The babysitting drama

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by Michael Smith m: Mf adult-teen pett cons


Copyright 1998 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.

Michael Smith: [email protected]


Like every other graduate student in the world, I was perpetually short of money — but I never should have gotten involved in babysitting. Especially not for Prof. Calhoun. I had done several years in the service after finishing college, so the G.I. Bill paid my larger expenses, but it was never quite enough. Being older and more experienced than most of the other students in my seminars, I felt more at ease disagreeing (politely) with my profs and it was also easier to socialize with them outside of class. Also, my grades were excellent and my thesis committee was supportive and helpful, so my reputation as a rising young historian was quite good.

George Calhoun was in his early 40s, a decade and a half older than me, but still able to identify with the plight of the grad student. He had earned his doctorate young and was already well respected in his field, so he didn't feel the need to take himself over-seriously. Outside of class, he encouraged me to call him by his first name and, with a couple other star students, I had twice been invited over for cookout dinners and an evening of stimulating conversation and friendly argument. Mrs. Calhoun, a few years younger than her husband, was an assistant administrator at the county hospital and was also very well read and a sharp debater. So it was to be expected that their two adolescent daughters, Cynthia and Eileen, would be bright and therefore rebellious.

One spring Wednesday I was chatting with Prof. Calhoun in the doorway of his minuscule office, up on the top floor of the Social Sciences Building. The word had come around that he was receiving an award from some professional association and I wanted to congratulate him . . . partly, I admit, for departmental political reasons, but also because he was my favorite instructor and I was pleased for him. He was obviously pleased with himself that morning, as well, and he was grinning broadly as he thanked me for my good wishes.

Then the phone rang on his desk and he stretched over and picked it up (that's how small the office was). His face fell at whatever he heard and I couldn't help eavesdropping on his end of the conversation.

"She's what? When did this come up? Well, hell. What about Sandra, down the block? Oh." He glanced up at me in the doorway and held up a finger for patience. Then he looked at me again, more closely, and raised an eyebrow in speculation. "Just a minute, hon."

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at me thoughtfully. "My wife tells me our babysitter for Friday night has had to bail out at the last minute. And our back-up sitter isn't available, either. This is that award dinner we're going to in the city. . . ." He cleared his throat. "Tom, if you already have plans for Friday night, just say so — but if not, could we possibly impose on you? You'd be making some extra pocket money, too."

Eileen was a mature thirteen, but even so, Cynthia was sixteen and perfectly capable of looking after her sister if necessary; I must have looked puzzled.

Calhoun explained. "Cyn has some big date for a party, so she won't be home until late. There've been some burglaries in our area and I really don't want to leave Eileen by herself. We'd be back sometime around midnight, I think. By one o'clock, anyway. How does $50 sound for five or six hours of quiet study time?"

I thought about it. I didn't have a date lined up, which meant probably TV and a pizza and maybe a science fiction novel (because, whatever Calhoun thought, I didn't do much studying on Friday nights). Why not? Eileen seemed like a good kid, the couple times I had chatted with her at their house, and it wasn't like I would have to change some infant's diapers. And $50 extra in my pocket wouldn't hurt.

"Yeah, sure." I smiled. "Be happy to help out; I have nothing planned."

Calhoun grinned and made an "O" with his thumb and forefinger as he turned back to the phone. "Hon? I just found someone: Tom Green. Right, that's him. My thought exactly." He nodded as he spoke. "Okay, I'll see you tonight." He hung up, turned, and thumped me lightly on the arm. "Tom, I really appreciate it! Babysitters are always at a premium in a college town — the reliable ones are all booked up weeks in advance. Umm, we'll be leaving about 7:30; could you be there a little before then?"

"Sure, no problem." Easy money, I thought.

I showed up on the Calhouns' doorstep Friday evening at 7:15 and Theresa Calhoun opened the door and motioned me in while she fumbled with the zipper at the back of her neck. She looked hurried but in control: the competent manager. I had only seen her in jeans and sweaters on my cook-out dinner visits. Now she was done up much more elegantly in a rather short black cocktail dress and medium-high heels that showed off the long curves of her legs and her very fair complexion. Artful makeup and a French roll in her hair had transformed her from ordinary-pretty into second-look-striking.

"You look very nice," I said as I set down the two library books I had brought along as props. She smiled; I was sure she could tell it wasn't an empty compliment by the eye-tracks I left up and down her body.

"Why, thank you, Tom. C'mon in and I'll re-introduce you to Eileen and tell her the ground rules." Frankly, I doubted the girls would even remember me among all their dad's students.

"Eileen, would you come in here, please?" she called into the back of the house. The TV volume from the den decreased and I heard a long-suffering adolescent sigh as the sofa springs creaked. The barefoot young girl who wandered into the living room with her hands jammed into the back pockets of her tight short-shorts certainly appeared older than thirteen. The outline of her bra through her cropped T-shirt suggested rapid breast development and her legs were long and smooth-looking, like her mother's. Her thick blonde mane was gathered in a rough pony tail and errant strands brushed her face, half-shading her brilliant blue eyes. She even had an interesting-looking belly button. In line with her upbringing and academic environment, there was very little of the gawkiness about her that I generally associated with kids that age. She was definitely a cutie, on her way to becoming a beauty.

She stopped abruptly and looked at me in some surprise. "You're the babysitter?" Her voice sounded more her age — a musical trill with a little squeak at the end. "Aren't you one of Dad's graduate students?"

"That's right," I drawled and smiled as I held out my hand. I watched her rapidly looking me over as she shook my hand; her fingers were long and slender and her palm was warm from being in her pocket.

Eileen turned her head and called up the stairs. "Cyn? I think you should come down and meet the New Babysitter." She loaded the two words with significance. Cynthia appeared on the landing a few seconds later, peering over the railing with a hairbrush in one hand and a cascade of dark red hair framing her face.

