm sure he'd been making it for years, actually. "You made it like a man! Did it feel good?" What can you say? I was just quick thinking. I wanted to tell him it was OK, that he was going to come plenty more before we were through. I went to work before he could think of a response. I wiped away most of the mess as best I could, staining my coverlet in the process. That done, my head dove between his legs. I'd really not anticipated doing anything oral; it just happened. "It earned a kiss!" stroking his thighs and his buttocks. I gave him just one. Almost immediately he started again stiffening. Josh just lay back. Returning to his side, I let my boobs drag back onto his stomach. He squeezed me like fruit at the supermarket until he was again at full stand. Cindi's correct about recovery speed. "Why, my kiss made it big again!" I bounced by breasts around while I flipped his cock from hand to hand. His penis, now standing at a 45-degree angle and swelling to burst, would rebound back to attention whenever I let it go. We laughed at the little soldier. NAKED GIRL "Get up. It's my turn to lie down," an order. I stretched out on my back and he was the kneeler now. "Josh, since you've let me see yours, you can look at mine." He made a barely perceptible nod. "We'll both be naked then," his rather obvious conclusion. Children have a thing about fairness. "It'll be like we just took a bath together," Cindiesque babble, to coin a term, as if having bathed gives sense of propriety to our situation. The damn phone rang again. My little can't-come-to-the- phone blurb. A vaguely disguised voice saying that my library book's in. Give me some time, girl! I clasped my hands behind my head to better observe my stripping. Taking how I'd disrobed him as the proper sequence, he lifted the elastic enough to see my bush, a bit darker than that on my head, more curly, as pubic hair tends to be. As he tugged downwards we saw the tangle of thicker hair. His other hand was already combing it. "There's more," I suggested. When he exposed my labia, twin folds with moist cleft between, my heartbeat doubled. "Don't worry, Josh. Touch me however you want to, but slow is nice." My thighs weren't splayed. Don't just present the package. I knew my clitoris was extended, but couldn't tell how much he could observe. He must have seen something, as he gave it a one-finger press. I could have climaxed right there, but instead tried to list my class schedule backwards. It's funny how your mind can go in one direction so much easier than in the other. I wasn't holding much back physically, though, now pumping my pelvis into his palm to enhance his pressure. He timed my gyrations correctly, and with his free hand pulled off my panties at an apex. Not bad for a kid who came here to get an English book. "We're even," he proclaimed. Akin to his earlier futile efforts to block my seeing his cock, I too prefer to keep myself out of full vision, even at the height of lovemaking. A guy knows what I've got. I know that he knows, but there should still be something left to the eros. I'm just a bit modest about my own anatomy, at least compared to a teacher friend of mine. Too late to worry about it now, though. The body wins out over the head now and then. Nude, I was easy to explore. Leaving me pantingly close to orgasm (but he didn't know it), he slipped his finger down my inner labia. Up and down, up and down, spreading feminine lubricant. His finger would turn the corner, one knuckle-deep into my vagina and then return to circumnavigate my clit. I sucked a deep breath every time he caressed the latter, telling him to him to keep returning. I couldn't see, but I'm sure my miniature organ was totally out of its sheath. "That little bump up in front is my special spot. It does what rubbing you there does," giving him a strong stroke. He began to flit me, sensing the crux of clitoral masturbation. Cindi says some guys never figure it out. Don't marry one. "Like this?" he asked. "Yes. Maybe just a little slower to start." I'd have let his finger venture within me as well, of course, but he may not have been sure about what was further inside. Each time he traversed me, my heart pounded harder. I talked about Penis Management 201 before. This would be the parallel course. JOSH'S TRIUMPH I was lightly moaning again, wincing around in copulative anticipation. I knew I'd soon reach orgasm so engaged and didn't want to before intercourse. I needed a pronto fuck. Time to retake control, Cindi style. "You know how I said that when a guy gets hard, it means he's ready? When a girl's wet, it means that she's ready too. Can you tell?" "I think so." "You should be on top," as I rolled him upon me, "like that." He complied. My knees were by now as far apart as a twenty-eight-year-old's can get. I had to wonder what angles mid-school girls might be capable of. His weight flattened my bosoms like pancakes. His penis pressed my vulva, hard against