Fooling Around 101 - Version Bravo

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Foreword: This story is written in two versions, Alpha and Bravo. You are reading version bravo. Both stories are very similar in the beginning, though they go in different directions ultimately, with very different endings. Moreover, the personalities of some of the characters differ from one version to the next, even though they have the same names.

Bob

Chapter One

When I was a young and starving college student, my older brother had a comfortable house, with a wife and two boys in it. I liked all of them. Well, as much as you can like rug-rats before they can talk and will obey you and such like that. But even when they were at that stage, I spent a lot of my time at their house. Getting free meals had something to do with it. Okay, a lot to do with it, but Jill was a great cook, and any guy would like to eat as much of her cooking as possible. Plus, she was easy on the eyes.

Not that I ever tried anything. I mean a little fantasy about your sister-in-law is one thing, but actually trying to do anything about it would have been the height of stupidity. I really did like them all, and fooling around would have screwed things up for at least two of us.

But I learned a lot, hanging around them. Take, for instance, the time I was there when the boys were about one or so, and it was bath time.

"Want to help?" asked Jill.

I said "Okay," more out of a sense of duty than because I really wanted to, but it was actually fun. They each had a rubber ducky and they liked throwing them so we could fetch them. That kind of thing. Then we were back in the nursery, with the boys laid out side by side, drying them off. Jill had Dennis, the older one, and I was astonished to see her grab his little pecker and give it a wiggle. When she took her hand away, I saw he had a tiny little erection! I was amazed.

"Did you just give him a boner?" I blurted.

She laughed. "No. They get hard all by themselves, but they don't last long. Sometimes it just means they're about to pee. But he likes it when I tickle it."

As if to punctuate her comment, Dennis' little peter became a geyser while she snatched for a cloth which I later found out she'd put there intentionally, just for that usage. Dennis, it seems, liked to pee after taking a bath.

Two years after having the boys, Jill had a daughter, named Cindy. And, when she was a little older than a year, I got asked to change her. I knew that girls needed extra good cleaning, because, as it turns out, their labia look pretty much grown up from the start. Shaved, grown up, but if you've ever changed a little girl's diaper, you know what I mean.

And in the process of cleaning her up, I learned that even at that age, there's a little clitoris in there. When I ran the baby wipe over it, she kicked and giggled. So I put a fingertip on it, just to see if that reaction was real, and wiggled it just long enough for her to kick and giggle again.

I was astonished.

I felt a bit like a pervert, but I wasn't trying to produce any sexual pleasure, either in her or me. I knew my actions had been based on purely curiosity. And I never intentionally did that again.

Well ... actually that's not true, but that jumps too far ahead in the story, too quickly. For now, let's just say it was never my intent to molest my niece.

Of course life is never black and white. And as she grew up, little Cindy took a special liking to her Uncle Bob. Perhaps that's because I was always willing to read her a book, or make up a story to tell her. The boys were involved in boy things, which were usually loud and raucous. And I got involved in that too. But parents rarely have the time to read Princess Talula Tames A Dragon eight times in a row, with sound effects and turning the pages only at exactly the right time. And heaven help you if you leave out any words, or try to change them, to make things go more quickly. Between the ages of one and five, they may not be able to read, but their memories are quite good.

Except about the rules. But that's a different story.

The point is that it was entirely normal for Cindy to crawl on my lap and cuddle with me, for entirely non-sexual purposes, for the first decade of her life. At that point, the lap sitting began to slack off, happening only a couple of times a week, usually during TV time between bath time and bedtime. Cindy always took a bath first, and sometimes sat with me (or on me) to watch whatever was on, until somebody made her go to bed. And, because the kids were growing up, and I was needed less and less to help ride herd on them, I spent more time doing other things.

But I need to be honest here. When a girl nears puberty, especially in American, since the culture there demands it, the little girl gets gussied up and made to look older than she is. And she almost inevitably appears to be more sexually mature than she is. It's a very complicated mix of things that determined just how that comes across.

