Fooling Around 101 - Two book special

Fooling Around 101

(Two book special – Versions Alpha and Bravo)

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore.com Edition

Copyright 2013 Robert Lubrican

Second Edition 2025

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to zbookstore.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Foreword: This story is written in two versions, Alpha and Bravo, and both are included in this volume. While the two versions are very similar in the beginning, after roughly chapter one, they begin to diverge and have very different endings. Moreover, the personalities of some of the characters differ from one version to the next, even though they have the same names. Basically, version alpha is what some people might call a long, slow stroke story with minimal plot, but a lot of character development. Version bravo is heavier on plot, with twists, and is more of a full-fledged romance. Both stories sprang from the same initial idea, but that idea wanted to express itself in different ways. The Table of Contents will help you navigate both between and within the versions.

There is an inherent difficulty with writing a coming-of-age story in America these days. That problem is that humans can't agree on what "age" means in that context. Everybody knows that young people, (defined, for now, as those who have reached puberty, but are not yet eighteen,) are curious about sex and want to explore it. Everybody knows this, because they experienced it themselves. But a lot of people don't want to admit it out loud, or in public. That's because they think admitting it will encourage teens to explore and they disapprove of kids having sex before marriage. That's fine. In fact, I agree that sexual intercourse is difficult enough to make work between two consenting adults, much less when you don't have much life experience and are loaded down with social guilt for exploring sex. But wisdom and reality do not always blend well. And Mother Nature is much stronger than our moral stance that no one under eighteen should have sex. Mother Nature defines "age" as a year or two after the onset of puberty. The most crass interpretation of this I ever heard is the saying "If she can bleed, she can breed." And that is disgusting ... but it's also true.

So the problem is that any coming-of-age story that mirrors reality will involve people under the age of eighteen, who are exploring things sexual in a completely normal way. Except those people who try to ensure their children don't explore things sexual at that age, are offended by the depiction of reality. They object on moral grounds. And that's fine. I firmly believe they have the right to object. But they take it farther than that by threatening to sue any publisher who publishes a book in which those under eighteen engage in sex. They feel that their opinion should trump all others, even though publishing such a book is not illegal under existing laws. In fact, the age of consent in 40 states is less than eighteen and is sixteen in all of Canada. But the law doesn’t matter, because this is an emotional issue, and emotions do not bend to the law. And anybody can file suit, based on the outrage they feel concerning the beliefs of others different than themselves. Publishers aren't stupid. They're in business to make money, not spend it defending themselves against frivolous lawsuits; even lawsuits they know they'll win. So Publishers have caved to the pressure applied by special interest groups and won't accept any coming-of-age story that mirrors reality.

That has affected all published coming-of-age stories. This is why there are notices on these kinds of stories such as "All characters in this story are eighteen or older." The original idea, in the mind of the author, didn't have everybody to be eighteen or older, but they had to edit the story and censor it before any publisher would touch it. This is why there are characters in some stories who are eighteen and juniors in high school. It's ridiculous, but it's how special interest groups have fucked the rest of us. Sorry. I know they don't like "fucked" either. But that's legal in all fifty states, so suck it.

This book is no different. ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS BOOK ARE eighteen OR OLDER, which will cause certain passages of the book to be ludicrous, and for that I apologize. But it had to be done. You are reminded, however, that your mind is your own, and your imagination cannot be censored. You can therefore use your imagination to supply, in context, whatever age would make those passages make more sense. If you purchased this book and like it, you might even wish to read the original manuscript. Instructions for that are at the end of the book. The publisher has nothing whatsoever to do with that process, and cannot be sued.

I'm a hard-headed SOB who believes in free speech. And if the special interest groups want to make people follow their rules, then I get to let people follow my perfectly legal rules. That got me banned by one publisher, who was SO intimidated by the frivolous lawsuit that the fact that I suggested there was a copy of a book where characters were below the age of 18 in the world. They felt like "I was using their platform" by offering free, original copies of books and that they might be sued for that. It was a lifetime ban, by the way, which should show you how much power the threat if a lawsuit can have. In case any of those people are reading this, go ahead and sue me. I'll countersue for fifteen million dollars and I'll win. Go ahead. Talk to your lawyer and ask him if I'll win. If he's worth what you're paying him he'll tell you it's a waste of time. I have no huge publishing empire to take down. And all I have to do is win one lawsuit and I won't even have to charge for my books at all, anymore.

Why am I being this hard-headed?

That's because I think your freedom to think is just as important as their freedom to object to what you want to think about. Bob

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Table of Contents

Version Alpha

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

Version Bravo

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Afterword

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fooling Around 101 – Version Alpha

Chapter One

When I was much younger and in college, my sociology professor said in one of his lectures that it wasn't at all odd for toddlers to masturbate. That got a rise out of the class, which I'm sure it was supposed to. But he went on to explain that they didn't know they were masturbating. They were just doing what felt good. And, he pointed out, it felt good to rub the genitals against something hard ... like your leg. Yes, my sociology professor basically compared human toddlers to humping dogs.

In those days I hung around my brother’s house a lot. That’s because I was a poor college kid, but Duke had graduated and gotten married and he and his new wife fed me sometimes. So when they had twin boys I was there to see diapers changed and all that sort of thing. And I had noticed that Jill, their mother, played with their little penises sometimes. I don't mean she molested them or anything. She'd laugh when one of them had an erection (which I didn't know baby boys could have until I saw it for myself) and she'd pull on it every now and then and say something silly, like "Look at the big penis on my little boy!" like he had gotten straight A's in school or had actually tried to have that erection. So when my professor talked about little ones rubbing, I asked Jill about it.

"Oh sure," she said. "They've both done it to me. They love to play horsy with their father and personally, I think it's because it feels good on their little peckers."

Then they had a daughter, and when she was about two, she loved to play horsy too, meaning she straddled somebody's leg and they bounced her up and down. And I remembered what the professor had said, and it was kind of odd, you know?

Anyway, during this early stage of her life there was this one time when she needed a diaper change and everybody else was busy with something or other so I got assigned the task. I know this will sound perverted, but it wasn't. Not by the spirit of the law. It was honestly just curiosity. And I was changing this diaper right on the couch, where anybody could see me. You see, I had seen the genital regions of a number of adult women, but had never seen what that looked like when it was all just starting out. And you have to clean all the girly parts pretty carefully to avoid germ problems. Even I knew that.

So I sort of took a look as I changed her. I was amazed to find that she had a miniature clitoris hidden by those pouting, little, surprisingly thick lips. And when I smoothed the wipe across it she reacted to that. I thought of it as being like when her mother tugged on her brothers' penises sometimes when she changed them. Well, the upshot is that when I did that, she laughed and kicked her legs.

Suffice it to say I was shocked at how early the human sexual organs can produce pleasure.

But that was it. I didn't fondle her or anything like that. My curiosity had been assuaged. I didn't even think about it again until years later. At the same time, I suspect that brief five second interval affected the rest of our lives because as Cindy grew up we were always very close. Again, I don't mean close in a sexual way. Sure, she sat on my lap while I read to her but I didn't get hardons or any of that crap. I didn't see her as a sexual being. Not then. She was just a cute little girl who loved having her Uncle Bob read her a book, or play a game with her or whatever.

And yes, I admit that when she was in that coltish ten and eleven age range she was beautiful in a way that stirred my insides, but it was more like looking at a rose bud. It was beautiful and you never wanted it to change, except you knew it would be so much more beautiful when it opened fully. This kind of relationship is complicated, particularly since the society in which we live frowns mightily on appreciating certain women for their potential as sexual partners. What turned me on about her then was her potential for being a sexual being, later on in her life. And no, I did not plan on being her sexual partner, later on in her life. She just had potential, and I appreciated that. It's like when you see a good looking woman walking confidently down the street, and you think "Some lucky bastard will get to mount her tonight, and hear her squeal." You don't go up to her and say "Hey, you know I can probably make you squeal too!" But your mind might toy with the idea. I mean ... really ... maybe you could make her squeal. If she was willing to give you a chance, that is. That's called having a fantasy.

