		  The following is an account of a limited sexual
		  (masturbaton) encounter between two young teenagers, BillyG
		  and his cousin, Tookey.



		  					BillyG and Tookey 

								by BillyG, February 1995




			  My parents were both well educated, upper-middle-class
		  professionals who had, for the most part, succeeded at much
		  in life. Still, they remained human beings and were troubled
		  with their own relationship issues from time to time.  I was
		  vaguely aware that they were having one of their "spats" and
		  that my visiting my aunt's place in the country was perhaps
		  less for my enjoyment than it was for their convenience.
		  That was all right with me, for as a fifteen-year-old boy, I
		  was looking forward to the vacation and the greater freedom
		  I knew I'd have on my aunt's farm.

			  My aunt Agnes, my mother's younger sister, had lived a
		  completely different life than my mother.  As attractive and
		  intelligent, she'd not been driven by any personal gadfly to
		  "do well at life."  She had stayed on her parent's farm,
		  married young and had a large family. Her near-do-well
		  husband had suffered the fatal consequences of chronic
		  alcoholism and died young from a massive gastrointestinal
		  bleed.  The household ran well, governed by a curious set of
		  firm, even rigid guide lines that operated hand-in-hand with
		  a certain relaxed, laissez-faire attitude.  My aunt's family
		  had nearly equal boys and girls, but several of the girls
		  were clustered together in age, right around my own.

			  My time on the farm is better described as a "working
		  vacation," for there were lots of routine chores to be
		  finished each day which, when coupled to the seasonal
		  planting-harvesting cycle, were time-consuming.  We kids
		  were expected to do our part and were often thrown into
		  close working proximity by these agricultural demands.
		  Consequently, I enjoyed an accelerated intimacy with the
		  cousins who were my age...girls, as it turned out.

			  In retrospect, my interest in things sexual dated back
		  to age five or so. I didn't know that it was sexual.  I
		  didn't know what sex was.  What I did know was that I was
		  interested in girls.  Or more correctly, I was interested in
		  girls' bodies.  I knew it was forbidden and that made it all
		  the more sexy.  By age nine or ten I certainly knew about
		  sex.  By age twelve my interests and desires had progressed
		  that, in recognition of my late physical development, I was
		  alarmed that the other boys could get off and I
		  couldn't...yet.  But by age fourteen or fifteen, the
		  testosterone storm has just started.  Riding the up slope of
		  ascendency of my bursting horniness, I was almost besides
		  myself with the proximity of my female cousins. Over the
		  years, I had some sexual contact or another with each of my
		  cousins, but I'd like to tell you of one that I hold as
		  particularly poignant and erotic.

			  Her nick name was Tookey.  She was sweet, fair and even
		  tempered. Just a year or so before, she'd been a stick of a
		  little girl who was permitted to wear only her little-girl
		  white underpants when we went to the swimming hole.  I
		  retain an image of her, blond hair streaming as she emerged
		  from the water, no breasts, and wet, translucent panties.
		  The darker outline of her female slit was so prominent that
		  even then, I felt a sexual lurch.

			  Suddenly, Tookey was no longer a little girl.  Seemingly
		  overnight, her hips had broadened and her breasts were
		  mature.  Her older sisters all wore bras but she rebelled.
		  Hyper aware as I was of those things, I constantly
		  maneuvered to watch her breasts sway beneath her T-shirt or
		  to delight in the tumescence of her nipples. Her nipples
		  were remarkable.  Stimulated by mood, temperature or
		  contact, they'd spring out, prominent and hard, visible
		  often through relatively concealing clothes.  I was taken
		  with Tookey and taken with her breasts. It may have been her
		  innocence or perhaps her demure personality, but it was not
		  apparent to me that she even noted my interest.  She
		  remained open and free around me, never turning away or
		  holding her shirt to her chest.  When we'd work together,
		  I'd frequently have the opportunity to look down the front
		  of her shirt, or, if a button-front shirt, to see the under
		  swell of her breasts as the shirt gaped open.  Because she
		  was only thirteen at the time and certainly an innocent, I
		  restricted my licentious actions.  I looked but I didn't
		  touch...at least then.