For one thing, some girls learn how to tease men before they fully understand what they are doing. They learn it from a variety of sources. In some cases their mothers even teach them how to tease. I do not know why they do this, because it's pretty rare for a girl between ten and, say thirteen, to be genuinely interested in things sexual. There might be some curiosity in there, but nobody is capable of having any kind of meaningful sexual relationship before fourteen or fifteen. Even then it's too early for a successful relationship, meaning one that isn't fraught with emotional danger and disappointment. But girls in their mid-teens at least have a chance of understanding things. They got married and started families for thousands of years in early adolescence. But not at ten and eleven. Not successfully.

All that is just to preface the comment that it's fairly normal for males to perk up and take notice when a little girl starts to look like a young woman.

And all that is just to say that I don't think it was perverted for me to notice that little Cindy was growing up and was going to be a real heart-breaker someday quite soon.

This is not to say that I had some wish to be her sexual partner, later on. She just had potential, and I appreciated that. It's like when you see a good looking girl walking confidently down the street, and you think "Some lucky bastard will get to tap that some day. I sure hope he knows how lucky he is when it happens."

Of course there are things that cause complications, and which lead to later consequences. I'll give you an example.

When Cindy was twelve, I went camping with the family. We had gone swimming in the lake for a couple of hours, and I laid out on the dock for half an hour in the sun to dry off and get a little tan. I heard the rest of them take off on a hike, after which we planned to have supper. I was the assigned cook that night, so I didn't go on the hike. What I didn't know was that Cindy had stayed behind, to help me cook. So when I got up and went into the big cabin tent to change clothes, I didn't know Cindy was in there changing too. She was stark naked, bent over, getting ready to step into a pair of panties when I threw back the flap and walked in. She looked up at me, stood up automatically, and squeaked as she tried to cover all parts of her naked body at the same time.

During that split second, I saw budding little breasts, with puffy nipples. I was almost amused to see that her adolescent vulva looked almost the same as when I had last seen them, ten years previously, and a few sparse dark hairs scattered across her mons.

And do you know what I thought? I thought she was cute. Not sexy. Not ready for sex. She was just cute and adorable and I was really sorry I had scared her, and hoped it wouldn't ruin anything between us. So I said something to try to make it less traumatizing.

"Oops. Sorry. No big deal, though. I've seen it before. After all ... I used to change your diapers."

Then I turned around and left. I got the fire going, and got the pans out and then she came out dressed. All she said was "You're supposed to knock!" but that was all. We cooked supper and everything was just like it had always been. When the family got back, we even told them about it, and everybody had a good laugh.

But what I did not know, at the time, was that Cindy saw appreciation in my eyes when that happened, and I didn't tease her or reject her, and that was something fairly pivotal in her sex life, at the time. A grown man ... a man she liked ... had seen her naked. And he hadn't laughed at her, or called her a little girl. His eyes had told her she was pretty, and that made all the difference in the world to her.

That's what makes all this stuff complicated. It's like shifting sand. Sometimes it changes right under your feet.

It got more complicated when her father, who worked for the university in the nuclear radiation lab, somehow got exposed to enough radiation that it fried his bone marrow, or whatever it is that causes leukemia. They didn't catch it soon enough. There was a big scandal, because none of his radiation badges showed the contamination, which meant either one was defective, or he hadn't been wearing it when it happened. Plus they never found the leak. I only tell you this because all that made it even harder on his family when we lost him.

So my role changed a bit, and I went from being a once a week visitor, to missing a night or two a week. Dennis and Mark, who were then sixteen, traded off being the man of the house. For a month, whenever I showed up, Cindy burst into tears and hugged me, not wanting to let go for an hour or more. Then she'd wipe her nose and dry her eyes and ignore me for the rest of the night. I offered to stop coming, but Jill said it was actually helpful, and that they'd work through it all.

So I got used to being on that shifting sand, where my role changed a bit, depending on what the family needed.

Which is what happened, I suppose, when she was fifteen.

Of course, by then, I didn't read her books any more, or let her serve me tea in tiny cups, or play frog prince to her princess or any of that kind of thing. By then, the way I supported her was by going to her softball games and track meets and the plays she was in and that sort of stuff.