I don't want you to think I'm making up excuses here. I'll even give you an example. I went camping with the family when Cindy was eighteen. We had gone swimming in the lake for a couple of hours, and I laid out on the dock for half an hour in the sun to dry off and get a little tan. I heard the rest of them take off on a hike, after which we planned to have supper. I was the assigned cook that night so I didn't go on the hike. What I didn't know was that Cindy had stayed behind to help me cook. So when I got up and went into the big cabin tent to change clothes, I didn't know Cindy was in there changing too. She was stark naked, bent over, getting ready to step into a pair of panties when I threw back the flap and walked in. She looked up at me, stood up automatically, and squeaked as she tried to cover all parts of her naked body at the same time. During that split second I saw budding little breasts, with puffy nipples. I was almost amused to see that her adolescent vulva looked almost the same as when I had last seen them, seventeen years previously, except now there were a few sparse dark hairs scattered across her mons.

And do you know what I thought? I thought she was cute. Not sexy. Not ready for sex. She was just cute and adorable and I was really sorry I had scared her, and hoped it wouldn't ruin anything between us. So I said something to try to make it less traumatizing. "Oops. Sorry. No big deal, though. I've seen it before. After all ... I used to change your diapers."

How often has someone said that about you or someone you know, at a family reunion or some such? And were they being sexual about it? Of course not. Anyway, I turned around and left. I got the fire going and got the pans out and then she came out dressed. All she said was "You're supposed to knock!" and I said “How can you knock on the door of a tent?” and she quipped “You could have used your head, 'cause it’s probably made of wood.” Then it was over. We cooked supper and everything was just like it had always been.

That's what makes all this stuff complicated. It's like shifting sand. Sometimes it changes right under your feet. It got more complicated when Duke, who worked for the university in the nuclear radiation lab, somehow got exposed to enough radiation that it fried his bone marrow, or whatever it is that causes leukemia. They didn't catch it soon enough. There was a big scandal, because his radiation badge didn't register the contamination, which meant either it was defective or he hadn't been wearing it when it happened. Neither of those situations were supposed to be possible. Plus they never found the leak. I only tell you this because all that made it even harder on his family when we lost him.

So my role changed a bit and I went from being a once a week visitor to missing a night or two a week. Dennis and Mark, the twins, traded off being the man of the house. For a month, whenever I came into the house, Cindy burst into tears and hugged me, not wanting to let go for an hour or more. Then she'd wipe her nose and dry her eyes and ignore me for the rest of the night. I offered to stop coming, but Jill said it was actually helpful, and that they'd work through it all, eventually. So I got used to being on that shifting sand, where my role changed a bit, depending on what the family needed.

Which is what happened, I suppose, somewhat later. Of course, by then, I didn't read her books any more, or let her serve me tea in tiny cups, or play dragon to her princess or any of that sort of thing. By then, the way I supported her was by going to her softball games and track meets and the plays she was in and that sort of stuff.

I went to her last softball game of the season. Her team had a seven and eight season. And, while most of the girls were in it for love of the game rather than winning, the fact that they won that last game was exciting for them, and they partied hard at the pizza place afterwards. There was lots of improvised singing along with the songs coming from the speakers in the joint, and dancing and the like. Did you ever notice how sexy, healthy young women who are singing and dancing look?

Of course you have. What am I thinking? Anyway, Cindy had volunteered me as taxi driver, to take some of the girls home whose parents hadn't come to the game or whatever, so after a long and exhausting celebration, I made the rounds, dropping girls off until finally Cindy was the only one left in the car. It was after nine, but the next day was a Saturday, so it wasn't a problem.

We got to her house and I went in with her. There were balloons on the table and a card that congratulated her. It was from her mom, who had been at the game but had not gone to the pizza place, seeing as how parents, in that situation, were embarrassing to girls of that age.

"Awww," she said, as she read the card. Then she bounded off to find her mother and thank her. She came back a few minutes later and said "My mom is a geezer! She's already in bed!"

"You have to cut her some slack," I said. "She's raised you, and that's a terrifying and exhausting job."

She stuck out her tongue at me.

I have no idea why her sticking her tongue out at me caused me to drop my eyes to her breasts, but it did. She had big ones and I admit I had watched them flopping around a bit as she ran the bases. Of course I had watched all the other girls' breasts doing the same thing, some more, some less. I mean ... I'm a guy. It probably would have helped if I hadn't been between girlfriends. I have this problem where my upbringing kind of made me believe that sexual intercourse is a very serious and important thing, and you don't just hop in the sack with any-old-body. If it gets to the point where sex is involved, then it's time to start thinking about commitment. Serious commitment. The marriage kind of commitment.

Unfortunately, a lot of other people my age weren't raised the same way and some women are looking for "uncomplicated, casual sex." Of course very few women come right out and say "Let's just fuck for fun, with no strings attached." In my case, I learn that's how they feel when I propose to them. That's why I'm often between girlfriends.

Anyway, when I realized I was staring at Cindy's breasts, I looked away from them - up, as it turned out - and there were her eyes, full of the knowledge that her Uncle Bob had been staring at her precious teenage titties. It was an awkward moment. At least for me. But she just licked her lips and said "Hey. Don't leave yet. I have to pee like crazy, but I want to ask you a question."

And off she bounded again, like a deer, spooked by a tiger. At least that's what I thought. I mean if your thirty-five-year-old uncle stares at your developing breasts, wouldn't just about any girl get spooked? That's what they call an "Ewwwww" moment ... right?

Apparently not.

I’ll get to that in a second

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I've been around enough women that when one of them goes to the powder room, I settle in and make myself comfortable. That sounds awful, I know, like I'm stereotyping women. But if the vast majority of women do something in basically the same way, that isn't stereotyping. It's just likelihood, based on anecdotal evidence. Is it stereotyping to say "All women squat to pee"? Of course not. It might be inaccurate in .001% of instances, but you won't lose a lot of money betting on that. Anyway, I was sitting on the couch, flipping through 169 cable channels, which is just ridiculous by the way, when there was movement in my peripheral vision and I glanced up to see Cindy come back into the room. I don't know if she had peed or not, but she had changed into her "jammies" while she was gone.

There's a thing I call "The Jammies Curve," which is based on the quantity of material that it takes to build a pair of jammies during various phases of a woman's life. When they are very young or very old, there is lots of material involved, relatively speaking. By that I mean that a lot of the body is covered with material. The reason is obvious. Lots of material provides lots of warmth and comfort, which both the very young and very old are interested in. So those are the ends of The Jammies Curve. In between those ends, though, warmth and comfort sometimes take a back seat to other interests. Let's just be honest. I'm talking about sex, here. Right in the middle of the curve, during a woman's sexual peak, it's quite possible that jammies won't involve any material at all. Or it will involve very little material that is required to cover lots and lots of flesh. I'm talking lace, here.

On either side of the middle, there can be wild fluctuations. A little girl, for example, is used to covering most of her body, and that habit, if you will, can last a decade or two before "warmth and comfort" begin to take a serious back seat to the stage I call "Making that guy's eyes pop out of his head." And later, as having sex becomes old hat, and not such a big deal anymore, women learn that exposing too much skin may invite attention they no longer want quite as often. So they begin to camouflage their bodies again.

But there is a special time during a woman's life, between little girl and eager sexual partner, where jammies take on an experimental kind of aura. Girls stretch the boundaries with their jammies sometimes, experimenting with what it feels like to expose more and more flesh. We're not talking lace here. An example is a girl who wears a T shirt and panties to bed. Most of her lower body is on display, depending on how long the T shirt is. She might wear one that offers glimpses of her panties, just to see how that feels. It's a kind of the spreading and flapping of wings before she actually flies away from the nest, I suppose. Cindy's jammies, that night, consisted of a T shirt that went just below her panties. If she'd have lifted her arms, her panties would have showed. All of them.

