The Making of a Cocksman

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5-9 & Epilogue Available On

PLEASE NOTE: This is a preview of this novella. It is available for purchase in its entirety via

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A reader, wrote to me about a story and said the following:

"Good fortune that befell me at age 16. If those gals had known what kind of novice I really was, I might not have been laid for another 2 years. My sister thought I was a real stud and had really been wanting me to do her, and I was right on the verge anyway. The girls liked me but my sister was a leader and really sold them on me. I became a coxman in the next 2 years. "

That simple paragraph, true or not, led to the following story.

Bob

Chapter One

Have you ever thought about the word "Slut"? It's an interesting word, usually meaning a girl or woman who has sex with multiple men on a more or less casual basis. Right? But what do they call a guy who has sex as often as he can with multiple girls or women?

You don't call him a slut. Not even sluts call him a slut. It's an interesting philosophical question to some. Humor me for a few paragraphs to explore that philosophical question, and then I'll get to the part of the story you're actually looking for.

The fancy name is Gigolo, but that infers that he fucks for money ... that he's a male prostitute, and while you could make an argument that all prostitutes are sluts, you can't go the other way.

I even did some very unscientific research about what guys like that are called, but all I came up with was "cocksman" (alternatively spelled coxman) and "sex machine". In other words, I didn't find much.

Anyway, whatever you call guys who do that, I'm one of them.

Now I know there are some of you out there who are saying "Shame, shame!" But you have to understand something. And here it is:

There has probably never been a time when a girl was sitting around playing with her dollies and thought to herself "I'm going to grow up and be a slut!"

And, I doubt seriously if most boys are climbing a tree one day and think "I'm going to fuck as many girls as I possibly can when my peter will actually squirt stuff."

You might notice that I used the terms "probably never" with the girls and "doubt seriously" with the boys. Isn't it interesting that one is more definitive than the other? Both are conditional statements, but lets face it, it's more likely that a guy will try to spread his seed far and wide, than it is for a girl to accept seed from a variety of sources. It's worth thinking about that if a girl does it though, she's called a slut, and that's not a complimentary title. But if I guy does it, he's called a sex machine, or maybe a cocksman, both of which suggest he might be proud of himself. And, it follows that most men would LIKE to be cocksmen, but not all that many are.

So, understanding that - and I admit it's open for argument - the question that bubbles to the top of the mind is: What is it that tips the balance for a guy to make him a cocksman?

I can think of arguments based on Biology, and arguments based on Culture and arguments based on Evolution. But before we get too deep and you all quit reading, let me just tell you the story of how I became a sex machine. Then you can decide which argument might explain me.

Let me throw a wrench in the works from the very start by saying it was an accident.

I was a normal, ordinary, every day sixteen year old boy, growing up in a smallish town in middle America. It wasn't the Bible Belt, but it wasn't far from that either. It was in the late sixties, but I wasn't tuned in to the "Love Generation" or any of that Hippie stuff, and neither were any of the girls I'm going to tell you about.

I had a mom and a dad, and a sister named Claire. I also had a mutt named Buddy, who I probably loved more than the others simply because Buddy always loved me, no matter what kind of trouble I got into. I couldn't afford a car, but had access to my Dad's 1966 Chevy Malibu for dates and to cruise the highway between Junctionville, where we lived and Derby, eleven miles down the road. Most all of us kids participated in that little rite, on a more or less regular basis, going from the A&W Root beer place in "Junktown", to the Dairy Queen in Derby. And back, of course. Gas was twenty cents a gallon in those days and you could cruise the strip all night for a buck.

I took a lot of girls on that trip and, though I had an interest in necking, I never pushed it. The girls appreciated that too, which was the whole point. I got a reputation for being "safe", which encouraged most girls to accept an invitation to drag the strip.

It also encouraged them to experiment a little, since they all knew I'd stop whenever they said stop. That led to a lot of hot kisses and quite a bit of stroking breasts and a ton of heavy breathing.

Now girls talk about boys whenever they get together, so my name got mentioned a lot, even when Claire was in the group. Not every guy got the stamp of excellence during these talks. From what I understand, the talk would usually start out something like

"I had to fight Jimmy Johnson off with a stick last night. That boy has more than two hands, I'll tell you that!"

