The Making of a Cocksman

The Making of a Cocksman

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore Edition

Copyright 2010 Robert Lubrican

2^nd edition 2025

License Notes

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Rights to use cover art purchased from iStock.com

Foreword

In the current political climate in the United States, there are those who insist that humans under the age of eighteen shouldn't ... and therefore don't engage in sexual behavior. Which is why they insist that (for our own good!) no book can contain descriptions of humans under the age of eighteen engaging in sexual behavior. Those people are quite willing to sue anybody who publishes such accounts and, even though they always lose (because it is entirely legal to write and publish descriptions of "underage" sexual behavior) they'll happily turn around and file the same lawsuit all over again. Soldiers are willing to die to defend American's rights. The "moral warriors" are willing to spend some of their money to run publishers out of business with legal expenses.

For publishers, rather than bring up something so worn out and potentially expensive to defend as freedom of speech, it is just easier to have a policy that prohibits descriptions of humans under the age of eighteen engaging in sexual behavior. That way they can get on with business. Who cares about the hundreds of thousands of years that teenagers have been having sex anyway, right?

Now I have to admit here that, being the pervert I obviously am, when I started this book, the girls you will meet, in the posse you will learn about, were under the age of 128. The male protagonist was also under 18. The book was, after all, supposed to be a coming-of-age kind of story. And, historically and statistically, at least, coming of age involves being under 18 and coming of that age. I mean it's just a definition. It is a time in literally billions of human's lives when they come of age, sexually speaking.

But that book can't be published.

So, in order to get this book published I had to edit all the ages to eighteen or higher. That's why this is now a comedy instead of a coming-of-age story. Well, it's a comedy if you actually look at any of the characters as if they are really eighteen.

Which they are, of course. I wouldn't lie about something that important. The moral police need to be assured they have done their job or they get unhappy.

There's one other thing. The language in this book is a little harsh, by polite standards. I throw the word "fuck" around freely, and I also use some of the vernacular that people use when talking about body parts. As odd as it may seem, because people actually use that language ... is why I used it here. I know, I know. It isn't literary, even if that language fits with the topic under examination. And I understand that attempts at realism in fiction are old fashioned and passé. But I'm old fashioned and passé.

I'm also just old ... and everybody knows that old folks reach a point where they just don't give a flying episode of intercourse.

See what literary and proper gets you?

Okay. So here's the deal. If you're a prude ... and there's nothing wrong with being a prude ... then this book isn't for you. If you read it your blood pressure will rise and anger will course through your body, creating chemicals of the same kind that flood serial killer's bodies when they feel the urge to do it again. That would be bad for you and, since I love all life, I don't want that to happen to you. Anger like that can lead to sinful thoughts and I know Heaven is really important to you. So if you're a member of the "Nobody has sex until after they're eighteen (and properly married) club" then turn away. Flee before any damage can be done.

If, on the other hand, you just want a good story, with a plot and some humor and some sex in it, which is what I think life should be like, then read on, because I'm your guy. And remember. The girls really are eighteen, not fifteen and sixteen. And Bobby is absolutely nineteen, not seventeen.

That's what political correctness gets you.

By the way. If you do decide to buy the book and you like it, instructions on how to see the original, uncensored version will be provided. No publisher will be involved in that, nor can the publisher be blamed (either morally or legally) for what you and I do on our private time.

I hope you enjoy this hilarious, politically correct story, which is now a how-to manual on what to do after you become an adult and can vote. If you're under the age of eighteen, some of you may already know what it's like to join the Army, be sent to war zones, and dodge bullets while you are told to kill people. I salute you and I'm proud you have never engaged in any sexual behavior. When you turn eighteen you'll be able to vote, too but I recommend you lose your virginity first. I'm just sayin'

Thanks for reading,

Bob

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Table of Contents

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Epilogue

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Chapter One

I'd like to start with a little philosophy. I really think it's important to set the stage for my story. So please indulge me. You might even enjoy it.

Have you ever thought about the word "Slut"? It's an interesting word, usually meaning a girl or woman who has sex with multiple men on a more or less casual basis. Right? But what do they call a guy who has sex as often as he can with multiple girls or women?

You don't call him a slut. Not even sluts call him a slut. It's an interesting philosophical question to some. Humor me for a few paragraphs to explore that philosophical question, and then I'll get to the part of the story you're actually looking for.

The fancy name is Gigolo, but that implies that he fucks for money ... that he's a male prostitute, and while you could make an argument that all prostitutes are sluts, you can't go the other way. That's a philosophical argument, by the way. Prostitutes just do different things to earn a living than most of the rest of us. If having a job makes you a productive member of society, then prostitutes are in the same category, philosophically speaking.

I even did some very unscientific research about what guys like that are called, but all I came up with was "cocksman" (alternatively spelled coxman) and "sex machine." In other words, I didn't find much. One other interesting difference is that to be a slut doesn't require any skill. She can just lie there and the guys are happy as a lark. But for a guy to be awarded the cocksman title, he must exhibit some extra skill at performing the sexual act. Think of it as the difference between polite applause and a standing ovation.

Anyway, whatever you call guys who do that, I'm one of them.

Now I know there are some of you out there who are saying "Shame, shame!" But you have to understand something. And here it is:

There has probably never been a time when a girl was sitting around playing with her dollies and thought to herself "I'm going to grow up and be a slut!"

And, I doubt seriously if most boys are climbing a tree one day and think "I'm going to fuck as many girls as I possibly can when my peter will actually squirt stuff."

You might notice that I used the terms "probably never" with the girls and "doubt seriously" with the boys. Isn't it interesting that one is more definitive than the other? Both are conditional statements, but let's face it, it's more likely that a guy will try to spread his seed far and wide than it is for a girl to accept seed from a variety of sources. It's worth thinking about that if a girl does it though, she's called a slut, and that's not a complimentary title. But if I guy does it, he's called a sex machine, or maybe a cocksman, both of which suggest he might be proud of himself. And, it follows that most men would like to be cocksmen, but not all that many are. At least, according to the ladies.

So, understanding that - and I admit it's open for argument - the question that bubbles to the top of the mind is: What is it that tips the balance for a guy to make him a cocksman?

I can think of arguments based on Biology, and arguments based on Culture, and arguments based on Evolution. But before we get too deep and you all quit reading, let me just tell you the story of how I became a sex machine. Then you can decide which argument might explain me.

Let me throw a wrench in the works from the very start by saying it was an accident.

I was a normal, ordinary, every-day guy in my late teens, growing up in a smallish town in Middle America. It wasn't the Bible Belt, but it wasn't far from that either. It was in the late sixties, but I wasn't tuned in to the "Love Generation" or any of that hippy stuff, and neither were any of the girls I'm going to tell you about.

I had a mom and a dad, and a sister named Claire. She was actually my step sister, because her dad and my mom got divorced at the same time and literally ran into each other at the courthouse. I guess he knocked her down and then helped her up and the rest was history. I was four at the time and Claire was two, so we were raised as brother and sister, even though we weren't actually related by blood. This will be very important later in this story, so don't forget it. Just remember that even though I called her my sister and she called me her brother ... we weren't related by blood.

I also had a dog, a mutt named Buddy, who I probably loved more than the others simply because Buddy always loved me, no matter what kind of trouble I got into. I couldn't afford a car, but had access to my Dad's 1941 Ford coupe for dates and to cruise the highway between Junctionville, where we lived and Derby, eleven miles down the road. Most all of us kids participated in that little rite on a more or less regular basis, going from the A&W Root beer place in "Junktown", to the Dairy Queen in Derby. And back, of course. Gas was twenty cents a gallon in those days and you could cruise the strip all night for a buck.

I took a lot of girls on that trip and, though I had an interest in necking, I never pushed it. The girls appreciated that too, which was the whole point. I got a reputation for being "safe", which encouraged most girls to accept an invitation to drag the strip.

It also encouraged them to experiment a little, since they all knew I'd stop whenever they said stop. That led to a lot of hot kisses and quite a bit of stroking breasts and a ton of heavy breathing.

Now girls talk about boys whenever they get together, so my name got mentioned a lot, even when Claire was in the group. Not every guy got the stamp of approval during these talks. From what I understand, the talk would usually start out something like this:

"I had to fight Jimmy Johnson off with a stick last night. That boy has more than two hands, I'll tell you that!"

And from there they'd all complain about whatever boy had tried to do this or begged them to do that and so on. Then, comparisons would begin about which boy was more dangerous than the rest. This had nothing to do with how cute the boy was. That was a separate issue. They might all agree that Joe David was the cutest boy in town and swear they'd never ever let him get them alone, all in the same sentence. And, inevitably, so I was later told, my name would come up and there would be sighs all around. It wasn't because I was cute, or a football star. It was because I had tweaked nipples so nice and then quit when told to.

