Message-ID: <19836eli$9902100431@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: al_steiner@hotmail.com Subject: REPOST--Becky1 (fm, cousins) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <79rb9h$r8l$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com> Okay to archive or share or profit from or anything else you want to do with it EXCEPT: plagiarism, changing the text, omitting the author’s name, or otherwise taking credit for my works (although I have no idea what I could do about it if someone DID decide to do one of these things, so this message is pretty much meaningless, isn’t it?). I relish criticism and praise if it’s warranted. I’ve even been known to write stories to request as long as they don’t involve rape, mothers, bondage, violence, or anything else that I’m not in to. My forte’ is consensual, seductive sex between a male and a female or females. I prefer to remain within the puberty era or adulthood. Please E-mail me at: al_steiner@hotmail.com BECKY—CHAPTER ONE By Al Steiner The summer that I was fourteen my parents took an Alaskan cruise, the first vacation they’d had alone together since my brother Jeff was born four years before me. Jeff, now eighteen and in college presented no problems. He was left at our house in Seattle for the three weeks of my parent’s departure (at least my parents THOUGHT this would present no problem. Have you ever seen the movie “Risky Business”? A similar drama was taking place at our suburban home during my parents’ absence, but that, as they say, is another story). Mom and Dad however, were not about to leave me to my own devices while they were on the ship, nor would they allow my brother to watch me. The solution it was eventually decided (without MY input I can tell you) was to send me to stay with my Uncle John and Aunt Mary who lived in the Northern California town of Wheaton. Wheaton is a rice farming community in California’s Central Valley. It has a population of 1100. It’s the kind of place where the main mode of transportation is a mud-splattered pick-up truck (American made of course) with a shotgun rack mounted behind the seat. It’s the kind of place where the height of social activity is church on Sunday, getting drunk on Saturday, and going to meetings at the Grange hall on Wednesday. It’s the town where my father grew up before he escaped into the Army and an assignment in Vietnam at eighteen. I once overheard Dad say that Vietnam had been an improvement. Uncle John owned a five-acre spread on the outskirts of this lovely community. Though he and his family grew vegetables and kept cows, they did no commercial farming with their land. Uncle John was Wheaton’s Baptist minister. My last name is Benton as, obviously, is my father’s and Uncle John’s. In the town of Wheaton the name Benton is synonymous with the clergy. It was tradition for the first-born son of each generation to enter the ministry and eventually take over the First Baptist Church of Wheaton. My old man was the second born son of his generation. He once told me when he was drunk that he thanked the God that he didn’t believe in anymore that he’d not been born first. As you can imagine, the pressure on the first-born was enormous. After leaving, or escaping, Wheaton and after being discharged from the Army, my father took up residence in Seattle, eventually finding his way to the Seattle Police Department where, at the time of this tale, he was a lieutenant in the patrol division. I hadn’t been to Wheaton since I was ten. My father and Uncle John had had a minor falling-out that year on the subject of how he and my mother were raising my brother and me. Uncle John thought it was a crime that we weren’t being sent to church and Sunday school to learn the word of the Lord. Dad advanced the opinion that forcing a child to attend church and especially Sunday school were a form of mind-control; forcing beliefs upon someone while they were still too young to decide upon a matter for themselves. As you can imagine, Uncle John hit the roof over this opinion. Some angry words were exchanged and we left a week early that year. For another year the two brothers did not communicate with each other in any way. Eventually however, things cooled down and they began to correspond with each other, though very carefully, once again. The yearly trips to Wheaton, however, did not resume and I thought I’d seen the last of the place. And then Mom and Dad had found themselves in need of a babysitter for three weeks and a phone call was placed to Uncle John. Uncle John said he would be glad to keep me. I protested of course. I don’t think my parents quite understood the horror I was feeling at the thought of being sent there all by myself. Uncle John would make me go to church. I’d have to say grace. I’d have to listen to endless lectures on the subject of God and the bible without hope of my father’s kind voice telling John that maybe the lad has heard enough of that for now. It would, in short, be in a kind of living hell. My protests were futile. I was told that I was going, period and that furthermore, I would be under Uncle John’s rules and would do what he told me to without problems. I would attend church as required (he’d even bought me a suit), I would say grace when asked, without any smartass comments, and I would do whatever chores I was assigned around the farm. I was told it would be a great “learning experience”. As it turned out, that’s exactly what