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Billy and Tooky


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

BillyG and Tookey

by BillyG, February 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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