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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.
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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 
/~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

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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.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 23