"Whoa," she said with a grin as she descended the rest of the way, hurriedly pushing back her hair and straightening a black, sleeveless minidress with a narrow slit more than halfway down the front. "This sure beats 'Princess Sandra', huh? Not to mention old Mrs. Appleton!" She grinned sideways at her mother. "If my date doesn't show up, can he babysit me, too?"

Mrs. Calhoun laughed and winked at me. "I think you're acceptable, Tom — but don't let them lock you in the closet, for later!"

"Mo-om!" Eileen blushed but continued to sneak thoughtful looks at me. Except for the difference in hair color, the two sisters were quite similar in appearance, though Eileen was already as tall as Cynthia. The younger girl would become the more statuesque of the two, I thought; maybe the beauty contest type. Cynthia acted more sophisticated, but only a little. A bouncy cheerleader, I suspected. She had a nice body and sparkling green eyes to go with the auburn hair. But she had also been president of her sophomore class and had been inducted into the National Honor Society a year earlier than most. (I knew these things because Prof. Calhoun was openly proud of his daughters and enjoyed relating their latest accomplishments.)

"Eileen," her mother went on, "Mr. Green is doing us a big favor by standing in tonight. I expect you to behave yourself. And I know you're not a baby, dear, but I'll feel more comfortable having someone else in the house with you, okay?"

The girl nodded dutifully and flashed me a half-smile. She apparently didn't resent her mother's concern for her well-being, nor did she blame me for it. Cynthia turned back to the staircase. "Eddie will be here in a minute and I gotta finish getting ready. Nice to meet you again, Tom!" I guessed she remembered me after all.

Prof. Calhoun breezed downstairs a minute later, suit coat draped over his arm to keep it unwrinkled in the car. He pointed out the notepad next to the phone where he had written the name and number of the hotel where the ballroom was. His wife rustled up her handbag and handed him his keys. "Eileen knows she's supposed to hit the sack at 10:00," she added. "She has a swim meet tomorrow. Cynthia should be in around 11:30, I think, but you're not responsible for her! And I hope we'll be back about 12:00 . . . give or take."

"And, Tom—" Calhoun held up a stern finger. "Don't study too much." He laughed and I grinned. That attitude was one of the reasons I liked him. They waved as they hurried out the door. I wished them a good evening, recommended they enjoy their evening out and not hurry back to early, and listened to their car backing out of the driveway.

I strolled into the den where Eileen was again stretched out on the sofa, long legs unconsciously on display, watching some action show I didn't recognize on TV. I sat and leaned back in the easy chair next to the foot-end of the sofa. I measured those legs with my eye and decided even her toes were cute. When she glanced my way, I waggled one eyebrow and smiled. She smiled back and returned her attention to her show — but I was aware that her gaze kept wandering back to me.

After a few minutes, Cynthia stuck her head in and stared hard at her sister. "Eileen, can I see you in the kitchen?" When Eileen looked over at her in puzzlement, Cynthia crooked her finger and gave her a Look. The younger girl levered herself off the sofa and padded around the corner. I didn't try to eavesdrop, but I could hear conspiratorial whispering, quite a lot of it. Then Cynthia bounced through the doorway. She had added black hose and heels to her black mini and a metallic gold Chinese-looking jacket. Huge, jangling gold earrings and blazing red lipstick completed the drama. But Cynthia was vivacious enough to draw plenty of attention even in old work clothes.

"My date's here — I'm gone! See ya later! Oh — Eileen's making some popcorn in the microwave." Her smile as she waved goodbye seemed to hint that there was something she knew that I didn't.

Three minutes later, the microwave bell went off and a moment after that the aroma of fresh popcorn suffused the house. Then little Eileen reentered the den with a large steaming bag in one hand and two diet Pepsies in the other. For a second, I couldn't figure out why she looked different. Then I realized that the inch or so of bare midriff below her T-shirt had been widened to at least six inches. Her lower ribcage was fully exposed, emphasizing the slimness of her waist. She sure didn't have much left in the way of baby fat. As she reached the sofa, something else registered: her breasts, which earlier had been stationary, now jiggled and bounced independently, especially when she bent to sit down. Apparently she had discarded her bra. What in the world was this kid up to?

She set the two cans on the coffee table, together with the popcorn. Then she smiled at me again and patted the sofa cushion next to her. So I got up from the chair and moved over, wondering if little Eileen was trying to vamp me. I'd play along for now, out of curiosity as much as anything. Eileen leaned back against the sofa arm and tucked those long legs up under herself — toes pointed like a diver, which had to be a deliberate move. She tried to be unobtrusive when she arched her back, sticking out her tits for my closer inspection, so I obliged. It was becoming more and more difficult to think of this girl as "only" thirteen! Her nipples had hardened and made interesting indentations in the thin cotton of her shirt. With her shoulders back, the front of the shirt itself had ridden up even farther. Her belly and diaphragm were tan and flat and I found I had a growing desire to caress that taut surface with the palm of my hand.

This was going to get out of hand if I wasn't careful! I looked Eileen straight in the eye and raised both eyebrows. She looked back at me from under her eyelashes and attempted a sultry smile. But she finally blinked before I did and then looked down at her lap and blushed. "Eileen, what is this all about?" I asked as gently as I could. "You're coming on to me, or you're trying to. I'm flattered, believe me, but I'd like to know why you're doing this."

Her shoulders slumped as she stole another glance at me. She licked her lips. I had to strain to hear what she said. "Tom, I'm thirteen and I don't know how to do any of this stuff! All my girlfriends have been making out for months now and I've never even kissed a boy — not for real. I think they're all still virgins but some of them told me they've touched a boy's . . . you know. His penis. And they've let boys play with their tits and suck on 'em and everything; they said it feels really nice. They've even let themselves be felt up, ya know? And I've never done anything!" She was beginning to sniffle now. "I thought maybe I could learn some of that stuff from you. I mean, you're nice, and you're older, and more experienced, and everything."