soft, yin against yang. Foreplay finished. We were nude. I was mounted. He was erect. The moment had arrived. "Now Josh, we are going to do something really neat, something for two people who really like each other. Lift up a little so I can help you. Perfect!" I guided the head of his penis through my bush, prolonging the titillation an extra moment. I led his member onward down my unabashedly wet valley. Back when I lost my innocence, I thought sex would get neater. It really didn't. Steve had taken me way out to park, too far to hop out and walk home. He just kept coming at me, wearing me down. No question that I wanted to not be a virgin, but I'd have preferred it to be something that I, not he, decided. Steve just figured that big tits meant that I'd fuck. His foreplay was unzipping his pants. It wasn't like he really did anything that hurt me, but he sure didn't do much to help. I wish he'd at least have stripped me. Erik and I would have shared our nakedness before we shared our bodies. The first time's supposed to be special. I just kind of leaned back and counted. Steve was new at it too, but wouldn't admit it. He climaxed in about six seconds. I pretended to like it so he wouldn't feel bad. We drove right home and he kissed me goodnight. We actually went steady afterwards, basically because it was the thing to do and we weren't sure we could get anybody else. I told my friends, and I'm sure, he, his. Kids are so insecure. I got to like it in a mechanical sense. Steve wasn't bad; he just was usually thinking about Steve. This probably isn't that uncommon of a tale. For Josh's first time, I didn't want to be a Steve. I couldn't afford another Erik, though. We needed to move along to complete courtship in one afternoon. At twenty-eight, you'll rush. Thirteen-year-olds aren't dumb. He knew that he was loosing his virginity. He'd never forget the afternoon with his English teacher. I just hoped that in retelling over the years, he'd not use my name. I could sense a trembling apart from that of his hyper libido. Women are better at noticing such things. I held him close for a moment, as a mother might hold her child. Not being a mother, I'm just speculating, of course, but I think I'm right. This would be his conquest. "Make your sperm inside me, right where I want it. Come up against me." He moved accordingly. I could tell he wanted to please me. "All you have to do is put this big thing right inside that little hole, right there." What I have isn't especially "little", but I wanted him to think of me that way. I aligned him and released my grip. "Now? "Now." He, the obedient student, pushed lightly at first and then a bit harder. His head started to go in. "Shove a little more, Josh. It doesn't hurt me. We fit together." His eyes were shut tight. The knob popped into my vestibule. "See? Pull it back a little now and put it in again. There you go!" He complied. I suppose I was a little tight because it had been awhile. Things do work out well sometimes, don't they? He'd not want some flabby cavern. His head rubbed back and forth on that little ring of tight muscles at the entrance. His rigidity finally slid past without instruction, probably to his surprise. I gasped out loud, "Oh, God, yes." I hadn't been laid for months and months and this was worth the wait. His penis ventured further into my warmth. We were breathing hard. Deeper and deeper and finally he was all the way. I felt full, just as I had in my dreams. Every inch of my passage matched an inch of his meat. I held him there. "Now pull almost all the way out. Then slide back in again. Like that!" He pushed and pulled accordingly. I loved squeezing his retreat, then yielding to his advances. On his third or fourth stroke, a bit too ambitious, he popped completely, but I guided him back in with hardly a break in rhythm. "Don't stop!" I ordered. He gave me another and another and, having got the hang of it, began to hammer. I wrapped my arms around him and arched. His face was buried in the pillow above my left shoulder. His hands were under the small of my back, lifting with each thrust. My hands were on his hips, doing what I could to enhance his penetration. The dominant role had shifted. My task was accomplished. I held his shoulders so he'd not roll. I whimpered, but who knows what I said? It was hot fucking, fast, wet, tight and deep. I use the verb fuck explicitly here. The consummation was carnal, raw and without bound. He puffed like a locomotive. Sweat rolled down his sides, down me and mingled with the juices that were royally spotting the bed. Laundry's a small price for a good servicing, in my book. Really a small price for a virgin. In and out, in and out, each stroke better than the former. "Oh, Ms. Rennick!" just as I was starting to get there. I felt his pistoning organ throb within me. Knowing what was coming, I clenched my arms and vice-gripped him with my knees so he couldn't extract. I kissed my boy lover