She didn't look nervous, but the ambiance in the room felt that way. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it was me. A man can't see that much leg and not think about where they join. Anyway, she came and, just like she was half her age, plopped down on my lap. Her panties showed then. They were powder blue. Her face was right in front of mine.

"Can I ask a favor?" she asked.

"Of course," I responded automatically. My right hand slid up her back, also automatically. No bra. Those shifting sands I mentioned earlier made Mr. John Thomas awaken.

And that was the first time I thought of Cindy as a potential sexual partner; of her as my potential sexual partner. Don't get me wrong. It was just a quick fantasy ... a sort of dream ... one of those "wouldn't it be nice if ..." kinds of things. It's like looking at Donald Trump's yacht and saying "That would be cool to own." You're not serious about it, but it’s a fun little fantasy.

"I'm finished with high school, and no longer have to spend all my time on homework and chores. Until I go to college, I have free time to start dating." she said. "And the only boy I've kissed is Harry Stoltz, when we were both seven, so I was wondering if you'd show me what a real kiss is like."

She wiggled on my lap, as if she was trying to get more comfortable. The state of Mr. John Thomas might have had something to do with that. He was a lump to be proud of at that point. At least if it had been a different girl sitting on my lap. I know I'm expounding a lot, which is probably irritating my gentle readers, but you really must understand that I didn't plan on any of this happening. And yet it did. So it could happen to others too, right? So we need to understand how it happened, lest history repeat itself in some other poor guy's life. So bear with me.

There are (at least) two times in a man's life when he wants to have the capability to become The Hulk.

The first is when he anticipates his daughter (or niece) going on her first date, exposed for the first time to the extended lusts of some pimply faced creature who will try to ravish her. You guys know this is true because you clearly remember being the pimply faced creature bent on ravishment. And it didn't matter what girl you were with. You were bent on ravishment. At that age you're sort of a Junior Hulk, but all you're bent on ravishing is a little tiny part of the girl you're with.

The second is when she walks down the aisle, dressed in virginal white, and you know she's going to get ravished within the next few hours. Never mind that, at least in this day and age, she's probably not a virgin. Never mind that you're happy for her and hope she has a gloriously wonderful life. That white dress does something to a man and he wants to protect her from ravishment.

Or be the man who ravishes her. And that, my friends, is the rub. Because that, my friends, is when all the social conditioning in the world tends to be like luke-warm, weak tea, compared with hot, black coffee. If anybody is going to get that pussy ... you want it to be you who gets that pussy. I don’t mean to be crass, here, but that’s how The Hulk would say it.

Again, though, this is just a normal, knee jerk reaction that nature has engendered in all males. Nature makes us all want to be the alpha male, at least on some level, and the alpha male gets all the females. Even his daughters, or sisters ... or nieces.

Don't be so shocked. Watch a pride of lions. They do that. Practically all species do it. And the only reason homo sapiens doesn't do it routinely is because a bunch of beta males figured out a way to create some rules so that they get some of the females for themselves.

Anyway, that Hulk thing is probably why I responded to her announcement by saying: "That's too bad." I was referring, of course to the idea that she was going to start dating.

"What?" She looked confused, there, four inches from my face ... squirming on my lap.

I realized what I’d said, and why. I've thought about all this stuff several times in the past.

"Nothing," I said. "Are you excited about the prospect of kissing a young man ... or nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous?" she asked.

"Some girls are," I said, and shrugged.

"You always have been one of the smartest men I know," she said. "As a matter of fact, I am nervous."

Well, as you can imagine, I preened a bit. What man wouldn't? However, it is important to remember that, whenever Mr. John Thomas is raising his head, sniffing around with his single nostril, it can have a deleterious effect on the brain of the owner. He isn't very intelligent at the best of times, and when he's sniffing around, it requires all his attention. And a great deal of mine too, come to think of it. Throw in a compliment like that at the same time and you're quite likely to say something you'll later regret.

"Not to worry," I said. "Uncle Bob will help make all that nasty nervousness go away and ensure that you will be confident and eager to sally forth onto the battlefield of adolescent emotional carnage!" It was a pretty speech ... don't you think? Oh woe to we mere men, who dig deep holes for ourselves with only our mouths.

"So you will teach me to kiss!" she yipped, wiggling around on my lap some more. I admit, there was a much too long delay before I resisted.

"Hold on there," I said, running my hand up and down her braless back for some reason. "The Lone Ranger can't be kissing on Tonto."

"Of course not. They're both men," she said, pragmatically.

"Well so are we," I said. "As far as your mamma is concerned." I knew what I meant.

"Oh come on," she pouted. "It's not like I'm asking you to have sex with me or anything. It's just some kisses. I just don't want him to think I'm all dorky and stupid if I decide to kiss him. That's all."

I felt my skin turning green. The girl was fully aware of the "having sex" concept. She was deciding what to let the pimply faced interloper do and not do. I stifled a growl, deep in my throat, by clearing it.

"You don't need to be kissing anybody," I tried.

"Oh pooh!" she said, wiggling some more.

"And stop wiggling!" I ordered. Mr. John Thomas was now of a consistency somewhere between alloy steel and diamond, thanks to the images fluttering through my brain. Not to mention all that wiggling.

"Pleeease?" she begged, with those big, puppy dog eyes.

"What do you want to kiss an old fogy like me for anyway?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood. Not that she was all serious and passionate or anything. But there was no way on Earth she couldn't know about the boner she was wiggling on now, and I wanted her to think ... hell, I don't know what I wanted her to think. I just wanted her to stop torturing me.

"You're not an old fogy," she snorted. "My friends think you're a hottie. And we all think all those women are stupid for breaking up with you." She stared into my eyes. I swear she wiggled on purpose right then. "Please?" she asked, more quietly.

So I kissed her.

I know. I shouldn't have. I was at the end of my metaphorical rope. Actually, she was sitting on the end of my penis, which is basically the same thing.

And, because I think she was surprised I'd actually do it, her mouth was open a little bit when my lips sealed against hers, and I think it was in surprise. So, of course, I French kissed her. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time.

I sort of lost track of how long such a kiss should last. Well, academically, it should have lasted about point two five seconds or something. Assuming anybody would approve at all. But somehow her arms snaked around my neck, and warm, soft breasts, squashed against me, separated from my body only by her T shirt and mine. And my hands explored every inch of her back, confirming that there was no bra strap in there anywhere, neither high, nor low, nor unsnapped and hanging loose.

Oh, I didn't grab her succulent teenage breasts or anything, but with those elbows by my neck there wasn't much to deter my thumbs from straying to the sides of her breasts. It was the second or third time they did that that I finally came to my senses and pushed her away. My thumbs were on the sides of her breasts when I did that, by the way, which is how I know how firm, yet soft, those sweet mounds were.

"Wow," she said, and then panted quietly.

"Um ... sorry," I said, feeling convinced to my core that an apology was required.

"I don't think I'm going to let Jimmy Stricklin kiss me like that," she sighed. "That made me feel really funny."

And then she wiggled on my erection some more.

Suave and debonair as I am, I somehow managed to just stand up, dumping her on the floor. She squawked and I said "Sorry" again, followed by, "I gotta go. I'm really sorry!"

And then I made a hasty exit from the house, to my car, where I promptly reclined the seat and beat my meat furiously. I was pretty sure that was the only way to avoid being pulled over for completely inattentive driving on my way home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Now, on the face of it, based on what I've told you thus far, it should be pretty clear that all she was, was curious ... kind of like way back when, when I changed that diaper and was curious. And there was every indication that she was now satisfied.

Well, to be more nearly correct I should say I had no reason to believe that there would be any residual curiosity left in her. She'd gotten her kiss and now knew what that was like. She had already decided that Jimmy whoever-he-was was not getting even a teensy bit lucky. So I was pretty happy, once I'd had the chance to calm down.

But being calmed down and happy doesn’t mean I expected everybody else to be that way too. I was pretty sure that the next time I entered the house, everyone was going to point at me and scream: "Pervert!"