"What's wrong with the boys at school?" I asked.

She made a face. "Oh, the ones I'd like to go out with are already dating girls two or three years older than me; they think I'm too young. Or too smart for them. And the boys in my own classes are hopeless: They're all dweebs who know even less than I do about—" (she gestured at the two of us) "—this." She twisted her fingers in her lap and looked thoroughly unhappy, but at least she didn't run out of the room in tears.

It was one of the more interesting problems in my recent life. Had I been sixteen, I would have assumed Eileen was fourteen, or even fifteen, and I would have jumped right in. But I had more than a decade on this girl, no matter how cute she was. What's more, I was responsible to her parents for her welfare that evening. On the other hand, my stiffening cock insisted she was a very sexy female person and argued that age had nothing to do with that. I could imagine my lips locked on one of those rigid little nipples. I could almost feel those slender hands sliding up and down my cock. And what might I find behind those tight denim shorts, where those lovely long legs joined? Ohhhhhh, yeah.

I picked up her hand and held it in mine; on impulse, I stroked the back of it with one fingertip. Eileen shivered a little. "I'm older than you by a good bit," I said, "but that doesn't make me immune to your womanly wiles, Eileen. I get as turned on as any other guy, and you're definitely having that effect on me! Honey, I'd love to teach you how to kiss — and all the rest of it, too. But that would be taking advantage of you, big time . . . not to mention what your father would do to me if he found out."

Eileen sniffed a little. "It wouldn't be taking advantage if I wanted you to, would it, Tom? And I wouldn't ever tell my father, I promise." Perched there at the end of the sofa next to me, having confessed her self-conceived inadequacies, Eileen looked woeful and vulnerable and greatly in need of comforting. So I got stupid.

Without really thinking about it, I reached out to put my arm around her shoulder. But her reaction was to move instantly into my embrace, wrapping her smooth arms around my neck and fastening her hot young mouth to mine.

I should have immediately, gently, firmly unwrapped her from my torso, but I didn't. For perhaps two seconds I sat there in startled surprise with her greedy lips mashed against mine. Her hair was tickling my forehead and her nipples were burning holes in my chest. My hand, still extended to pat her shoulder, returned of its own volition to slide up under her shirt and move slowly up and down the bumps of her spine. I was a goner.

Some part of my mind — the self-destructive part — decided that if I was going to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, it might as well be a serious contribution. Both my hands began roaming over the bare expanse of Eileen's back and shoulderblades. She moaned a little and pressed herself closer to me — which finally tipped me over sideways on the sofa. She hung onto my neck and I found myself on my back with an overheated young girl sprawled across my body. She was straddling my thigh so I bent my knee and she gripped my leg hard between her own thighs.

The remnants of her T-shirt had gotten rucked up under her armpits and she let go of my neck and mouth long enough to struggle semi-upright, braced on her locked elbows. I pulled the shirt over her head and then off each arm. Her breasts weren't large and probably never would be, but the shallow arcs they described, suspended there above me, seemed filled with muscular tension. When I cupped them in my hands, Eileen took a deep breath and the firm, smooth flesh seemed to press harder against my fingers. Her nipples stood out, hard and rigid, and when I moved the balls of my thumbs lightly across them, she trembled and tightened her grip on my leg.

I drew her up my body until I could reach those nipples with my mouth and I teased one and then the other with only the pressure of my lips and flickering touch of my tongue. "Oh, jeeze . . . ." Her voice was small and tight.

Then I sucked a nipple into my mouth, tugging a little at it and squeezing it lightly between my front teeth. Her head swung in agitation and her pony tail whipped back and forth. I sucked in as much of that virginal tit as I could, tasting her girlish ripeness. Her eyes were squeezed tight and she was biting her lower lip so hard I was afraid she'd draw blood.

My hands moved down the exquisite curve of her lower back and out over her tense buttocks. I wanted those damned shorts out of the way! Inhaling her breast strongly one last time, I urged her off me and onto her feet. "No . . ., " she whimpered, and tried to climb back onto my lap, but I held her steady — I had to, she was shaking so — and got the snap open on her shorts. She yanked down the zipper and hastily pushed her shorts and blue cotton panties to the floor and stepped out of them. Her pubic hair was sparse and blonde and looked beautifully silky.

I went to my knees on the floor and whipped my own shirt off over my head. Then I grabbed little Eileen by her slender hips and buried my face in her crotch, thrusting my tongue as far as I could between the outer folds of her labia. She was already moist and the taste of her was delightful. My hands moved up and down the backs of her legs, delighting in the creases behind her knees and in the young muscles of her thighs. Then to her ass, squeezing and separating her cheeks. Eileen bent over my head with a gasp, her tits brushing my hair. Her hands moved jerkily over my shoulders. I could hear tiny moans of building excitement. But I didn't want her to climax yet.

Untangling myself, I eased her onto the carpet with her back propped against the sofa, sliding her forward and spreading her legs wide apart. Her pussy gaped and glistened. She knew what I intended (from second-hand descriptions, I supposed) and hooked her arms behind her knees, spreading herself even wider. Her eyelids flickered rapidly and her breathing speeded up even as I settled myself over the steaming center of her. This was something I knew I was good at, something I could do for Eileen that would give her shock waves now and would remain in her dreams for weeks.

I began by swabbing my tongue up and down the creases at the tops of her inner thighs and then grazing for a few minutes in her lovely blondeness. I moved closer to the center of my target and felt her tremble again with anticipation. And when I slowly licked the length of her glowing cunt, bottom to top, she made an "ohhh . . ." sound in a little-girl tone that made my engorged cock try to dig a trench in the floor.