And of course girls lie just like boys, particularly about how far they've gone with a guy. You can tell when a girl lies because they say they did something, but not who with. If it's the truth they give credit where credit is due, or blame, as the case may be.

So, whenever my name came up around Claire, all she ever heard about me were good things, and about how nice things felt when I did them, and how it wasn't scary at all. And Claire decided somehow that I was some kind of legend, who knew everything there was to know about sex.

But the fact was that I was a virgin. I knew quite a bit about tweaking nipples and was a pretty good kisser, but that was about it. I'd never had the courage to put my hand below the belt, and no girl had ever spread her legs and yelled, "Rub my pussy Bobby, I'm on fire!"

Claire had what she called her posse, which was a group of five girls who hung around together almost all the time. She was the Sheriff and when they were together it showed. She bossed those girls something terrible and they fell in line like ducks after their mamma. They were all just entering what's sometimes called the blush of womanhood. I'd known them all since we were little, and to them I was just like a piece of furniture. True, I had sharp corners, so to speak, that they bumped into once in a while, and I was dented and scratched a little as a result, but I wouldn't have been surprised at all if one of them came into the living room and sat down on me not knowing I was even there.

That all changed when Clair and the posse reached the magic age at which parents in those days allowed them to date: Eighteen.

Well, that put a shock into the posse. Not only was this a whole new kind of relationship for them, but they were under somewhat heavy scrutiny by parents concerning who they went out with. And, since I was also viewed as "safe" by a lot of parents, if I took the girls someplace there was a lot more flexibility on the parental front. For that reason Claire had bribed me a time or two to take the whole bunch out to drag the strip with me.

Have you ever been in a 1941 Ford two-door with six chattering teenage girls? It was kind of fun in some ways. First of all it was crowded. They crammed four in the back and two more up front with me on the bench seat, which meant one of them had to either almost sit on top of the other or straddle the Hurst floor shifter. They talked like I wasn't there and it was hilarious to hear them tell about sneaking out and first kisses and all that stuff. Some of them had older sisters who had been out with me too and they'd heard all about what fun girls had with me on dates. They didn't know the details - they just knew that the girls all liked going out with Bobby.

But of course, other than dragging the strip as a group, they didn't want to go out with me. I was Claire's brother, and I farted when they were around, and drank a whole bottle of Coke just so I could try and perform the alphabet in one long burp and all that normal kind of thing boys did at age eleven and twelve. Of course by the time I took them down the strip, I was much older, but it didn't matter. In those days, if you were two or three years older than a girl you were considered to be in your dotage, for all intents and purposes.

I also had nicknames for them all that they pretty much didn't appreciate.

Claire was "Claire Bear" because sometimes she was a bear to be around. Of them all she was probably the second best looking, with shoulder length brown hair and dark eyes, and a really beautiful smile. She smiled a lot too. Life was fun for Claire. Her breasts didn't look that big usually, but when she wore a tight sweater or something that showed a little cleavage, she got the attention of the guys. Her breasts had changed shape too. The last time I saw her without a top on they were like cones with round points. Her nipples were flat and small, and she could have gone braless and nobody would be able to tell. Now they had gotten a lot rounder or more full or something. I could tell by the shape through her clothes, unless it was the bra that was making her look bigger. Kleenex did a good business in those days too and it wasn't necessarily because lots of girls had colds.

Suzy Rumbell was "Loosey Suzy" because she always wore big oversized shirts. That was because she never wore a bra. She didn't have much up top and didn't need a bra, except she had nipples that poked out through everything she wore.

Then there was Monique Haskins. I called her Unique Monique because she was the only girl I knew who looked like she did. She had ass-length dark hair that was almost blue it was so black, and dark skin, like she tanned all the time. Her lips were almost fat they were so full, but they didn't look fat. She was the first of the posse to develop breasts and they just kept growing. Now they were big and looked soft.

The best looking one of the bunch was Margaret Williams. She had short straight blond hair that framed her face, which had high cheekbones and big green eyes. Her nose was what they call a button nose and she had a smile even more beautiful than Claire's. She was slim everywhere except her chest. She looked like she might fall over if she wasn't careful, because her center of balance was so high. That was offset by a butt that she kept confined in tight jeans. It was round and stuck out in the back like her tits stuck out in the front. Every guy in school dreamed of sucking on her titties and feeling that ass. I called her Large Marge.

Donna Miles was the one I understood least. I called her Miss September, because she reminded me of the Playboy Bunny from that month when I was fifteen, whose name was also Donna. She was really tall with long dark red hair that she almost always kept draped across her chest. She played with it all the time. I later found out she thought her breasts were ugly and covered them up with her hair. She had the potential to put the rest of them to shame, with a perfectly proportioned body that was an hour glass shape.

Last was the one I liked the best, at least up until the time when this story took place. She was Roberta Simms and I called her Knobby Robby. She was a tomboy and liked the same things I liked when we were growing up. She could run as fast as me and climb as good as me and all that stuff. She was all knees and elbows and gawky, flat-chested well into her sixteenth year and even now only had small conical breasts, like Claire's had been before they filled out. She was just behind the others in physical development. But she treated me better than the others, which means she didn't make as much fun of me. And, in the end, she would be true to that emotional style.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The accident happened while I was dragging the strip with a car full of giggling, screaming ... embarrassing girls.

See, somebody had to sit beside me and, as I mentioned earlier, if she didn't want to sit on top of whoever was in the suicide seat, she had to straddle the shifter. Now that shifter only had a three and a half inch throw, so it didn't move all that far, but for a girl barely able to date to sit there with her legs spread, one of them touching mine, and have my hand moving around between her legs ... well, it caused a sensation. When we were getting in the car I explained it to them and there were squeals and chirps and sounds you wouldn't even think a human being could make as they argued about which one would be the "shifter slut."

This was a new term to me. I'd never heard of a "shifter slut" before but it made interesting images flash through my mind. That was the days when miniskirts were coming on board, much to the delight of us guys, and the thought of a girl in a miniskirt straddling that shifter made my dick get stiff. Of course all these girls were wearing shorts, mostly cut-offs, but it was a nice little fantasy.

In the end Claire volunteered to be the shifter slut since I was her brother and nobody would even think of accusing me of copping a feel of my own sister.

Right?

So, when they wanted me to do what mister nice policeman commonly called "an unlawful exhibition of speed" as we were dragging the strip, and my testosterone levels, already elevated by being around all that woman-flesh, surged even higher, I decided to give them what they wanted.

I have to say here that Dad let me drive the Ford because I took good care of it. It had a 389 in it, with Traction-Lok. My Dad had wanted a '41 when he was a kid, but couldn't afford it, and when he found this one he lovingly rebuilt it just like his dream car back then. It was a sleeper. He made it into a hot rod (hence the engine and drive train) rather than going stock, except from the outside it looked stock all the way. The station wagon was our "family car", which meant it was Mom's car, and it wasn't cool anyway. And Dad, bless his heart, understood what a young man felt when he drove that car. So, on pain of torture and death and being grounded for life if I so much as scratched it, he let me drive it. I knew I was lucky and didn't abuse things. Usually I didn't ever rod it. I'd get on it pretty good from time to time, to press some pretty little thing back into her seat and get her heart going, but that was about all.

In other words, I wasn't used to power shifting.

So, when I crammed it from first to second and my hand slipped off the eight ball handle ... it slapped Claire right on her money-maker.

The engine screamed, now in neutral, and that got all my attention. Which meant my hand stayed on the crotch of Claire's tight shorts, separated from her short hairs by maybe two hundredths of an inch of terrycloth and polyester. And, of course, my right hand kept trying to re-grab the shifter, which meant I squeezed. I was not thinking about that hand. It was just doing what my psyche thought it should do, in terms of restoring the shifter while I got my foot off the gas and my other foot onto the clutch. That screaming engine had all my attention because I was terrified I was going to throw a rod or something.

While I did all that with my feet Claire's surprised legs slammed closed, trapping my hand. About then, of course, my brain had registered where my hand was and I was trying to pull it out. But Claire was a healthy young woman who played sports and had firm, well-developed thigh muscles. So what happened was that I tugged and then went slack to tug again until, about the third time my hand basically stroked her hot spot, her legs sprang back open and she yipped.

My hand came free, went back to the shifter. I put it in second and my failed, unlawful exhibition of speed was put on indefinite hold.

It was an inglorious end to an attempt to impress a bunch of eighteen year old girls.

