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Subject: Title story: "A Clearing by the River, II" Author: INCESTOR 64672745
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Date: Fri, 13 Jan 2006 17:01:01 +0000
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A Clearing by the River, II by Bluetrain Im not a stranger to sex. Though Im not
as experienced as some of my schoolmates, I have enjoyed more than a few times
the pleasures of spread thighs and moist crotches. I have had my own cock
stroked and sucked and kissed and welcomed into the warm and damp tunnels of
neighboring girls Shanes own sister, older than me, was my first such experience
and Ill get to that story in a moment. But the summer Im writing about, the
summer of my fifteenth year when my sister Claire and I stayed with our Aunt
Mary and Uncle James and our cousins Ben and Becky, was the summer when whole
new worlds were opened to me, when new ways of looking at men and women and
myself, and performing were revealed in manners I never would have expected. I
came away from that summer with views of my cousins and sister forever altered
in ways I never would have believed, but now appreciated and encouraged amongst
my own friends. The experience with Becky and watching my sister being screwed
by my cousin was just the beginning of what was to be a summer full of such
experiences and delights. But first I should tell you of Hazel and myself.
Hazel, Shanes older sister and my first sexual experience. Hazel, the girl whom
I will not forget, nor ever meet again for reasons I shall tell soon. I was in
love with her from the moment I saw her, and even though she was just eighteen
and already a women, and I a brazen and hungry fourteen year old, I could
already tell that I wanted her and that she, in a way I couldnt quite place,
wanted me as well. There were plenty of times to talk with her and hang around,
for Shane and I had been friends for more than ten years. In fact, I can dimly
remember Hazel bathing both of us a few times when we were still little scraps.
She wouldnt have been more than seven or eight, but I remember her soaping us
down in the tin washtub near the creek after we had played in the pigpen too
long. I remember batting at her long braids as they dangled among us. Since this
less than auspicious memory, Hazel and I had grown up close to each other, with
her event s preceding my own analogous ones by three or four years. There was a
time when she was my current age and I was ten or eleven, when we would walk and
play in the woods near our houses. She was delightfully imaginative then, and we
would make up whole kingdoms and histories in which we would be king and queen,
or the prince and princess. These times were wholly innocent and we left off
playing these games a year or so later when she was sent off to high school and
I started growing hair around my balls and waking up with my thighs and cock
still wet with the remains of a wonderful and dimming dream. Both Clare and
Shane rarely played with us during that time. They seemed to see our games and
make-believes as queer and light-hearted and more often than not would leave us
alone. Clare, however, accompanied Hazel to high school, and I only saw them
during holidays and during the summer, when they would return and all of us
would greet them at the train station. After a while, Hazel and I grew apart
older boys in town started to court her, and she responded to my urges to play
with reproofs that we were too old for that sort of thing. By the time I was
eighteen, Hazel was seeing John Dandridge almost every weekend evening and I
realized she had inevitably left me behind. I had thought that she and I might
never speak with one another again, and had set about forgetting her as best as
I could, when a June evening by the creek changed my life. I had finished with
afternoon chores and had run off to the river as quickly as possible to swim and
look for crawdads. After jumping in the creek and paddling around and washing
the sweat of the day off my body, I pulled myself up on the grassy bank and
flopped down with my hat over my eyes with nothing more planned except a light
doze until I heard mother ring the evening dinner bell. The creek was fairly
close to the house, yet the swimming hole was a secluded and cool spot in the
summer, with the overhanging boughs of box elders and sycamores shading the
water from the sun, and the surrounding undergrowth forming a thin canopy of
sorts over a grassy clearing. I loved to come here best on summer evenings, when
the wind would have picked up just enough to clear away the midges and
mosquitoes, and the birds would be calling each other up to roost. It was
shadowed and mysterious and all my own. That particular evening I was lying