it was. My plane landed at Sacramento Airport on the First of August that year. I walked off the PSA 727 and into the jetway where I was greeted by Uncle John himself and his oldest daughter Rebecca, who was the same age as I. Uncle John looked pretty much the same as last time I’d seen him. He’d put on a few pounds and was a little grayer around the temples but that was about it. Rebecca, on the other hand, had changed considerably. The last time I’d seen her she’d been a tall, gangly, awkward girl with terminal shyness. Now she’d plumped up to the pleasing proportions of a farm-girl. Her hips were full, her breasts were healthy in size, pushing against the conservative button-up shirt that she wore. Her hair, which had been almost blonde four years before had darkened to a mousy-brown. It was pulled back in a ponytail. Her knee-length skirt revealed shapely legs peeking below. I found myself feeling a sexual stirring within me as I gazed upon her. I felt no shame about this. After all, I was fourteen years old. I felt sexual stirrings when I looked at boxes of soap. Uncle John greeted me, shaking my hand warmly and spiriting me off to the luggage carousel to collect my bags. Shortly after this we were in his Ford F-150 heading north. I sat in the front seat and Rebecca sat in the back. I remember feeling slightly guilty that Rebecca had been banished to the uncomfortable back of her own family truck. Uncle John, I would come to realize, made a firm distinction between those of the male and those of the female sex. Rebecca said little on the trip back, as did I. The conversation on the ninety minute trip was dominated by my Uncle who repeatedly told me how great of a time I was going to have staying with a Godly family and how much I was going to learn. I braced myself for an unpleasant three weeks. For the most part things went just the way I’d predicted they would. I was forced to go to church each Sunday and listen to my Uncle deliver the word of the Lord. I was forced to say grace each night and afternoon at dinner and lunch. I was made to say evening prayers before bedtime. I was subjected to endless lectures on God and the bible and the heathen life I was being exposed to in the “evil city”. I did chores each morning until my hands bled, my muscles cramped, and my back ached. But there was one bright spot in all of this: Rebecca. For the first three days she didn’t talk too much to me. She seemed to be watching me, trying to figure me out. When she wasn’t doing this, she was reading something. A voracious reader was Rebecca, as was I. I’d happened to glance into her room once and saw that, like mine, every spare square inch of storage space was taken up by books of all shapes, sizes, and subjects. It began to occur to me that Rebecca and I had a little in common. I found myself wishing she would warm up to me a little, if only just to give me someone my own age to talk to. On my fourth day I got my wish. After chores and lunch Rebecca asked her father’s permission to go ride her horse. He gave it absently, which was his manner with her and then she asked if I might like to go along on David’s horse. David was her older brother who was currently off at some school somewhere learning, surprise surprise, how to be a minister. John seemed to think about this for a moment, much longer than he’d considered Rebecca’s request, and then said he thought that would be fine if it was okay with me. I quickly agreed, even though I’d never been on a horse by myself before in my life. I was desperate to escape from my prison for a little while. Once out of her father’s jurisdiction, Rebecca became an entirely different person. She took me out to the barn and pulled out two horses. While teaching me how to saddle, the first thing she said to me was, “Please, call me Becky. I like that name a lot better. Just don’t use it in front of Mom or Dad.” “Okay.” I’d replied and she smiled, the first smile I’d seen her offer. She gave me the basic course on horsemanship, her manner chatty and relaxed now, and we shortly took off on our ride. She led me off of their property, through the neighbor’s property to a horse trail of sorts along the Feather River. As we rode we talked of inconsequential things, warming quickly up to each other. She asked me what it was like to live in Seattle. She’d never been to a large city before. I told her about my mundane life there and she seemed fascinated. We then talked of books that we’d both read and this took up the bulk of our conversation. We’d hit upon what were both of our interests. In that first two-hour ride we became friends, smiling, giggling, comfortable companions with each other. After the first one, our after-chore rides together became a routine. We stayed out longer each time and talked more comfortably to each other as the days went by. On, I believe it was the sixth of our rides, while we stopped the horses beside a small stream to let them rest and we ourselves sat against an oak tree, she revealed one of her secrets to me. She had her back-pack with her and she was fidgeting with it nervously, as if full of indecision. Finally, she said, “Kevin, can I show you something?” “Sure.” I shrugged. “What do you got?” She gave me a weak smile and then hesitantly reached into her backpack. She pulled out a plastic baggie and unrolled it. It was full of a green, leafy substance. I’d seen marijuana before of course. One did not go to school in Seattle without