Well, truth be told, it did impress two of them. It impressed Claire, but I didn't know it then. At that point it was just an accident that I didn't want to talk about. It so happened that Unique Monique was sitting in the suicide seat and saw the whole sordid affair. It impressed her too. From her vantage point it looked like I had rubbed the crap out of my sister's pussy. She knew that was ridiculous, meaning that I didn't do it on purpose, so she started laughing and laughed so hard that she couldn't tell the girls in the back what had happened. Claire started slapping at her, yelling for her to "Shut up!" And, when Monique finally caught her breath Claire threatened her with terrible things if she opened her mouth.

Of course that got the four in the back all riled up and yelling and screaming about "What happened ... what happened?"

Claire was yelling "Never mind," to them and, "Don't you say a word!" to Monique, and I knew things were going to get crazy in a minute.

So I accelerated to a hundred miles an hour and drove it that fast for a whole mile down route 64.

That did it. There was still screaming, but it was now about something completely different than the fact that I had just felt up my own sister's coochie. And, by the time I slowed down, which was only 36 seconds after I hit the 100 mark on the speedometer, there was a hush in the car as adrenaline flooded those young bodies and they concentrated on just breathing.

"Wow" said Claire. She was talking about a lot more than the speed, though I didn't know it then.

"Yeah, she's got some guts," I said in typical manly tones, trying to make them forget I'd muffed the shift ... in more ways than one, now that I think about it.

Then I spent some time checking gauges and listening for bad sounds. I'd seen the tac climb into the red there for just a second while I was groping Claire Bear. But everything seemed to be okay, so I loafed along the rest of the way.

No more exhibitions of speed that night. No sir.

We got back to Junk Town and they all piled out and Claire leaned over and kissed me on the cheek of all things! "Thanks" she said, and scrambled out after Monique. None of the rest of them thanked me. I was just furniture to them.

Now I just described that incident to the best of my memory, and in my memory I clearly remember Claire threatening Monique with dire consequences if she told the four in the back seat where my hand had been, albeit accidentally and only for five or six seconds.

So what does Claire do when they get back? She takes them all up to her room and then describes it in Technicolor, with details and sound effects, while Monique adds in even more details in her witness testimony. Only Claire embellished it "a little" and Monique went along with it!

Of course I wasn't there, but I heard about it later from all six of them at one time or another, and the way she told it was nothing like it actually happened.

According to Claire I grabbed her pussy and squeezed it, pressing my finger between her plump pussy lips, like I was trying to rip a hole in her terrycloth shorts. Then I rubbed hard and my fingers scrabbled at her waistband, trying to slip inside so I could get inside her panties and touch her naked pussy! According to her, if it hadn't been for her panties she'd have lost her cherry in an instant to my probing finger. Then she wrestled my hand out from between her legs, making me understand that I was totally wrong to be doing this to her and exacting somehow, without words, a promise that I'd do her chores for a month in penance for my transgression.

That was when Large Marge reputedly said, "Why'd you make him stop? I bet it felt good."

There were "Ewwww's and shrieks and bedlam as Claire got all red in the face (they all agreed that she blushed furiously) and shouted that I was her brother!

Like they didn't know that or something.

Large Marge just said, "I think you should have let him do it longer," and I guess the world, as we know it, came to an end or something. It was noisy, I'll tell you that.

Like I said, I wasn't there, though I could hear some of it in an undecipherable way. I was sitting downstairs watching (lusting after) Susan Dey playing Laurie on the Partridge Family. Marge apparently broke up the meeting of the posse, because they straggled out, under the impression that I had intentionally groped my sister, giving me decidedly odd looks. Marge must have meant what she said because she actually said, "Good night Bobby," to me. Monique just laughed and they left together.

Claire didn't come down for another fifteen minutes, and when she did she was flushed and breathing hard. I didn't know enough about women to know what that meant back then. I found out what she'd been doing later. What I did notice was that she was awfully friendly to me, considering the social gaff that had occurred only some forty-five minutes earlier.

"What'cha watchin'?" she asked, though anybody could see what I was watching. Then she said, "Oooo David Cassidy ... he's so dreamy," and she plopped down beside me on the couch to watch.

The first thing I noticed was her use of the word "dreamy", which had gone out of use when I was ... like eleven or something. Then I noticed she was sitting beside me. Right beside me. On the couch. Where she had all the room in the world to get away from her cootie-ridden brother.

This was something new. It's not like we fought all the time, but we rarely had anything in common when it came to routine run-of-the-mill daily activity type stuff. Like watching TV. If I liked it, she probably didn't, and if she was watching it I knew I'd rather read or something.

What? You ask what she watched that I didn't find interesting? Well, I'd love to be able to tell you, cause then I wouldn't feel like the jerk I'm going to appear to be. I have no idea what she watched. I just assumed if she was interested in it I wouldn't be. It was just the way we were.

Then I saw Claire's eyes dart toward my lap. Like I said, I'd been watching Susan Dey, with those slitty little eyes and that perfect face and those titties that they always made her hide, but which couldn't be hidden from a boy's imagination. She was a living Playboy model who just hadn't gotten old enough for Mister Hefner to hire yet and you could peek into her life and see the routine run-of-the-mill daily activity type stuff she did every day. Whenever I watched that show I was in a constant state of rigidity.

So when Claire glanced at my lap, there was a rather obvious lump in it, right under my zipper. The memory of groping her was still fresh. That will be important in the next couple of sentences.

So guys? What the hell do you do when you've got a boner, and your sister looks right at it? I didn't know what to do. So I blurted out "It's because of Laurie ... not you."

Now doesn't that sound completely reasonable? I mean I was telling the truth, and since I had lately done something that the average girl might accidentally think I had done on purpose, I thought that would clear things up.

Turns out Claire was an average girl. A guy had grabbed her pussy and then rubbed his hand up and down while pressing it against said pussy. The fact that it was her own brother didn't seem to matter. Again, later, she explained to me that with all the stories she'd heard about my talent with making girls feel so fabulous, she thought I was trying to demonstrate it to her and she was ... get this ... flattered!

And then she came in and sat down beside me and I demonstrated how cute I thought she was some more by developing a nice manly erection. That's right, while I was apologizing, in my uncouth male way, for having a boner that Susan Dey brought into the world, Claire assumed that my stiff dick was more demonstration of just how cute I thought she was!

Okay, Guys, here's some wisdom for you. I learned this the hard way - no pun intended. When you get a hardon around a girl and she notices it, she thinks she caused it. It doesn't matter what you're watching on TV. It doesn't matter that the hottest girl in school just bent over ten feet away to retie her saddle oxfords and you got a shot of panty. She's with you ... you have a boner ... ergo she caused it. Period. It's female logic or something.

So, when you quite truthfully say, "Hey, that hot chick on TV got me hard as a rock," she hears, "Hey, you turn me on something fierce but I can't admit it cause you're my sister so I'm going to pretend it was that so-so looking girl on the boob tube."

"It's okay," said my sister. Imagine that. It was okay with my sister that I got a hardon for Susan Dey.

Okay, so now let's recap, to make sure you're getting this. My hand slipped off the T handle of my dad's shifter and accidentally slapped my sister's love nest. Accident. No question about it. Then I dug around in that love nest because her legs slammed closed while I was trying to get my hand out. Another accident. She didn't mean to do it, so it was an accident. Then she misinterpreted what had happened, thinking that, because I was a cocksman, I meant to rub her pussy because that's what I did with all the other girls. Purely an accidental misunderstanding of the situation, especially since I had never rubbed any girl between her silky legs. My reputation got inflated by other girls, just like Claire inflated this accident while she transfixed the posse.

So that's three accidents. And that doesn't count the accident of her walking in on me while I happened to be watching Susan Dey and had a boner, or her accidental assumption that she caused the boner and that I was too embarrassed to admit it. So now we have three-to-five accidents that have created a situation where I am thinking one thing and my sister is thinking entirely another.

So, when she got up and went to her room, I didn't think anything about it. I finished watching Susan Dey and then went to my own room. I had just gotten my hands on a copy of Heinlein's book called "Stranger In A Strange Land" and I was hooked on it after only two chapters. It was close to bedtime and I liked to fall asleep reading. I had better dreams when I did that.

So, when Claire stepped into my room and stood there silently, I didn't even notice her for a few minutes. I was lying on my back reading, in just my Fruit of The Looms, which is what I slept in, when she cleared her throat. I glanced over and saw Claire (one) who wasn't supposed to come in my room without permission and (two) was dressed how she sleeps, which was in a T shirt and panties. This particular T shirt was a little small and exposed every bit of those panties.

Claire stood there, in that very short T shirt and those powder blue panties, for all the world like she was completely dressed.

"Bobby?" she said. Her voice didn't sound nearly as confident as she looked.

"Interesting outfit," I commented.

"Don't make fun of me," she said automatically.

