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                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N


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Archive name: K-story2.txt (mf, inc)
Authors name: BillyG
Story Title : MY COUSIN KRISTEN

------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 1997.
Please do not remove the author information or make
any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-
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     My parents were both well educated, upper-middle-
class professionals who had, for the most part, suc-
ceeded at much in life.  Still, they remained human
beings and were troubled with their own relationship
issues from time to time.  I was vaguely aware that
they were having one of their "spats" and that my visit-
ing my aunt's place in the country was perhaps less for
my enjoyment than it was for their convenience.  That
was all right with me, for as a fifteen-year-old boy, I
was looking forward to the vacation and the greater
freedom I knew I'd have on my aunt's farm.

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

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

     Over the years, I had some sexual contact or
another with each of my cousins, but I'd like to tell
you of one that I hold as particularly poignant and
erotic.  

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

     Suddenly, Kristen was no longer a little girl.
Seemingly overnight, her hips had broadened and her
breasts were mature.  Her older sisters all wore bras
but she rebelled.  Hyper aware as I was of those things,
I constantly maneuvered to watch her breasts sway
beneath her T-shirt or to delight in the tumescence of
her nipples.  

     Her nipples were remarkable.  Stimulated by mood,
temperature or contact, they'd spring out, prominent
and hard, visible often through relatively concealing
clothes.  I was taken with Kristen and taken with her
breasts.  It may have been her innocence or perhaps her
demure personality, but it was not apparent to me that
she even noted my interest.  She remained open and free
around me, never turning away or holding her shirt to
her chest.  When we'd work together, I'd frequently
have the opportunity to look down the front of her
shirt, or, if a button-front shirt, to see the under
swell of her breasts as the shirt gaped open.  Because
she was only thirteen at the time and certainly an
innocent, I restricted my licentious actions.  I looked
but I didn't touch . . . at least then.

     It makes sense to me now that she was a sexual
time-bomb and my attention had added fuel to the embers,
but at the time, things seemed to develop explosively
out of nowhere.  Late one Sunday evening, the house was
uncharacteristically quiet.  Most of the family was away
and we three, Kristen, me and her little brother Tommy
were fooling around on the living room couch.  Secure in
the knowledge of our unaccustomed privacy, we were
"cutting up" . . . wrestling and shrieking, as they
were against me, trying to pin me and win my submission.
 
     Remember, I was a sexually aware kid who left
little to chance.  To the contrary, it had become my
mission to contrive those situations where I might be
rewarded with a peek or a touch.  So it was the more
remarkable that without my scheming, I suddenly found
myself in an intense sexual situation not of my making.

     In our couch wrestling, I was truly trying to fend
them off.  I've no recall of just how it came to be, but
I suddenly became aware that the toes of my bare foot
were in Kristen's crotch.  She was wearing jeans as I
recall and they may have been hand-me-downs, for they
were sufficiently baggy, that I found my foot sliding
around in the loose crotch.  

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

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

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

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

     Heaving Tommy easily off my chest, I rearranged
our bodies.  Tommy was easy, for his tactic was unre-
lenting frontal assault.  I had only to steer him.
Gesturing to Kristen to pile on, I made room for her
to attack my flank.  Holding Tommy with my left arm,
I looked Kristen in the eye as I reached out and
caressed her braless breast through her T-shirt.
That stratagem last only moments.  The arrival of my
aunt in the kitchen from somewhere signaled the abrupt
end of our "interaction."  

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

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

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

     She came into the room and walked over to my bed.
I was surprised, for the girls were not allowed in our
room, more for our assumed privacy than propriety I
suspect.  Kristen was a blond, but she was no air head.
If she were coming into my room, I was certain she knew
it was safe, that the rest of the family was occupied
in some way.  

     Stopping at the foot of my bed near the attic
window, she reached down and shook my foot under the
covers, "Billy, time to get up."  Guilty of overacting,
I feigned a slow awakening, bending one knee and
pulling the covers off my left foot as I lifted my head
and rubbed my eyes.

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

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

     Sitting up, I reached for her and she jumped up
and out of reach.  

     "Oh, no," was all she said.

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

     Still, no conversation.  She assumed the identical
posture, sitting with one leg on the floor and the other
on the bed, legs apart and near my left foot.  Now my
mom didn't raise no dummy.  I got the nonverbal message
right away.  Raising my left knee and allowing the
covers to slide back on my thigh, I rested my foot
between her thighs and made some inconsequential comment
that escapes me now.  Attempting to carry on some inane,
one-sided conversation, I began to trace small circles
on the inside of her thigh close to her pant leg.  

     I felt like a snake hypnotizing a bird.  We fell
silent.  I became aware of the total absence of the
usual household sounds.  Perhaps they'd all gone to
church.  I didn't know and at that moment I didn't care.
I continued to run my toe up and down her leg for
several minutes, watching her face. Again, I saw the
transformation from an innocent farm girl to a sexually-
aroused woman.  Her eyes remained open and focused on
some middle distance beyond me.  Her eyelids drooped
and her lips parted in that slack-mouthed state of
disconnected arousal.

     There was a yellow-jackets' mud nest outside my
window.  The only sound I heard aside from our breath-
ing, was the hum of their flight. Emboldened by her
passivity, I ran my toe up under her pants leg and
tried to insert it into her crotch, but it was too
tight and she wasn't going to help me, I was sure of
that.  Falling back on a repeat of last night's per-
formance, I rested my foot right on her open crotch
and slowly rubbed her.  Kristen was a secretor.  In
short time her crotch was visibly wet. 

     After a few minutes, Kristen closed her eyes and
screwed up her face as if she were in pain, and gasping,
let out a long, muffled moan.  She was cuming, I was
certain, although I'd never actually seen a girl cum
before.  She wasn't alone.

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

     That identical behavior was to repeat itself over
the weeks, without change.  She'd never let me touch
her crotch with my hands nor change the dance in any
manner.  When we were working and I'd try to cop a
feel, she'd shy away and whisper, "Billy!  Stop that!
This instant!"

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

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


END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It’s okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
strangers. But it isn’t okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex
with strangers!!  You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 5