			  It makes sense to me now that she was a sexual time-bomb
		  and my attention had added fuel to the embers, but at the
		  time, things seemed to develop explosively out of nowhere.
		  Late one Sunday evening, the house was uncharacteristically
		  quiet.  Most of the family was away and we three, Tookey, me
		  and her little brother, Jerry were fooling around on the
		  living room couch.  Secure in the knowledge of our
		  unaccustomed privacy, we were "cutting up"...wrestling and
		  shrieking, as they were against me, trying to pin me and win
		  my submission.

			  Remember, I was a sexually aware kid who left little to
		  chance. To the contrary, it had become my mission to
		  contrive those situations where I might be rewarded with a
		  peek or a touch.  So it was the more remarkable that without
		  my scheming, I suddenly found myself in an intense sexual
		  situation not of my making.

			  In our couch wrestling, I was truly trying to fend them
		  off. I've not recall of just how it came to be, but I
		  suddenly became aware that the toes of my bare foot were in
		  Tookey's crotch.  She was wearing jeans as I recall and they
		  may have been hand-me-downs, for they were sufficiently
		  baggy, that I found my foot sliding around in them.

			  Jerry was sitting on my chest and shouting to Tookey to
		  help him, for he'd become aware that she had stopped
		  fighting.  I was aware of the same thing, but unlike Jerry,
		  I thought I knew why she'd stopped. My toes were sinking
		  into the very wet crotch of her jeans and pushing the fabric
		  into her pussy.  Craning my neck, I looked around Jerry's
		  small body to see what Tookey's reaction was to this blatant
		  toe caress.

			  I'll never forget her face.  Her eyes were hooded and
		  her mouth was half open as she stared back at me, almost
		  slack.  Her blond hair had fallen across her face in
		  disarray.  She wet her lips - I remember that well- and
		  looked at me, leaning back on her haunches, her feet tucked
		  under thighs, her legs open and my foot crammed into her
		  crotch. There was no pretense.  At that moment I knew that
		  she knew.

			  For the next several minutes, without speaking, we
		  continued the charade. Pretending to wrestle, but contriving
		  only to maintain our sexual contact, Tookey and I,
		  unplanned, carried out a salient deception to mask our
		  activities from Jerry.  As if to hold my legs down, she
		  lifted up a moment and then sat on my foot as she leaned
		  over, her hand "holding" my knees.  Her jeans were sodden.
		  She was so wet.  No stranger to the musk of a girl's excited
		  pussy, I recognized the scent of her arousal. Cripes, the
		  room was rank with pussy juice and my toe sank further into
		  her pussy.

			  I wanted Jerry to go away, to disappear.  I wished him
		  exile on Mars, or worse, to the cow shed!  But of course, he
		  was there to stay. This was his fight and he wasn't leaving,
		  so I was limited. Yet, I wanted to cup Tookey's breasts.
		  Oh, I didn't want to cop a feel, to brush up against them
		  "accidentally."  I wanted the extra thrill of her awareness
		  if not her permission.

			  Heaving Jerry easily off my chest, I rearranged our
		  bodies. Jerry was easy, for his tactic was unrelenting
		  frontal assault.

			  I had only to steer him.  Gesturing to Tookey to pile
		  on, I made room for her to attack my flank.  Holding Jerry
		  with my left arm, I looked Tookey in the eye as I reached
		  out and caressed her braless breast through her T-shirt.
		  That stratagem last only moments.  The arrival of my aunt in
		  the kitchen from somewhere signaled the end of our
		  "interaction."

			  I went to bed in a state of heightened arousal.  My
		  teenage hard-on was almost painful and my concern for
		  mythical blue-balls necessitated my jacking off twice.  Once
		  before going to sleep and again in the early morning.  (Ah,
		  those were the days!)

			  It was never my custom to sleep in, even on those Sunday
		  mornings when it was permitted.  Lying under the covers in
		  my small attic bed, I was slowly stroking my half-hard dick,
		  remembering with acuteness the images of the previous night,
		  wondering how I might precipitate that scene again.  I heard
		  someone open the attic door and come up the steps.  The
		  girls' room was adjacent to mine so I was only half aware of
		  someone approaching my door.  It opened and Tookey stuck her
		  head in to announce, "Billy, time to get up."