"Who says I'm making fun of you? It is an interesting outfit. I'm a guy and you're a girl and the guy part of me thinks that's a really interesting outfit."

"Even though you've seen me in it or something like it a thousand times?" she asked.

"Claire Bear ... what do you want?" I asked. Heinlein was calling me.

"Does it look sexy?" she asked.

"Claire, I'm your brother," I said unnecessarily. "Brothers don't usually think of their sisters as being sexy ... or even not sexy."

"Technically you're my step-brother," she said. It was the first time I'd ever heard her use the term and it was shocking. "But if you weren't my step-brother ... would you think I looked sexy?" Girls have a way of ignoring huge obstacles and Claire was no different. She assumed that I could just forget we had been raised together and that I thought of her as my sister. I tried squinting my eyes so she blurred a little bit. Now she was more or less a feminine shape but I lost so much definition that she just looked like she had on flesh colored pants or something.

Not being completely stupid, I opted to do the smart thing in this situation.

"Yes, you're definitely sexy."

I let my eyes go back to normal and, to my immense surprise, as she came into focus I really saw the things I'd been trying to imagine. Her legs were long and, of course, bare, and she had just enough spread in her hips to give her shape there before her lines swept back in to her slim, flat stomach. Then the T shirt bulged where her breasts were. I noticed nipples and was shocked.

"Are you braless?" I whispered as loud as I could ... you know ... to show I was shocked.

She blushed. "Yes. Does it look sexy?"

What was all this "Do I look sexy" stuff, anyway? She's always primped and played with makeup and all that stuff, but it was more for other girls to see than boys. She hadn't been allowed to date, after all. I suppose she could have been showing herself off for boys at school but it couldn't lead to anything. So why did she care?

While I'd been thinking all this my eyes had gone on up to her hair, which was in a ponytail coming high off the head. You know, the kind that bounces when the woman walks? My eyes just naturally dropped to those panties and, while there was no camel toe, there was a very slight indentation where her pussy lips were.

I was rocked to my core as I realized she looked ... fuckable! She did! It was incredible. My baby sister looked enough like a woman that I contemplated her with some guy hunched over her, between her legs, pounding away as she made those sounds you heard on the occasional X-rated movie that somebody snuck from home. I felt a tightness in my gut and realized two things that astounded me even more.

First, I didn't like the idea of that amorphous guy between her legs. Not at all. No matter how satisfied she sounded in my imagination.

And second ... I had a boner.

Then I went on to be astounded that she'd been right! I could look at her as a female-other-than-my-sister. That was what caused the boner.

Now I was in a quandary. My sister looked sexy. No doubt about that. My burgeoning manhood was announcing it in a way that couldn't be missed. Even Claire wouldn't think I got a boner reading science fiction. It was obvious she wanted me to think she looked sexy ... but I wasn't at all sure how she'd react if I said she did and had a boner to prove I was telling the truth.

"You have a boner!" she gasped, noticing the proof of my verbal fidelity.

It wasn't the kind of gasp that told me what she thought about the fact that I had a boner. It could have been a gasp of disgust. I decided to try to take the safe road.

"Yeah. So what. Guys get them. Happens all the time." I wanted so bad to reach down and straighten out my cock, which was trying to poke up toward my face, but was caught in my shorts. All it could do was make this big lump.

"So, does that mean I look sexy?" she asked. She took a step further into the room as she asked that damned question again.

I thought I might as well get it over with. "Yes, it means you look sexy. There! Are you satisfied? Though why in the world you'd want your brother to think you were sexy is beyond me." I tried to put it back on her.

She came two steps closer. I could see her better and her nipples were prominent, like some of the girls had when they were all excited and I was playing with them. It made my dick even harder.

"When we were on the strip? And your hand went ... there?" she stopped.

I didn't know what to say.

"Yeah?" That was pretty noncommittal, I thought.

"Was that on purpose?" she asked. I say she asked, but that doesn't convey the tone that was in her voice. It was crystal clear to me that the answer to this question was very important to her. My problem was that I didn't know if it was important good ... or important bad. I thought furiously. The way she was dressed, combined with the way she wanted me to think she was sexy tipped the balance.

"No" I said. "It wasn't on purpose ... and I'm sorry if it ticked you off ... but it was kind of funny too. I guess what I'm saying is I hope you aren't mad about it."

"Nobody's ever touched me there before," she said, like that explained everything. It was quiet for a long minute and then she went on. "It made me feel all mooshy inside."

I knew what she meant. "Mooshy" was something I tried very hard to make girls feel as I played with them. I had succeeded on a number of occasions but it hadn't gotten me laid yet. Some girls would go so far as try (my opinion) to get off, but didn't want that orgasm enough to let me play between their legs. I got really good at sucking nipples because of that because I hoped I could make them cum just from doing that.

Still, for that brief contact to have brought out that response in her made my hormones rush. She had to be very highly-sexed if those few rubs had turned her on. Still, she was pretty inexperienced and probably just confused about things. Believe it or not, my moral compass kicked in.

"I wouldn't feel bad about that if I were you," I said sagely. "That's a pretty normal thing for a girl to feel when something like that happens. Don't worry about it. It'll go away."

As I look back on it, that must have made her feel safer or something, because she took another step and sat down on the edge of the bed. The edge of the bed where her brother, who had a boner for her, was lying. She didn't say anything for what seemed like a long time. Then something came out that sounded almost forced.

"When the girls left I had to rub myself," she said plain as the nipples poking out of her T shirt.

Now that was interesting. I masturbated, of course. But my little sister? Who'd have thought it? I was astonished again.

"I feel like rubbing myself again right now," she said. "And it's all your fault!"

"How is it my fault?!" I asked, incredulous.

"Cause your hand felt good," she said.

"But I'm your brother!" I stated the obvious with blinding clarity.

"I know, and that's what makes me feel so weird about this. I liked it when my own brother touched my pussy. That makes me a pervert or something doesn't it?" She sounded like she wanted to be comforted. Then she dropped the bomb. "Did you like it? Touching me, I mean?"

Now how does a guy answer a question like that? I mean she wasn't screaming at me or anything, so saying "Sure, I loved to feel your soft teen pussy under my hand. I wanted to squeeze it and slide a finger up in you," might not garner a scream for the Police. But I wasn't sure about that either. So I took the easy road, the road that worked with lots of girls.

"Claire, you're a beautiful sexy girl. Any guy would love to touch your pussy." I started out to deliver that line with all my acting skills, and then, to my surprise, found it didn't take any acting at all. She was a babe.

Claire sat there for a long time, like she was thinking. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, through a wisp of hair that was hanging down beside her face.

"I know what you do with those girls," she said.

She had changed the subject and I didn't know how to respond. So I didn't.

"I mean I know some of it," she corrected herself. "I hear them talking sometimes. They don't talk about what you do when I'm there. But sometimes they don't know I'm listening."

Okay, so she had real information. I still didn't say anything.

"They say they rub themselves after you've played with them." Claire looked straight at me now. "Like I did."

It was time to say something.

"Claire, you're not those girls. They're older." It was the best I could come up with there in the Twilight Zone. I wasn't too clear headed.

"But I felt like they say they feel when you touch them," she insisted.

"But you're my sister," I reminded her.

She got that look in her eye that I recognized as the danger look. She had that look when she was about to rat me out to Mom or Dad about something I'd done that she knew I'd get in trouble for. It was that "I'm going to make you pay" look.

"Which is why I can't understand why you look so hot to me right now," I added hurriedly.

The fact that Claire was so inexperienced saved my bacon. She bought that line like a little pig opening up the door when the wolf knocks. Not that I was the wolf or anything. I just wanted her to calm down and think straight. Which is why I was completely unprepared for what she said next.

"If I rubbed myself right now would you rub yourself too? So I could see you?" She asked that like she was asking a doctor just exactly how long she had to live. She was afraid of the answer, but really wanted to know.

Do you remember those years when if a boy touched a girl she screamed about cooties? They grow out of that but there is a time when they are both attracted to and repelled by boys all at the same time. That love/hate relationship intensifies as puberty gets a really good Rottweiler-grip on a girl's body and she wants things to happen with a boy, but not too personally.

That's where I had made my reputation.

I was the guy who would do things for and with them that were scary, but safe at the same time, and then stop when it got too scary. A lot of girls wanted to engage in masturbation while I did the same thing ... two or three feet away. Four or five girls had made that kind of deal with me in the past. Girls really liked to do that for some reason. It's like they could be all naughty and get off, but be safe about it because they were touching themselves, and I would be touching myself, so there could be no cootie transfer possible, so to speak. And it was fun for me too, 'cause I knew where their hand was, and what it was doing ... and touching, even if I couldn't actually see the pussy they were rubbing. They all stuck their hand in their pants, while I was required to slide my pants down. Unfair, but I wasn't stupid enough to say that. Usually, after a girl did that with me, we didn't go out any more. They'd see me in the hall or somewhere and blush and get all shy and embarrassed. But that was okay, 'cause there was always another girl.

