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Subject: {FriarDave}JDR"Gwen 1"( Mf cons )[1/3]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
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=====================
GWEN
By Friar Dave
(Copyright by the author, 1993)
=============================================================
This is fiction. All the characters are fictional. None of
this really happened. It's made up, Invented, not documentary.
This story contains explicit descriptions of sex acts between
an adult male and a minor female. There is no violence, drugs,
bondage, discipline, sado-masochism, water sports, projectile
vomiting, piercing, humiliation, mutilation, bestiality or
dwarf tossing. If the absence of any of these turns you off,
read no farther. Please don't show this to those unable or
unwilling to consent to reading it. Never eat anything bigger
than your head.
=============================================================
=============
GWEN
By Friar Dave
Friar_Dave@mhbbs.com
CHAPTER ONE
Moving is nasty, at best. At worst, it's a nightmare. I've
had practice, so I know what I'm talking about.
On the other hand, the kittens -- Drat and Scat -- thought
it was a great idea. "All those boxes to jump in and out of! All
that newspaper to attack! All that string to savagely maul! Hey,
why don't we do this more often?"
The new place wasn't as big as the old one, and the rent was
higher. But I was within walking distance of my midtown office,
and I'd judged the savings in subway fare and traveling time to
be more than worth it. The fireplace was a bonus. It was April,
there was a chance of a cold snap later in the week and ad
production had added a stunning but shy Valkyrie of a beauty
who'd confessed to finding she couldn't "resist feeling all
romantic and licentious in front of a crackling fire..."
Fireplace time!
Moving day came and went in a blur of big, burley men and a
surprisingly small truck. By the time moving day was over, I was
exhausted -- and the only things I'd carried were the box
containing the kittens and, of course, my computer equipment;
nobody -- but nobody -- messes with my 'puter but yours truly. I
slept on the floor, but I was so tired that it still felt great
to snooze. My back, of course, did not share the sentiment when I
woke the next morning to the delightful sound of the intercom
buzzing. My new furniture had arrived.
I spent most of that day -- a Tuesday -- and the next
unpacking and setting up my entertainment electronics and kitchen
stuff. At about seven on Wednesday night, two of my nephews,
Jerome and Robert, came by -- per my invitation -- to collect
some of the books I was unloading. (My new place didn't have room
for a Library Wall.)
They were fine young men. Jerry was almost 19 and Bob was
21. Both were on spring break from their out-of-state colleges
and had just finished a day of grounds-keeping at a country club
near their home in Bergen County. They were accompanied by Gwen,
their little sister.
Gwen had just turned thirteen. Like her brothers, she was
pale and blonde, and a glance at any of them immediately
identified the Irish roots. Where Jerry and Bob were taller than
me and lean, Gwen was slim and maybe an inch over five feet tall.
Over the last year, she'd begun making the transition from Barbie
dolls to Fashion Victim. Gwen was a real cutey, with the familial
dose of bright blue eyes and perfect, fine-boned Irish
handsomeness. She was also quite a tomboy. In the winter she
played basketball and volleyball and skated; in the warm weather,
she played left field for her school's softball team and was
reputed to be outstanding at soccer. And she was an avid karate
student two afternoons each week, year-round. She planned to go
for her brown belt that summer.
Her tomboyishness and (probably consequential) late entry
into puberty were reassuring to her brothers, who were
ferociously jealous and protective of their baby sister.
The boys collected their books and wouldn't hear of letting
me treat them to dinner; they were eager to get back to
Ridgewood, where a friend was throwing a keg party. (Well, we
*are* an Irish family.) We talked a bit about sports, the layout
of the new place and the worsening morale of a recently and
traumatically divorced relative. All the while, Gwen busied
herself by unpacking more of my kitchen tools, interrupting now
and then only to ask where I wanted something put.
Eventually, they'd left, both young men carrying under each
arm a box of books I could barely lift with both hands, and Gwen
carrying the few books she'd found interesting. I showered,
changed and went out to dinner. Ho-hum. I came back, read myself
to weariness and I settled onto my ever-harder floor.
As I dozed off, I found myself remembering something I'd
just sort of noted in passing earlier: Gwen was actually showing
the first signs of maturing.
Hey, kids do that -- growing up. It happens, you know.
Within 24 hours, that fact was going to be burned into my
consciousness.