			  It would not have been unusual for her to wake me on a
		  week day, particularly if we had a job to do together, but
		  this was Sunday. Her wake up call was a thinly veiled ploy,
		  I decided.  I feigned sleeping. (Tough to do with an
		  erection.)

			  She came into the room and walked over to my bed.  I was
		  surprised, for the girls were not allowed in our room, more
		  for our assumed privacy than propriety I suspect.  Tookey
		  was a blond, but she was no air head.  If she were coming
		  into my room, I was certain she knew it was safe, that the
		  rest of the family was occupied in some way. Stopping at the
		  foot of my bed near the attic window, she reached down and
		  shook my foot under the covers, "Billy, time to get up."
		  Guilty of overacting, I feigned a slow awakening, bending
		  one knee and pulling the covers off my left foot as I lifted
		  my head and rubbed my eyes.

			  "It's Sunday.  Why do I have to wake up?  I want to
		  wallow for a while. What're you doing anyway?"

			  Not answering right away, Tookey sat on the end of the
		  bed, well away from my hands, with her left knee bend and on
		  the bed and her right foot on the floor.  Sitting on the bed
		  was not usual behavior...part of the rigid code of behaviors
		  and strange, given the close contact we experienced while
		  working together on the farm.  So I recognized some tacit
		  sign that it was okay to proceed with last night's play.

			  Sitting up, I reached for her and she jumped up and out
		  of reach. "Oh, no," was all she said.

			  I fell back in bed, surrendering to her conditions.
		  Patting the covers, I invited her to sit again.

			  Still, no conversation.  She assumed the identical
		  posture, sitting with one leg on the floor and the other on
		  the bed, legs apart and near my left foot.  Now my mom
		  didn't raise no dummies.  I got the nonverbal message right
		  away.  Raising my left knee and allowing the covers to slide
		  back on my thigh, I rested my foot between her thighs and
		  made some inconsequential comment that escapes me now.
		  Attempting to carry on some inane, one-sided conversation, I
		  began to trace small circles on the inside of her thigh
		  close to her pant leg. I felt like a snake hypnotizing a
		  bird.  We fell silent.  I became aware of the total absence
		  of the usual household sounds.  Perhaps they'd all gone to
		  church.  I didn't know and at that moment I didn't care.  I
		  continued to run my toe up and down her leg for several
		  minutes, watching her face. Again, I saw the transformation
		  for an innocent farm girl to a sexually-aroused woman.  Her
		  eyes remained open and focussed on some middle distance
		  beyond me.  Her eyelids drooped and her lips parted in that
		  slack-mouthed state of disconnected arousal.

			  There was a yellow-jackets' mud nest outside my window.
		  The only sound I heard aside from our breathing, was the hum
		  of their flight. Emboldened by her passivity, I ran my toe
		  up under her pants leg and tried to insert it into her
		  crotch, but it was too tight and she wasn't going to help
		  me, I was sure of that.  Falling back on a repeat of last
		  night's performance, I rested my foot right on her open
		  crotch and slowly rubbed her.  Tookey was a secretor.  In
		  short time her crotch was visibly wet. However, they were
		  too tight to permit an entry of my toe into her pussy, so I
		  contented myself with rubbing her crotch (as I secretly
		  rubbed my dick under the covers). After a few minutes,
		  Tookey closed her eyes and screwed up her face as if she
		  were in pain, and gasping, let out a long, muffled moan. She
		  was cuming, I was certain, although I'd never actually seen
		  a girl cum before.  She wasn't alone.

			  In the natural order of things, we stopped and a few
		  moments later, still without talking, she got up and left.

			  That identical behavior was to repeat itself over the
		  weeks, without change.  She'd never let me touch her crotch
		  and change the dance in any manner.  When we were working
		  and I'd try to cop a feel, she'd shy away and whisper,
		  "Billy!  Stop that!  This instant!"

			  Without ever speaking of the rules of engagement, we'd
		  come to this extraordinarily erotic and frustratingly
		  limited mode of masturbation which was never to change.

			  Now, years later, I occasionally think of her and wonder
		  how she'd become, what her married and sex life had become.
		  The memory remains green and terribly sensual.


										<The End>