I had been to her last softball game of the season. Her team had a seven and eight season. And, while most of the girls were in it for love of the game, not winning, the fact that they won that last game was exciting for them, and they partied hard at the pizza place afterwards. There was lots of improvised singing along with the songs coming from the speakers in the joint, and dancing and the like.

Did you ever notice how healthy young women, who are singing and dancing, just can't help but look sexy?

Of course you have. What am I thinking?

Anyway, Cindy had volunteered me as taxi driver, to take some of the girls home whose parents hadn't come to the game or whatever, so after a long and exhausting celebration, I made the rounds, dropping girls off until finally Cindy was the only one left in the car. It was after nine, but the next day was a Saturday, so it wasn't a problem.

We got to her house and got out. I had planned on staying the night, so I could get an early start at removing their old water heater and installing a new one. Inside, on the kitchen table, was a card and some helium-filled balloons, taped to the surface. It was from her mom, who had been at the game, but had not gone to the pizza place, seeing as how parents, in that situation, were embarrassing to girls of that age.

"Awww," she said, as she read the card. Then she bounded off to find her and thank her. She came back a few minutes later and said "My mother is a geezer! She's already in bed, can you believe it?"

"You have to cut her some slack," I said. "She's raised you, and that's a terrifying and exhausting job."

She stuck out her tongue at me.

I have no idea why her sticking her tongue out at me caused me to drop my eyes to her breasts, but it did. She had big ones, for a fifteen year old. I admit I had watched them flopping around a bit as she ran the bases. Of course I had watched all the other girls' breasts doing the same thing, some more, some less. I mean ... I'm a guy.

It probably would have helped if I hadn't been between girlfriends. I have this problem where my upbringing kind of made me believe that sexual intercourse is a very serious and important thing, and you don't just hop in the sack with any old body. If it gets to the point where sex is involved, then it's time to start thinking about commitment. Serious commitment. The marriage kind of commitment.

Unfortunately, a lot of other people my age weren't raised the same way, and some women are looking for "uncomplicated, casual sex."

Of course very few women come right out and say "Let's just fuck for fun, with no strings attached." In my case, I learn that's how they feel when I propose to them. That's why I'm often between girlfriends.

Anyway, when I realized I was staring at Cindy's breasts, I looked away. Up, as it turned out. And there were her eyes, full of the knowledge that Uncle Bob had been staring at her precious teenage titties.

It was an awkward moment. At least for me. But she just licked her lips and said "Hey. Don't go to bed yet. I want to ask you a question. But I'm all sweaty. I'm going to take a shower and put my jammies on and then I'll be right back, okay?"

And off she bounded, like a deer, spooked by a tiger.

At least that's what I thought. I mean if your thirty-five-year-old uncle stares at your developing breasts, wouldn't just about any girl get spooked? That's what they call an "Ewwwww" moment ... right?

Well ... as things turned out ... apparently not.

I've been around enough women that when one of them goes to the powder room, I settle in and make myself comfortable. That sounds awful, I know, like I'm stereotyping women. But if all women do something in basically the same way, that isn't stereotyping. It's just fact. Is it stereotyping to say "All women squat to pee,"? Of course not. It might be inaccurate in .00001% of instances, but you won't lose a lot of money betting on that.

Anyway, I was sitting on the couch, flipping through 169 cable channels, which is just ridiculous, by the way, when there was movement in my peripheral vision and I glanced up to see Cindy come back into the room. I blinked. She had obviously changed her mind about putting on her jammies. That's because I'd been there lots of times when she was walking around in her jammies, and I had never seen her in what she was currently wearing.

Since then, I have developed a theory I call "The Jammie Curve," which is based on the quantity of material that it takes to build a pair of jammies during a woman's life. When they are very young, or very old, there is lots of material involved, relatively speaking. By that I mean that a lot of the body is covered with material. The reason is obvious. Lots of material provides lots of warmth and comfort, which both the very young and very old are interested in. So those are the ends of The Jammie Curve.