In fact, I had to go back the very next morning. When I left that night I wasn't thinking about how I'd promised to replace the water heater the next day. It was only producing luke-warm water and was twenty years old. The boys and I were supposed to do some male bonding while they helped me and all that.

When I got there and entered the house quietly, Jill was at the stove, cooking. She heard the hinges squeak and turned to look at me.

"Why didn't you just pull out the couch?" she asked.

There were a couple of ways of interpreting that, but I decided that since she wasn't advancing on me with a knife her daughter hadn't shared with her what one reason was that I might have wanted to pull the couch out.

"I had some things to do," I said.

"Well, the boys aren't up yet, so you may as well have some breakfast. You know them. They'll stay in bed for another hour, at least."

I sat down and suddenly realized that the elder woman in the Caldwell household apparently got her jammies from the same place the younger one did. The T shirt Jill was wearing was only fractions of an inch from announcing whether or not she was wearing panties herself.

That brought me to reflect on how I hadn't really examined Jill's potential as a sexual mate in a long time. I had done so pretty routinely while Duke was still alive. But when he died, I lost interest because it seemed like it dishonored his memory. I realized he'd been gone five years, and it shocked me.

"Do you still miss him?" I asked, without planning on doing so.

She looked over her shoulder. "Yeah, but it's not so awful now. I haven't cried in a long time." She looked sad.

"I'm sorry," I said. “I still think about him too.”

She was still looking at me. "Yeah. I know. It means a lot to me."

Then, I swear on Grandma Harker's grave, she put the spatula down, came and sat sideways on my lap, and put her arms around me, hugging me and kissing my hair.

"You mean a lot to all of us, Bobby."

Well shit. You can just imagine that if I was feeling guilty already, she basically unmanned me completely. I mean there was no hint that Mr. John Thomas would ever rise again, never mind that she was also braless, and smelled good, and was wearing white panties with little red hearts on them.

But then it was over and she got up and went back to the stove. She didn't pull her T shirt down, which confused me. But then most things a woman does confuse me.

About ten seconds later Cindy came bouncing into the kitchen. She was dressed in one of those things that is a sports bra, but can also be worn as outer clothing. In addition to that she wore shorts, and had her running shoes on.

"Hi, Uncle Bob," she chirped, and then "Save me something, Mom. I'm going running."

And she was out the door before I could even reflect on how normal everything seemed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Six hours later I stood back and looked at the new water heater. It should have been a two hour job, max. But plumbing and I have never gotten along well, especially in an old house. It was installed, though, and installed correctly. The boys had had a good time, and I'd been able to teach them some things, so I was happy. The boys went to clean up while I double-checked for leaks. I turned around to find Cindy, arms folded, leaning against the door jamb of the utility room, staring at me. She still had on the running outfit.

Without a word, she walked over to me, slid her arms around me, and kissed me.

French kissed me.

For a long time.

When she slumped, and her lips left mine, I opened my eyes to see hers were still closed. She licked her lips and opened her eyes.

"I just wondered if the second time would be as good as the first."

"Oh," I said, somewhat rattled. I knew the front of my pants was displaying things I didn't want displayed.

"It was," she sighed. She leaned up and kissed me on the lips again. But this time it was just a "Hi, Uncle Bob" kiss, brief and light, more a brushing of the lips than a real kiss. "Thank you," she said. She frowned. "Oh yeah. Lunch is ready."

And then she turned around and left.

Chapter Two

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I managed to get her alone and kiss her some more, to break down her resistance.

Wrong.

Nothing happened for six more months.

Well. She went on dates ... lots of them, in fact. She was very popular. She was going to the local junior college to knock out some core courses, before she decided where she wanted to go to get her bachelor's degree. They had intramural sports teams and she went out for basketball and got on the team, though she sat on the bench a lot. But still, she was a "jock" and she was popular, and that's always good for a girl in that setting. I found this out from her brothers, who were a good source of gossip about things in that community. But they didn't know anything about her dates, or what happened on them.

I remember one night Dennis and I had been assigned to go get ice cream, and as we were driving to the store I asked him if he was worried about how guys were treating her on her dates.

"No," he said. He didn't seem to feel like any explanation was required.

"Why not?" I asked, unhappy with that answer.

"Because the guys she goes out with know that we'd break their legs if they get out of line."

Well that was a little harsh. But I didn't tell him that, of course.

"I'm glad you guys are keeping an eye on her," I said.

"Not like she needs it," he said, yawning. "She tells guys right up front that there will be no kissing and no fooling around and that the only thing she's looking for is to have some fun doing something with somebody other than her brothers."

"You're kidding!" I said. She was a popular girl. She'd been going out every Friday night and would have probably been out on Saturday nights too except Jill limited her to one date a week. Her popularity was one of the reasons I had been a little bit worried, in fact.

"Nope," Said Dennis. "I never knew what platonic meant until she explained it to me."

It turned out that one of his friends asked her out and heard that word in her conditions. He didn't know what it meant either, but he bluffed his way through and then asked Dennis what it meant. Since Dennis didn't know, he just went to Cindy and asked her. But I didn't find that out until much later, during some pillow talk.

I'm getting ahead of myself. The point is that my relationship with Cindy was the same as always. We talked to each other and did things together, and just life was normal. Somebody had fixed up the old roller skating rink, which had sat empty for two decades. Everything was still there and, from what I hear, the hardwood floor didn't even have to be sanded. They just cleaned it and put down a new coat of whatever. But apparently the younger generation had embraced roller skating again, and most of the kids hung out there a lot.

I even took Jill skating there once. Talk about feeling like a boat out of water. There were young people everywhere, whizzing along, some of them on sleek inline skates that made them look like speed skaters. But it was fun to watch, and the onion rings were to die for. We didn't see Cindy there that night but one of her friends blew me a kiss as she flew by.

It made me remember what she'd said about her friends thinking I was hot. I have to admit it made me feel pretty good.

Jill teased me about it by calling me a dirty old man.

So on a cold night in December when I was staying over because there was a blizzard outside, you can imagine my surprise when I got to see Cindy's "upgraded" jammies.

Everyone else had gone to bed. The boys had been shoveling snow all day, trying to avoid having to tackle it when it was two feet deep, which is what the forecast called for. So they were bushed. Jill always went to bed early. And, once again, I was channel surfing, trying to find something other than cooking shows, great sales on jewelry no woman in her right mind would want, creams that would make your skin eleven again and on and on. Jill had the thermostat turned up because she said they deserved to be comfortable without having to wear layers of clothes inside.

"Hey," said my niece as she walked into the room and stood to one side of me.

I looked up, froze, tried to breathe, couldn't, almost passed out, and then finally got some air in.

She had on another T shirt, but this one stopped just under her breasts, which appeared to have grown since I last inspected them. I don't know the technical term, but the panties she had on covered the really important parts, with sides that rose up to hang on the tops of the hips. When she turned and went to the light by the other chair to turn it off, I saw that the back of the panties covered exactly half of each butt cheek. It was obvious that if she did any exercise at all, those panties would suck right between her cheeks, like a thong.

The panties were red, with a little white heart right over the sweet spot in front. There was something written on that heart, but it was too small for me to read without staring.

Actually, now that I think about it, it was too small to be read even though I was staring.

My eyes started back up to where they belonged but when they got to her breasts again I noticed that, suddenly, her nipples were very erect and thrusting proudly through the cloth of the T shirt.

When I got to her face she was looking at me ... looking at her. Her eyes glittered in the relative darkness of the room.

"Aren't you a little under-dressed?" I managed. My voice cracked, but I managed.

"No. It's no big deal. You used to change my diaper ... remember?"

Now who would have thought that a girl would remember her uncle seeing her buck naked a few years in the past and then remembered what he'd said when it happened?

Cindy would. That's who.

"I admit it was slightly different back then," I said, shakily.

"Oh? How?"

I didn't stop to think about why she'd ask that question ... or even be having this conversation at all. I just reacted.