naked on the grass, my hat over my eyes, my clothes in a dirty and sweat-
stiffened pile nearby. My skin cooled in the light breeze drew the water away,
and I was on the verge of dozing away when an unusual noise made me open my eyes
under my hat. Outside of the rustling leaves and lapping water and birds and
undergrowth noises was another sound: someone or something was approaching along
the secret path Shane and I had made and that only we knew about. I thought
about reaching for my clothes, but then subsided: it was only Shane and
nakedness was nothing new between us. Sometimes, after swimming, we would
compare the lengths of our cocks, as boys will do, both limp and erect. We were
about equal my own cock was slightly thicker than his, but his was half an inch
or so longer and we accepted this as equal. It was hard to get hard after the
creeks cool water, but Shane would only have to tell the story of him sniffing
Jenny Crows thighs in the barn after school, and how she had let him (or so he
said) stick his cock in her mouth for a few minutes, before both of us would be
rock-hard. She told her Dad that she stayed after to help clean the classroom,
Shane would say as a preamble to his story. Then she snuck across Fitzgeralds
field to our barn and I was waiting for her there. I took her up to the loft
where there was a little loose hay and she let me lay her own there and look
under her petticoats. Shane would be stroking himself by now (I would be, too
every time he told this story, I imagined more and more) and warming up to the
task. She wasnt wearing no bloomers, either, and I could see her white thighs
and her hairy crotch. So Im moving closer and closer with my hands and my head
and she smelled like she was in heat and so I moved up to give her a poke, but
she wouldnt let me. So I says to her, Either you let me give you a poke, or Ill
tell your dad you was messing in the barn with another boy. Well, she didnt want
me to poke her, but she didnt want her dad to know anything, so she turns around
and grabs my cock through my trousers. You cant poke me, Shane. But Ill lick it
for you if you want. she says to me and shes smiling when she says this. So I
take it out and gives it to her and she takes all of it, every inch and drop.
And Shane would go on to describe how Jenny Crow licked his shaft up and down
and took his balls one by one and then together in her warm mouth, and then took
his cock all the way into her mouth and down her throat. Her nose was rootin in
my curlies, Shane would say with a big grin, and I could see Jennys face there,
her eyes closed, her mouth moving back and forth slightly. By this time, Shane
and I would be fully stroking off, and I would usually come first, especially
when he breathlessly described how he had pulled Jennys head to his crotch and
unloaded down her throat. The pleasure would wash through me and my semen would
jet out and arc through the air into the green water, landing with small
splashes and ripples, like small golf balls on a green. Shanes would do the same
and then we would lie back, panting, catching our breath, and inevitably Shane
would turn and ask, What about you and Molly? What about me and Molly? There
wasnt that much to tell. At least, nothing to compare with Shanes story. Molly
McCormick was a tall, thin, bucktoothed, red haired girl, the daughter of the
town butcher, and was absolutely in love with me and had been since the fourth
grade. She pursued me I resisted. Sometimes she would get me alone at school, in
town after a dance and steal a quick kiss and I hated to stop her it would have
been rude and though I didnt like her, I didnt dislike her. I mean, she was nice
and all, but I wasnt really interested in courting her. Apparently, she had
other ideas about us, though, and I think she knew that sooner than later, she
would catch me at a time when I couldnt get away. And so it happened on top of
the Ferris wheel at the county fair early that summer Molly found her time and
place and I guess you could say I took advantage of it. She had found me at the
fair (its not hard when theres not that many people in the county), and asked me
to buy her some cotton candy (her girlfriends all giggled at this) and so I had
agreed and then she said, Well, Bran, I have to pay you back somehow. Would you
like to escort me on the Ferris wheel? I need a strong man to protect me. More
giggling, and I sheepishly took her arm and led her to the waiting line of kids
and adults, mostly couples, in front of the wheel. I couldnt say no, or else Id
be admitting I wasnt a strong man which I wasnt, but thats besides the point. We
waited and chitchatted about friends and chores and parents and the line crept
forward and after a while even I began to get excited thinking about the wheel.