and he kissed me as jets sprayed my womb. I hardly cared about my own unfulfilled state right then. I savored his conquest, every spurt into my consuming womb. I guess subconsciously, I never thought that I'd score. He'd laid me! He was no more a virgin. Cindi, oh Cindi! "Oh, Josh," I told him when our lips parted, "you do it like a grown man." I could feel his heart still pounding. "You've done this before." I, of course, knew otherwise. If so, he'd have screwed me much sooner. "No, Ms. Rennick, never. That was the best thing I've ever felt." "This was your first time? Oh, Josh, so I'm your very first girl! Sexual intercourse is such a wonderful thing to share. You really did super!" Pedantic teacher fallback, but he was only barely listening. "We can call it 'fucking' too," I added brightly. Colloquial English, the living language. Josh looked at me as if a teacher wouldn't know the word. After a pause, "You liked it too, didn't you, Ms. Rennick? You know what I mean? Me in you when I made the sperm." He smiled in self-congratulation. "Yes, especially how you did it way inside." No exaggeration there, even if I'd been left behind. And similar affirmation of his newfound ability. Making gooey post-coital love talk with a kid isn't easy, but I'm more caring than is Cindi. She claims that she always cares about the guy when they're in bed, at least. When I told her she means that she cares about wearing a condom, she stepped on my foot. Does a guy loose his virginity when he first penetrates a female or when he climaxes, having so entered? Cindi says the former; I say the latter. Who knows? COMING TOGETHER I may be caring, but I still needed to climax. We lay in bed for a while just chatting while I waited. Now we had no inhibitions. I stroked him and filled in some of the gaps in his knowledge of the birds and the bees. It's no more complex than direct objects and indirect objects. I made him promise that nobody, nobody at all, would ever learn of me from his lips. I taught him how to lick my nipples, and how to touch my clitoris. Eventually his dick started getting stiff for the third time. "Ms. Rennick, I'm pretty sure I can do it again." Oh yes, my young lover. And please let me get there too! I had him lie on his back. I straddled, guided him to the vertical and enveloped flawlessly. I rode him cowgirl style until it again began to feel really, really nice down by the saddle, so to speak. My dangling breasts danced until Josh grasped them. I'm not sure if he was doing it for the sex, or just trying to help steady me. Cindi, the wet blanket, says the latter. I could have climaxed whenever I wished, astride being where girls do the best. But still enthralled with his first screw, Josh pulled me forward and rolled me under him again. I was too far into it to protest. We switched without loosing a stroke. He knew what to do on top this time, letting me lock my legs around his thighs. He pounded me like a bull, evenly and solidly. I held on and on, always wanting just one more stroke. At last overcome, I gasped hard, really hard, as I felt my orgasm kick in. I came like crazy, moaning and bucking and clutching, and he kept fucking. I saw colors. I felt rain. I saw my love Erik. He (was it Josh or Erik?} became a penis; me, a vagina. Penis and vagina became the same. The rest of us wasn't even us. Then I came again, right on top of the first! I was riding a plateau and I never wanted it to stop. Finally it did with wet gushes on both our parts and he collapsed onto me, panting as loudly as I was. I think my first orgasm was clitoral and the second, vaginal, but it's hard to know. I feel weak, recalling. And Cindi doesn't even know that she told me it would be like that. How can you tell your best friend that she was at your breakfast table when she was probably hitting her snooze button for the third time at the time? She'd think I was crazy. Spooky. "Ms. Rennick, I could tell you wanted me to do it pretty hard. You aren't hurt, are you? You were really bouncing and making noise! I almost fell off because I'm still learning." I was dazed. I hadn't felt that way, so worn out, for a long time. He could feel my post-orgasmic contractions, a woman's nonverbal, "Nice work." He understood. When I dropped Josh off near his house, he said, "Were really friends, aren't we Ms. Rennick? We went all the way!" I totally agreed. Very special friends! I told Josh that he was a stud and that I was planning to keep him. And the little smart-aleck said that he was planning on keeping me, too. Cindi says who cares? The phone was ringing as I came in the door. "Hello Ms. Rennick. This is Dillman's calling. Would..." "We did it, Cindi!" "Did it? You scored?" "Really scored!" A shriek on the other end, "Oh, God! Are you OK?" "Really OK!" The world-champion motormouth just wanted to listen. VISITING RITES That was in February, and here's the way things stand today. He comes over once a week, fucks my brains