"Well, you were naked then, for one thing."

"Oh. Should I get naked now? Would that help?" She sounded so sweet and innocent!

My guard went up, though, because while her voice was sweet and innocent, what she'd said was definitely from the other end of the spectrum.

"Of course not," I said. "What do you want?"

She seemed to kind of deflate a little bit, like she had tried something and it hadn't worked.

"I need another favor."

With my guard up, not to mention that word "another," I was more careful.

"Maybe," I said, carefully.

"Gee. Try not to be too eager, Uncle Bob." Her voice was completely out of character for the situation. I looked at her face (for some reason I had looked back at her breasts. Don't ask me why) and she looked almost disgusted.

This was no pre-driver license girl any longer. And even though the last time this scenario had played out was only six months in the past, she had grown a heck of a lot in that time. She looked like a woman on the prowl, every man's dream, with those long, bare legs, and that bare midriff, and that camel toe under that little white heart. I wondered, briefly, why I hadn't noticed the camel toe before. I had to figure out what she was up to, and how to handle things.

"Look, Kitten," I said, softly. "I know this growing up thing is weird, and confusing, and maybe even a little bit scary sometimes. But you need to be careful when you explore things, because the situation can go south in a hurry."

"What in the world are you talking about?" she asked.

"I'm talking about this sexual play you're doing," I said. "The kissing?" I nodded wisely. "And now, whatever it is you're after tonight? Dressed like that? If you were doing this with the wrong guy, things could get ugly. Some guys aren't nice guys, Cindy."

"Well duh," she said, unimpressed. "Why do you think I'm coming to you about it? I'm not stupid, you know. I know I can trust you."

"Oh really?" I let my eyes rake down her again, trying to look predatory. "And what if someday I turn out not to be such a nice guy? What if I wanted a whole lot more than some kisses and a little stinky finger or something?"

She bounced on her naked toes. "Do you?" she asked, breathily. "Really?"

I looked at her like she was crazy. Maybe she was crazy.

"Of course not!" I snapped, being responsible. And lying very believably, I might add. "What is wrong with you?"

It might have turned into a nice, intelligent, useful dialogue on her feelings, and what was going on in her mind and all that sort of thing, except that when I demanded to know what was wrong with her she got red in the face and burst into tears and the next thing I knew all that teenaged pulchritude was in my arms, and all that hair was in my face, smelling wonderful, and those hot little breasts - okay, not so little breasts - were pressed against me and she was crying in my neck. Obviously I had wounded her horribly.

She calmed down after a little bit, but her arms were still around my neck, and her breath was still hot on my throat. She sniffled a little bit, and then pulled back.

"Nothing is wrong with me. I just have all these feelings and stuff, and I can't explore them with any of the guys I know, because they'd get the wrong idea and think I was giving in and I don't want that kind of reputation."

She had to stop and take a breath, and I really wanted to say something, but, for once I decided keeping quiet might be a better idea. So I did.

"And I know you love me, and would never hurt me, and I can trust you."

She was right about that, of course. I had tried to be the gruff old bear, and had hurt her feelings, but the fact was I'd cut off my Johnson before letting it hurt her.

Well, maybe not cut it off.

But you get my drift.

"What's stinky finger?" she asked.

I swallowed. It was still a good time to be silent, as far as I was concerned. But she was waiting for an answer.

"Never mind," I said.

"Don't say that!" she said firmly. "I'm not a little girl any more. I need to know things, and you're the only man I can come to."

"That's the whole point," I said. "You're not a little girl any more. You have all your grown up woman parts now and they look good and men are going to react to you from now on. Just looking at you makes them feel like a lion. And they all want just one thing, and that's to claim you for their pride." It was a pretty speech, if you ask me, but, of course, she was a woman, and didn't react to it like she should have.

"I'm not going to be in any pride," she said. "I'm a one man woman, thank you very much." She blinked and looked confused. “A one woman man,” she said, and then frowned. “My man only gets one woman!” she finally said firmly.

"I'm glad you feel that way," I said. "But I'm talking biology and you're talking culture. Two different things. The biology is a lot stronger. Trust me."

"So ... is that why you said you might want more than ... stinky finger? How am I supposed to know what that means if I don't know what stinky finger is? Is that some code word for your penis or something?"

It was her use of the word "penis" that made me realize how grown up she really was. I had to remember that being of legal age does not instantly make one an adult. You have to learn how to be an adult if you want to get along in the world. I guess I should say she was trying hard to be grown up. So I decided to try treating her the way she was trying to be. Nothing else had worked ... you know?

"No," I said. "When guys fool around with a girl, one of the things they try to do is masturbate her with their finger. A woman's sexual fluids have a distinctive odor. The crude way of referring to it is called having a stinky finger, or playing stinky finger."

Her head suddenly froze, and I was afraid I had gone too far, but her eyes went somewhere else and she took in a breath, frowning.

"Rod French," she said. Her eyes cleared and she looked at me again. "He's on the guys wrestling team. Every time he sees me he rubs his nose with his finger. He's obviously rubbing it, but it looks like he's sniffing it too. He does this while he says "Hi, Cindy." If there are any guys around, they always laugh. I didn't know what was going on! That son of a bitch!

"Just kick him in the balls the next time you see him," I counseled. "Take him by surprise, but then lean down, when he's not moaning so loudly, and say 'Hi, Rod.' Make it look like it's the most normal thing in the world."

"I'll get suspended," she said.

"Not if you show the dean what he was doing to you," I said. "Be sure to sniff audibly when you drag your finger under your nose. And the finger needs to be nice and straight."

"I'll get suspended for sure, then," she said.

"Then tell him you'll demonstrate that to the board of regents when we appeal the suspension, based on Rod French's sexual harassment of you."

She thought about that for a few seconds. Then she smiled. "See? I need to be able to talk to you about all this stuff."

"Talking is different than doing," I reminded her.

She stared into my eyes. "You were such a good kissing teacher," she whispered.

Then she kissed me. With tongue.

So I grabbed her breast. If she wanted to play with fire, I was going to teach her how hot it could be.

I'm not admitting anything ... but it's possible that I just wanted to cup that breast. She had me pretty worked up.

She didn't stop kissing me. Her hand came and held mine. But she didn't take my hand off her firm, adolescent breast. She just stopped it from moving around. Finally she pulled her lips from mine.

"You were not the first boy to kiss me. But you're the first to touch me there," she said.

"One - I'm not a boy. Two - all men wish they could touch you there. Three - you're supposed to be slapping me right now."

Instead of slapping me, though, she kissed me again.

And wiggled on my boner, dammit!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It turned out that what she wanted was to be touched by a man. Plenty had tried, despite her lecture to them all about how platonic their dates were supposed to be. But she had fended them all off. Even so, she was curious about what it would feel like to be touched.

And, despite the fact that I had clearly told her I was a man, not a boy, I still got the nod.

"And just where am I supposed to touch you?" I asked, trying to keep things clinical.

"You know," she said, with puppy dog eyes again. "Places."

"Haven't you touched yourself?" I asked.

She turned beet red, which I thought was most interesting. I mean here's a grown young woman, asking her uncle to molest her, for all intents and purposes, and she's embarrassed about admitting she masturbates?

"My friends tell me it's different," she said, in a whisper.

"You have two brothers," I said. Then I wondered why the hell I'd said that. I realized I was on such thin ice that I was trying anything that came to mind not to fall through.

She didn't laugh, or say "Ewwww" or anything that I expected her to.

"I've talked to the girls who went out with my brothers. They're horndogs who always try to get as much as they can from a girl."

"They're male," I said. "That's what I've been trying to explain to you."

"And that's why I'm coming to you about this," she said.

"I'm a male, Cindy!" I said.

"Yes, but you're a safe male," she argued.

I didn't scream, though I really wanted to. Instead I took her gently by the hand, and pushed her gently away from me, moving her hand downwards. I managed to get it under her and onto my erection before she figured out what I was doing.