In-between those ends, though, warmth and comfort sometimes take a back seat to other interests. Let's just be honest. I'm talking about sex here. Right in the middle of the curve, during a woman's sexual peak, it's quite possible that jammies simply consist of a string of pearls, artfully draped across some part of the body. Or it will involve very little material that is required to cover lots and lots of flesh. I'm talking lace, here.

On either side of the middle, there can be wild fluctuations. A little girl, for example, is used to covering most of her body, and that habit, if you will, can last a decade or two. But as she becomes aware of her own sexuality, jammies take on a different importance in her life. If she is with girlfriends, the jammies look like this. If she is with her family, they look like that. But if, for some reason, she gets to be in jammies with a boy or other object of "romance" then the jammies look entirely different. Of course later, as having sex becomes old hat, and not such a big deal any more, women learn that exposing too much skin may invite attention they no longer want quite as often. So they begin to camouflage their bodies again.

For Cindy, she was right smack dab in the middle of that special time during a woman's life, between little girl and eager sexual partner, where jammies take on an experimental kind of aura. Girls stretch the boundaries with their jammies sometimes, experimenting with what it feels like to expose more and more flesh. We're not talking lace here. An example is a girl who wears a T shirt and panties to bed. Most of her lower body is on display, depending on how long the T shirt is. She might wear one that offers glimpses of her panties, just to see how that feels. It's a kind of the spreading and flapping of wings, before she actually flies away from the nest, I suppose.

Cindy's jammies, that night, consisted of a crop top T shirt, and a pair of what I believe are called boy shorts that looked positively glued to her lush, plump camel toe.

She didn't look nervous, which was insane. The ambiance in the room sure felt that way, though. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it was me. A man can't see that much skin and not think about what's under the little material that's there.

As if she were half her age, she walked over to me and plopped down on my lap. She put her arms loosely around neck and looked at me with those devastating blue eyes.

"Can I ask a favor?" she asked.

"I thought you wanted to ask a question," I responded automatically. My right hand slid up her back. I think it was just obeying an automatic command from some deep part of my brain that wanted me to stroke this woman/child. No bra. Those shifting sands I mentioned earlier made Mr. John Thomas awaken.

Suddenly, Cindy Caldwell, my niece, was a sexual being, rather than just my niece. Mr. John Thomas, being completely shameless, and incapable of either tact or cultural niceties, attempted to tear his way through my pants and into hers. I had no idea of what to do or how to act. I'll be honest. I was in shock. But she started talking, which let me off the hook, in terms of making any immediate decisions.

"Mom says I can start dating when I turn sixteen," she said. She wiggled on my lap, as if she was trying to get more comfortable. The state of Mr. John Thomas might have had something to do with that. He was a lump to be proud of at that point. At least if it had been a different girl sitting on my lap.

That is not to say I wasn't interested in the fact that she was obviously trying to act in what she thought was a sexy way. I was very interested. But I hasten to say that this was just a normal, knee jerk reaction that nature has equipped all males to exercise. Nature makes us all want to be the alpha male, at least on some level, and the alpha male gets all the females.

Even his nieces.

Don't be so shocked. Watch a pride of lions. They do that. Practically all species do it. And the only reason homo sapiens doesn't do it routinely is because a bunch of beta males figured out a way to create some rules so that they get some of the females for themselves.

Anyway, that Alpha male thing is probably why I responded to her announcement by saying: "I think that's a terrible idea."

"What?" She looked confused, there, four inches from my face ... squirming on my lap.

I realized what had happened, and silently scolded my libido.

"Nothing," I said. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that you came out here dressed like that?"

"Dressed like what?" she said, but she blushed. I glanced down - again, don't ask me why - and I actually saw her nipples become erect, through the crop top.

"Oh come on, Cindy. We've been buddies a long time. You're showing me just about everything you've got. Do you know what the big girls call that kind of outfit?"

"Jammies?" she said, stubbornly.

"That's a 'fuck me' outfit, baby."

"Uncle Bob!" she gasped. "I can't believe you said that!"

I lifted a hand and gripped the hem of the crop top. I tugged upwards and saw her eyes widen. I stopped with my finger where I imagined the lower edge of her areola was.