seeing it from time to time. I was shocked however both by seeing the drug in Becky’s possession and by seeing the amount that she had. Her bag contained at least an ounce. “Where did you get THAT?” I asked, open-mouthed. Becky smiled. “I grew it.” “You GREW it?” “Yep.” She told me, pride evident in her voice. “It’s amazing what you can learn how to do with books from the Wheaton library.” She chuckled. “It’s a good thing Dad doesn’t know that book is there. He’d have a shit-fit and make them burn it.” “I GUESS.” I said, using an expression I’d picked up in my time in Wheaton. “I have a couple of plants in the back corner of our field, behind the corn where Dad or Mom never go. I learned how to cultivate it and take care of it real well.” She winked. “It’s some killer shit.” “Jesus Becky.” I said, uttering a swear that would have earned me a stern, half-hour lecture from Uncle John had he heard it. “You ever smoke it before?” She asked. “No.” I told her honestly. My father had given me lectures on the dangers of marijuana, punctuating them with horror stories of his exposure to it at work. “You wanna try some?” She asked next. “I don’t think so.” I answered. “I heard it’ll get you addicted, or turn you into a heroin addict.” Becky scoffed at this. “That’s just what THEY want you to think. I’ve been smoking it for almost a year now and I’m not an addict. And I don’t take heroin either. Or even think about taking heroin. All it does is gets you high. Makes you feel good all over. Let’s you think. C’mon, give it a shot, you’ll like it. If you don’t, you never have to do it again.” I considered for a minute and then finally decided. What the hell? “Okay.” I told her. “Maybe I’ll try a little bit.” “Great.” She said, reaching into her bag again and pulling out a can of Pepsi. She opened the can and then poured its contents out onto the ground, making a fizzing brown puddle. She then began twisting the popping tab in her hands, trying to remove it. “What are you doing?” I asked her, puzzled. “Making a bong.” She explained. “Something to smoke it out of. A soda can is the best thing. It smokes good and is disposed of easily.” “Oh.” I said, not getting her at all. She dented the side of the can about an inch and then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folding knife (in Wheaton, everyone carried a folding knife). She used the knife to poke a series of small holes where she’d dented the can. She then made a larger hole near the base of the can. She held up her creation for my perusal. “You see?” She smiled. “Kind of.” I told her. She opened up the baggie and withdrew a healthy pinch, which she placed in the dented portion of the can. Keeping the pile of pot carefully upright, she reached in her pocket again and pulled out a disposable lighter. “Now watch.” She told me. She flicked her bic and applied the flame to the pile of pot, putting the hole in the can where a person would normally drink to her lips. She began to suck, the pile of pot flaring to life to my fascination. She drew deeply and then removed her thumb from the hole on the side and continued for a moment. “Mmmm.” She smiled through pursed lips. After a moment she exhaled a plume of smoke. “Now it’s your turn.” She said, reaching into the bag again. She instructed me through my first hit, which caused me to cough violently. By the third hit, however, I had gotten the hang of it. I think we took a total of six apiece before she crumped up the can and tossed it and stowed her baggie back in her backpack. “When will I be high?” I asked her innocently. She smiled knowingly. “You probably already are.” She answered. “And you just don’t know it yet.” While I puzzled over this cryptic statement I started staring at the horses. They were placidly drinking water out of the slow-moving stream. I watched their fat, long tongues lap at the liquid and began to marvel at this. They were drinking stream water. Becky had told me on our first ride that I should NEVER drink the water out of the streams. It had germs and organisms in it that would make me violently ill (“you’ll shit your asshole out”, is how she’d put it). So why was it that the horses could drink with impunity from the same stream? Did they possess some sort of super-immune system that mere humans weren’t capable of? And look at the SIZE of them. They were at least twenty times my weight, yet they let me ride unprotestingly upon their backs. Why? If they wanted to, they could toss me off in an instant and stomp me to death. How was it that this animal had evolved to allow a human being to ride upon it? And then there was the stream they were drinking out of. What was its origin? It probably, I figured dreamily, came out of the mountains and fed into the Feather River which fed into the Sacramento River which fed into San Francisco Bay which fed into the Pacific Ocean. The water would then drift out to sea, be evaporated into a giant cloud which would then drift over California and rain the water down upon the mountains to be, eventually, put back into this same stream. “Whoa.” I whispered, in awe of the thoughts I was having. Things I’d never considered before were suddenly making perfect sense in my mind. I followed this trail of thoughts into the subject of geology. After a period of intense speculation, I figured out why the center of the Earth was molten. It had to do with the incredible pressure from above mixed with original heat from when the Earth was first