"There is no such thing as a safe male," I said softly.

She didn't jerk her hand away. Instead she squeezed and explored.

"Stop that!" I barked.

"Well you put it there!" she complained. "Can I see it?"

"No! You may not see it, Cindy! And get off my lap!"

She got up. The only problem with that was that she stood right in front of me, looking at my lap, her feet spread shoulder's width apart.

Remember those panties? The ones that had something written on them?

It was "Yum," with a stylized tongue under the word.

And by how her camel toe was well defined and luscious looking. Her nipples were jutting, too. None of these things had been evident while she sat on my lap. She looked ripe ... ready ... sexy as hell ... and all woman.

"Where the hell did you get those panties?" I rasped.

She thrust her loins at me.

"Do you like them?" she asked, all perky. "Amanda Rollins got them from the internet. She gave them to me to wear when I ... she got them for me as a gift."

Her change of thought in the middle of the sentence might have gotten more of my attention, except that her new panties were ... well ... there was a stain on them ... a spot that was darker than the rest ... right where those lips were so well defined. She was turned on. It was obvious, and that made her even more sexy than otherwise.

"Please don't do this," I croaked.

"Awww, come on, Uncle Bob. I just want to fool around a little bit. I'm not asking for all that much."

"I asked you if you touched yourself," I said. "And you do. That's obvious from the way you reacted. You masturbate. Well I do too, and I need to do that right now. That's how much you've affected me. I want to have sex, Cindy, not fool around a little bit. That's what I've been trying to explain to you!"

I think I was trying to get her uncomfortable by talking about the intimacy of things. And yes, I know how stupid that sounds, considering just how intimate she wanted things to be.

And I thought I might have succeeded, because she got all red in the face again, and shifted around, moving her feet. If she'd been three I'd have suspected she needed to pee. But that wasn't it at all. She was not intimidated.

"You could teach me how to masturbate you," she said. "According to all my friends, I need to learn how to do that too."

But, believe it or not, that was nothing, compared to what she said next.

"But I don't want to put my mouth on it." Her body gave a cute little shudder. "I'm not ready for that yet."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I think what saved me, in that situation, was the fact that she was so casual about all this. She wasn't excited, leaking pussy lips and stiff nipples aside. She was trying to make a sale, and she knew it was going to be a hard sell. And I think it was that that sobered me up a bit, and gave me back my brain.

"You've really given this a lot of thought," I observed.

She gave me a very level, very unembarrassed look.

"I see how my friends act when things get all screwed up. It doesn't look like they're having all that much fun. But I know it's part of growing up and I have to do it sooner or later. I just want it to be with a guy I can talk to about it. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Yes, sweetheart, and that's a laudable concept. But a lot of this love stuff is kind of trial and error by nature."

"I don't see why it has to be," she complained.

"Okay," I said. "Since you've come to someone you think you can talk to about it, then let's talk. Exactly what do you want out of this?"

"I'm not sure," she said.

"That's not helpful at all," I said. "I'm going to need a lot more guidance than that, or I may take things too far."

"Then you'll do it?" She was all perky again.

"I didn't say that," I said, holding up a hand. "It depends on what you want me to do. Believe it or not, I'm old fashioned about this kind of thing. There are some things I think you should save for the person you marry."

"Have you saved those things?" she asked.

I had painted myself into somewhat of a corner there. I tried to leap past the paint.

"That's complicated," I said. "I thought I was going to get married to the women I ... um ..." I frowned. "I thought we'd get married later," I finished.

"To all of them?" she asked, as if there had been a hundred, instead of only eight or nine.

"Never mind that. There are some things I think you should save. If those women would have saved it, then I'd be married now, okay?

"Oh. Okay. Well, all I want to do is fool around and see what that feels like," she said.

"Fool around," I said. Visions of pretty much everything flitted through my mind. I found myself staring at that "Yum" and that stylized tongue and wondered if she'd taste as good as she looked.

"And learning how to ... um ... masturbate you ... might come in handy too. That's what I'm told, anyway."

Well, at least she was getting a little less eager. Her hesitation to use the correct word suggested that.

Something occurred to me. Actually, I got a little paranoid. I wondered if we were alone. Was there someone ... several someone's ... listening in the dark ... watching to see what the dirty old man would do?

"And what happens if, while you're involved in Fooling Around 101 with professor Bob, someone walks down the stairs and sees what you're doing?"

"That would be awkward," she said, frowning.

"Indeed."

"We could do it at your house," she suggested.

I thought about that for exactly five seconds. If she ever came to my house, she'd get fucked. Plain and simple. This girl had no clue as to the emotions that were going to be unlocked in her while she played at learning about sex. I was quite sure I could get whatever I wanted from her, and if I had her alone at my house I would want it all.

"Your penis moved," she whispered, looking at my lap.

"That's because I was thinking about how completely helpless you'd be at my house," I said, quite honestly, "and how I could get you naked and under me in bed."

"You were not!" she chided.

"You do have a lot to learn," I said grimly. "But not at my house."

"My room?"

"You have people on both sides of you," I pointed out.

"So, they all snore. I can hear them through the walls."

"Sweetheart, if I start working on you you're going to squeal like a cute little piglet. People could hear you next door."

"They could not!" she chided.

I honestly think that attitude was what made me decide to do it. I'd show her whether or not she'd squeal like a pig.

The only question left was where and when the squealing would take place.

Chapter Three

Once I had agreed to give her "lessons" then we had to figure out when to do that. It wasn't like we needed a regular night to fool around. I figured I could pretty well show her the whole ball of wax in one twenty minute session. It was just a matter of getting those twenty minutes in circumstances where her squealing, which I was now dedicated on producing, wouldn't get me thrown in jail.

The opportunity came without warning. Jill was baking cookies one night and ran out of brown sugar. She asked me to go get some. The store was on the opposite side of town, which meant, since the streets were icy, it was going to be a thirty minute trip, if not more. But I had an unopened package of brown sugar in my pantry, which was only five minutes away. That violated my rule about getting Cindy alone at my house but in a flash of brilliance it occurred to me that what she wanted to learn how to do was usually done in a car anyway, right?

"Hey," I said to Cindy. "You want to go with me? I hear they have a special on beauty products, and you could sure use some."

"Bob!" barked Jill. "That was a horrible thing to say!"

"He's a horrible old man," said Cindy, who wasn't stupid at all. She knew I was up to something. "So I'll punish him by talking girl talk with him aaaaall the way there and aaaaall the way back home!" She grinned maniacally.

Dennis groaned. "A fate worse than death," he intoned.

"See how you affect the children?" Jill complained.

When we got in the car, Cindy listened while I laid out my plan.

"Are you hard?" she asked, reaching over to feel around in my lap.

"Not yet, you hussy!" I laughed.

Things started going off plan as soon as we got to my house. It was January and the car hadn't warmed up from the short trip. Plus we both froze our tails off as we ran from the car to my house. While I got the brown sugar, Cindy decided the car would be too cold, and took off her coat. And her shirt. And her bra.

It turned out she wanted to know what it was like to have her breasts played with.

And she didn't want the crash course, either.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

She didn't squeal. I have to admit that. She moaned a lot, and sighed like crazy, but there were no squeals.

Once I caved about doing it at the house and realized we only had fifteen minutes left, I went to work on her breasts. I say "went to work" because that's how I was trying to think about it. As I touched her, I told her what I was doing, talking about nerve endings and areolas and nipples.

Then she said, "Please just shut up and touch me, Uncle Bob. We don't have much time and I can't concentrate on the feelings if you babble."

So I got her nipples nice and stiff and pinched them different ways and flicked them while I kissed her, which took all of five minutes. And I had to taste them. Right? I mean that's part of the experience. Right?

She liked that. She liked that a lot, and her hands did what most women's hands do in that situation, and that's cradle the head to her breast, just like it's an infant. And I happily sucked those nipples until she was twisting and groaning and even though I'd been told to shut up I informed her that what she was feeling right now required an orgasm to make it go away, which was the problem with letting men do what I was doing.