So when my little sister suggested that we masturbate together I figured she would get her curiosity satisfied and then get embarrassed and that would be it. I wouldn't blackmail her or anything, but she wouldn't know that, so it might even make it easier to get along with her in the future.

Right?

So I said, "Okay."

 

Chapter Two

 

So there we were. My sister and I had just agreed to masturbate in front of each other. Now that's weird, any way that you look at it. It was weird because she was my sister. But it was also weird because, as she stood up, she pushed down her panties and pulled her shirt over her head. I was with a naked teenage girl for the first time ever. I had done a lot of fooling around with girls - don't get me wrong - but none of them had ever been even close to completely naked. And I had never been naked in front of a girl either. Parts of me had been naked, but never the whole shebang.

So it was surreal as I got up and pushed my skivvies down and suddenly I was naked with my sister. Of course my peter didn't think it was surreal at all. As soon as I saw her luscious soft breasts and that fluff of pubic hair I had the hardest boner of my life. It just screamed to be stroked and I found my hand wrapped around it before I realized I had even done that.

Claire was looking at me. "Wait for me," she panted. "Don't start without me." She went over to my bed and got up on it. She leaned back against the headboard and then leaned forward and grabbed my pillow to put behind her. I was standing there beside my bed, my hand wrapped firmly around my dick, squeezing it hard, because that suddenly felt really good.

Claire looked at me and there was a sort of pleading in her eyes. She didn't have to tell me how vulnerable she felt because it took her a few seconds to get up the courage to bare herself to her first boy ... her brother. And, when Claire drew her knees up and let them fall apart, exposing her sex to me, I thought I'd shoot right then and there. I squeezed harder. It had never felt this good before.

I saw the fear and nervousness fade in her eyes as I didn't laugh or say something to put her down or whatever she expected her big brother to do that he didn't.

"It's pretty," she said, as she slid her hand over her abdomen, toward that beautiful pussy. She was staring at what was in my hand.

Even though I didn't want to think about my penis as being "pretty", I wasn't about to get into an argument about semantics.

"It's big too," she breathed.

Now that's what I'm talking about!

"You look pretty fantastic," I managed to grunt.

She curled up all but three fingers and then covered her most secret place with them. I think I moaned. I hated to see that beautiful pussy covered up. Then she started doing little circles with those three fingers and her head went back, like she was staring up at the ceiling.

"Ohhh Bobby this feels so good," she moaned. Her head tilted back down and she looked at me. If you're ever in the jungle and you suddenly come face to face with a hungry tiger or something, you will see the look I saw in her eyes. I knew if I jerked more than twice I'd blow spooge all over the place.

Then she let her middle finger bend and it disappeared inside her.

Well, that was it for me. I felt semen trying like crazy to get out of my cock. But I didn't want it to be over so fast so I squeezed hard and felt like my head was going to explode. Drips of white oozed, as my one-eyed warrior cried tears of happiness. Those tears started stringing out, like somebody was trying to lower sheets to the ground to climb down during an escape.

"Ooooo" sighed Claire, her eyes riveted to that long string of semen.

Now I had this problem of not wanting it to end so soon, but wanting to spurt so bad I couldn't stand it.

Instinct has a way of winning out.

I shouldn't have done it, but something just made me. I took two steps toward her and jacked on my cock four or five times fast. Cum rocketed out of my prick and arced through the air to land on her arm and stomach. I felt the second shot coming and leaned my hips forward about the same time she realized what had happened. I thought she'd scream at me, but her eyes went wide and her hand blurred as she rubbed her clitty hard and fast. There came a sound from her throat I didn't think a human being could actually make and I realized she was cumming with me. My second shot splatted right on her left breast, making a line across the nipple.

I was so excited that I couldn't even aim the last two or three shots and they landed mostly on the bedspread beside her, or dripped to the floor. I got so light-headed that I had to let go of my cock and lean forward to support myself on the bed. That put my head only a foot and a half from her pussy as she continued rubbing it frantically. She let her knees fall to the sides as her butt jerked upwards and her finger flashed in and out of her pussy.

I could smell her.

She smelled fantastic.

Just then she dragged her finger out of her and, just before those perfect pink lips closed up again, I could see into that fascinating, dark tunnel. It was wet in there. Clear liquid was seeping out between her lips.

"I can feel you breathing on me" she panted. "That was so hot!"

I just leaned and panted on her pussy. Finally I could get enough air to talk. "You should shave your pussy hair off," I gasped. "That would look sooo good."

I have to mention here that Claire was the kind of girl who gets energized by an orgasm. When she has one she's all perky and happy and full of energy. She sat up and suddenly her bare breast was inches from my face. There was a drip of my cum hanging from the nipple.

"You really think so?" she asked excitedly.

"Oh yeah," I groaned. "But then I'd want to touch it, so maybe you better not."

"Ick!" she said suddenly. "You got your stuff all over me." She touched one finger to the drip on her nipple. "It was warm at first, but now it's getting cold. Let me up. I need to go clean up."

I staggered back, my dick still dripping and she bounced up off the bed like it was the first day after school was out for the summer. She grabbed her shirt and panties and, after peeking out of the door to make sure the coast was clear, darted into the bathroom across the hall. Her ass looked fantastic, too.

I got stuck cleaning up the mess. In the end I just wadded up the bed spread and used it to wipe everything else up. Then I put my shorts back on and took it to the laundry room and got the washer going. I didn't even care if my mom appeared and wanted to know what the heck I was doing washing clothes after bedtime. But she didn't and I just went back and fell into bed. I had a hard time getting to sleep because I kept replaying the whole thing in my mind. I couldn't believe we'd done it.

Or that I'd loved doing it so much.

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

 

Claire had this amazing ability to take things in stride. Something pretty momentous had happened, as far as I was concerned. But at breakfast the next morning she acted just like usual. No blushes. No furtive looks. No apparent guilty conscience. She was just Claire. In fact, all day long she was just ... Claire.

Which is why, that night, after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, I was actually surprised when she slipped through the partially opened door of my room again. And again she was only wearing panties and a T shirt.

She had that look in her eye again. The one that made the hairs stand up all over me. And she had a magazine in her hand. It was one of those magazines for women. I don't even remember what it was called. Today it would be like 'Seventeen' or something.

"Look at this," she whispered. She held the magazine out and the great big headline to the story read, "IS SEX GOOD FOR YOUR SKIN?"

"So?" I responded. What was I supposed to do, read it? I was too busy staring at the two little points on the front of her T shirt that told me she wasn't wearing anything under it again. Suddenly I smelled that odor again. Her odor. She was excited! I mean ... that way ... you know ... like last night.

"It says that semen has all these things in it that are good for your skin. They actually say you should rub it in!" Her whisper was really loud and I shushed her, looking anxiously at the door.

She looked too. "They won't hear anything. A bomb wouldn't wake them up. I dropped a pan in the kitchen one night and it was loud enough to wake the dead and they slept right through it."

"Yeah, but do you have any idea what they'd do to us if they caught us?" I asked.

Claire stood up and looked around. Her pony tail swished in the air.

"What? We're not doing anything. We're just talking."

"What do you want Claire?" I asked. It was a legitimate question.

"I want to do it again."

"What we did last night?" I thought her curiosity had been satisfied and I'd never see hide nor hair of her naked body again.

Boy was I wrong. You remember that 'Claire takes things in stride' thing I told you?

"Yeah," she said, breathing deeply.

It was strange, looking at my sister and thinking, 'Man, I'd like to see her naked again.' But hey, I'm a guy, right?

"Okay" I said.

She almost yipped as she jumped up and down. That did the most amazing things to her unfettered breasts and they wobbled beautifully inside her T shirt. That shirt was the first thing to go and those wonderful soft looking pink tipped breasts came into view again. I got hard almost instantly and my briefs jutted out obscenely.

Then she took her panties off and the breath caught in my chest.

She had shaved.

And, like I had told her ... it made me want to touch it. I had the insane urge to lick my sister's pussy. My step-sister's pussy, I reminded myself. It made my hands twitch.

Claire stood there, looking beautiful, biting her lower lip as she waited for me to say something.

"Fuck ... it's beautiful," I blurted.