formed. You add in the miniscule amount of heat transference as a result of… The sound of giggling interrupted me just as I was about to come to an exciting thesis in my mind. I looked over at the sound and saw Becky staring at me in amusement, holding her hand over her mouth. “You’re stoned, aren’t you?” She asked. I stared at her for a moment, realizing that she was right, and started giggling too. She hadn’t been kidding, it was a very pleasant sensation. “Yep.” I finally answered. “I DO seem to be stoned.” We broke up for nearly a minute before returning to a normal, such as it was, conversation. “So my father,” Becky said. “Has been feeding you all of his bullshit about God and the bible.” I nodded. That was definitely not a deniable point. “Yep.” I answered. She smiled cynically. “You buy all of that shit?” “Well…” I started, not wanting to talk ill of her father in front of her. “It’s okay.” She said. “Believe me, you’re not gonna offend ME. I think all of that God shit and organized religion shit is just a bunch of mindless crap.” I stared at her, flabbergasted, amazed that she would talk such a way about the beliefs her parents apparently held sacred. “Sometimes I wonder.” She continued. “If my father even believes all of that shit. I mean REALLY. All of mankind evolved from Adam and Eve four thousand years ago? All of humanity wiped out in a great flood except for Noah’s family? And that Ten Commandments crap.” She spit contemptuously into the dirt. “That’s nothing but a load of horseshit, obviously put in there as a form of mass behavioral control.” “Wow.” I said, unable to think of anything else to say. For a fourteen-year-old, Becky was very articulate, though crudely so. If the church knew that one could form such opinions as hers by mere reading, they would have banned books a long time ago. “So DO you believe any of that shit?” She asked. I looked at her, noticing that she was really sort of pretty. Her face was plain but was unmarked by pimples as so many faces of her age bracket were. She had thick glasses perched on her nose but the eyes behind them were a shade of deep blue, the color of the ocean. The skin of her neck looked soft and I wondered what it would be like to kiss it. How would it feel against my lips? Against my tongue? My eyes dropped to her breasts, which were bulging from beneath her T-shirt. They were pleasantly plump and they jiggled as she rode her horse. I’d heard of girls getting turned on and even coming from horseback riding. Had Becky ever experienced such a thing? Had she ever… “Hello?” She said, interrupting my lecherous train of thoughts. “Huh?” I said dumbly, staring at her. She giggled. “I said, do you believe any of the shit my father spouts?” “No.” I answered truthfully. “I don’t. It doesn’t make any sense.” She smiled. “You think just like I do.” She told me. “C’mon. Let’s go ride for awhile. We gotta stay out until this shit wears off.” After that day a new routine was established. We would finish our chores as quickly as possible and then saddle up the horses for a ride. Once we were beyond the sightline of the farmhouse, we would dismount and break out the Pepsi can. We would then ride to some secluded spot, usually the streambed, and talk. Our conversations were fascinating, the sort I’d never experienced with anyone else. We talked of God, of religion, of UFO’s, of the government, of nacho cheese chips. It didn’t matter, we sat and bullshitted by the streambed about anything and everything like the best of drinking buddies. I’d never met anyone in my life as easy to converse with as Becky. One evening, in my second week there, just as we were finishing up the dinner dishes, the telephone rang. Aunt Mary answered it, listened for a moment and then handed the phone to Uncle John. He listened, nodding and offering some consoling words to whoever was on the other end. He said that they would be right over and hung up. “What is it John?” Mary enquired, her eyebrows spiking up excitedly. She was a voracious gossip and delighted in each tidbit that her husband, by virtue of his profession, was able to provide her with about their fellow townspeople. “It was Mrs. Wilson.” He said sadly, shaking his head. “She just got a telegram from the government.” “Yeah?” Mary prodded eagerly. “Her boy was just killed over there in Beirut. Apparently some Palestinian machine-gunned the bus he and his squad were riding in. Three of them were killed. Tommy was one of them.” “My goodness!” Mary exclaimed, feigning shock. “That poor woman.” “She wants us to come over and help her through this.” John said. “I told her we’d be right there.” “Of course.” Mary replied. “Let me fix my hair real quick.” “Don’t worry about your hair woman.” John commanded. “Mrs. Wilson doesn’t care what you look like. Let’s go.” She seemed about to say something to him but thought better of it. Instead, she turned to Becky and I. “Rebecca, Kevin, you two finish up this kitchen and then clean the rest of the house. Don’t forget to feed the dogs.” “Yes Mom.” Becky muttered, handing me a dish to dry. “And get yourselves to bed at a decent hour.” John added. “Okay Dad.” Becky said and then she cast a mischievous wink at me, a wink that silently said to me, “watch this”, before turning to her father. “Dad, why did that man shoot Mrs. Wilson’s son?” “Because he’s a pagan.” Uncle John answered immediately. “An infidel who is blind to God’s path and who is bent on destroying our way of