Message-ID: <2223eli$9707211428@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/2223.txt>
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
X-Good-Line-Length: yes
Subject: Tooky (m/f, cousin, mast)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <33D37C31.B421F27D@mindless.com>

    One of the byproducts of writing stories of early memories is
another memory!  In some disordered, clang association, a dim memory
stimulates yet a dimmer recall.  And so it ricochets on and unbidden,
out drops a small gem.  Or so it does for me.

                                      BillyG and Tookey

                                                                  By BillyG


     My parents were both well educated, upper-middle-class professionals
who had, for the most part,  succeeded at much in life.  Still, they remained
human beings and were troubled with their own relationship issues from
time to time.  I was vaguely aware that they were having one of their "spats"
and that my visiting my aunt's place in the country was perhaps less for my
enjoyment than it was for their convenience.  That was all right with me, for
as a fifteen-year-old boy, I was looking forward to the vacation and the
greater freedom I knew I'd have on my aunt's farm.

      My aunt Mary, my mother's younger sister, had lived a completely
different life than Mom.  As attractive and intelligent, she'd not been driven
by any personal gadfly to "do well at life."  She had stayed on her parent's
farm, married young and had a large family.  Her near-do-well husband had
suffered the fatal consequences of chronic alcoholism and died young from a
massive gastrointestinal bleed.  The household ran well, governed by a
curious set of firm, even rigid guide lines that operated hand-in-hand with a
certain relaxed, laissez-faire attitude.  My aunt's family had nearly equal
boys and girls, but several of the girls were clustered together in age, right
around my own.

     My time on the farm is better described as a "working vacation," for
there were lots of routine chores to be finished each day which, when
coupled to the seasonal planting-harvesting cycle, were time-consuming. 
We kids were expected to do our part and were often thrown into close
working proximity by these agricultural demands.  Consequently, I enjoyed
an accelerated intimacy with the cousins who were my age . . . girls, as it
turned out.

     In retrospect, my interest in things sexual dated back to age five or so.  I
didn't know that it was sexual.  I didn't know what sex was.  What I did
know was that I was interested in girls.  Or more correctly, I was interested
in girls' bodies.  I knew it was forbidden and that made it all the more sexy. 
By age nine or ten I certainly knew about sex.  By age twelve my interests
and desires had progressed that, in recognition of my late physical
development, I was alarmed that the other boys could get off and I couldn't
. . . yet.  But by age fourteen or fifteen, the testosterone storm has just
started.  Riding the up slope of ascendency of my bursting horniness, I was
almost besides myself with the proximity of my female cousins.

     Over the years, I had some sexual contact or another with each of my
cousins, but I'd like to tell you of one that I hold as particularly poignant
and erotic.  

     Her nick name was Tookey.  She was sweet, fair and even tempered. 
Just a few years or so before, she'd been a stick of a little girl who was
permitted to wear only her little-girl white underpants when we went to the
swimming hole.  I retain an image of her, blond hair streaming as she
emerged from the water, no breasts, and wet, translucent panties.  The
darker outline of her female slit was so prominent that even then, I felt a
sexual lurch.

     Suddenly, Tookey was no longer a little girl.  Seemingly overnight,
her hips had broadened and her breasts were mature.  Her older sisters all
wore bras but she rebelled.  Hyper aware as I was of those things, I
constantly maneuvered to watch her breasts sway beneath her T-shirt or to
delight in the tumescence of her nipples.  

     Her nipples were remarkable.  Stimulated by mood, temperature or
contact, they'd spring out, prominent and hard, visible often through
relatively concealing clothes.  I was taken with Tookey and taken with her
breasts.  It may have been her innocence or perhaps her demure personality,
but it was not apparent to me that she even noted my interest.  She
remained open and free around me, never turning away or holding her shirt
to her chest.  When we'd work together, I'd frequently have the opportunity
to look down the front of her shirt, or, if a button-front shirt, to see the
under swell of her breasts as the shirt gaped open.  Because she was only
thirteen at the time and certainly an innocent, I restricted my licentious
actions.  I looked but I didn't touch . . . at least then.