You have to cut me a little slack here. I had touched near several pussies, but most of that was groping in a back seat somewhere. So, while I had this reputation for being all knowing and all that crap I was looking at something I'd only seen once before, and even then it had been mostly covered by her fingers. Even though she was standing with her legs together, I could see the protrusion of her pussy lips in a little hollow kind of place right up high between her thighs. And they did look like lips! They were pressed together, like my mother's lips are - the ones on her face - when she's pissed off about something. But they were also fatter and so pale as to be almost white. They just begged to be kissed and licked.

Claire was excited, but not at the same level I was.

"Really? You think so? It was really weird shaving. I was afraid I was going to cut myself and I was so nervous it took half an hour."

"Lie down," I suggested "I want to see better."

My poor, trusting sister lay down on the bed as I got off of it to make room for her, and she splayed her legs wide, with no hesitation this time, no shame whatsoever. She was looking at the lump in my shorts. She drew her knees up so her feet were flat on the bed.

Then she made the fateful comment: "Aren't you going to get undressed too?"

Okay, I know it's actually a fateful question, rather than a fateful comment but the point is it's actually her fault that when I climbed onto the bed my rock hard and leaking cock was naked and ready to do what it was intended to do. I wasn't planning on doing anything other than rubbing the skin off of it but I steadfastly maintain that I'd have left my jockeys on to look at her pussy if she hadn't suggested I take them off.

But I did take them off.

So, when I got up there and crawled between her legs, my purple-helmeted virgin-slayer was stiff as a board and pointing right at her, like one of those hunting dogs that points at the bird hidden in the grass. I leaned in and saw those soft kissable lips up close and ... well ... I kissed them.

What I actually did was smash my face into her mons and bite them with my lips. My tongue came out and slithered right between those tightly closed lips and I sucked, all at the same time.

Claire froze. I mean she went rigid like she was actually a department store mannequin or something.

Then she unfroze and her thighs slammed together on my ears as her hands grabbed two handfuls of my hair. And her knees went back apart like they were operated by springs or something. I felt the hands ripping my hair out by the roots begin to push me away, and then, a split part of a split second later they reversed course and pulled instead of pushing. I felt the bed depress as she dug her heels in and she pushed her pussy up into my face at the same time she jerked my hair hard enough to make me grunt with pain.

I will never forget the sound that came out of her throat. I've heard it lots of times since then, and it sounds remarkably similar regardless of what woman makes it. It was a whoosh of air that something was trying to cut off, and that 'something' made a groaning whining sound that made my dick jump and dribble.

All this was happening at the same time my mind was going about a thousand miles an hour. I had lots of thoughts, among them, "Oh shit, what have I done now?" and, "She's going to scream and Mom and Dad are going to bust through the door and kill me!" and, " Man, she tastes good!" I was noticing the texture and smoothness of her mound and those lips, which all of a sudden weren't so tight and weren't so closed up. And finally, I was suddenly afraid that I'd scared her so much that she'd peed her pants.

Well, not her pants, but you know what I mean. That was because there was this rush of wet against my face. As it turned out, she was so primed, thinking about rubbing off in front of me, that the sensations I caused in her caused her orgasm to burst on her unawares. For both of us. One hand released my hair to grab my pillow and press it over her face.

Well, after she entered that orgasm and pulled my hair out, she let go. I pulled my face back and saw a pussy that had undergone some changes. It wasn't flesh colored any more. It was red, and her pussy lips were open now, showing me that dark hole that went up inside her. And it glistened with all that moisture. I looked up and saw her looking back at me with eyes so wide that I could see white all around the dark centers. She was gasping for air, her breasts moving up and down two or three inches.

"Do that again!" she panted.

Like I said, Claire took things in stride.

I stared at her pussy and saw that mythical thing I'd heard so much about. It was her clit. I was amazed. I didn't know what to compare it to back then. Since then, though, I think the closest thing that comes to mind is that arcade game where there are a bunch of holes and you have a hammer or club and a mole head pops up out of one of the holes and you have to try to hit it before it pops back down. Well, her clit looked like a little tiny mole head just starting to poke out of a really tight hole.

I knew (academically) that was a prime place to touch a girl and I'd always wanted to play with a clit. So I leaned down and clamped my lips around it and sucked.

I lost some more hair.

She was slippery. I knew now that she hadn't peed and that whatever that slippery tangy tasting stuff was, it was a good thing that meant she was having a good time. She started moaning and saying my name over and over. She was getting louder but I didn't care because I was having the time of my short life.

We both got way too excited. I know that now. But then, in the heat of the situation, you just don't think. She squirted my face again and told me she loved me and to never stop and somehow I sort of ended up on top of her and somehow my cock sort of went in her a little.

Okay, that's not true. When I was wiggling around on top of her it was because she pulled me up for a kiss. She took my wet slippery face in stride too and it was during that kiss that it felt good to rub my prick against her, so I did that. The urge to hump is part of evolution, meaning you don't think about it, so I humped. And it was while I was doing that that I felt heat all around the tip of my cock. And that just felt so good I pushed. I didn't mean to. But when I pushed, what with all that slippery stuff coating her pussy mouth, my cock just slid right in and when I pushed there was this resistance, but then it disappeared and I slid in farther.

That was when she hissed and went, "Oooowwww Bobeeeeee!"

We both knew I had just popped her cherry. We weren't so stupid as to wonder what was going on. I was half buried in her and it hadn't felt very good on her part. I wasn't complaining. For me it had felt fabulous. But still, just the knowledge that you have just popped your sister's cherry has a pretty big impact on you. I know it had a big impact on me. I stopped.

Claire was still making these little, "I'm not very happy any more" sounds and was kind of wiggling her butt around, maybe like she was trying to get comfortable or something. Or trying to get away from me. And what she was actually doing was kind of sliding back and forth on my cock a little bit. I suddenly realized her hands were on my sides.

Then some more of that impact on me happened. My prick notified my brain that only half of it was nice and warm and buried in yummy hot flesh. And my brain called to my back muscles and yelled, "She's only your step-sister ... give 'em a little help!" So my back muscles bunched up and I jammed another two inches of hard cock into Claire's pussy.

Now, a piece of my brain knew that was the wrong thing to do. But it was a little like that thing where you're supposed to pat your head with one hand and rub your stomach with the other hand all at the same time. The brain knows what it's supposed to do, but usually something else happens instead. And my brain was telling me to push hard, but reminding me I had no business porking the shit out of my sister - step or not - all at the same time. And the fact that Claire made it sound like a cat convention, what with all her hissing and spitting and yowling, made it pretty clear that her brain was in agreement that it was time to vacate her pussy.

I got most of the way out. Then that other part of my brain missed all that nice warm pussy flesh and told me to get back in there. So I did that and was immediately rewarded with that wonderful feeling that nothing else even comes close to, where your pride and joy is surrounded by hot, clasping pussy flesh.

Long story short, there was this little war going on in my head and the result was the ... ebb and flow, if you will ... of my little trooper. He advanced and retreated until he couldn't seem to make up his mind whether to go forward or pull back.

It was about then that I realized the cat convention had disbanded and Claire had joined the group of women who made those noises in motel rooms, or on X-rated films. And she was good at it too! She sounded like she really meant it.

I know this sounds a little disjointed in the telling. But I was prick-deep in losing my virginity, while taking my step-sister's virginity, and my mind wasn't quite at a hundred percent. My memory wasn't quite at a hundred percent after it was over either.

Anyway, the next thing I remember was when her fingernails were digging for oil in my back and she was whining and moaning and she hit the note that was hooked to the sonic switch in my balls, because my prick, which had been so trustworthy up to then, started spurting spunk while it was still buried in her belly.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that was a run-on sentence, and that no self respecting author would use one in a decent story.

Well, I had just fucked my own step-sister, popping her only cherry. Moreover I had just spurted her full of philosophically incestuous brother spunk and there was no way in the world she was on any birth control. So that means I can't lay any claim at all to being self-respecting. And since this story starts out with almost-incest, I can't claim it's decent either. So all I can tell you is that the whole incident was like a long run-on sentence that kept going and going and dragging me along with it until it abruptly ended. Leaving me breathless, I might add. Just like a run-on sentence would.

Claire was lying under me gasping for air. I pushed up off of her, hating to feel her body separating from me, and looked down at her. It was another one of those moments of truth. I had just popped Claire's cherry, without her asking for it. It had hurt. I had filled her up with baby-makers. So I really couldn't expect her to be happy about it. And this was her first real chance to tell me what a selfish, perverted, unkind jerk I really was.

She had this stupid grin on her face. "Do that again!" she panted.

Did I mention before that Claire always took things in stride?

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

 

Well, now you know what happened with Claire ... how a pure accident led to something that was not quite accidental, but not intentional either. I still couldn't believe I had packed my sister's pussy plumb full of my seed. She hadn't even gone on her first date, yet! And on top of that she actually said "Thank you," when we were done. I'd had a pretty good time too and I told her so. I also told her I was interested in doing it again. She gave me a brilliant smile and, despite her "Do that again!" comment, said, "We'll see. I need to see if I get my next period first."