"Then give me an orgasm," she panted.

She was wearing jeans. I didn't dare undo them. My feet had already turned into hooves inside my socks and shoes, and there was no doubt fur growing on my arms and legs. I was halfway through the transformation to satyr already.

But, as it turned out, she didn't even need skin to skin contact. Just the unfamiliar touch of a male hand outside her jeans was enough to tip her over the cliff. Of course I knew where and how to rub her, which I'm sure helped. But she still didn't squeal. She groaned in what sounded like agony, but then, as soon as her legs let my hand loose she had her lips on mine, giving me tongue like we were lovers.

"Thank you so much," she panted. "I can't wait to do that again!"

"You're not supposed to be planning on doing things again," I complained. "This is just so you know what things feel like ... remember?"

"All I remember is feeling wonderful," she said, her eyes bright. "Next time I'll concentrate on what's happening. I promise."

Ahhh, callow youth.

"We'd better get going. Don't forget the sugar," she said, hopping up, all perky and beautiful. I suddenly wanted to see her all naked, instead of just topless. And that reminded me of why I had put my house off limits.

It wasn't until we were parking back at her house that I realized my fantasy of knocking out Fooling Around 101 in twenty minutes was a bust.

It was going to take a lot longer than twenty minutes.

Whether I wanted it to or not.

As if to punctuate that thought, Cindy leaned over and put her hand on my erection, which was still there, and still needed attention.

"Maybe next time we'll have time for you to teach me how to help you out down there."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

There was a subtle change to our normal relationship after that. That was, primarily, that whenever Cindy and I were alone, even if it was only for twenty seconds, she kissed me. And they were the good kisses; not the kind a niece would normally give to her uncle. Each time she did this she whispered "Thanks" when it was over, and grinned and went on about her business.

Once I smacked her on the ass after she did that. It was a nice, full contact, perfect slap, and it had to sting, because I didn't hold much back. She was making life tough for me and I wanted to warn her, you know? And I thought it had worked, because she stopped like she'd been turned into a statue or something, just frozen, with her back to me.

But the look she gave me when her head turned and her eyes gazed at me over her shoulder, was one that suggested hungry lioness, and I was the rabbit. Or ibis, or whatever lionesses eat. She clearly wasn't unhappy about it. I was reminded of Jeanette, a woman I went out with for a while who liked to be spanked as a prelude to what she called making up. If I got her butt nice and pink and mottled, she was so wet we needed a towel.

So I resolved never to do that again. After all, that wasn't part of Fooling Around 101. That was part of an upper division class.

Twice, during these little impromptu ambushes - that's what they were, ambushes! - she let her hand drift to the front of my pants and just let me know it was there. Both times, when she stopped kissing me she said, "I love you a lot, Uncle Bob."

The next time we had a class was because the boys were in wrestling, and had a meet. I was there for supper and Jill invited me to go to the meet.

"You want to come with us?" she asked. "The whole family is going."

"I'm not," said Cindy, immediately. "I have no desire to see a bunch of boys, dressed in eighteenth century swim suits, groping each other on what amounts to a bed."

"Wrestling is not gay!" barked Dennis, who was suddenly red in the face.

Cindy laughed. "I know. But it was sure fun to see you get all worked up about it."

"So you're going," said Jill.

"No. Rod French will be there," said Cindy. She darted a look at me and I remembered that Rod was the stinky finger guy. Apparently she hadn't kicked him in the balls yet.

"Of course he will," said Mark. "He's the star of the team."

"He thinks I'm interested in him," said Cindy. "And I'm not, so I don't want to encourage him."

"He did say he thought you were hot," said Dennis. "Of course I told him he needed to see a doctor and get glasses." He smirked, and his twin brother said, "Good one, dude."

"Uncle Bob can stay here to keep an eye on me," she said, carefully, looking at a forkful of green beans.

"Do you need someone to keep an eye on you?" asked her mother, one eyebrow arched.

"You never know. I might invite a young man over while you were gone, or throw a wild party or something."

"She might," said Mark, grinning. "She's gone out with so many guys and shut them all down she'd have to throw a beer bash just to get a guy to talk to her anymore."

"Well you're not invited!" snapped his sister.

Jill commenced to complain about the way her children treated each other, but the end result was that Cindy decided to stay home and Jill asked me to stay with her.

So the rest of them got ready and left. Cindy disappeared up to her room, and I settled in on the couch with the clicker.

This time, when Cindy appeared, all she had on was the Yum panties.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"What are you going to do if one of them forgot something and they come back to get it?" I asked, after I worked up enough saliva to actually speak.

"Run like crazy," she said, not smiling. "Is it normal for me to feel so horny when I think about fooling around?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good, 'cause I feel really horny."

"That's part of the biology I was talking about. Your body is trying to get you laid."

"I don't want to get laid. I just want to fool around."

"I didn't say you wanted to get laid. I said your body wants to get laid. There's a big difference. Do you think that thousands of teenage girls actually want to get pregnant before they get out of high school?

"No," she said, looking a little uncomfortable.

"And yet, somehow, they do," I said. "That's biology, dear one. Your body wants to get laid, and mine wants to lay you."

"Really?" She suddenly exuded sexual interest, as if she'd already forgotten my recent warning. "Do you really want ... that ... or are you just trying to make me feel good?"

I sighed. "Sweetheart, I know tons of women I'm not interested in having sex with. If any of them came to me and asked me to fool around with them, just for fun, I would politely decline. Mr. John Thomas doesn't stand to attention for just any old woman."

"Mr. John Thomas? I thought we were talking about you." She did look confused.

"It's just a name for my ... um ... manhood."

She laughed. "You call him Mr. John Thomas?"

"It's a traditional name," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.

"I think it's time I got to meet Mr. John Thomas," she said.

It is difficult for me to describe what it was like, sitting there on the couch, having this conversation with a beautiful young woman dressed only in panties that invited me to lick her pussy. You could look at a picture of a girl dressed like that, but it wouldn't communicate what I was feeling. I had cared about this girl her entire life. She owned parts of me, in a sense, as did the others in her family. I loved her; and that was the problem. I loved her the wrong way. And though I was sure she was only experimenting, the way she loved me was off too. It would kill me if I ended up hurting her somehow and lost her in my life. And yet, sitting there looking at her, I wanted her more than I'd wanted any woman in my life.

I'm pretty sure it was biology that made me stand up and drop my pants. But I'm also sure I know how a woman feels when she spends a whole lot of time getting all gussied up and then watches a man see her efforts for the first time. She has a lot invested in whether he likes what he sees or not.

Yes, of course I know I didn't have anything but my age invested in Mr. John Thomas. But I was still worried that she might laugh, or run screaming from the room, or whatever.

What she did was look at him, standing there, leaning drunkenly and bobbing in time with my heartbeat, and say just one word.

"Hmmm. Interesting."

Okay. Two words.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

She had spent a good three or four minutes just looking at my penis, moving around and examining it from different angles. Then she touched it with one fingertip, moving it sideways and then removing her finger. She giggled when it wobbled back to where it had been.

"It looks broken or something," she said.

"It's not broken," I muttered.

"That thing there," she pointed to the collar around the head, "that's the foreskin ... right?"

"Yes." I skinned it back for her, exposing the head underneath.

"Wow." She looked at it doubtfully. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Not even a little bit," I said. I let the foreskin go and it returned about half way.

"It looks too big to ... you know."

"Well, since we're not going to ... you know ... then that doesn't really matter, does it."

She finally reached to squeeze it gently and then let go. She looked at her hand for some reason. I immediately thought of my Aunt Dorothy, who had caught me beating off one time when I was thirteen. She'd told me that made hair grow on my palms, and I'd believed her. I hadn't touched myself for almost a month, and then I snuck one of my mother's rubber gloves to use because I was going crazy.

"Can you ... um ... suck my nipples ... while I play with it?"

"It's not a toy, Cindy."