And from there they'd all complain about whatever boy had tried to do this, or begged them to do that and so on. Then, comparisons would begin, about which boy was more dangerous than the rest. This had nothing to do with how cute the boy was. That was a separate issue. They might all agree that Joe Bob was the cutest boy in town, and all swear they'd never ever let him get them alone, all in the same sentence. And, inevitably, so I was later told, my name would come up and there would be sighs all around. It wasn't because I was cute, or a football star. It was because I had tweaked nipples so nice and then quit when told to.

And, of course, girls lie just like boys, particularly about how far they've been. You can tell when a girl lies, because they say they did something, but not who with. If it's the truth they give credit where credit is due, or blame, as the case may be.

So, whenever my name came up around Claire, all she ever heard about me was good things, and about how nice things felt when I did them, and how it wasn't scary at all. And Claire decided, somehow, that I was some kind of legend, who knew everything there was to know about sex.

But the fact was that I was a virgin. I knew quite a bit about tweaking nipples and was a pretty good kisser, but that was about it. I'd never had the courage to put my hand below the belt, and no girl had ever spread her legs and yelled "Rub my pussy Bobby, I'm on fire!"

Claire had what she called her posse, which was a group of five girls who hung around together almost all the time. She was the Sheriff and when they were together it showed. She bossed those girls something terrible and they fell in line like ducks after their momma. They were all fourteen and just entering what's sometimes called the blush of womanhood. I'd known them all since we were little, and to them I was just like a piece of furniture. True, I had sharp corners, so to speak, that they bumped into once in a while, and I was dented and scratched a little as a result, but I wouldn't have been surprised at all if one of them came into the living room and sat down on me not knowing I was even there.

That all changed when Clair and the posse turned fifteen. It changed because all of a sudden Claire was allowed to date.

Well, that put a shock into the posse. None of them had been allowed to go on real dates until they were fifteen. And even then there was a lot of scrutiny by parents concerning who they went out with. Claire had bribed me a time or two to take the whole bunch out to drag the strip with me.

Have you ever been in a 1966 Malibu with six chattering teenaged girls? It was kind of fun in some ways. first of all it was crowded. They crammed four in the back, and two more up front with me on the bench seat, which meant one of them had to either almost sit on top of the other, or straddle the Hurst floor shifter. They talked like I wasn't there and it was hilarious to hear them tell about sneaking out and first kisses and all that stuff. Some of them had older sisters who had been out with me too, and they'd heard all about what fun girls had with me on dates. They didn't know the details - they just knew that the girls all liked going out with Bobby.

But of course, other than dragging the strip as a group, they didn't want to go out with ME. I was Claire's brother, and I farted when they were around, and drank a whole bottle of Coke just so I could try and perform the alphabet in one long burp and all that normal kind of thing boys did at age eleven and twelve. Of course by the time I took them down the strip, I was almost seventeen and they were fifteen, which made me an old man to them. They went to the Junior High School, and I was Junior IN High School.

I also had nicknames for them all that they pretty much didn't appreciate.

Claire was "Claire Bear", because sometimes she was a bear to be around. Of them all she was probably the second best looking, with shoulder length brown hair and dark eyes, and a really beautiful smile. She smiled a lot too. Life was fun for Claire. Her breasts didn't look that big usually, but when she wore a tight shirt, or something that showed a little cleavage, she got the attention of the boys. Her breasts had changed shape too. The last time I saw her without a top on they were like cones, with round points. Her nipples were flat and small, and she could have gone braless and nobody would be able to tell. Now they had gotten a lot rounder or more full or something. I could tell by the shape through her clothes, unless it was the bra that was making her look bigger.

Suzy Rumbell was "Loosey Suzy" because she always wore big oversized shirts. That was because she never wore a bra. She didn't have much up top and didn't need a bra, except she had nipples that poked out through everything she wore.

Then there was Monique Haskins. I called her Unique Monique because she was the only girl I knew who looked like she did. She had ass length dark hair that was almost blue it was so black, with dark skin, like she tanned all the time. Her lips were almost fat they were so full, but they didn't look fat. She was the first of the posse to develop breasts and they just kept growing. Now they were big and looked soft.