I circled around her untried clit with just the tip of my tongue and she tried to push herself up into my mouth. Her respiration had already speeded up, but when I fastened my lips on the head of her little pink clit and switched on the vacuum, she gasped and went rigid with erotic shock. But she hadn't come yet, because as I continued to suck and to swirl my tongue around that little bullet, she began sucking in shallow breaths and gasping "oh!" in between.

I led little Eileen right up to the edge of the cliff and gave her a ruthless push, nipping lightly at her clit and at the same time pressing a thumb just into the opening of her twitching ass. She went as rigid as a statue for a few seconds, except for a high gasping squeal. Her thighs and her belly were flushed and even her tanned face was bright red. Then she relaxed and lowered her legs and I smiled up at her. She stared back at me, lying there between her sprawling legs, the quiet broken only by her labored breathing.

"How was that?" I stroked her smooth thigh and thought about how nice it was to be the discoverer of a young girl's unexplored body, to be the one who showed her how great properly-handled sex could be. She was right: A kid her own age might have been better for her psychologically, but if she wanted someone with experience and nerve — a bush pilot, so to speak — she had come to the right guy.

"Oh, God, Tom. . . ." She blinked and reached to touch my face. "I didn't know. . . ."

"Eileen, . . . I'll bet you've gotten yourself off, haven't you? Masturbated?"

She looked down and nodded and blushed. I almost couldn't believe it. The girl was sprawled here naked with my face in her lap, and she was blushing about what she did on her own time! Truthfully, it made her even more desirable.

"Have you ever had an orgasm that way?"

She looked at me this time. "Yeah, a couple of times. But nothing like this, Tom! My God. . . !"

I sat up crosslegged and thought about what had happened. I was glad I had given her this new experience for comparison. I hadn't done anything horrible or irreparable to her, either. Legally, this had been "molestation," I supposed, but I didn't think it wasn't statutory rape — and I wasn't about to let it become that. Nor could Eileen portray herself as the innocent victim (I hoped).

She didn't move again for several minutes but when she had her breath back, she cleared her throat and licked her lips. "Are we gonna, um . . . ?"

"No, Eileen, we're not going to fuck. That would be a very, very bad idea." I smiled up at her. "Wouldn't it?"

She sighed and smiled back. "Yeah, I guess so. But I don't want to stop, Tom. What you just did to me was so fantastic . . . and I want more."

More, huh? Well, so did I, actually. I would have loved to fill her cunt for her, to feel her legs wrapped around my ribcage, but that was way too dangerous.

"Could I, um, . . . could I see you, Tom? I mean, you know, um . . ." She shook her fingers in frustration at her own tongue-tied-ness, but she was staring at the crotch of my jeans and her intent was clear.

I thought about it for, . . . oh, a tenth of a second, at least. Did I want to feel Eileen's eyes examining my cock? Jesus.

Under Eileen's fascinated gaze, I leaned back on my elbows, undid my belt, and unsnapped my jeans. Then I had a thought and paused. "Eileen, . . . would you like to do this?"

She hesitated for only a second. Then she scrambled onto her knees and reached over to tug my zipper down with just her fingertips, like what was behind it was going to bite her. I watched her shallow breasts jiggle and felt my cock swelling even more.

The zipper was all the way to the bottom and Eileen looked up at me questioningly. "Go ahead," I said. "Take my pants off."

Her face got red again as she listened but she hooked her fingers over my jeans and briefs at the sides and began tugging them downward. I raised my ass for her but I let her do it all herself. Besides, it was incredibly arousing, being stripped by a sexy young girl.

She took her time, watching as my pubic hair came into view, licking her lips as the base of my cock appeared and tried to arch upward. When the head of it was clear, it sprang up at a stiff angle and Eileen jerked a little and caught her breath. It was pretty obvious she'd never seen a penis before — certainly not a rampantly mature specimen.

When my jeans were down almost to my knees, I took over the job; she seemed too mesmerized to finish. She reached out a hand slowly. I made it twitch and she jerked her hand back and then giggled nervously. I spread my legs and her gaze drifted down to my balls like twin lasers. God, she was making me horny.

Without thinking, I began stroking my cock lightly up and down and Eileen's eyes got wider. "Tom, would you jerk off for me?" Her voice was hot and breathy.

"Do you want to see me come?" She nodded. "Tell me, Eileen."

She licked her lips again. "I want to see you come, Tom. I want to watch you masturbate and come all over the place." Her voice had taken on a smoky flavor I don't think she was even aware of.

As I began to stroke my cock more attentively, Eileen scooted over closer to me, stretching herself out on the floor beside my body, hip and thigh snuggled against me. She spread a hand across my chest and moved it around, warming my chest muscles and heating other parts of me, too. She watched closely as my cock got stiffer and tighter than I could ever remember. I'd had sex with half a dozen women, but even when it was good it was pretty unremarkable. This situation was very different . . . showing off for a girl whose pussy I'd just eaten, a girl of such limited experience (though hardly innocence). It was her novice status that turned me on as much as anything And she was so flatteringly attentive.

Eileen's smooth, warm hand drifted down my chest to my stomach, then to the edge of my pubic hair, where she wound a few strands around her finger. Her hand moved farther, to my hip, then my thigh. And then, as I spread my legs again, she seemed to take a deep breath and let her fingers slip down to cuddle my balls. The feel of her hand in my crotch was exquisite. I must have groaned, because she pressed herself closer to me — I felt her nipple brushing my side — and filled her hand with them, stoking the wrinkled skin with her fingers, squeezing lightly and experimentally, making me completely crazy.

"Give me your hand, Eileen." I paused, getting short of breath. "Put your hand on my cock, sweetheart."