out, and complains that we don't do it every day. We don't talk about much as we don't have many common interests and I'm almost old enough to be his mother (absolutely old enough, Cindi claims). He never picked up on "Holly", so I'm still "Ms. Rennick." Oh, well. I have had fifty-three orgasms with Josh. I journal. That first afternoon Josh was 1, 1 and 1, counting my inadvertent hand job. I was 0, 0, and 2. On one memorable afternoon, four times for me (two singles and a double), but that was a day where school ended at noon. Usually it's about two. Cindi notes that twice is two more than I was getting. I know it's fifty-three because I keep a secret code in my Writer's Notebook. Not that 53's better than forty-three, but it's good to keep track of things. As it's summer now, I "hire" him for a couple hours of yard work. I have to pay him so his folks believe it and then I have to turn around and do the mowing. It's not like I pay for sex; it's just how we have to do it. One day a week, no matter how much, isn't enough for either of us. We masturbate between. There, I just said it! How did it ever get to where you can say in mixed company that you copulate, but shouldn't admit that you use your hand? Josh didn't even know that girls could. I wish kids could talk to their folks with such honesty. I don't journal self services, but it's way more than fifty-three. I protest on occasion that that afternoon was his doing. He grins. Most of what he remembers is just having such a big dick. A bit selective in his memory of conquest, but the "big" part is true. I seduced the little guy and now I'm stuck with the consequences. Poor joke, sorry, but you-know-who liked it. Sometimes we watch HBO. I was afraid that he'd want to hump me on my sofa with the TV going, but he'd rather do it on the bed. One time we coupled in my car, garage door shut, of course. Awkward. Josh has a book from India that shows any number of positions, but most aren't that comfortable. In doggie style, for example, he doesn't get it in as far and I don't get the friction at the right place. We have fun experimenting, but the standard ways serve best over the long run. Start slow and end fast. Make it last. It's not rocket science or some Sanskrit wisdom either, for that matter. The middle of the bell curve is there for a reason. Cindi has a book from Japan, but you don't need to know their alphabet. I'll give it a look, just for fun. Josh wants to perform oral sex (felatio is the proper word), but I don't swallow gaggy stuff. If he gets my thighs on his shoulders and won't let me escape (I really can't), he can mouth me to orgasm in less than a minute. I can't hold back at all. The tongue is great for discovering one another's anatomical responses, I agree. I'll try to jack him off with my heel while he gives me a foot rub. It's reliving that first couch experience. The first foot feel can be fonder than fifty ferocious fucks. If I used that illustration one time in class, every student would forever remember about alliteration. In science, they don't have the term "alliteration", apparently, so Cindi missed the point. It's not the fifty times, I had to explain. Another fun thing is when Josh mounts me high and runs up between my knockers. My bra keeps them just tight enough together. Cindi couldn't do it, as I remind her. When I have my period, he doesn't insist on sex (maybe he thinks that you can't) and I appreciate the restraint. He's never tried to get in my ass and I'd not let him do that. It's my ass. I'm not sure about Cindi in this respect, as I'm afraid she'd say. We don't watch porn. Maybe people who use cheap motels need a two-bit plot for inspiration. Guy meets knockout babe in casino and they do lots of positions. In and out for fifteen minutes? Boring! Sororities have secret initiations. Identical deep moan soundtrack. The actors have implants. He's never spent the night, so in a literal sense, we've never slept together. I've never given Josh even a beer; he's a minor and I don't want it said that I got him drunk. Cindi says that if you ever get nailed, things like alcohol help them line up counts against you. The thought of a little Josh baby keeps me faithfully on the pill. Josh just seems to trust that I've got birth control covered. He's never asked. But only abstinence works one hundred percent. If I were to miss my period, it would be Cindi who'd be there. In class one time he played with himself under his desk where I could see. Other boys do the same. How can they imagine that I can't watch from up front? Maybe they think an old lady (twenty-eight, fifty-eight, it's the same to them) wouldn't know what they're doing. But I don't even want the hint of Josh's misbehavior in my classroom. I told him so. Cindi said to tell him to do it for her, but I didn't. I don't worry about him talking. If he'd done that, I'd see it in the looks of others. They just still ogle my bust like before. My neckline is