The best looking one of the bunch was Margaret Williams. she had short straight blond hair that framed her face, which had high cheekbones and big green eyes. Her nose was what they call a button nose and she had a smile even more beautiful than Claire's. She was slim everywhere except her chest. She looked like she might fall over if she wasn't careful, because her center of balance was so high. That was offset by a butt that she kept confined in tight jeans. It was round and stuck out in the back like her tits stuck out in the front. Every guy in school dreamed of sucking on her titties and feeling that ass. I called her Large Marge.

Donna Miles was the one I understood least. I called her Miss September, because she reminded me of the Playboy Bunny from that month when I was fifteen, whose name was also Donna. She was really tall with long dark red hair that she almost always kept draped across her chest. She played with it all the time. I later found out she thought her breasts were ugly and covered them up with her hair. She had the potential to put the rest of them to shame, with a perfectly proportioned body that was an hour glass shape.

Last was the one I liked the best, at least up until the time when this story took place. She was Roberta Simms and I called her Knobby Robby. She was a tomboy, and liked the same things I liked when we were growing up. She could run as fast as me, and climb as good as me and all that stuff. She was all knees and elbows and gawky, flat -chested well into her fourteenth year and even now only had small conical breasts, like Claire's had been before they filled out. She was just behind the others in physical development. But she treated me better than the others, which means she didn't make as much fun of me. And, in the end, she would be true to that emotional style.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The accident happened while I was dragging the strip with a car full of giggling, screaming ... embarrassing girls.

See, somebody had to sit beside me, and as I mentioned earlier, if she didn't want to sit on top of whoever was in the suicide seat, she had to straddle the shifter. Now that shifter only had a three and a half inch throw, so it didn't move all that much, but for a girl, barely fifteen, to sit there with her legs spread, one of them touching mine, and have my hand moving around between her legs ... well, it caused a sensation. When we were getting in the car I explained it to them, and there were squeals and chirps and sounds you wouldn't even think a human being could make as they argued about which one would be the "shifter slut".

This was a new term to me. I'd never heard of a "shifter slut" before, but it made interesting images flash through my mind. That was the days when miniskirts were coming on board, much to the delight of us guys, and the thought of a girl in a miniskirt straddling that shifter made my dick stiff. Of course all these girls were wearing shorts, mostly cut-offs, but it was a nice little fantasy.

In the end Claire volunteered to be the shifter slut, since I was her brother and nobody would even think of accusing me of copping a feel of my own sister.

Right?

So, when they wanted me to do what mister nice policeman commonly called "an exhibition of speed" as we were dragging the strip, and my testosterone levels, already elevated by being around all that woman flesh, surged even higher, I decided to give them what they wanted.

I have to say here that Dad let me drive the Chevy because I took good care of it. It had a 357 in it, with positraction. My Dad had wanted one when he was a kid, but couldn't afford it, and when he found this one he lovingly rebuilt it just like his dream car back then. The station wagon was our "family car", which meant it was Mom's car, and it wasn't cool anyway. And Dad, bless his heart, understood what a young man felt when he drove that car. So, on pain of torture and death and being grounded for life if I so much as scratched it, he let me drive it. I knew I was lucky and didn't abuse things. Usually I didn't ever rod it. I'd get on it pretty good from time to time, to press some pretty little thing back into her seat and get her heart going, but that was about all.

In other words, I wasn't used to power shifting.

So, when I crammed it from first to second, and my hand slipped off the T handle ... it slapped Claire right on her money maker.

The engine screamed, now in neutral, and that got all my attention. Which meant my hand STAYED on the crotch of Claire's tight shorts, separated from her pussy by maybe two hundredths of an inch of terrycloth and polyester.

While I jerked my foot off the accelerator, Claire's surprised legs slammed closed, trapping my hand. By then, of course, my brain had registered where my hand was, and I was trying to pull it out. but Claire was a healthy young girl who played sports and had firm, well developed thigh muscles. So what happened was that I tugged, and went slack to tug again until, about the third time my hand basically stroked her pussy, her legs sprang back open and she yipped.

My hand came free, went back to the shifter, I put it in second and my exhibition of speed was put on indefinite hold.

It was an inglorious end to an attempt to impress a bunch of fifteen year old girls.

Well, truth be told, it DID impress two fifteen year old girls. It impressed Claire. But I didn't know it then. Then it was just an accident that I didn't want to talk about. It so happened that Unique Monique was sitting in the suicide seat, and saw the whole sordid affair. It impressed her too. She started laughing and laughed so hard that she couldn't tell the girls in the back what had happened. Claire started slapping at her, yelling for her to "Shut UP!" And, when Monique finally caught her breath Claire threatened her with terrible things if she opened her mouth.