Without hesitation, she wrapped her slender fingers around the heated shaft. I put my hand over hers and squeezed, and then began jerking off again, moving her hand up and down beneath mine. She began breathing faster, too, as she felt the veins passing under her fingers. To steady herself, she wrapped her other arm around my waist and held on tightly. She slid down a little and cushioned her head on my abdomen.

Looking down at the top of her head, at the blonde ponytail that had become nearly unfastened, I was struck by a sudden image of her mouth fastened on my cock. And that was all it took. I could feel the geyser building deep down inside me. Eileen must have felt my muscles tense because she tilted my cock back toward her face just as I was about to come. Maybe she was afraid she'd miss the show if she didn't watch close, but she needn't have worried. I erupted with such force, I thought for a moment I was going to rupture something. My hand jerked, urging the fountain upward, and her hand jerked with it. She was panting hard, almost spastically, and she squeezed my waist tightly. I watched her toes twitching and her knees trembling.

And then she leaned back against my chest in a daze and stared into my face. Her cheeks, her lips, her eyebrows, her chin, her whole, sweet face, all of it was covered with my semen. Gobs and streamers of it, clinging and oozing. The bangs above her forehead were matted with it. So were her eyelashes. When her lips parted, thin tendrils of come stretched between them. She seemed to have no idea how thick it actually was.

I lay back on the carpet to catch my breath and circled Eileen in the crook of my arm. She settled back against me but kept her grip on my cock, connected to it by more semen.

After a few minutes, I realized I really had to take a leak, but I didn't want to disturb my young companion. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer and climbed carefully to my feet. Eileen stood up with me but she never let go of my cock. I slipped my arm around her waist and we made our way to the half-bath down the hall. I raised the lid and she pointed my penis toward the center of the bowl, and watched with interest as I relieved the hydraulic pressure. She aimed me at different parts of the porcelain, smiling while I emptied the tank. And then she surprised me by giving my dick a careful shake when I was finished. I wondered where in the world she could have learned that? At least, she finally turned loose of it after I was — we were — finished.

Then I showed her her reflection in the mirror above the sink. "God," she said with a small grin. My come had begun to dry, but the effect was still extraordinarily sexy. A pretty woman's face covered with semen is a turn-on that only another guy can understand, I suppose. I watched her scrub her face carefully and thoroughly, and wished she could leave it all there until it just flaked off by itself.

As we wandered back into the den, I glanced at the clock and did a double take — a quarter after ten already. Well, time flies when you're jerking off, as they say.

"Eileen, it's getting late. Your father said you had a swim meet tomorrow, I think?"

She hoisted an eyebrow. "Now you're gonna start doing what Dad said?" But she smiled and bent to gather up her clothes, and I had a nice profile of a lovely little ass. I sighed, but only inwardly. I was beginning to return to my senses. I didn't really believe sweet little Eileen would rat me out, but what in God's name was I doing taking that kind of chance? I could think of a half-dozen criminal charges just offhand, and shuddered.

I grabbed up my jeans and hurried into them. "C'mon," I said. "I'll tuck you in." And she preceded me up the stairs, still naked, still displaying a very nice, slightly jiggly bottom.

In her room, she dug a rather scruffy and very oversized man's dress shirt out of a pile of clothes on the bed and put it on. "This is a little silly," she said, "getting dressed for bed."

"Maybe, . . . but your folks will probably look in on you when they get home. And how would you explain your bare tits?" That made her grin as she slid under the covers.

"Gonna kiss me good night?"

In all our tumbling about that evening, I had never actually kissed her, but I only hesitated for a moment. Her lips tasted sweet and I envied her first really serious boyfriend.

I flicked off the light and paused in the doorway. "Good night, sweetheart. Sleep and dream well."

"G'night, Tom. Is it okay if I dream about you?" She shifted under the covers and I pictured her hand sliding down to her crotch.

"I'm pretty sure I'll be dreaming about you tonight." She sighed in response and I stepped out and shut the door quietly behind me.

Downstairs, I had to take off my jeans again to put my underwear back on. As I tied my shoes, the phone went off at my elbow and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I had to take a couple of deep breaths before I could trust myself to pick it up.

"Hello, Tom?" Mrs. Calhoun sounded very relaxed, like she'd had a couple of drinks, plus wine with dinner. "How're things going? Did Eileen behave?"

"Sure, no problem," I replied as calmly as I could. "She's in bed and I'm reading. Did your husband collect his award?"

"Yep — and very pleased with himself he is, too. A couple of old chums from his own school days showed up and they want to take us out for a nightcap. But I know them: It'll turn into reminiscence and professional gossip, and that means we won't get home till a good deal later. Would that be okay? We'll pay you for the extra time, of course."

"Sure, take your time, Mrs. Calhoun. Enjoy yourselves; it's a special occasion and all. If it gets too quiet around here, I'll just sack out on the couch." And the meter's running, I thought.

"Well, we ought to make it by three o'clock or so. Good thing tomorrow's Saturday. I don't exactly know when Cynthia will show up, but she has 'late permission' anyway."

Yeah, I'd almost forgotten about Older Sister. "Have fun, then. Don't worry — I'll look after things." If only she knew just what I'd been looking after!


After we'd hung up, I watched Masterpiece Theatre and ate the cold popcorn and drank the warm Pepsi. At 11:00, I wandered out to the kitchen and investigated the freezer, where I discovered a carton of Ham-and-Swiss Hot Pockets. Just the thing for a late snack. There was nothing else on TV that evening except professional wrestling, which I can't abide. Maybe I would actually have to study a little.

But as I waited for the microwave to do its thing, I heard the front door open and shut rather forcefully. Sticking my head around the corner, I watched Cynthia throw her purse rather emphatically on the sofa. As she shrugged out of her coat with her back to me, I said "Aren't you home kind of early?" Her arms were caught in the sleeves and she squeaked and jumped and spun around all at once, and almost fell on her ass. "God, Tom! I forgot you were here!" She dropped her coat and pressed one hand against her breastbone.