It wasnt as big as wheels are nowadays, nor was it lit up, but it was plenty big
for us. The wheel stretched above us and the cars at the top seemed tiny from
down here, like black dots against the blue sky. I had been up there the
previous summer and knew you could see straight to the county line and beyond
that you could even make out a small red smudge of MacPhersons barn, way out
past the river. Molly clutched my arm as we drew closer to the man collecting
tickets. Im scared, Bran, she breathed in my ear, exuding cloying scents of
cotton candy, parched corn, and sarsaparilla. I hope you can stop me from
falling when Luckily the ticket man reached for our tickets and ushered us into
the wooden car and closed the small door behind us (after I had helped Molly sit
down on her bench, of course she carefully tucked her skirts beneath her when
she sat down), cutting Molly off mid sentence. She probably forgot what she was
in the middle of saying because she spent the next few minutes peering over the
sides in all directions, her long, red hair swishing across her face, and
uttering little gasps whenever the wheel lurched forward to let more passengers
onto empty cars. Finally the wheel was filled and we began to slow move up,
counterclockwise, and Molly hurriedly patted the empty bench next to her.
Please, Bran, she whined, batting her eyes at me, Please sit next to me so I can
hold on to you so I wont fall. I figured it was more trouble to refuse than to
do it, so I shifted around the car until I was sitting alongside her and she
immediately took my hand and held it in hers. Please? she said, seeing the look
I gave her. Just for now. Its so romantic. Before I could answer, she sighed and
laid her head on my shoulder, ignoring my shrug of indifference. We were at the
top of the wheel, now, and together we gazed out at the countryside: the corn
and wheat fields stretching away in soft ripples of land, the rows of trees and
the dense greenness of the forest beyond that. Molly sighed again and the wheel
spun and I was too busy trying to extricate myself from Mollys be-redded head to
notice any further details. So when the wheel started to slow, it was Molly who
jerked up and said, Seth, whats happening? Why is the wheel stopping? Indeed,
the wheel had begun to slow and now had stopped, with us marooned at the very
top. Mollys weight was blessedly gone from my shoulder and I breathed an inward
sigh of relief and started to inch away, but she kept my hand firmly gripped my
hand in hers. She knew exactly what she was doing and the only way I could think
of getting out of this was to not let her know that I knew that she knew what
was going on. I pretended indifference. Um, I think they do this so all the
couples I mean, people can get a chance to see the view. I said, hopefully.
Molly leaned over me, craning her neck over the side of the small, wooden car we
were in. I could smell her neck and all of a sudden she smelled sweet and soft,
and I almost reached up to stroke her thick hair. Then why are people yelling at
each other down there? she asked. I peered over. Sure enough there was some sort
of commotion down below. The ticket man and some other men were shouting at each
other and gesturing at the wheels frozen machinery, the big gears and belts and
pulleys all motionless. The ticket man abruptly turned away and stalked off
across the grass towards the midway, his miniature figure disappearing in the
crowd. Presumably, he was either ridding himself of the whole situation, or,
hopefully, setting off to find some tools to repair the wheels mechanism.
Meanwhile, passengers in the other cars had joined our restlessness and we could
hear anxious murmurs from the women and soothing, albeit exasperated, tones from
the men. As Molly and I looked out over the fairgrounds, a crowd started to
gather below us: Ticket-holders, anxious companions of family of those on board,
idly curious. Scores of tiny faces peered up and we could make out a knot of
Mollys friends pointing up to us and, presumably, giggling. Molly abruptly
pulled back into the car and clutched at me. She whispered, Bran, Im afraid of
heights. Ive always been afraid of heights. Thats why I never help out in the
barn during haying time. She gazed wide-eyed, up at me, and I could feel her
body tremble slightly. If she wasnt truly afraid, she was certainly putting on a
good show. And I felt my heart stir: something about this girl next to me, this
unfortunate, bucktoothed, lonely girl who seemed to have nothing to do except
chase me around. Like I was Gods gift to women, right? So I put my arm around
her and held her to me and let her rest her head on my shoulder as we looked out
at the fields and forest spread below us, and then I noticed the tear in her
blue calico dress. It was a large tear, about seven inches or so, but
unnoticeable and hidden in the folds, unless she was sitting down. Which she
was, and when I leaned forward, I could see that her petticoat beneath was torn,
too, in exactly the same fashion.
End
Real INCEST : http://www.incesttabooo.com/