Of course that got the four in the back all riled up and yelling and screaming about "What happened ... what HAPPENED?"

Claire was yelling "NEVER MIND." to them and "DON'T YOU SAY A WORD!" to Monique, and I knew things were going to get crazy in a minute.

So I accelerated to a hundred miles an hour and drove it that fast for a whole mile down route 64.

That did it. There was still screaming, but it was now about something completely different than the fact that I had just felt up my own sister's pussy. And, by the time I slowed down, which was only 36 seconds after I hit the 100 mark on the speedometer, there was a hush in the car as adrenaline flooded those young bodies and they concentrated on just breathing.

"Wow" said Claire. She was talking about a lot more than the speed, though I didn't know it then.

"Yeah, she's got some guts." I said in typical manly tones, trying to make them forget I'd muffed the shift ... in more ways than one, now that I think about it.

Then I spent some time checking gauges and listening for bad sounds. I'd seen the tac climb into the red there for just a second while I was groping Claire Bear. But everything seemed to be OK, so I loafed along the rest of the way.

No more exhibitions of speed that night. No sir.

We got back to Junk Town and they all piled out and Claire leaned over and kissed me on the cheek of all things! "Thanks" she said, and scrambled out after Monique. None of the rest of them thanked me. I was just furniture to them.

Now I just described that incident to the best of my memory, and in my memory I clearly remember Claire threatening Monique with dire consequences if she told the four in the back seat where my hand had been, albeit accidentally and only for five or six seconds.

So what does Claire do when they get back? She takes them all up to her room and then DESCRIBES IT in Technicolor, with details and sound effects, while Monique adds in even MORE details in her witness testimony. Only Claire embellished it "a little" and Monique went along with it!

Of course I wasn't there, but I heard about it later, from all six of them at one time or another, and the way SHE told it was nothing like it actually happened.

According to Claire I grabbed her pussy and squeezed it, pressing my finger between her plump pussy lips, like I was trying to rip a hole in her terrycloth shorts. Then I rubbed hard, and my fingers scrabbled at her waistband, trying to slip inside, so I could get INSIDE her panties and touch her naked pussy! According to her, if it hadn't been for her panties she'd have lost her cherry in an instant to my probing finger. Then she WRESTLED my hand out from between her legs, making me understand that I was totally wrong to be doing this to her and exacting somehow, without words, a promise that I'd do her chores for a month in penance for my transgression.

That was when Large Marge reputedly said "Why'd you make him stop? I bet it felt good."

There were "EEwwww"s and shrieks and bedlam as Claire got all red in the face (they all agreed that she blushed furiously) and shouted that I was her BROTHER.

Like they didn't know that or something.

Large Marge just said "I think you should have let him do it longer." and I guess the world, as we know it, came to an end or something. It was noisy, I'll tell you that.

Like I said, I wasn't there, though I could hear some of it in an undecipherable way. I was sitting downstairs watching (lusting after) Susan Dey playing Laurie on the Partridge Family. Marge apparently broke up the meeting of the posse, because they straggled out, under the impression that I had intentionally groped my sister, giving me decidedly odd looks. Marge must have meant what she said because she actually said "Good night Bobby." to me. Monique just laughed and they left together.

Claire didn't come down for another fifteen minutes, and when she did she was flushed and breathing hard. I didn't know enough about women to know what that meant back then. I found out what she'd been doing later. But I'll tell you that later, because what I DID notice was that she was awfully friendly to me, considering the social gaff that had occurred only some forty-five minutes earlier.

"What'cha watchin'?" she asked, though anybody could see what I was watching. Then she said "Oooo David Cassidy ... he's so dreamy." and she plopped down BESIDE me on the couch to watch.

The first thing I noticed was her use of the word "dreamy", which had gone out of use when I was .. like eleven or something. Then I noticed she was sitting beside me. Right beside me. On the couch. Where she had all the room in the world to get away from her cootie-ridden brother.

This was something new. It's not like we fought all the time, but we rarely had anything in common when it came to routine run-of-the-mill daily activity type stuff. Like watching TV. If I liked it, she probably didn't, and if she was watching it I knew I'd rather read or something.