"Are you okay?" She looked upset and a little angry. "Did something happen?"

"No . . ." She waved her arms around a little and then sat with a thump on the sofa. ". . . but only because I didn't let it." She sighed deeply and dramatically, then balled up her fists and thumped her knees. "That son of a bitch!" She kept her voice down but she still sounded pissed.

At that point, the microwave dinged and I went and rescued my snack. When I returned to the living room, Cynthia had her elbows on her knees and her chin in her cupped hands. Her black heels were off and her stockinged toes were turned in, and — except for the sexy clothes — she looked about twelve.

I sat down beside her and she leaned back and sniffed at the aroma of hot ham and cheese. I took the hint. "Wanna split this?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "I didn't get a chance to eat after the party," she said while I tried to break the thing in two without dripping the contents on the carpet. "We were supposed to go out for a late supper with some other guys but I, um, left early."

Cynthia may have been upset but it hadn't hurt her appetite and she wolfed her half of the Hot Pocket in about four bites. Then she licked the crumbs and grease off her fingers with the tip of a little pink tongue while I consumed my share more slowly. She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back, which also lifted her breasts in a very appealing profile. The gold tunic shimmered dramatically. "I wish Jennifer was home already so I could tell her about tonight, . . . but she's still at the party, I think."

"Well, . . . you could tell me about it if you like." I shrugged. "I've played father confessor before."

"Oh, this is all just girl stuff," she laughed. "Kid stuff, really. You don't want to hear about it." Kid stuff? Did that make me a old geezer?

"Try me," I said. "I had a kid sister — who's now older than you, I admit — and she used to tell me her problems. Mom never had time and Dad wasn't very interested. You'd be surprised how much 'girl stuff' I listened to over the years."

Cynthia considered it and raised a shoulder diffidently. "You sure you wouldn't mind? I'd sure like to tell someone about this evening. He's such a putz," she added.

She turned around sideways with one ankle tucked under her ass, so I did the same, but less gracefully, and studied the way her miniskirt had ridden up even farther, if that were possible.

"Okay," she began with a getting-down-to-it air, "there're these guys in my class whose families have money, okay? I mean major money, like their fathers are CEOs or whatever. And they compete over everything: Clothes, cars, how pretty their girlfriends are — everything. And they sort of take turns giving parties and try to out-do each other, okay?"

"Sounds like party time for the junior class," I observed.

She grinned. "Yeah, usually it is. They keep fighting this party-duel and everyone gets to stoke up on food and drink at their expense. Usually they just play CDs but sometimes one of them will even hire a band for a really big blowout kind of party — which is what it was tonight. The guy's father just bought Taiwan or something. So there was plenty of food and beer and even—

She stopped short and eyed me.

"And even grass, maybe? And vodka?" I patted her knee. "I won't tell on you, Cynthia. I mean, you don't look stoned or anything."

"No, I have a couple or three beers at parties but I stay away from the drugs. But my folks don't know about that stuff." She paused again. "I don't think they do, anyway."

I motioned to her to continue. I could remember some pretty crazy parties myself, and not in the distant past, either.

"Okay, so anyway, it was a big, fancy-dress thing and the girls were all turned out loaded for tiger, and none of the guys even threw up — not in front of anyone else, anyway. And it was all going pretty good. And then Eddie and I went back to one of the guest rooms, um, . . . looking for someplace to be alone for awhile, you know?" Her cheeks turned a delightful pink. "We weren't going to do anything, really — I mean, we never do, not really. We just make out and stuff, okay?"

"It's okay with me," I said solemnly. She grinned and turned a bit pinker.

"Anyway, Eddie had been nibbling at the booze. He really shouldn't do that when he has to drive me home, I know, but it was a party and everything. Anyway, we sat on the bed and made out for awhile and it was all very nice and everything. It almost always is with Eddie. He's a very good kisser," she added. "But I guess he'd had too much. When it was time to stop, he didn't want to. He locked the door and he said he wanted to take my clothes off."

The pace of Cynthia's recitation had accelerated and her voice was becoming a bit shaky. "He said it was time we did something more than we usually did. Well, I wasn't going to do that and I told him so, and I told him to unlock the door and stop being an asshole. Well, he already had his hands, um, . . ." She stopped and turned bright red, wondering how to continue. "My, um, my skirt was kind of pushed up, I guess. But anyway," she went on with a rush, "he unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. I mean, I've seen it before, actually, but—" She shook her head and gave me a kind of pleading look, as if she didn't think I would understand.

"I just didn't want to, Tom. See?" She folded her hands in her lap and studied them. "I'm still a virgin and I plan to stay that way for awhile. Eddie's very nice — usually. And he's lots of fun, and a good dancer, and I like being with him. But I'm not going to sleep with him. If we're still going together when we get out of high school, maybe I'll do it with him then. But that's more than a year away. I'm just not going to do it now."

She looked at me again and I was taken with just how pretty she was. Sexy, too. I could see her in my mind's eye, a set of male teenage hands under that short skirt, squeezing her ass. As if she'd been reading my mind, she shrugged off the gold jacket. The tiny button at the top of her minidress, which had been holding that long, narrow slit closed, had come undone and the lacy black material gaped open. Cynthia was either unaware of it or was ignoring it.

"Okay," I said casually, "you let him know you weren't going to fuck him, but he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer? Is that it?"

"Uh, yes, I guess so." She seemed a bit taken aback at my direct language. "He grabbed at my panties and tried to pull them off, but he'd had too much to drink. I shoved him away, hard, and he fell off the bed. And I got up and left. I had to get one of my friends and her boyfriend to give me a lift home. She, my friend, says Eddie will be sorry on Monday when he's sobered up and she's sure he'll apologize. Well, he'd better!" She huffed a little and then got a thoughtful look. "You know, he tore my panties, too; I ought to make him buy me some new ones."