Well, that was sobering. I hadn't really thought a whole lot about that possibility. But then what teens do when they're ass deep in hormones and fucking like crazy? But she seemed to be taking the possibility I'd knocked her up in stride, just like she took everything in stride. She wasn't worrying about it.

So I decided not to worry about it either.

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

 

The next Friday night was a sleepover night for the posse. They had those every month, sometimes even more frequently, and in the past I had tried to make myself scarce when they were all over there doing the pajama thing. It wasn't that I didn't like looking at them in their nightgowns. I liked that a lot. But they invariably picked on me and teased me and generally made themselves a pain in the ass.

But there had been times when I was there at the same time they were and I almost always heard something interesting in their chatter. Especially if I actually tried to listen. I had no idea if Claire would cop to what we'd done, but I knew if she did it would be ... interesting. I also knew that I'd probably be dead within a week if she did spill the beans because there was no way in the world that all those girls in the posse would be able to keep a secret like that..

So this time I planned on staying home. In fact I went farther than that. Claire's room shared a wall with mine and her closet was beside my closet. I knew she never closed her closet doors. They were those folding type doors with louvers in them and she just left them folded to the side. So I figured that if I made a few well placed holes in the closet wall, I might be able to hear what they were saying if they were in her room. Of course they gathered and lounged all over the house, but I figured if they talked about sex it would be in the privacy of her room.

I was right.

I knew she was going to tell them at supper. She was all excited .... more excited than she should have been for a routine visit of the posse. After supper I got her in the hallway and told her, "Don't do anything stupid tonight."

"Why Bobby! Whatever are you talking about?" she grinned. She actually grinned at me!

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You tell them what we did and it will be all over the neighborhood by morning and parents will be talking to Mom and Dad before breakfast."

She stuck her cute little nose up in the air. "Don't you worry about it. I know what I'm doing."

I leaned over her. I had her by at least two inches. It wasn't like she couldn't go anywhere but she'd have had to duck to one side. "You just keep your mouth closed," I warned her.

My mother scared both of us to death. "Bobby!" she said sternly. "Quit harassing your sister." She had come into the hallway and we had been so centered on each other that we hadn't noticed. I wondered how much she'd heard.

Claire wasn't worried though. "Thank you Mommy," she said in that syrupy sweet voice she used to get what she wanted. "He was being mean to me."

"Why can't you two love each other?" said my Mom in an exasperated voice.

If only she knew.

But it didn't sound like she did, so I relaxed and backed off. But my ear was plastered to the three little holes I had drilled in the wall when I knew the girls were in Claire's room.

And I was right about Claire telling them too. Except I was wrong about how she did it. She waited until the last one was there, and they all trooped into her room and slammed the door. I had to stand up in the closet. I had decided the best place to drill the holes was right behind all her clothes, where she wouldn't be likely to see any light shining through them or anything.

"Close the door!" I heard Claire say. I could hear the excitement in her voice. "I have something special to tell you."

I was sweating buckets and not because it was hot in my closet.

 

Chapter Three

 

"You won't believe what happened to me!" she started out. Then there were the obligatory guesses. I couldn't sort out the voices, but they ranged from, "Your Mom caved and let you get that bikini you wanted!" to, "You flunked that math test, didn't you." Not one of them guessed that she'd lost her virginity.

After she let them guess the wrong things for a minute or so, she whispered, in a loud whisper. "I got my cherry popped!"

Dead silence. At least for ten seconds.

Then it was bedlam, with all of them screaming like only eighteen-year-old girls can scream.

Then there were the rapid fire questions.

"Who was it?"

"What was it like"

"Are you lying to us?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Who was it?"

That last question got asked a lot. Finally it quieted down. I could just imagine Claire, standing there grinning, holding court, waiting for the masses to quiet so she could tell them all the lurid details. This was it. My life would be over. I'd be sent to reform school.

Claire's voice piped up again. "I can't tell you who did it."

There was a chorus of complaints.

My sister went on. "Really, I can't. I swore to keep it secret. The guy could get in a lot of trouble because his parents are super religious." That made sense to them, but the other questions were re-asked. Claire began what sounded like a prepared speech. "It was wonderful. Really. It felt sooo good I wanted it to last forever. And he was so gentle with me, and he really cared about how I felt. If I wasn't so scared about getting pregnant I'd let him do it again."

Monique spoke up. "You mean he didn't even use a rubber?" She sounded incredulous.

Claire defended herself. "It all happened kind of fast. I mean we weren't planning on doing it and then it kind of happened and besides that he felt so warm inside me I don't think I'd like it if he used a rubber anyway."

Suzie was next. "Did he ... you know ... squirt in you?"

Claire sighed. "Oh yes and that was almost the best part. His ... thing ... jumped each time it squirted and I could feel it and it was hot and wet feeling and it was just yummy."

Marge chimed in . "I can't believe this. You've only been allowed to date for a month and you never went on a date, yet. And you didn't tell us you were going on this one! Come on Claire, who was it?"

"Even if I did tell you ... and I promised not to ... you wouldn't believe me anyway. He's ... older." She couldn't resist giving them clues. I had relaxed a little when she refused to tell them, but they were sharp girls, and if she gave them too many clues they were smart enough to do a little investigating and find out who she'd been seen out with.

"How come you didn't tell us you were going on a date?" That was Marge again. She sounded suspicious to me.

"Yeah, if you weren't planning on doing it why wouldn't you tell us you were going out?" Knobby Robby finally made her debut as an inquisitor.

Claire was caught off guard. "Well ... um ... it wasn't a date exactly. I mean we didn't plan on anything to happen."

Marge bored in. "So you met this guy, and didn't plan on anything, and skipped the first kiss, and the petting and went straight to getting it on?! What's going on Claire? Come on, give!"

The pressure was growing. I could feel the tension through the little holes in the wall. I was sweating again.

Claire tried to buck up. "It doesn't matter who it was!" she yelled - entirely too loud in my opinion. "All that matters is that it happened and I'm glad it happened and you all just have to try it!"

More bedlam as five girls squealed and screamed and yelled about how they were going to do this, or not going to do that, and who would they do it with anyway and on and on.

When it finally quieted down Claire said, "I might know somebody you could do it with." Her attitude was like she hadn't listened to any of their objections. If the Sheriff said they were going to get their cherries popped, then that was what they were going to do. Such is the power of peer pressure.

Donna spoke up for the first time. "Who is it?"

Claire was still trying to control things, though. "I'm not going to tell you until you all agree to do it."

I had been about to leave my closet, because I was getting tired. I had been all tensed up, listening to what I was sure was going to be my downfall. But her offer to find them a hard penis had me glued to the wall. I mean it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who she was talking about. Not to me anyway. As far as I knew, she only had access to one rigid prick, and it was ... mine.

I was suddenly and urgently interested in what would come next.

I'm here to tell you Claire had an iron grip on her posse. It only took her forty-five minutes to get them all to agree to lose their virginity to a man of her choice. I also learned that they had some kind of solemn oath that they took when something really important was in the offing. They all repeated a bunch of words that I couldn't understand because they weren't quite saying them all at the same time, and then Donna demanded again "Okay, now who is it?"

There was a period of silence that about killed me and then Claire said, "Bobby."

I expected pandemonium again, but it was strangely quiet.

Marge suddenly blurted, "I knew it!"

Claire said, "I didn't say I did it with Bobby. I said you guys are going to do it with Bobby."

Suzie said, "Oh Claire ... I don't know about this."

"You swore!" accused Claire.

"Yeah, but that was before I knew it would be your brother."

Marge broke in. "I kind of like the idea. I've thought he was cute for a long time."

Then the pandemonium set in again. I heard, variously, "How do you know he'll do it?" and "Oh, he'll do it okay," and "Bobby? I can't imagine doing it with Bobby!" and "Okay Margie, since you think he's so cute you have to be first," and "Bobby? I can't do it with Bobby!" and "I guess doing it with Bobby wouldn't be so bad," and a whole bunch more.

The only one I never heard say a single word was Knobby Robby.

By then I was all cramped up. When they started talking about planning dates based on their cycles, and whether to use rubbers or not and all that stuff I limped out of my closet and lay down on the bed.

I hadn't even felt it happen, but I was hard as a rock.

Now I have to tell you that, despite what I'd heard through that wall, I didn't actually think anything was going to happen with the posse. I mean that was all just talk, right? But a guy can dream, and I'd seen enough of the posse in bathing suits and pajamas to be able to bring up some images that made my stiff dick really happy.