What? You ask what she watched that I didn't find interesting? Well, I'd love to be able to tell you, cause then I wouldn't feel like the jerk I'm going to appear to be. I have no idea what she watched. I just assumed if she was interested in it, I wouldn't be. It was just the way we were.

Then I saw Claire's eyes dart toward my lap. Like I said, I'd been watching Susan Dey, with those slitty little eyes and that perfect face, and those tits that they always made her hide, but which couldn't be hidden from a boy's fantasy. She was a living Playboy model who just hadn't gotten old enough for Mister Hefner to hire yet, and you could peek into her life and see the routine run-of-the-mill daily activity type stuff she did every day. Whenever I watched that show I was in a constant state of rigidity.

So when Claire glanced at my lap, there was a rather obvious lump in it, right under my zipper.

So guys? What the hell do you do when you've got a boner, and your sister looks right at it? I didn't know what to do. So I blurted out "It's because of Laurie ... not you."

Now doesn't that sound completely reasonable? I mean I was telling the truth, and since I had lately done something that the average girl might accidentally think I had done on purpose, I thought that would clear things up.

Turns out Claire was an average girl. A guy had grabbed her pussy and then rubbed his hand up and down while pressing it against said pussy. The fact that it was her own brother didn't seem to matter. Again, later, she explained to me that, with all the stories she'd heard about my talent with making girls feel so fabulous, she thought I was trying to demonstrate it to her and she was ... get this ... flattered!

And then she came in and sat down beside me and I demonstrated how cute I thought she was some more by developing a nice manly erection. That's right, while I was apologizing, in my uncouth male way, for having a boner that Susan Dey brought into the world, Claire assumed that my stiff dick was more demonstration of just how cute I thought she was!

OK, Guys, here's some wisdom for you. I learned this the hard way - no pun intended. When you get a hardon around a girl, and she notices it, she thinks she caused it. It doesn't matter what you're watching on TV. It doesn't matter that the hottest girl in school just bent over ten feet away to retie her saddle oxfords and you got a shot of panty. She's with you ... you have a boner ... she caused it. Period. It's female logic or something.

So, when you quite truthfully say "Hey, that hot chick on TV got me hard as a rock.", she hears "Hey, you turn me on something fierce, but I can't admit it cause you're my sister, so I'm going to pretend it was that so-so looking girl on the boob tube."

"It's OK." said my sister. Imagine that. It was OK with my sister that I got a hardon for Susan Dey.

OK, so now let's recap, to make sure you're getting this. My hand slipped off the T handle of my dad's shifter, and my hand accidentally slapped my sister's love nest. Accident. No question about it. Then I rubbed my sister's pussy because her legs slammed closed and I couldn't get my hand out. Another accident. She didn't mean to do it, so it was an accident. Then she misinterpreted what had happened, thinking that, because I was a cocksman, I MEANT to rub her pussy because that's what I did with all the other girls. Purely an accidental misunderstanding of the situation.

So that's three accidents. And that doesn't count the accident of her walking in on me while I happened to be watching Susan Dey and had a boner, or her accidental assumption that SHE caused the boner and that I was too embarrassed to admit it. So now we have three-to-five accidents that have created a situation where I am thinking one thing and my sister is thinking entirely another.

So, when she got up an went to her room, I didn't think anything about it. I finished watching Susan Dey and then went to my own room. I had just gotten my hands on Heinlein's new book called "Stranger In A Strange Land" and I was hooked on it after only two chapters. It was close to bedtime, and I liked to fall asleep reading. I had better dreams when I did that.

So, when Claire stepped into my room and stood there silently, I didn't even notice her for a few minutes. I was lying on my back reading, in just my Fruit Of The Looms, which is what I slept in, when she cleared her throat. I glanced over and saw Claire, (one) who wasn't supposed to come in my room without permission and (two) was dressed how SHE sleeps, which was in a T shirt and panties.

Claire stood there, in that T shirt and those powder blue panties, for all the world like she was completely dressed.

"Bobby?" she said. Her voice didn't sound nearly as confident as she looked.

"Interesting outfit" I commented.

"Don't make fun of me," she said automatically.

"Who says I'm making fun of you. It IS an interesting outfit. I'm a guy and you're a girl, and the guy part of me thinks that's a really interesting outfit."