It was around eleven on Thursday morning. I had just settled
down to my second cup of coffee for the day and was contemplating
getting my computer equipment set up. Two guys -- and one small
but surprisingly strong gal -- from Aquabed had come, set up my
waterbed, and gone. The hose from the kitchen faucet into the
bedroom was merrily filling the mattress with lukewarm water. I
was looking forward to sleeping on something softer than a
parquet floor. So was my back. I was doubly looking forward to
the waterbed. I'd had one when I'd lived in the Village, years
before, and sleeping (not to mention, sex) on that comfortable,
warm surface was something I (and my back) missed even more than
the fireplace I'd also given up when moving to Brooklyn.
I was puffing my pipe, sipping my coffee and watching the
kittens make merry with each other when the intercom buzzed. I
couldn't imagine who it might be. Sure, Manhattan Cable was
scheduled to install my box that day, but given MCTV's well-
earned reputation, I knew that meant I wouldn't get hooked up for
another week, and I could expect to spend the next six months
trying to get the company to remove the charge for that week from
my bill.
"Who is it?"
"Gwen! Can I come up?"
"Uh, sure..." I buzzed her into the hallway and frowned.
What was she doing here? We'd never been particularly close.
The kittens, having heard the buzzer, had gone into Frantic
Mode, skidding crazily back and forth across the gleaming
parquet. At the knock on my door, however, they froze and then
leaped into a box (overturning said box).
I opened the door and blinked at my little cousin's
brilliant smile. "Come on in," I invited. I closed the door
behind her, setting all three locks and the steel brace-bar (this
*is* Manhattan, you know) and asked, "So what brings you by?"
Gwen giggled and blushed (her trademark). "Oh, I just
thought you could use some help unpacking, and I didn't have
anything to do, so..."
I pretended to buy this story without question. "Hey, that's
sweet. I was just having some coffee. Want something?"
"Got any orange juice?"
Of course I had OJ, and while she was at it, she wouldn't
mind a toasted English and half a grapefruit, and could she have a
couple of slices of that ham? She chattered glibly and
meaninglessly as she bustled about my half-finished kitchen, pale
blonde hair whipping about her animated face, long legs
scissoring in her baggy jeans. She was wearing her brother Bob's
college team's zip-front sweatshirt; it came down to the top of her
thighs. The kittens sat in the kitchen doorway, solemnly watching
her movements.
"What's that for?" she asked, her small mouth working around
a bit of muffin.
"Filling the waterbed."
"Really? Wow!" She swallowed and told me one of her
girlfriends' parents had one, and she thought it was "neat," a
word that apparently had come back into vogue.
I barely finished my coffee by the time she was scavenging
the last crumbs from her plate. "Where do you want me to start?"
"Ummmm -- you start putting the books and CDs on the shelves,
and I'll finish setting up my office, okay?"
"Neat!"
I went into the corner of the living room that was rapidly
becoming my working area, and Gwen started on the shelf-filling.
"I'm kind of surprised to see you, Gwen."
"Oh, yeah, well -- like I said, there was nothing to do at
home."
"Aren't your friends around?" I grunted, trying to snake the
cables from the computer to the LaserJet.
"Yeah, but they're all into, you know, like hanging out at
the mall. B-o-o-o-o-r-ing!"
I grinned at that. Boring for now; eventually, Gwen would
exit tomboy phase and begin hanging out at the Mall for the same
reason her friends did: The Mall was where the boys were. I
pushed the cable into place and tightened the (absurdly small)
screws, then wiggled my way out from under the desk.
"Not into the 'Shop-till-you-drop scene,' eh?" I said,
standing. I glanced into the living room, where the kittens now
sat, still solemnly watching her. Gwen had taken off the
sweatshirt, revealing a BLONDE AMBITION Madonna tee-shirt.
"They never shop," she said. "Well, hardly ever. They just
like to flirt with boys and then get all giggly about it." She
sounded disgusted; her tone declared that she was above such
things.
I stepped into the master bedroom and checked the mattress.
It was, I decided, just about time to stop filling. "You'll
eventually find boys interesting and start flirting, too," I
said, trying to sound mature and wise and reassuring as I passed
her on my way to the kitchen.
"Fat chance," she muttered. I twisted the faucet to the OFF
position, disconnected the hose adaptor and stuck the end of the
hose securely into the sink drain.