life. He’ll be judged harshly come the rapture.” “Oh.” Becky, who seemed to be suppressing a smile answered. In a flash, they were out the door. As I dried the last dish I heard the sound of the F-150 firing up and then pulling away. “Can you believe that crap?” Becky scoffed once they’d gone. “Bent on destroying our way of life. Jesus. It’s just a bunch of mindless people fighting a mindless war over some worthless piece of dirt. Doing the same thing the human race has always done.” She smiled at me, her demeanor instantly changing to cheeriness. “Let’s go get stoned.” I looked at her, my mouth gaping. “You mean NOW? What if they come back?” “They’ll be gone for hours.” She assured me. “They always are when they’re comforting someone whose family member has bitten it.” “But won’t they smell it?” I asked. “You know, when they get back?” “We’ll do it in the barn.” She told me. “C’mon, it’ll be different.” I shrugged, convinced. “Okay.” Becky retrieved a can of Pepsi out of the fridge and dumped it down the sink. Twenty minutes later we were quite lit. We sat next to each other on the couch, a baseball game playing on the television before us. I couldn’t have said who was playing but I was concentrating intently upon the screen. I’d spied a Marlboro advertisement near the scoreboard and was in the middle of intense speculation about the nature of indirect advertising practices. “Hey Kevin.” Becky interrupted me. “You want to see something really cool?” I looked at her, noting a queer sparkle in her blue eyes. I shrugged. “Sure.” “I’ll be right back.” She said. She trotted up stairs and I went back to my perusal of the game, this time thinking about the baseballs and how many of them were lost to foul balls each year. Becky returned, carrying something in her hands. She sat down next to me, closer than she’d been before, and slapped a small hardcover book down on the coffee table in front of us. I looked at it, my face immediately flushing. THE JOY OF SEX was the title. “Where’d you get that?” I asked. “The library?” “Are you kidding?” She laughed. “They have a copy of it but I’d never be so dumb as to check it out. That old bitch librarian would be on the phone to Dad before I could even make it to my bike. My friend Mary Beth gave it to me a couple of months ago. She found it in her parent’s room. You ever seen anything like this?” I was embarrassed. “No.” I told her. “Not really. I’ve seen, you know, Playboys before but never an instruction book.” Becky laughed. “An instruction book. I like that.” She flipped open the cover. “Here, check out some of these pictures.” Though I was embarrassed to be looking at an adult book with a female, my curiosity got the better of me. The pictures in the book were unlike anything I’d seen before. Playboys had photographs of naked women. This book had drawings of men and women participating in a variety of sexual practices and positions, some of which I’d never considered before even in my endlessly horny imagination. I felt myself, to my horror, starting to get a hard-on as we looked at them. Would Becky see it? What would she do if she did? I averted my gaze, keeping my face towards the book but not looking at the pictures, willing my erection to subside. Becky giggled. “You ever do this?” She asked. I looked and saw that she was pointing to a picture of a naked man masturbating. I nearly choked. “No!” I shouted. “Never! I ain’t no fag!” “What does being a fag have to do with it?” She asked. “Why would jacking yourself off make you a homosexual?” This stopped me. I had no counter-argument. “Well, I just don’t do that.” I assured her. “It’s gross.” It goes without saying of course that I was lying. I was fourteen years old. If I didn’t get to whip off at least once a day I had withdrawal symptoms. But, like any adolescent, I had the screaming horrors of anyone knowing that I did this. I wouldn’t have admitted it under torture. “Girls do it too you know.” She said next. “What?” I asked in disbelief. This was certainly news to me. I figured she was teasing me. “Yep.” She said, smiling. “Look.” She flipped a few pages and low and behold, there was a drawing of a naked woman lying on her back rubbing her pussy. There was even a close up view of what should be rubbed. “Everyone does it.” She told me. “And despite what Dad says, it’s not a sin. It’s a natural thing to do.” “Do you do it?” I blurted, my intention being to embarrass her the way she’d embarrassed me. But this backfired. “Yep.” She told me matter-of-factly. “All the time. It’s better than the pot.” My mouth dropped open at this admission and my dick lurched in my pants as I envisioned Becky laying on her bed naked and rubbing herself the way the woman in the book did. “Of course the best thing,” She continued, looking at my blushing face. “Is to do it AFTER you’ve smoked pot. Being high really intensifies the orgasm.” “Have you ever, you know…” I stammered, desperate to change the subject from masturbation. “Had sex?” “Not with a guy.” She told me, making my mouth drop again. I couldn’t help but conclude that since she hadn’t had sex with a guy, that left only one gender in the human race. “You mean…” I couldn’t finish. She giggled, blushing. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She said. “But you won’t tell anyone, will you?” I shook my head, speechless. “When Mary Ann showed me this book we decided to try masturbation together. We did it for a while and then pretty soon she put her hand on my pussy and started rubbing it for me. It kind of freaked me out at first, she was a girl after all, but then it started to feel good, better than doing it myself. And then…” She paused, as if unsure how to go on. “Well, you see, I think Mary Ann might be a lesbian. I’d always kind of suspected it but, you know. Anyway, after she rubbed me for awhile and got me really crazy she put her face between my legs and started licking me. I kept telling myself that it was sick, letting a girl do that to me but I couldn’t make myself tell her to stop. It felt so good, what she was doing. After a while, I came but she didn’t stop, she kept on going until I came three times on her mouth.” Listening to her story had made my dick as hard as diamond. The thought of Becky’s girlfriend eating her pussy and making her come had come close to making ME come, without even the stimulation of touch. “Are you a lesbian?” I asked her. “I don’t think so.” She said doubtfully. “I mean, I liked what me and Mary Ann did and all. It was nice. But when I fantasize about sex I think about guys and dicks, not women and pussies. And I couldn’t bring myself to lick her in return, although I rubbed her with my hand until she came. And I couldn’t kiss her or suck her boobs or anything like that.” “Wow.” I said, unable to think of anything else for a moment. I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying to adjust my straining penis, which had actually become painful. “But I also didn’t stop letting her do that to me.” Becky said. “We’ve done it about six times since then. I still haven’t done it for her, I just rub her off after she does me, but I still like it.” She thought for a moment. “It’s nice.” An awkward silence developed as I envisioned what I’d been told. “How about you?” Becky asked. “Have you ever had sex? Now back in Seattle when someone asked me that I would tell them that I’d had plenty of sex, that I’d bagged girls left and right with my twelve- incher, making them beg me for more. And of course I was lying. I found myself unable to embellish my sexual history to Becky after what she’d just shared with me. “No,” I told her. “Not really. The daughter of one of my mother’s friends let me kiss her and feel her, you know, her boobs one time, but I haven’t done anything further than that. She’s the only one I’ve ever even kissed.” “Did you like it?” Becky asked, her eyes shining. “A lot.” I told her. “Even though I kind of got the impression that she, well, that she’d done stuff like that a few times before.” “How come you didn’t fuck her?” Becky had a knack for shocking me with her bluntness. “Well, uh, there wasn’t really time or a place to do it.” And I had also been too scared and inexperienced to further the encounter, I didn’t tell her. In retrospect I probably could have laid my mother’s friend’s daughter that night but when she’d playfully and not very seriously said that we shouldn’t be doing these things, I’d readily agreed and called a halt to the encounter. It was something I’d regretted ever since. “Tell me about it.” Becky said, her eyes shining. “And don’t leave anything out.” “Okay.” I muttered, and then began to describe it. It didn’t take long. “Did she have nice boobs?” Becky asked when I was finished. I shrugged. “They were okay I guess.” In truth they were kind of small and the girl herself had been more than a little chunky. Her face had been dull and stupid looking and she had chewed a large wad of queasy smelling bubble gum throughout the entire encounter. But when you’re thirteen and someone offers you what she was offering, you don’t let such nuances as unattractiveness or unpleasant aesthetics get in the way. “Were they nicer than mine?” She asked softly. I blushed, hearing myself say. “Well, I’ve never seen yours before.” Now it was Becky that was blushing. I mentally kicked myself, my mind screaming that I shouldn’t have said that, that Becky would never talk to me again. But I was wrong. “Do you want to see them?” She asked, her face red as a tomato now. “Well…” I hesitated. I desperately wanted to see them, I’d fantasized about them from my first day in Wheaton. But the pot and my own inexperience made me unsure of myself. It seemed a trick question. “C’mon.” She said, offering me a nervous smile. “You either want to see them or you don’t.” “Okay.” I finally croaked. She widened her smile, reaching down to the hem of her T-shirt. She pulled it up and over her head, tossing it to the floor and revealing her chest and white bra to me. Her chest was pale, dotted with goose bumps. Without hesitating, she reached behind her back and undid the snap that held her bra together. She pulled it off and tossed it down with her shirt, allowing her breasts to bounce free. They were beautiful. Very pale, nicely proportioned teenaged tits. Firm and unsagging as they undoubtedly would do later in her life. The nipples were larger than I’d expected but they were erect, as was my dick. “Well?” She said nervously, pushing her shoulders back and displaying them. “What do you think?” My mouth had gone dry, and not just because of the marijuana we’d smoked. “They’re uh…., they’re uh…., they’re very…., very nice.” I offered. “Better than hers?” She asked. I nodded. “Much.” I assured her. She beamed. “Thank you.” You said. “I always thought that maybe they were too, you know, flabby or something.” “No.” I shook my head. “You have, uh, nice ones Becky. Very nice.” She stared at