sometimes low enough to keep them interested. Not too revealing. Not too often. It's not my tits they see, anyway, just a little between. I like to think that it gives them little boners. There are costs, of course. I loaned Josh my umbrella, which he has yet to return. My name's not on it, fortunately. I stock junk food around the house now, which then I munch on. Our afternoons set my laundry schedule, as I do like clean bedding. EPILOG I seduced a virgin child, but my quest was the boy, not the gender-reverse of cherry popping. I've thought a lot about the age thing. Pedophilia is grownups hurting little kids. Josh isn't little and I've not hurt him. We get the "appropriate teacher-student boundaries" spiel in our in-service days. (When was the last time we had an in-service about subject knowledge? And not, say, "Emerging African-American Female Authors". They write no better than do I, but about being African- American. Big deal.) I'm a "sexual abuser" in District- Think because I'm the teacher, a pretty narrow criterion. If teacher-student sex is unnatural or whatever, why are there at least four of these things going on at Capton Springs? Basically, I just don't think that my after-school life is much of anyone else's business except Josh's and he votes yes. Well, it's perhaps Cindi's too, since she got me going. Perhaps because I took him as a boy, Josh doesn't have the layers of macho stupidity bred by teenage years of insecure bravado. I'm a teacher. I wear glasses (except in bed). He's a schoolboy. He wears Nikes (again, except in bed). We share a well-defined common biological pleasure. We both think that we're good at it. I suppose we are. There are many terms for sexual intercourse. We're not in love, at least not me with him, so I don't use the romantic names. Love's another dimension, something yet to come with someone nearer my age. For us, screwing is the right word. Why pretend otherwise? TEACHING Your work becomes you if you keep the same job long enough. Perhaps true. I do love language. What I'd really like to do would be to teach composition about sexual awakening. We'd do grammar, vocab building, etc. "Today we'll talk about similes and metaphors. Let's have ideas describing something long and hard. Please not steel shaft." How about Victorian literature? Here's something from the underground journal of that era, The Pearl, "You have a dear little cunt, very fat and plump. But I wonder you have much hair on it. How old are you, Nina?" "Just fifteen, sir." Reminds you of the Little Match Girl, Hans Christian Anderson, no? We'd deal with social pressure. "If a kid doesn't want to do it, that's rad too. How could a friend help him or her still feel included?" We'd make theme analysis something they'd think about, "Which makes the better story sequence? Thirty seconds for a home run or five blouse buttons at six seconds per? Bra underneath." Cindi could team-teach to explain the physiology. "Groups of two and two. Use the chart to name where boys' and girls' organs operate the same, even if though they look different. Use the correct words." Student-teacher conferences for sure. There may be need for one-on-one attention. "Ryan, you're still growing. You'll get there. By the way, do you do yard work on Saturdays?" I wouldn't want someone like Jessica involved, though, because I don't want to approach sex as a slutty thing. Maybe that's not fair. I'm sure that Cindi sleeps around more, but just to bring pleasure. I'm thinking of that pudgy guy by the pool, how she shielded him. Jessica would have got him flagpoled and then jumped away, making a big commotion. Here's a short story idea. Jessica Thomas, curvaceous PE teacher, uses a left-behind sweatshirt as an excuse to enter the boys' locker room. The ninth-graders demand she shower for them or they'll file a sexual harassment complaint. They just had an assembly about the submitting the paperwork. They won't report it if she'll even things up. She faintly protests and then willingly agrees, just to her underwear, a matching set she'd chosen just in case. She, teacher queen, will extradite herself at the opportune moment. She makes a provocative show of removing her designer gym suit, considering that there's not a lot of fabric to tease with. She doesn't mind her bra getting wet, but hadn't quite anticipated the shower's effect on her undies. The boys chant for more. Coerced beyond her perfected come-on, she grudgingly sheds the rest with less finesse. A boy who'd before seemed well behaved pulls down his gym shorts for her and his friends to see. Jessica's now frightened. Then they push teacher to the towel room and take turns. A rather dark tale, it is, but I'm being bitchy; I just wish she taught elsewhere. My class idea invites another plot possibility: "Mr. Conway, here's the goal statement for an elective I have in mind. It's interdisciplinary and has a Life Skills component. Perhaps you can give me a ride home