     It makes sense to me now that she was a sexual time-bomb and my
attention had added fuel to the embers, but at the time, things seemed to
develop explosively out of nowhere.  Late one Sunday evening, the house
was uncharacteristically quiet.  Most of the family was away and we three,
Tookey, me and her little brother, Tommy were fooling around on the living
room couch.  Secure in the knowledge of our unaccustomed privacy, we
were "cutting up" . . . wrestling and shrieking, as they were against me,
trying to pin me and win my submission.  

     Remember, I was a sexually aware kid who left little to chance.  To
the contrary, it had become my mission to contrive those situations where I
might be rewarded with a peek or a touch.  So it was the more remarkable
that without my scheming, I suddenly found myself in an intense sexual
situation not of my making.

     In our couch wrestling, I was truly trying to fend them off.  I've no
recall of just how it came to be, but I suddenly became aware that the toes
of my bare foot were in Tookey's crotch.  She was wearing jeans as I recall
and they may have been hand-me-downs, for they were sufficiently baggy,
that I found my foot sliding around in the loose crotch.  

     Tommy was sitting on my chest and shouting to Tookey to help him,
for he'd become aware that she had stopped fighting.  I was aware of the
same thing, but unlike Tommy, I thought I knew why she'd stopped.  My
toes were sinking into the very wet crotch of her jeans and pushing the
fabric into her pussy.  Craning my neck, I looked around Tommy's small
body to see what Tookey's reaction was to this blatant toe caress.  

     I'll never forget her face.  Her eyes were hooded and her mouth was
half open, almost slack, as she stared back at me.  Her blond hair had fallen
across her face in disarray.  She wet her lips - I remember that well- and
looked at me, leaning back on her haunches, her feet tucked under thighs,
her legs open and my foot crammed into her crotch.  There was no pretense. 
At that moment I knew that she knew.

     For the next several minutes, without speaking, we continued the
charade.  Pretending to wrestle, but contriving only to maintain our sexual
contact, Tookey and I, unplanned, carried out a salient deception to mask
our activities from Tommy.  As if to hold my legs down, she lifted up a
moment and then sat on my foot as she leaned over, her hand "holding" my
knees.  Her jeans were sodden.  She was so wet.  No stranger to the musk
of a girl's excited pussy, I recognized the scent of her arousal.  Cripes, the
room was rank with pussy juice and my toe sank further into her pussy.  

     I wanted Tommy to go away, to disappear.  I wished him exile on
Mars, or worse, to the cow shed!  But of course, he was there to stay.  This
was his fight and he wasn't leaving, so I was limited.  Yet, I wanted to cup
Tookey's breasts.  Oh, I didn't want to cop a feel, to brush up against them
"accidentally."  I wanted the extra thrill of her awareness if not her
permission.  

     Heaving Tommy easily off my chest, I rearranged our bodies.  Tommy
was easy, for his tactic was unrelenting frontal assault.  I had only to steer
him.  Gesturing to Tookey to pile on, I made room for her to attack my
flank.  Holding Tommy with my left arm, I looked Tookey in the eye as I
reached out and caressed her braless breast through her T-shirt.  That
stratagem last only moments.  The arrival of my aunt in the kitchen from
somewhere signaled the abrupt end of our "interaction."  

     I went to bed in a state of heightened arousal.  My teenage hard-on
was almost painful and my concern for mythical blue-balls necessitated my
jacking off twice.  Once before going to sleep and again in the early
morning.  (Ah, those were the days!)

     It was never my custom to sleep in, even on those Sunday mornings
when it was permitted.  Lying under the covers in my small attic bed, I was
slowly stroking my half-hard dick, remembering with acuteness the images
of the previous night, wondering how I might precipitate that scene again.  I
heard someone open the attic door and come up the steps.  The girls' room
was adjacent to mine so I was only half aware of someone approaching my
door.  It opened and Tookey stuck her head in to announce, "Billy, time to
get up."