me for a moment. “Would you like to touch them?” I nodded, speechless and she moved closer to me. I reached out my hands, palms outward, and pressed them to her tits. They were unbelievably soft, firm yet yielding. I felt her hard nipples pushing into each of my palms as I squeezed gently ( perhaps the ONE thing I’d learned from my previous sexual encounter had been that girls do NOT like having their tits squeezed roughly). Becky hummed pleasantly through her lips as I did this. “That feels good.” She told me. “It’s different when a boy does it. It feels more…” She thought for a second while I continued to caress. “More right.” “Right.” I agreed, lost in the feel of her flesh. She leaned back into the couch, putting her hands over mine while she did so to keep me from losing contact. I felt her for another minute or so and then I could restrain myself no longer. I leaned forward and took her right nipple into my mouth. “Ohhh.” She said, surprised, but unprotesting as I began to suckle. Her nipple was firm, warm, covered with ridges and bumps that I could feel with my tongue as I licked and sucked it. Her hand came up to the back of my head and rested there, her fingers twirling through my hair. “That feels so good Kevin.” She moaned. “Do the other one.” I switched my mouth to the left nipple, which necessitated moving my body further atop her. My crotch was now pushing against her right knee, creating a pleasant pressure. “Kevin?” She asked, in awe. “Do you have a hard-on?” I pulled my face from her breast and looked into her eyes. They were shining and lustful, fascinated. Embarrassed, but quite lustful myself now, I nodded. “Can I see it?” She asked, almost desperately. “Please? I’ve never seen a hard one before, I’ve only seen my brother’s when he came out of the shower.” “Well…” I started, now unsure of myself. I’d never shown my dick to anyone before. What if it was too small? What if she laughed at it? “Oh please?” She pleaded. “Just let me look at it? I showed you my tits.” “Okay.” I said, sitting upright again and then standing. She licked her lips eagerly as I reached for the button on my shorts. I imagine beginning skydivers feel much the same sensation as they leap from the airplane for the first time as I did when I opened my button, unzipped my fly, and pushed my shorts and underwear down to my knees, allowing my five- inch cock to spring free into the air. My embarrassment and nervousness were almost overwhelming. I was allowing a girl to see my most private body part. “Wow.” Becky muttered, her eyes drinking in the sight of my dick. “It’s so big.” “It is?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. It was a word I never would have used in honesty in relation to my penis, a word I still wouldn’t use today. But I guess to Becky, who’d never seen one before, it probably looked enormous. “Yesss.” She hissed. “It’s beautiful. It’s so hard. Can I touch it?” Inexperienced or not, I wasn’t dumb. “Sure.” I told her, thrusting my hips forward. She reached out her hand, hesitated for a moment while inches away, and then grasped me around the head. Her hand was rough, toughened by years of farm chores, but it felt wonderful. Someone other than me was actually touching my dick! My pelvis thrusted involuntarily towards her. She began to move her hand up and down, creating a delicious friction. “Ohhh.” I moaned softly. “Am I doing it right?” She asked. Speechless, I simply nodded. “If I keep doing this, will you squirt?” She asked next, her mouth agape. “Uh huh.” I managed to mutter. “I wanna see it.” She breathed. “I wanna see you come. How far will it squirt?” “Uhhh.” I cried, my knees weakening, my mouth unable to form words. My time at the farm had put a definite kink in my usual schedule of jack-offs (Uncle John insisted our doors be open when we slept). I hadn’t come in nearly three days at that point, an eternity, and I was already feeling the tingle of inevitable orgasm straining up my spine. “Becky I’m gonna….” I panted uncontrollably. “Oh God, Becky, I’m gonna…” “You’re gonna come?” She asked excitedly. “Right now?” I nodded, closing my eyes in rapture. I wanted to warn her that it was bound to be messy, that it would probably, in fact, soak her, but I couldn’t. My mouth wouldn’t form the words. My pelvis started thrusting as it never had before. I put my hand on the arm of the couch to support myself. Becky, visibly excited, moved her face closer to my crotch to see what was going to happen. I knew I should warn her to at least move her face but I was beyond that. My knees buckled as orgasm approached and only my supporting hand kept me from falling. “Uhhhhhhh!” I whined, my voice high-pitched as the most intense orgasm of my life slammed through my body, starting in my crotch and quickly enveloping my entire body. My dick began to shoot gobs of sperm through the air. The first shot struck Becky directly on her nose, hitting with enough force to bounce off and land on her left tit. Her eyes widened in surprise. I have to give her credit however. Even through her shock, her hand instinctively kept jacking on my pulsating cock. The second burst hit her on her upper lip, remaining there. She was too flabbergasted to even move. Further bursts moved their way south, hitting her chin, her neck, and then her tits. Finally, the spurts dribbled to a halt, the last two falling harmlessly to the carpet at my feet. When I was finally spent, her hand dropped away and she looked at herself. I looked too, feeling incredibly guilty and ashamed at what I’d done. She was absolutely dripping with my sperm. It was smeared on her face, her neck, her chest. Her hand was saturated with it. She held her hand before her face and looked at it wonderingly. She then touched her lip with her clean hand, gathering up the sperm on her finger and staring at it also. Finally catching my breath and able to regain my balance without assistance of the couch, I began apologizing. “Becky.” I told her quickly. “I’m sorry. God I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” “Holy shit!” She interrupted, touching a glob that was running down her tit. “I never thought anything like THAT would happen. I thought it just dribbled out.” “No.