"What do you mean?" I asked, heading back to the bedroom. I
kinked the hose and removed the end from the mattress, quickly
twisting the plug into place. Holding the hose high, I carried it
back to the kitchen, the water draining as I approached the sink.
"Well, even if boys paid any attention to me, my brothers
would scare them off."
I didn't have any trouble imagining Jerry or Bob -- or both --
sitting on the front steps, a baseball bat at the ready and a quart
of Bud on the concrete, waiting for Gwen to return from her first
date. More effective than saltpeter in cooling a youngster's ardor,
that prospect would be.
But her tone was disturbing; she was downright morose.
"Besides, Mom says I can't go out on dates till I'm 16."
"No surprise," I murmured.
"What do you mean?"
She startled me. Gwen was suddenly right behind me at the
kitchen sink.
"Oh, just that -- " I thought it over. "Never mind. They all
just want what's best for you."
"Would you make your daughter wait till she was sixteen to
go out on dates?" The intensity in her face and body surprised
me.
"If she was a pretty as you are, I would." I touched a
finger to the tip of her little button.
"No, really, Mike -- would you?"
"It doesn't matter, kid. I don't have a daughter. Even if I
did, she'd be my daughter -- and you're your Mom's."
"Yeah, but would you -- Oh, flush it! It doesn't make any
difference because none of the boys pay any attention to me
anyhow -- " She rolled those beautiful blue eyes. " -- unless
we're playing softball."
"Don't worry, cutey -- they will." I tousled her fine,
blonde hair and began coiling the now-emptied hose.
"No, they won't," she asserted, turning away. "They're just
interested in girls like Heidi."
I tied the hose and followed Gwen into the living room.
"What's so special about Heidi?" I asked, only half paying
attention as I surveyed the shelves. She'd put all the CDs and
books into place, alphabetically by author or composer.
"She's more -- you know: developed."
"'Developed'?" I echoed. Should I hang the posters and
paintings next, or deal with some more boxes?
"You know -- around her, uh, chest. She's already got really
big, uh, you know...bosoms." Her tone of desperation concentrated
my attention.
"Oh, Gwennie," I cooed, taking her by the shoulders and
turning her to face me -- and suddenly realizing how small-boned
she was. The top of her head reached to about my third rib.
"Gwennie, those boys are just...well -- boys; kids. They're
fascinated by girls', uh, bosoms right now because they're new to
it. All boys go through that phase, and then they outgrow it and
begin to appreciate the rest of a woman."
"Did you?" She sounded hopeful.
"Sure. When I was your age, I did everything I could to get
a look at a girl's, uh, chest -- and the bigger, the better. I
outgrew that, and so will they."
"You mean how big they are doesn't matter to you any more?"
"Not a bit." I didn't tell her that I had "grown up" -- if
that was the right expression -- to be a leg-and-ass man, but a
little license is required when dealing with an insecure kid.
She thought about that for a few seconds and then,
defiantly: "Oh, yeah? Well, what about Keiko?"
Oooops.
I felt my face reddening. Oh, yes -- Keiko. The Japanese
woman I'd taken home to the family for Christmas dinner four
years before, because she was far from home and lonely when
everyone else she knew was with family for the Big Important
Holiday. Keiko, from Kobe, with her shocking reddish hair
(natural, I assure you; I checked) and her astonishing 32Ds (also
natural, I assure you; I checked) on an otherwise typically
slight Japanese frame.
I was surprised Gwen remembered her and even more surprised
that she remembered Keiko's name.
"Well, uh, I, uh, I liked Keiko for herself. Her, uh, bosoms
just kind of came with the package." I was stammering in my
embarrassment. I tried to recover. "Besides, Gwen, you'll get
yours. You're only 13 and -- "
"Heidi's only 12! And she's already got hers!"
"Trust me." I have her shoulders a squeeze. "Your brothers
were shrimps when they were 13 , and they're both big guys
now. Just look at your mom -- " Which I used to do at every
opportunity at the beach. "She's really developed. These things
are genetic, you know."
"I guess..." She shuffled her feet, then looked up at me
again. Why hadn't I noticed how long and dark her lashes were
before this? Or how absolutely translucent that fresh, makeup-
free complexion was? Her expression still betrayed doubt.
"Gwen, you're really pretty. Believe me, the boys will start
to notice you. What's the hurry, anyhow? You have fun with soccer
and softball and -- "
"Yeah, I guess." She made a face. "I guess I'm just
jealous."