and we can discuss it over a drink. Oh, by the way, HBO has a 007 lineup this week. Any evening meetings you can duck out of for an hour?" If I start working on the syllabus now, though, I'd probably just masturbate myself loony and never finish what I'm writing. I know the sexual-awakening class will never happen, but I'm dead serious that it would help kids' verbal skills. I'm not planning to get Martin under the covers, but the thought's neat! I do suspect that I've solved another little mystery. One day I saw Martin and a ninth-grade girl, ponytail and olive skin, but I don't know her name, exchange a glance. She does an hour of "Business Environment" (stuffing envelopes) in the front office each day. Her bras have strings, not straps. At NEA Martin wasn't faithful to his wife. So why would he wait a year and forego Miss Ponytail? Cindi didn't refute my interpretation, but said that knowing takes time. Zak's woman teacher has to be Jessica. The reason I hesitate, though, is that Cindi said that this teacher took Zak to her book closet. PE offices don't have them. We'll stop cold when Josh moves on. He'll want to poke some cheerleader sooner or later and I don't want AIDS. Of course, when that happens, I might just select another little friend. Cindi says I should because now I know how: young enough to be molded, old enough to keep secrets. DAD I said early on that I'm not that complex. That doesn't mean that there's nothing underneath, but rather that what's submerged is pretty easily explained. The reader may have noted my woman-astride bias. There's a conspicuous absence in my story of father-daughter relationships. You may have guessed why. No, my father never raped me. He never exposed himself or had me satisfy him. To do such things is very bad. But at least the raped girl, in some awful manner, experiences sex. She writes the guy off and, we'll hope, moves on. Bedding me for father's pleasure might have, in the long run, fueled my own. He even denied me that. My father took photos, stark glossy Kodak quarter sheets. The early prints may have had some artistic value: the back of panties as I climbed over a fence, rubber ducky looking down at me submerged in bathwater, my sudsy breast bud while showering. Because I loved him, or thought I did, anyway, it was OK. I at least thought he loved me too, that this was about something better. A child wants to please. If he called me to sleep with him as a woman would, I'd have done it, even if it were wrong. When I'd try to get close, though, he'd call me a slut. I'd leave the bathroom door unlocked when I was in the tub so he might come without his camera. I'd try to rub against his elbow. No response. I have no memory of him ever kissing me goodnight. Later photos were more humiliating: me in a public place, skirt raised sans underwear. We'd spend hours "getting it right". This stuff wasn't art. Why didn't I refuse? I was the slut in the photos. I'd break up the family. He'd tell me how to arrange my body. "Scoot forward so the rail spreads you more." All he'd say about above- the-shoulders, though, was, "Look sexy." I had two such looks. One was distant, aloof, a blankness I've since discovered is indeed "sexy". The highest priced whores in the world have it, the bosomless fashion models. Two was forcefully lewd. "Please, mister, fuck my slutty wet pussy. I'll suck your giant drippy dick in my little mouth!" He liked that one best. I don't think he ever threatened me. There was no reason; I just complied, my protests basically about having to stand too long in the cold, that sort of complaint. Sometimes I'd even suggest poses, not because I liked them, but because I wanted some sort of say. He'd show how the pictures came out of the chemical baths. I never looked more than a moment, except at a set where I was playing with a dog, even if I was naked. Absent in my viewing was sadness or anger, suggestion that I had value. A bad girl doesn't even care. Why bother? If he showed me off to take away my options, it worked. He stopped when I matured. Adult pornography wasn't his portfolio. Thank God I had no siblings. In college we could get counseling on at Student Health. I used all twenty sessions. What I learned was this: 1) He had no right to do it. 2) I was young and it wasn't my fault. 3) I'm not alone. 4) I need to tell it (which is what I'm doing right now). 5) I am, and always have been, a good person. 