"I know that. Would you feel better if I asked you to suck my nipples while I manipulate your manhood?"

"It's sensitive," I said, ignoring the fact that she had a good point. It did sound pretty stupid to talk about manipulating it, as opposed to playing with it. "You need to learn how to touch it properly, so you won't hurt it."

"I thought when you masturbated you jerked on it. Isn't that why they call it jerking off?" She was completely serious.

"It looks violent," I said, but it really isn't. Your hand only moves two or three inches. Any farther than that and it hurts. But you move those two or three inches fast and it looks violent." I demonstrated, and she watched, fascinated.

"And that doesn't hurt?"

"Not at all. Just make sure you don't go too far when you try it yourself."

Now I know this doesn't sound all that romantic, and it wasn't. It wasn't supposed to be romantic.

And in the beginning, it wasn't. Nothing was coordinated. She pushed her chest towards my face and gripped my penis. Her hand started sliding, but I couldn't keep sucking because she was doing it wrong and I needed to tell her how to do it right. So it was kind of stop and go, and uncoordinated. Plus, from her perspective, she expected the thing she was playing with to spit - whatever that meant - and when it didn't, she was confused and was too distracted to enjoy what she had asked me to do.

So finally she stopped and sat back on her haunches. I had lain down on the couch and she was on her knees beside it.

"I don't get it," she said. "This isn't really all that much fun."

"Good sex takes some practice, and it helps if you have a close, personal relationship with your partner."

"I do have a close, personal relationship with you," she complained.

"I meant that you need to be in love with the person you're intimate with, to have the best sex. That's why all us stuffy old adults keep telling you kids not to fool around until you get married."

"I do love you," she said, pouting. "And I do need to learn how to do this so I can handle men who get too excited on a date. It's just hard to concentrate on doing things right, and still enjoy the rest of it."

"When you find the right guy, it will all click," I said. That was bull, and I knew it, but it sounded good.

"So why couldn't I masturbate you right?"

"Oh, don't feel bad about that, sweetheart," I said. "A man's penis is a difficult thing to understand. Half ... maybe more than half of an orgasm is in the mind. What happens physically is important, but you need to be really turned on to get there easily."

"And I don't turn you on." She made it sound like I was the last man on earth, and didn't want her.

"Don't be silly. It's hard, isn't it? That's because you turn him on something fierce. But he needs to be stroked just so, to cough and puke." I said it without thinking about how insensitive it might sound to tender ears.

"Ewwww," she said, alerting me to how insensitive I'd been.

"Look," I said. "Remember last time, when you got your nipples sucked for the first time?"

She nodded. "I loved that. That's why I wanted you to do it again."

"Well remember that I rubbed you. And you were so excited ... in your mind ... that it didn't take very much rubbing at all for you to have an orgasm. Remember?"

She nodded, and I saw pink suffuse her upper chest. She didn't look embarrassed, though. Her nipples, which had gone soft when she was unhappy, perked back up, and I knew she was remembering that orgasm.

"I only touched you a little bit. But you usually have to touch yourself much longer than that to get off by yourself ... right?"

Her eyes opened wide. "How did you know that? Sometimes it takes me half an hour!"

"You were ready, mentally, to have that orgasm. You wanted it. You were already close. And all I did was touch you just enough and at just the right time for it to be what you needed. Trust me, if you're on a date with a man and you do to him what you did to me just now, he'll shoot. He might not want to shoot, but he will, because his biology will make him."

"Why wouldn't he want to shoot?"

"Because he'd rather put it in your pretty pussy and shoot in there," I said.

"The whole point of doing this is to keep him from doing that," she said.

"If he's excited enough, he'll blow like Mount Vesuvius," I said. "Especially if you talk about wanting to see him cum. Don't worry about that."

"And you weren't ready to have an orgasm just now?" she guessed.

"Something like that. You said yourself you weren't having much fun. I suspect that's because we were both trying to do too many things at once. But the point is that, if it's not fun for you, it's not fun for me."

She thought about that for a while.

"So ... maybe if I didn't do anything while you gave me an orgasm ... then I could give you one while you weren't busy thinking about doing stuff to me?"

"Exactly," I said, pleased that I had communicated well.

"Okay!" she said, getting up on her knees. "Let's do that!"

"Um ... wait," I said, trying to figure where I had gone off track. "We're not supposed to be giving each other orgasms. This is just so you know what things feel like ... remember?"

"But it felt so goooood," she moaned. "And I love having you do it. Please? All I want is one little orgasm. And I really do need to be able to jack a guy off successfully. I mean everybody says that's the best way to control a guy."

This, my friends, is what they mean when they talk about venturing onto that slippery slope.

Except it wasn't her slope that was slippery when we traded places so I could kneel over her to suck her perfect little nipples while she lay on the couch and spread her long, smooth legs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I only meant to rub her on the outside of her panties. Honest! I think it was the sounds she was making, deep in her throat that made me stray. They were appreciative sounds ... primal sounds. She really did love having those nipples nursed, and they got long and firm and were a blast to suck and chew on too.

So I probably went on auto pilot, which is probably why I slid my hand into the panties ... and found the slippery ... cleft.

And I'm pretty sure it's because that cleft was so slippery, not to mention bare as the last time I had seen it, when she was a toddler, that caused me to just naturally slide a finger over her clit, which was now fully developed, and then onward, into the heat of her sexual tunnel. The fact that she arched her hips suddenly and violently with a "Huh!" is probably why my finger bottomed out in her pussy and my fingertip rimmed her virgin cervix.

And I'm nigh on to positive that it was, because she gasped, "Oh fuck that feels good!" that I fingerfucked her like we'd done it a hundred times before.

I got my squeal, by the way. That orgasm was a loud one.

I stopped, whereupon she begged, "Don't stop! Please, don't stop!" which of course led me to continue making her feel good. I did slow down in her panties and just massage things a bit. I was having something akin to buyer's remorse, I think, because I knew I shouldn't have done what I just did. She'd asked to have her nipples sucked because she liked that. It was pretty clear what she'd ask for next time and I was beginning to feel like I'd gotten in a lot deeper than I intended; literally, as well as figuratively, if you get my drift.

But then I felt better as her hand came to press the one I had in her panties and she said, "Okay, stop now." She was panting like she'd run a mile in five flat, but she pulled my hand out of her underwear and sat up as if she had all the energy in the world, bouncing up off the couch. Then she pointed and pushed me until I was on the couch on my back again.

"Take your shirt off!" she ordered. My T shirt had been on the whole time. That should give you some indication of how off normal I was. That shirt was all I had on at that moment. And then it was off and her hands were running all over my chest and belly, until they got to my penis, which was as hard as it had ever been.

"I want to do this right for you," she husked, and gripped it firmly with her right hand. She started stroking and I was amazed that she had the right grip with the right pressure, like I had told her was needed. She wasn't at the right speed, but I could work on that. And it felt fantastic, so I just closed my eyes and sighed.

"Am I doing it right?" she asked.

"Ohhhh, yeah," I sighed.

She went on for half a minute. Then she said "Would it help if I did this too?"

Something hot and wet covered the tip of my cock, and I jerked my head up to see her hair, covering my groin.

I believe I said something along the lines of, "Ohhhhh shiiiit."

And then, as if a switch had been thrown, I felt the rush of soothing semen coursing through my shaft and I yelped, but there was no way I could warn her in time. She only got two shots before her head came up, her mouth open and her eyes crazy. Her hands were fluttering in the air beside her head, like she was some demented bird.

She sort of coughed and spit, all at the same time, and I felt spatter on my stomach and chest.

"I'm sorry!" I blurted, not knowing what else to do. About then another shot was launched from the tip of my cock and it made a line down my chest. But that was the last one. It was only dribbles after that.

By now she was wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, while pushing her hair back off her face with the other. Her lips were smacking, though, instead of spitting. And she hadn't puked, which two of my old girlfriends had done. But they'd been expecting it, so maybe that doesn't count.