I released her shoulders and tousled her hair again.
"Don't worry. You'll catch up with Heidi and surpass her."
"I guess. I just hate to miss all the fun."
"Help me break down these boxes and tie them up. That'll be
fun."
She giggled. "I mean fun like Heidi has. You know."
I took a razor knife and started slicing cardboard into tie-
able squares.
"Be careful with this." I handed her the other razor knife.
"What kind of fun?"
"You know, messing around with boys -- smooching and stuff."
"By the time you're ready for that, the boys will know what
they're doing. Heidi probably has to spend half her time wiping
spit off her chin." And fingerprints off her blouse, I added in
my thoughts.
She giggled, making an erratic cut in one piece of cardboard.
"That's what she says. She says that's why now she only messes
around with boys who are older -- like 15 or 16 -- and know what
they're doing."
"Oh, she likes older men, does she?" I grabbed another box
and continued filleting.
"She says that when they get older, they know what they're
doing when they're messing around." Another cut, this one
straighter. "Mike?"
I looked up and found that lovely face a foot away, her eyes
clear and steady and fixed on mine.
"Can I ask you a personal question without you getting mad
or telling anyone I asked?"
"Sure, sweetheart."
"Did you and Keiko, uh, mess around?"
I couldn't resist a grin. "Yes."
"Did you, like, touch her?"
I nodded.
"Did she really like it? I mean -- really?"
I recalled Keiko's screaming orgasms.
"Uh, yeah, she made it pretty clear that she liked it."
"Did she, uh, touch you -- you know, everywhere?"
I remembered Keiko's apparent ability to breathe through her
ears. My dick remembered, too, and began stiffening.
"Oh yeah." I grinned again. "Definitely." I tried to banish
a grin.
"And she really liked it, touching you that way?"
Instant, total recollection of Keiko scrambling off me, from
under me, from beside me, hasty to get her mouth on my spurting
cock. The woman had seemed to thrive on drinking cum and swore it
made her cum just to taste it and swallow it. Why, oh why, had
Keiko gone and gotten herself married to a real estate tycoon in
Arizona? (Answer: Because he was there.)
"Mike?"
"Oh, sorry. Yes, she certainly enjoyed it." I shook myself
and resumed slicing. "Gwennie, why are you asking?"
"Well, because Heidi said stuff, and I didn't know whether to
believe her. She said boys who know how to do it right really
make her feel good when they touch her -- really, really good,
better than almost anything else." She shrugged. "I just didn't
know whether or not to believe her."
"Sweetheart, I think you should be asking your mom about
this stuff." I returned to my box duties. "Really."
"Oh, we already talked about sex and all that stuff about
vaginas and penises and menstruation and stuff. But Mom said it
hurts when a boy does that to a girl."
"Well, she should know."
"But you said Keiko liked it."
"That's for damn sure."
"It didn't hurt -- "
"Gwen, Keiko is a grown-up woman -- "
"I'll say!" Giggle.
" -- and it's different."
"Heidi said it only hurts the first time, and after that it
feels really, really good if the guy knows what he's doing."
I jerked my head up and stared at her. "She's already lost
her cherry? I thought you said she's only 12!" I immediately
wished I hadn't said it.
Gwen was nodding. The midday sunlight through the window
behind her turned her hair into an explosion of golden light.
"And she swears she really likes it." Her eyes were wide and
round. "And me, I've never even really kissed a boy. I feel like
a retard." She pronounced it 'reee-tard.' I was suddenly very
aware that I could see two barely discernible little bumps within
the BLONDE AMBITION tee-shirt.
=================================================================
All comments and criticisms are
very welcome via Email or in public posts, but posts should
only be made in alt.sex.story. DISCUSS -- not here. Please don't
ask me to Email or repost missed segments. The folks providing
access for me are just a small group of dedicated amateurs, not
a big, well-funded institution.
=================================================================
===============================================================
This is an original story from a caller to The Abbey, part of
MHBBS (212-683-1448). Feel free to repost it as is, without
editing or changing anything in it, including this tag. For
information about The Abbey, a spam-free place for writers and
readers of adult material to gather, email Friar_Dave@mhbbs.com
or call MHBBS at 212-683-1448 and leave a note for the Sysop or
me.
================================================================
=============
GWEN
By Friar Dave
CHAPTER ONE
-30-
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