"Even though you've seen me in it, or something like it a thousand times?" she asked.

"Claire Bear ... what do you want?" I asked. Heinlein was calling me.

"Does it look sexy?" she asked.

"Claire, I'm your brother." I said unnecessarily. "Brothers don't usually think of their sisters as being sexy ... or even not sexy."

"But if you weren't my brother, would you think I looked sexy?" Girls have a way of ignoring huge obstacles, and Claire was no different. She assumed that I could just forget she was my sister. I tried squinting my eyes so she blurred a little bit. Now she was more or less a feminine shape, but I lost so much definition that she just looked like she had on flesh colored pants or something.

Not being completely stupid, I opted to do the smart thing in this situation. "Yes, you're definitely sexy." I let my eyes go back to normal and, to my immense surprise, as she came into focus I really saw the things I'd been trying to imagine. Her legs were long and, of course, bare, and she had just enough spread in her hips to give her shape there before her lines swept back in to her slim, flat stomach. Then the T shirt bulged where her breasts were. I noticed nipples and was shocked.

"Are you BRALESS?!" I whispered as loud as I could ... you know ... to show I was shocked.

She blushed. "Yeah, does it look sexy?"

What was all this "Do I look sexy" stuff, anyway? She's always primped and played with makeup and all that stuff, but it was more for other girls to see than boys. She hadn't been allowed to date, after all. I suppose she could have been showing herself off for boys at school, but it couldn't lead to anything. So why did she care?

While I'd been thinking all this my eyes had gone on up to her hair, which was in a pony tail. I was rocked to my core as I realized she looked ... fuckable! She DID! It was incredible. My baby sister looked enough like a woman that I contemplated her with some guy hunched over her, between her legs, pounding away as she made those sounds you heard on the occasional X-rated video tape that somebody snuck from home. I felt a tightness in my gut and realized two things that astounded me even more.

First, I didn't like the idea of that amorphous guy between her legs. Not at all. No matter how satisfied she sounded in my imagination.

And second ... I had a boner.

And third, I was astounded to find out she'd been right! I COULD look at her as a female-other-than-my-sister. That was what caused the boner.

Now I was in a quandary. My sister looked sexy. No doubt about that. My burgeoning prick was announcing it in a way that couldn't be missed. Even Claire wouldn't think I got a boner reading science fiction. It was obvious she WANTED me to think she looked sexy ... but I wasn't at all sure how she'd react if I said she did and had a boner to prove I was telling the truth.

"You have a boner!" she gasped.

It wasn't the kind of gasp that told me what she thought about the fact that I had a boner. It could have been a gasp of disgust. I decided to try to take the safe road.

"Yeah. So what. Guys get them. Happens all the time." I wanted so bad to reach down and straighten out my cock, which was trying to poke up toward my face, but was caught in my shorts. All it could do was make this big lump.

"So does that mean I look sexy?" she asked. She took a step further into the room as she asked that damned question again.

I thought I might as well get it over with. "Yes, it means you look sexy. There! Are you satisfied? Though why in the world you'd want your brother to think you were sexy is beyond me." I tried to put it back on her.

She came two steps closer. I could see her better, and her nipples were prominent, like some of the girls had when they were all excited and I was playing with them. It made my dick even harder.

"When we were on the strip? And your hand went ... there?" she stopped.

I didn't know what to say.

"Yeah?" That was pretty noncommittal, I thought.

"Was that on purpose?" she asked. I say she asked, but that doesn't convey the tone that was in her voice. It was crystal clear to me that the answer to this question was VERY important to her. My problem was that I didn't know if it was important GOOD ... or important BAD. I thought furiously. The way she was dressed, combined with the way she wanted me to think she was sexy tipped the balance.

"No" I said. "It wasn't on purpose ... and I'm sorry if it ticked you off ... but it was kind of funny too. I guess what I'm saying is I hope you aren't mad about it."

"Nobody's ever touched me there before," she said, like that explained everything. It was quiet for a long minute and then she went on. "It made me feel all mooshy inside."

I knew what she meant. "Mooshy" was something I tried very hard to make girls feel as I played with them. I had succeeded on a number of occasions, but it hadn't gotten me laid yet. Still, for that brief contact to have brought out that response in her made my hormones rush. She had to be very highly sexed if those few rubs had turned her on. Still, she was pretty young, and probably just confused about things. Believe it or not, my moral compass kicked in.