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t. It…” “Did you SEE that shit fly through the air? Holy Christ!” She seemed fascinated. “Does it always do that?” “Well.” I said, confused. She didn’t seem to be pissed off at all. “Yes. It does come out with, uh, with force.” “Fuckin’ aye.” She smiled. “That was bitchin’. I did that to you?” I nodded. “Yeah.” “How much comes out?” She asked. “Jesus, it’s everywhere. That was bitchin’.” She repeated. “Did I do it right? Did it feel good?” “It felt very good.” I assured her. “Wow.” She said, fingering some of the sperm on her neck. “This blows Mary Ann and her tongue right the hell away.” She considered. “It’s a little messier though.” This struck me as funny for reasons I still don’t understand. I started giggling. When Becky joined me I started laughing. We laughed for nearly five minutes in a fit of hysteria, Becky with sperm drying on her beautiful skin, me with my wilted dick flapping in the breeze. We stopped only when the telephone rang. Becky quickly composed herself and walked over, her tits bouncing saucily, giving me the beginnings of another hard-on. She picked up the phone and said hello. Her face soured. “Oh, Hi Daddy.” She said into it. She listened for a moment and then her face soured more. “You are?” She said. “She is?” Another pause. “They are?” Another pause. “You will? Okay. Goodbye.” She slammed the phone down and made a dash for her clothes. “Shit!” She yelled, near panic. “What?” I asked her, alarmed myself. “Dad’s on his way home right fucking now! Mom is staying the night with the Wilson chick. Jesus, we gotta clean this place up.” I didn’t know how close the Wilsons lived to the farmhouse, but I knew enough about Wheaton to savvy that no matter where they lived it was not possible to be more than a ten-minute drive. “Oh shit.” I said. Becky quickly took charge. “Go feed the dogs and pick up the living room as fast as you can.” She told me. “I’m gonna go take a shower real quick and get in my pajamas. When you’re done, sit in front of the TV like nothing’s happening. For God’s sake, know what’s going on on the TV, he’ll ask, the prick. If he gets here before I’m done, tell him we just finished chores and that I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to take a shower and maybe go to bed early. My symptoms are body aches and a little cough. Repeat that!" She ordered. I gaped at her, but repeated what she’d said. She nodded her approval. “Good.” She said, dashing towards the stairs. “Better get to it. When he talks to you, look him in the eye. Don’t look around the room or he’ll know something is up. Whatever you do, be calm, be cool, don’t panic and don’t change our story.” When Uncle John walked in the house eight minutes later he found me sitting on the couch watching the baseball game placidly. I was extremely nervous. This was my first encounter with trying to pretend I was not stoned in front of someone. It felt to me like I had the word “marijuana” printed in red neon upon my forehead. “Hi Kevin.” He said, tossing his keys onto the television. “Horrible business. Sometimes this is the most unpleasant job.” He looked around the living room. “Where’s Rebecca?” “Oh,” I said, my words sounding incredibly thick and insincere to my ears. “She wasn’t feeling too well and decided to take a shower to see if that would help.” He raised his eyebrows enquiringly. “Really?” He asked. “What was wrong with her?” “She said her muscles ached and she was coughing.” I told him, forcing myself to meet his eyes, which were probing into mine. “Oh.” He finally said. “Did she take some aspirin?” This was not part of the story! What should I do? I remembered Becky’s words and didn’t panic. “I’m not sure.” I said. He shrugged. “Well, she’s got sense. She probably did.” He glanced at the TV. “Giants and Padres?” He asked. I nodded. “Yep.” “Who’s winning?” “It’s a blowout.” I told him. “Eight to three Giants in the seventh. I was just about to give up on it.” He smiled. “Yes.” He said, and then uttered the closest thing to a blasphemy that he was capable of. “I don’t imagine even God could help the Padres now.” I laughed as if this was the funniest thing I’d ever heard and shortly afterward, he left the room, heading upstairs. Faintly, I heard him talking to Becky for a moment. A few minutes later he came back down. He sat down on the couch next to me and it wasn’t five minutes before one of his lectures began. This one had to do with those un-Godly Eastern religions. -----------== Posted via Deja News, The Discussion Network ==---------- http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Discuss, or Start Your Own -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----