     It would not have been unusual for her to wake me on a week day,
particularly if we had a job to do together, but this was Sunday.  Her wake
up call was a thinly veiled ploy, I decided.  I feigned sleeping.  (Tough to do
with an erection.)

     She came into the room and walked over to my bed.  I was surprised, for
the girls were not allowed in our room, more for our assumed privacy than
propriety I suspect.  Tookey was a blond, but she was no air head.  If she
were coming into my room, I was certain she knew it was safe, that the rest
of the family was occupied in some way.  

     Stopping at the foot of my bed near the attic window, she reached down
and shook my foot under the covers, "Billy, time to get up."  Guilty of
overacting, I feigned a slow awakening, bending one knee and pulling the
covers off my left foot as I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes.

     "It's Sunday.  Why do I have to wake up?  I want to wallow for a while. 
What're you doing anyway?"

     Not answering right away, Tookey sat on the end of the bed, well away
from my hands, with her left knee bend and on the bed and her right foot on
the floor.  Sitting on the bed was not usual behavior . . . part of the rigid
code of behaviors and strange, given the close contact we experienced
while working together on the farm.  So I recognized some tacit sign that it
was okay to proceed with last night's play.

     Sitting up, I reached for her and she jumped up and out of reach.  

     "Oh, no," was all she said.

     I fell back in bed, surrendering to her conditions.  Patting the covers, I
invited her to sit again.

     Still, no conversation.  She assumed the identical posture, sitting with
one leg on the floor and the other on the bed, legs apart and near my left
foot.  Now my mom didn't raise no dummies.  I got the nonverbal message
right away.  Raising my left knee and allowing the covers to slide back on
my thigh, I rested my foot between her thighs and made some
inconsequential comment that escapes me now.  Attempting to carry on
some inane, one-sided conversation, I began to trace small circles on the
inside of her thigh close to her pant leg.  

     I felt like a snake hypnotizing a bird.  We fell silent.  I became aware
of the total absence of the usual household sounds.  Perhaps they'd all gone
to church.  I didn't know and at that moment I didn't care.  I continued to
run my toe up and down her leg for several minutes, watching her face. 
Again, I saw the transformation for an innocent farm girl to a
sexually-aroused woman.  Her eyes remained open and focused on some
middle distance beyond me.  Her eyelids drooped and her lips parted in that
slack-mouthed state of disconnected arousal.

     There was a yellow-jackets' mud nest outside my window.  The only
sound I heard aside from our breathing, was the hum of their flight. 
Emboldened by her passivity, I ran my toe up under her pants leg and tried
to insert it into her crotch, but it was too tight and she wasn't going to help
me, I was sure of that.  Falling back on a repeat of last night's performance,
I rested my foot right on her open crotch and slowly rubbed her.  Tookey
was a secretor.  In short time her crotch was visibly wet.  However, they
were too tight to permit an entry of my toe into her pussy, so I contented
myself with rubbing her crotch (as I secretly rubbed my dick under the
covers).

     After a few minutes, Tookey closed her eyes and screwed up her
face as if she were in pain, and gasping, let out a long, muffled moan.  She
was cuming, I was certain, although I'd never actually seen a girl cum
before.  She wasn't alone.

     In the natural order of things, we stopped and a few moments later, still
without talking, she got up and left.

     That identical behavior was to repeat itself over the weeks, without
change.  She'd never let me touch her crotch with my hands nor change the
dance in any manner.  When we were working and I'd try to cop a feel, she'd
shy away and whisper, "Billy!  Stop that!  This instant!"

     Without ever speaking of the rules of engagement, we'd come to this
extraordinarily erotic and frustratingly limited mode of masturbation which
was never to change.  

     Now, years later, I occasionally think of her and wonder how she'd
become, what her married and sex life had become.  The memory remains
green and terribly sensual.


END

-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>    .../assm/faq.html> /