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Subject: Title story: "A Clearing by the River, II" Author: INCESTOR 70724292
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Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2006 17:50:44 +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 ...
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