"Sounds like 'the hair of the dog' to me."


"Never mind. If Eddie actually is a nice guy when he's not drunk, I'm sure your friend is right. He'll regret what happened and apologize. I'm sure he wouldn't want to lose you. In fact, he'd have to be crazy to turn loose of you." She looked a little embarrassed but pleased. "What I've been thinking about, though," she continued, "is whether Eddie might be right. We've been going together for almost a year. Maybe I should be ready to do something besides just making out." She looked at me from the corner of her eye, peering around a lock of that rich, red hair.

"Hey. it's entirely up to you, Cynthia. No one can tell you when you're ready for that except you, yourself. It comes to different people at different ages."

"Um. How old were you, Tom? The first time you had sex?" She was twisting her hair around her finger now, and looking suddenly interested.

"Younger than you and Eddie. But I got lucky, as they say. And I had an older woman to help me."

"Older? How much older?"

"Quite a bit older. You sure you want to hear this?"

She smiled a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, I'm interested. Really. Besides, I told you, didn't I?" She settled herself more comfortably and I was aware of the crotch of her black pantyhose just barely out of sight between her widespread thighs.

"Well, when I was fifteen, my mother had this friend named Mrs. Malone, and I mowed her yard twice a month for an entire summer. Small mower, big yard; it took me hours and hours and I got thoroughly fed up with it, but I needed the pocket money. Mrs. Malone was a few years younger than my Mom — in her early thirties, I guess. She seemed a lot older at the time." Cynthia smiled and nodded her head; thirty would be a lifetime away to her right now.

"This one particular Saturday afternoon, must have been August, it was hot as hell and as humid as the Amazon. I was just wearing an old pair of track shorts, too tight and too short, and my sneakers. It was too clammy even for underwear. As I pushed that old mower up and down the back yard, I was thinking about this girl I had the hots for, and I had a prominent profile."

Cynthia gave me a blank look. "I had a hard-on. An erection. I was vaguely aware of the tip of it peeking out the bottom of my shorts. But I was alone and lost in my thoughts about that girl."

I caught Cynthia glancing thoughtfully at the crotch of my jeans. I could feel a certain amount of expansion there, as a matter of fact. "And then, suddenly, Mrs. Malone touched me on the shoulder. I jumped and nearly fell over the mower — kind of like you did earlier, Cynthia." She grinned very prettily. "When I turned around," I continued, "I could smell margaritas on her breath and she was staring at my crotch. She said she'd come out to see how I was doing, but she could see that I was doing just fine. And she put her hand on my cock, through my shorts."

Cynthia seemed mesmerized as she unconsciously licked her lips. I remembered Eileen's similar expression earlier in the evening. I was glad I was telling her all this. Because, amazingly, I'd told almost no one about my first time.

It certainly wasn't obvious just then, but I've always been basically a cautious, conservative person. I knew, with no need for cautioning from anyone, that I would be in major, major trouble if word got around that Mrs. Malone had been banging a minor boy, and that I was the bang-ee. My parents would stomp all over me, one at a time and together. I'd hear about it from Mr. Malone — and who knew what he was likely to do to me! And any girlfriend I was ever likely to have in that town would probably know the story long in advance. So, except for my best friend, I'd kept my mouth shut. Apparently, Mrs. Malone had done the same. But now, even though I really didn't know her all that well, I was relating the whole episode to Cynthia, and I was glad of it. But I was becoming profoundly horny, so I went on.

"No girl had ever touched me like that, and certainly no grown woman. I remember, it felt like sticking my dick in a light socket. And then she took me back inside, and before I knew what was happening, Mrs. Malone was on her back on the kitchen table with her legs in the air and my shorts were on the floor."

I stole another glance at Cynthia: Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted, and I began to suspect she'd been more than half willing to let Eddie do what he wanted to at the party.

I wasn't sure whether to complete the story or just let Cynthia draw her own conclusions, but she took care of that.

"So— Did you do it?"

"You mean, did I fuck her?" Cynthia didn't even twitch.

"A horny fifteen-year-old, presented with his first bare pussy and a very explicit invitation? Yes, of course, I did it. Several times."

Cynthia let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Wow . . . . So, did the two of you, like, have an affair, or what?"

"Nope. It was sex, pure and simple. Well, simple, anyway. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. Except in this case, she sort of did the whamming. The next time I saw Mrs. Malone, a week or so later at the grocery, she was just my mother's friend again. I like to think there was a bit of a gleam in her eye, though."

Cynthia sat quietly for a few moments, then looked me square in the eye. "Tom, . . . you didn't feel guilty or anything?"

"No. No guilt. It was just sex-for-fun, Cynthia. There's nothing wrong with that. I mean, sex with someone you love is terrific — or so they tell me. But that doesn't mean you can't have sex just for the uncomplicated pleasure of it. It feels good, right? It sure felt good with Mrs. Malone. And it didn't hurt anyone — so why not? Unless you have religious scruples, of course . . . ."

Cynthia shook her head slowly. "No, it's not that. I just didn't want to do it with Eddie — not tonight, not in that guest room. But I have nothing against sex." She shrugged. "Maybe I'm just not experienced enough at it to not feel guilty about it."

I had to grin at that one. "Like not being able to find work without experience, and vice versa?" She smiled back. "Cynthia, if you have no fear of AIDS — and AIDS hadn't showed up yet, back when I was making it with Mrs. Malone — and you don't have to worry about other sexual diseases, or about getting pregnant, and if you like the guy well enough, . . . and if you just plain wanna get your ashes hauled—!" This time she giggled. "And if — finally, but very important — you're reasonably sure the guy you have in mind won't talk it around to all his friends afterwards, . . . well, why shouldn't you?"