"I wouldn't feel bad about that if I were you." I said sagely. "That's a pretty normal thing for a girl to feel when something like that happens. Don't worry about it. It'll go away."

As I look back on it, that must have made her feel safer or something, because she took another step and sat down on the edge of the bed. The edge of the bed where her brother, with a boner for her, was lying. She didn't say anything for what seemed like a long time. Then something came out that sounded almost forced.

"When the girls left I had to rub myself," she said plain as the nipples poking out of her T shirt.

Now THAT was interesting. I masturbated, of course. But my little sister? Who'd have thought it? I was astonished again.

"I feel like rubbing myself again right now," she said. "And it's all your fault!"

"How is it MY fault?!" I asked, incredulous.

"Cause your hand felt good," she said.

"But I'm your brother!" I stated the obvious with blinding clarity.

"I know, and that's what makes me feel so weird about this. I liked it when my own brother touched my pussy. That makes me a pervert or something doesn't it?" She sounded like she wanted to be comforted. Then she dropped the bomb. "Did you like it? Touching me, I mean?"

Now how does a guy answer a question like that? I mean she wasn't screaming at me or anything, so saying "Sure, I loved to feel your soft teen pussy under my hand. I wanted to squeeze it and slide a finger up in you." might not garner a scream for the Police. But I wasn't sure about that either. So I took the easy road, the road that worked with lots of girls.

"Claire, you're a beautiful sexy girl. ANY guy would love to touch your pussy." I started out to deliver that line with all my acting skills, and then, to my surprise, found it didn't take any acting at all. She WAS a babe, and her pussy HAD felt soft and nice.

Claire sat there for a long time, like she was thinking. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, through a wisp of hair that was hanging down beside her face.

"I know what you do with those girls," she said.

She had changed the subject and I didn't know how to respond. So I didn't.

"I mean I know some of it." she corrected herself. "I hear them talking sometimes. They don't talk about what you do when I'm there. But sometimes they don't know I'm listening."

OK, so she had real information. I still didn't say anything.

"They say they rub themselves after you've played with them." Claire looked straight at me now. "Like I did."

It was time to say something. "Claire, you're not those girls. They're older." It was the best I could come up with there in the Twilight Zone. I wasn't too clear headed.

"But I FELT like they say they feel when you touch them." she insisted.

"But you're my sister." I reminded her.

She got that look in her eye that I recognized as the danger look. She had that look when she was about to rat me out to Mom or Dad about something I'd done that she knew I'd get in trouble for. It was that "I'm going to make you pay" look.

"Which is why I can't understand why you look so hot to me right now." I added hurriedly.

The fact that Claire was only fifteen saved my bacon. She bought that line like a little pig opening up the door when the wolf knocks. Not that I was the wolf or anything. I just wanted her to calm down and think straight. Which is why I was completely unprepared for what she said next.

"If I rubbed myself, would you rub yourself too? So I could see you?" She asked that like she was asking a doctor just exactly how long she had to live. She was afraid of the answer, but really wanted to know.

Do you remember those years when if a boy touched a girl she screamed about cooties? They grow out of that, but there is a time when they are both attracted to and repelled by boys all at the same time. That love/hate relationship intensifies as puberty gets a really good Rotweiller grip on a girl's body, and she wants things to happen with a boy, but not too personally.

That's where I had made my reputation.

I was the guy who would do things for and with them that were scary, but safe at the same time, and then stop when it got too scary. A lot of girls wanted to engage in masturbation while I did the same thing ... two or three feet away. Four or five girls had made that kind of deal with me in the past. Girls really liked to do that for some reason. It's like they could be all naughty and get off, but be safe about it because they were touching themselves, and I would be touching myself, so there would be no cootie transfer possible, so to speak. And it was fun for me too, cause I knew where their hand was, and what it was doing ... and touching. Usually, after a girl did that with me, we didn't go out any more. They'd see me in the hall or somewhere and blush and get all shy and embarrassed. But that was OK, cause there was always another girl.

So when my little sister suggested that we masturbate together, I figured she would get her curiosity satisfied, and then get embarrassed and that would be it. I wouldn't blackmail her or anything, but she wouldn't know that, so it might even make it easier to get along with her in the future.

Right?

I said "OK."

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