I also knew that, with the posse there, Claire wouldn't be coming into my room for anything involving my dick, so I started stroking it slowly, thinking of Donna and that picture in the Playboy of the other Donna.

So imagine my surprise when my door opened and Claire walked in like she owned the place.

Her eyes got big as she saw what I was doing. I had just pushed my shorts down enough to get to Mr. Happy and was just lying there on my back, my hand wrapped firmly around him. My first thought was that member(s) of the posse might be right behind her. I stuffed my dork back in my shorts and half sat up.

"Shit Claire!" I gasped. "You scared the crap out of me!" I was caught between sitting up and lying down and rocked on the bed until I got my legs involved and sat all the way up.

"What are you doing?" she gasped back.

I think it was one of those rhetorical questions. She knew exactly what I was doing. She'd seen me do it before, after all.

"You need to learn to knock," I grumbled.

"You're supposed to save that for me," she said in a loud whisper.

Now where did that come from? The last I heard was we 'might' do it again some time ... if she felt like it, and wasn't pregnant.

I remembered that I wasn't supposed to know anything about the conversation she'd just had with the posse. "What do you want? You can't want to do that with all the girls here," I said.

That reminded her of why she'd come barging into my room in the first place.

"Um ... I wanted to ask you something," she said. She looked uncertain about how to go on.

"Okay ..." I prompted.

"Well, you know what we did, right?" She looked like she actually wanted me to tell her I remembered. She was just full of stupid questions that night. But she went on. "Um ... what if somebody else wanted to do that, but not with their boyfriend? Like, maybe for practice or something. I mean would you help them learn how to do it?"

There was another stupid question. What guy would say, "No, I don't think I'm interested in getting in a girl's panties if she doesn't want to hang on me like a third arm and talk about marriage some day and tell the world I'm hers."

But I didn't want to sound needy, so I said, "I guess it would depend on who the girl was." Then I added, "Why would a girl want to do that anyway?"

Now I didn't think that was a stupid question, but Claire acted like it was.

"Why did I want to know what it was like? It sure wasn't because you're such a stud or anything. I just wanted to know what it felt like."

Oh, so now she was just experimenting and all that stuff about how hot it would be to see me jack off was forgotten. As I recalled things, I'd almost raped her, except that it turned out that after that first little split second of shock when my mouth touched her she wasn't in the mood to resist. And now, somehow, she had decided that she let me fuck her because she was curious.

Who understands the way girls think?

So I tried to act 'normal'. "Okay, okay, so who is it?"

"You'll do it then?" she asked. Claire was really into getting commitment before she gave out all the information. She'd probably grow up to sell insurance or something.

"I might ... depending on who it is," I insisted.

She looked exasperated. The Sheriff wasn't used to people questioning her authority.

"What if it was one of the girls in the posse?" she asked.

I tried to look surprised. "Well, most of them are kind of cute I guess it would depend on which one." I had to act normal, right?

Claire didn't know what to do now. She looked at me with a frown. Then she looked behind her, at the closed door. "What if it was Marge?" she asked finally.

I made my eyebrows go up. I was so proud of myself. "Marge wants me to screw her?" I asked.

Claire's frown deepened. "You make it sound so dirty!" she said. I didn't find out until later that "screwing" was something dirty people did. Nice people 'made love' as far as Claire was concerned. They might 'fuck', but you could only call it that while you were actually doing it.

Like I said, who understands the way girls think?

I decided that Claire was too much in charge here. So I went on defense. "Did you tell them what we did?" I whispered fiercely. Or at least what I thought would sound fierce.

Her reaction was fabulous. "No! Of course not! Why would I do that?" she asked, trying to look just as injured as I was trying to sound fierce.

"Why all this sudden interest in ... me? By Marge, I mean," I asked.

"Well, maybe it came up in conversation that I wasn't a virgin anymore," she said, looking off to one side of me. She couldn't quite meet my gaze. "But I didn't tell them how it happened or anything like that. I just said I liked it, and Marge said she might want to find out what it was like too."

She was good. I had to give her that. If I hadn't listened at the wall I might have bought it. But I knew that Claire didn't want to be the only one who could no longer plan to wear white at her wedding, and that if the whole posse did it too then she wouldn't have to feel like she was a pervert or something. At least that's what I thought.

"So I was good?" I asked.

Claire looked confused for a few seconds until she realized she had complimented me on my lovemaking skills, such as they were. I could just hear the gears turning in her pretty little head. If she said what she wanted to say, it would probably be something like, "It was good. All you were was a stiff dick. Doing it with a dildo would be just as good except your cock is warm." That's what a normal sister might say to her brother.

Come to think of it, if a brother and sister have had sex, can they be called normal at all from then on? Would they argue about sex the same way they argue about chores? And does it really matter if they're step-siblings?

Sorry, I digress.

She didn't say that. Instead she turned on the charm. "Well of course you were good. I mean you were my first, and I don't have anybody to compare you to, but I had a really good time Bobby. And I think Marge would have a good time too if you were maybe a little more gentle or something. Come on, wouldn't you like to see Margie naked?"

Another stupid question. But guys are stupid too sometimes and that question reoriented my thinking. Of course I 'd like to see Large Marge naked. Those huge boobs must be mouth watering. I'd dreamed of seeing those tits for a long time.

I remembered to use restraint. "Well, I guess that would be cool." I decided to turn on some charm too. "You were really beautiful."

She actually blushed! Score one for the males of the species.

"So you'll do it?" she was eager now.

"When?" I asked. I had to get ready for this. If I didn't want to squirt instantly - and I knew I would - I'd have to beat off before we did any fooling around.

"Now," she said. "Tonight."

Shit! That took me by surprise. My cock had softened while we talked. But it spoke up now. It said, "Yes! Okay! Bring her on!" What came out of my mouth was an astonished, "Okay."

She said, "Cool," and turned around to leave.

I panicked. My mind was screaming, 'No! Wait, I need to get ready for this! What about Mom and Dad? What about birth control? Do I need to take a shower? What about cologne? Should I shave?' That last part was pretty silly. I shaved once every month or so just so I could say I did, but leaving the blade out of the razor wouldn't have made any difference to the final result.

But she was gone and the door was closed and I was left there with the shakes, wondering if I'd just made a horrible mistake.

I'm not sure Marge was as eager to lose her virginity as Claire let on, because it was a long time before there was a timid knock at my door. Long enough that I had time to calm down and think about things. I mean how different was this from what I did with the older girls? I'd just play with Marge and if she had a good time and wanted more I'd do more. And if she froze up then that was okay too. She really was beautiful, so it was a win/win situation regardless of how far things went. Even if all we did was kiss and grope a little it would be okay. I'd beaten off after dates plenty of times.

I arranged myself artfully on the bed, lying on my side, holding my head up with one hand, the other hand draped across my stomach. I saw an issue of "True Detective" at my Aunt's house and it had a picture of a guy lying like that with a babe looking at him like she wanted to jump his bones. I was going for suave and debonair.

Marge stuck her head in the door. Just her head. "Can I talk to you?" she asked.

"Sure," I said suavely.

She came in and stopped. She had on pajamas with pictures of Barbie on them. Barbie was another fantasy of mine, so that was just fine.

"You're half naked!" she squeaked.

She didn't sound like a girl who was full of lust and who couldn't wait to have me climb between what I was sure were her soft, flawless thighs.

"Well, uh ... I sleep this way," I managed. Suave and debonair flew right out the window. I made a hasty grab at the tail end of debonair. "You've seen me like this at the pool lots of times."

"Oh. Yeah." She relaxed a little. She didn't move though. I thought I had managed to coax debonair back into the room, so I patted the bed beside my stomach. "Have a seat. What do you want to talk about?"

This is a game that adults play all the time. Both the man and the woman know what they want. They want good, sweaty, hot sex, with a juicy orgasm at the end. But for some reason they aren't honest about it in the beginning. They have to play the game of trying to convince each other that sex is the last thing on their mind, and that nice, unsexy conversation is what this is really all about. I think kids learn that from adults without actually thinking about it. Like through osmosis or something.

What I really wanted to say was, "Get naked baby, and let's do the bump ugly!" But what I said was, "Have a seat. What do you want to talk about?"

Marge had learned the game too, whether she knew it or not. She came a few steps closer and asked, "Do you like me?"

This, from a girl who had tormented me on every occasion she could for the last three or four years.

My response made about as much sense. "Sure, you're okay for a girl."

I said we learned the game by osmosis. But we weren't any good at the game. Being good at the game takes practice, and neither Large Marge nor I had much of that.

She was incensed. "Bobby! That's a horrible thing to say to a girl!"

I realized my mistake, and that debonair had fled the premises once again. It's probably good that it did, because my next response was based on common sense.