I don't know what sort of response I expected, but it wasn't what she gave me. "Tom, I think you're trying to get into my pants yourself!" But she was laughing so I joined in.

"Well, no, . . . or not necessarily, I guess. You're a very pretty girl, Cynthia, and I'm not blind. But making it with you could have ramifications in my relationship with your esteemed father." I was trying to keep in mind that I'd put myself in serious jeopardy once that evening already.

"We couldn't do anything anyway, you know; it's almost midnight and my folks will be home any time now." She grinned mischievously. So I grinned back while I told her of the delay in her parents' return.

She raised her eyebrows and tucked an arm behind her head. The slit in the front of her dress widened to display a long vee of pale, smooth-looking skin. And no bra that I could see.

"Well, . . ." She affected a slow drawl, secure in the knowledge that I wasn't the rapist type. "I'm not going to fuck you, either, Tom. Not tonight. But I'm going to keep it in mind, I promise." She gave me a very warm stare that began at eye-level and traveled down my front to my crotch. I could feel my cock twitching mindlessly and I knew she could probably see it.

"But do you 'spose," she went on, "that I could see this, um, organ that got poor Mrs. Malone so excited?"

"Excuse me?" Talk about deja vu all over again.

"Would you show me your penis, Tom? Your dick? I can see it there, getting hard." She was getting downright sultry. "I won't even touch, I promise."

How could I deny a request like that? I unsnapped my jeans for the second time that evening but I had to stand up to get them down past my hips. Cynthia took hold of the sides of my jeans at that point, urging me to stand right in front of her, and worked them down to my thighs herself. My cock popped out and up and she grabbed it reflexively. Then she looked up at me in coy apology.

"Oops. I touched it. Sorry, Tom." She grinned at my moan. Her hand felt very nice indeed as she began stroking my cock slowly up and down. She was gripping it rather tightly, showing no hesitation at all; it was obvious she'd done this many times before. The friction of her smooth little hand was exquisite and I thought it was no wonder that poor Eddie was so hung up on this girl.

After a minute of so of that, I got a bit reckless: I bent over and lifted the shoulders of her minidress and whispered "Take this off, please? I'd like to see you, too, Cynthia."

She let go of me for a moment, raised her ass to free her dress, and whisked it off over her head in one motion. She leaned back against the sofa cushion so I get an eyeful: Black pantyhose, black bikini panties, and nothing else. Her breasts were larger than her sister's and so were her nipples, which already stood up stiffly.

Cynthia reached out and took hold of my penis again and drew me closer. I put my knees on the edge of the sofa and leaned forward, wondering what she had in mind but completely willing to let her have her own way. When my cock was an inch or two from her face, she raised it vertically, stuck out her tongue, and licked a wet stripe up the whole length of it. I shuddered at the sensation and closed my eyes. Her red lips closed around the head and her wet little tongue scoured it, round and round. I put my hands on the back of the sofa and leaned forward a little more, wanting her to engulf the whole thing but trying not to strangle her with it.

She glanced up once, then apparently decided to trust me not to hurt her, because she let go of my cock as she began taking in more and more of it, and began squeezing my ass with both hands. I buried my fingers in that lovely red hair as I felt her nipples brushing my thighs, and her fingertips passing lightly over my asshole, and her tongue moving up and down the shaft of my cock.

It felt like this went on for hours but it couldn't have been more than five minutes or so, because I could never have lasted longer than that. But when I felt the pressure building up in my testicles, I tapped a finger against her cheek in warning.

"Cynthia? I'm gonna come now, so . . ." But she just inhaled me deeper and sucked harder, so I began sliding in and out of her mouth, as much as she'd let me, and felt the climax coming nearer.

She must have been timing it, too, because just as I reached the tip-over point, she reached between my legs, cupped my balls in her hand, and squeezed medium-hard. That made me jerk and explode in her mouth with a force I'd seldom experienced. She sucked and swallowed and I came and jerked and came again, and she rolled my balls in her hand, squeezing and tugging.

At last, I drew back and leaned over her, resting my elbows on the back of the sofa while I caught my breath. She sucked in the air and stroked the inside of my thigh to let me know she was okay.

"Tom?" I looked down to see a radiant smile with a trickle of semen on it. "I'll be graduating in a little over a year, and I'm probably going off to school somewhere other than here. Maybe we could make a date for the fall of my freshman year, wherever I end up? If you still want to sleep with me, that is."

I stroked her hair and clumsily collapsed beside her on the sofa, my jeans still around my knees. "Oh, I think I can guarantee that. But I'll be a year older, too. Wait and see if you still want to make it with an old guy by then, okay?"

She smiled again. "Not a problem. I promise." She reached over and gave my shriveling cock a parting squeeze. I reached up and wiped the semen from her lip with my finger and she immediately stuck the finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. Wow.


Twenty minutes later, Cynthia had gathered up her clothes and climbed the stairs to her room. I didn't go along to tuck her in, this time. As I straightened up the den, I thought about the two sisters in neighboring bedrooms, so different and so similar — and so unbelievably hot.

The Calhouns finally got home about 3:30 in the morning, full of apologies for their tardiness. I'd actually dozed off until they pulled into the driveway, having been exhausted by the evening's athletics. As I made my way home with a larger-than-expected stack of bills in my pocket, I hoped wherever Cynthia went to school was near enough for me to travel to. And I considered what Eileen might be like in three or four more years. Of course, I'd be completely of her league by then, but she'd be interesting to watch.

Where did their lustful genes come from, I wondered? Dr. Calhoun didn't quite seem the type. Their mother, perhaps? There were fewer years between Theresa Calhoun and me than there were between myself and Cynthia. I wondered. When I finished my degree in a year or two, maybe I should see about a teaching position right here. . . .



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