6) I can live a good life. I survived better than some. I'm attractive. I do intercourse. I'm just hesitant about men, is all. Though I like sex, I won't be "sexy". There are better, more explicit adjectives than that for a girl's pornographic film shoot. I was "sexy" long ago. I don't know if my father photographed for himself or some publication. For all I know, I might be on the Internet. Anybody that profits from shame, mine or any girl's, should be jailed. I'd go to court, tell the jury that I'm that child slut in the picture. I wasn't a slut before. Forget this shit about digital composition, seventy-pound eighteen-year-olds, Togo Island regulatory autonomy, or whatever. I'll testify, my sweet ass, I'll testify! At Capton Springs, a teacher with suspicions tells the counselor. She's trained to take it from there. In six years I've spotted eight girls who acted alone like I was alone. We're never told details, but I hope I've done something to help some of them. Being a good teacher is a lot more than covering the lesson plan. Cindi knows why I'm slow on the upbeat with men. The evening I told her, she rocked me and rocked me and we cried and cried. A FRIEND Cindi knows the whole Josh story, of course, a redemptive tale, if you wish. It's like I really made her that video of Josh's first time. I figured that she'd be jealous, me having a boy boyfriend, but she seems content. She asks intelligent questions. She's pretty interested in the specifics, what worked, what didn't. She's sort of a detail person. She makes her students memorize all the parts of a moth, for example. Do you suppose they'll ever need such knowledge? Hardly. She has good suggestions about the libido of a mid schooler. Cindi, for example, suggested the once- per-week limit. Everybody needs limits. I think that's why she's stayed a Catholic. She and God negotiated hers. I suppose He negotiated her down like she negotiated me up. Everybody needs a Josh. A boy is so much fun! Erik was the best, though. I've even thought of tracking Erik down, but he'd be happily married. What would I do? I've rehearsed how to say in the coffee shop, come to my motel just one time. But I'm smart enough not to go there. Cindi observed that Erik's no longer thirteen. Josh is. Everybody needs a Cindi. If you can talk to a friend, life stays healthy. And we talk about lots of stuff, not just guys. We're deciding if she should fix her Honda or trade it in. It hardly runs when it's cold, so she'll call me at 7:15 for a lift. I can tell from the thermometer that the phone will ring. Holly the Taxi I am. Then she's never ready and has to finish dressing while I drive. Then we miss startup coffee in the teacher's lounge, so she'll run me some Folgers Instant after first period. She brews it on her Bunsen burner while she teaches, certainly against District rule. I could write a whole other piece about her dressing when we pass the Hostess Products stepvan. We seem to have similar driving schedules. It's not as if she's nude or anything; she'll maybe just have her blouse left to button. But sex wouldn't be the focus of the Honda- saga. I'd work in some carburetor things so women could learn about mechanics. Just to complete the count, I've said that I've had seven partners, five between Steve and Josh. Of the five aisle possibilities, two were in college (one holding over a little after graduation.) and three were after, Ryan being the last. None were married and all treated me nicely. All were more experienced than was I, but I believe that I satisfied them. We never had difficulties being together, but then I guess we never had any big successes. They sooner or later went elsewhere. Cindi says that we just hang in there till the right two guys appear. Did you catch that? Plural. We're looking out for each other. It makes me a little teary, even. If that doesn't happen, Kansas is much bigger than any state, so there is a lot to do. We're heading for South Dakota in August to see who lives there. People like us, we hope. Out of 30x2x6x25 students I may teach, I'll spark a few good writers. I can create some literature myself, if I may be so bold. Holly Rennick, Nobel Laureate in Literature! One of Cindi's students, not Cindi, may win the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. You have to do science, not jab about it, to win. Does she care? Of course not. Twenty years from now, she'll look exactly the same and still be enjoying the pool, so to speak. I knew real love with Erik and am getting really good at sex with Josh. It took a while to get here, but my father didn't totally mess me up. Best of all, I have a really good friend. Speaking of Cindi, tomorrow we're doing lunch and she promised to catch me up on something special going on in her life. I'm ready, she's decided, whatever that implies. She's always got something interesting to report. THE END **** Holly on the Web Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers. As literary errors (or just poor word usages) are made know to me, I'll repair that which is salvageable on http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native language. You can contact me via the site's message form, that HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR. I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more cleanly. Holly ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the hands of children. They should be outside playing in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 23