Path: not-for-mail
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.babies
Subject: i n c e s t story: "A Clearing by the River, II" 30707
From: rabinofben@yahoo.com
Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2006 05:57:19 +0000
Lines: 351
Message-ID: <449b82bf$0$20766$ec3e2dad@news.usenetmonster.com>
Organization: Usenet Monster - http://www.usenetmonster.com
NNTP-Posting-Host: e904890c.news.usenetmonster.com
X-Trace: DXC=U9M^f\b>e;ajSdYWWVY@^nfmBVYh0PF`f7:fG3B6S`dcX=2JORc]McjE@8H?]Ll2Rdc9K3Meo8aYhEKnEhobe:@nZeXX=>i9H;b60Nk[Tn^IPd>iEBnIJgZgcT7j5M<`mH``
X-Complaints-To: killthespammer@usenetmonster.com
===================
Full collection
of incest histories ===> www.incesttoday.com
A Clearing by the River, II
I'm not a stranger to sex. Though I'm 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 - Shane's own sister, older than
me, was my first such experience and I'll get to
that story in a moment.
But the summer I'm 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, Shane's 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 couldn't 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 wouldn't 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
creek's cool water, but Shane would only have to
tell the story of him sniffing Jenny Crow's 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
Fitzgerald's 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
wasn't wearing no bloomers, either, and I could
see her white thighs and her hairy crotch. So I'm
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 wouldn't let
me. So I says to her, 'Either you let me give you
a poke, or I'll tell your dad you was messing in
the barn with another boy.'
"Well, she didn't want me to poke her, but she
didn't want her dad to know anything, so she turns
around and grabs my cock through my trousers.
'You can't poke me, Shane. But I'll lick it for
you if you want.' she says to me and she's 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 Jenny's 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
Jenny's 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. Shane's
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 wasn't that much to
tell. At least, nothing to compare with Shane's
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 didn't like her, I didn't
dislike her. I mean, she was nice and all, but I
wasn't 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 couldn't 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 there's 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 couldn't
say no, or else I'd be admitting I wasn't a strong
man - which I wasn't, but that's 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 wasn't 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 MacPherson's barn,
way out past the river.
Molly clutched my arm as we drew closer to the man
collecting tickets. "I'm 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 won't
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. It's 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 Molly's be-redded head to
notice any further details. So when the wheel
started to slow, it was Molly who jerked up and
said, "Seth, what's happening? Why is the wheel
stopping?"
Indeed, the wheel had begun to slow and now had
stopped, with us marooned at the very top. Molly's
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 wheel's 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 wheel's 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 Molly's friends
pointing up to us and, presumably, giggling. Molly
abruptly pulled back into the car and clutched at
me. She whispered, "Bran, I'm afraid of heights.
I've always been afraid of heights. That's 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 wasn't 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 God's 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.
WANT MORE STORIES? Go to==> www.incesttoday.com