"Isn't that what this kind of top is for, Cindy?" I asked, staring into her baby blues.

She swallowed. She was breathing faster.

"Okay ... yes," she said, finally. "But don't do anything yet ... please?"

I let go of her shirt. "Why would I do anything at all?" I asked.

She frowned. "This isn't working the way it's supposed to!" she barked. "Will you please be quiet so I can ask you the question I was going to ask you?"

I pantomimed zipping my lip. I glanced down at her breasts. Her nipples were still nice and pointy. I wondered what in the world was going on.

"Mom says I can start dating in two months. But I don't know how to act with a boy. I don't even know how to kiss a boy. And I was wondering if ... well ... if you would kiss me so I know what that feels like." She swallowed. "I mean a romantic kiss," she added.

I ran my hand up and down her back again. Mr. John Thomas was practically growling in my pants. Suddenly, the song from The Little Mermaid burst into my mind ... Kiss The Girl! I had only watched that DVD with her a hundred times.

"First, tell me why the ... um ... revealing clothes," I said.

She looked nervous for the first time. "Marianne Simms said I should dress like this when I tried to get you to kiss me."

"You talked this over with Marianne Simms?" I asked. That was all I needed ... rumors of me molesting my niece getting around, courtesy of her friends.

"Oh, come on, Uncle Bob. All my friends think you're hot. She asked me if she could be here too, so you could kiss us both."

"You are to tell Marianne that I laughed in your face and made you feel awful," I ordered.

She started to cloud up.

"I didn't say I'm going to laugh in your face, you little vixen," I said. "But that's what you have to tell her. Got it?"

"You mean you'll do it?" she gushed.

"I'm at least willing to talk about all this," I said. "Let's leave the doing until later."

"When?" she asked, wiggling on my lap.

"I don't know when, yet. This is a goofy idea, Cindy. And you don't need to be in a big hurry to go on dates or do anything with any boys. You have all the time in the world to do all that stuff.

"Can't I just have one little kiss?" she asked. "Pleease? I've thought about it so much, but you're the only guy I'm brave enough to do it with. Pretty please?"

"Listen to yourself," I said softly. "You're asking me like a little girl asks for something. But what you're asking for isn't for little girls. It's for big girls ... very big girls. Kissing leads to touching. And touching leads to fondling, and fondling leads to all sorts of other things that are for very, very big girls. So don't be in a rush."

"Can I tell you something?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Remember that time when we were camping, and you came in the tent and saw me naked?"

I smiled. "Oh yeah," I said.

"Well, ever since that day, I've wanted to kiss you like I'm asking for. All those years I wished I could kiss you and thank you for treating me ... I don't know ... like I was grown up, I guess. You didn't tease me. You made me feel special. Couldn't I have just that one thank you kiss right now?"

That stupid crab, or whatever it is started singing in my head again, telling me to kiss the girl.

My penis insisted it was just one, little kiss.

She wiggled on him, and he was elated about that. It was clear that she had to feel what was under her rump. She knew I had an erection, and she was still asking for a kiss.

So I kissed her.

I admit I went a teensy bit overboard. I kissed her with tongue, like we had been lovers for a while, now. My left hand, which was clearly under the control of my penis, slid under her crop top and cupped her right breast. It was warm and soft. She didn't jerk. If anything, she leaned into that hand. And, she kissed me back.

I broke the kiss because I was about to pinch her nipple.

"Wow!" she gasped, panting rapidly.

"I tried to warn you," I said, removing my hand from her breast.

"Wow," she sighed. "Can I have another one?"

"No!" I said firmly. "And stop wiggling on my lap.

"Is that a boner I feel?" she asked.

"That, little lady is none of your business," I said.

"Of course it is ... if I caused it." She sounded giddy.

"Get off my lap or I'll turn you over it and paddle your bottom!" I warned.

"No you won't," she giggled.

"Yes he will!" came another voice ... a female voice. There was only one other female voice in that house, at present.

And that was Jill, the mother of the girl I had just frenched and groped.

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