Changing the rules of the happiness game (Part 3) [Str8][mf][inc][mast][mm]

Over the course of the next year or so, Lily underwent a big growth spurt. She got a lot taller; not quite as tall as I, but standing, we could now almost look each other straight in the eyes. She’d been a little chubby her whole life (and how often I’d luxuriated in her soft belly, feeling its gentle protuberance, watching it jiggle a little when she walked naked in front of me, watching it bunch up when she bent over), but now her tummy flattened out. It was still soft but no longer jiggly; no matter, still nice to touch, to look at, to rest my face upon. Her breasts, which so recently had been mere swellings with pink nipples in the center, had grown into small, pert cones, and much to Lily’s annoyance, our mom had insisted that she start wearing a bra. Putting it on in front of me on the first school morning that she wore it – it was a sort of stretchy thing, not really what I thought bras were based on my limited understanding of the topic – she complained bitterly that it was uncomfortable, unnecessary, and ugly. I reassured her that it was at the very least not ugly; she looked nice standing there with her breasts outlined by the material.

I still marveled that our parents had not interfered with our long-standing habit of bedding together, despite Lily’s “developing” as Mom put it delicately. I had a sneaking suspicion that they probably still imagined that we slept in pajamas, as we had so many years ago when Lily began coming into my room. True, it had been Mom who, on that hot night during the blackout, suggested that we sleep in our underwear, but it wasn’t clear to me that she knew we had continued that habit after the heat wave, and indeed eventually progressed to full nudity. (I still kept my briefs handy in the bed every night, with the somewhat silly idea that I could pull it on if we were ever interrupted by, say, a knock at the door, but no one had ever knocked.) Now, looking back on it, I think our parents simply had a mental short-circuit about this. They remembered us sleeping cuddled up in our PJs when Lily was little and I wasn’t so big myself; even the blackout summer, Lily hadn’t even begun to “develop,” so sleeping almost bare in each other’s arms could still be seen as purely innocent. I believe our parents still had that image in their minds, even as Lily’s growth (and mine) became impossible to ignore, and after so many years it was so firmly established that we spent each night together that it never occurred to them to question it. They had always given us our privacy and so they had no idea that were sleeping naked every night, masturbating each other before we fell asleep, bathing together when they were out, and otherwise “up to no good” (“no good” — what a strange way to express the best thing that had ever happened to me!)

In any case, puberty was not just just a matter of physical changes. Lily, always somewhat quiet and meek, was becoming more assertive. Especially with Mom, she would get into arguments, usually about things that — to me — seemed trivial, clothes and hairstyle and whether she was allowed to paint her nails exotic colors like the girls at school and so on. When she was younger, she’d always let Mom do all her shopping, but now she was experimenting with different looks. In the summer, she finally persuaded Mom to let her go out and buy a new outfit on her own. Mom was OK with it as long as I went with her (I’d been taking the subway by myself for a few years as my school was downtown), and gave her enough to buy something (I assumed – I had no idea how much clothes cost). We took a train all the way down to Canal Jeans in Greenwich Village, a store that I had heard about at school but had never been to myself. Fashion was far from my interests. Lily spent an excited hour or so browsing, picking out bottoms and tops and asking me what I thought; I tried to give my honest opinions although, really, I didn’t care all that much; as long as it was Lily under the clothes, she could wear what she wanted as far as I was concerned. Finally she settled on a pair of jeans that looked to me like they had been worn out but were apparently new, and a loose-fitting top that looked like it would fall off her shoulder any minute and revealed a lot when she bent over. In short, pretty much what most of the girls at my school were wearing; I didn’t know how it was in Lily’s set but imagined that her friends would applaud her choice. As it turned out, even at Canal Jeans, a relatively inexpensive store, she didn’t have quite enough to pay for the clothes and some accessories she chose, but fortunately I had brought enough to supplement what Mom had given her. After the purchase, we walked around the village, hand in hand, as if we were a couple, not siblings. When I look back at the relatively few snapshots we had from that era, it seems to me that our family resemblance must have been evident to anyone who glanced at us, but I wasn’t thinking about that then. It seemed to me that here, a half-hour subway ride from where we lived, there was no risk at all in publicly demonstrating the love and affection that I felt for Lily, which usually we reserved for when we were alone in our room. We meandered over to the West Village, stopped into a café and I ordered coffee, which I rarely drank, and hot chocolate – with whipped cream – for Lily, along with some fancy pastries. I felt terribly grown up, taking my beloved out on a date. We sat at a rickety table on frayed chairs, side by side, and I put my arm around her shoulder, casually draping my hand over her right breast. She leaned her head on my shoulder and looked utterly content. The café was full of college students, who paid us no mind. But when, after we’d finally had enough cuddling, we got up and left, a scruffy-looking young man sitting at a table on the sidewalk with a frayed backpack on the chair next to him wolf-whistled as we walked out the door next to him. We both looked back in shock and he said, in a low voice, “Nice ass!” I felt irrationally angry on Lily’s behalf (although now, 40 years later, I wonder whether he was referring to Lily’s ass or mine!) but she seemed unconcerned. It was getting late, and we walked quickly back to the Astor Place station to head back home.

Whwn we got home dinner was almost ready, so we set the table and ate. Afterwards Lily went to change into her new outfit, then emerged, proudly showing it off as we sat at the dining room table. A big argument broke out. Even Dad, who usually kept out of Lily’s spats with Mom over clothing, huffed and puffed objections of the “no daughter of mine will go out in that outfit” sort. Mom simply kept repeating, “You are *not* wearing that, and that’s final.” Lily kept asking why, but no explanation was forthcoming. I tried to come to her defense, pointing out that this was completely normal attire for girls at my school, but Mom shut me down immediately: “Lily is four years younger than you, and even if girls your age *do* dress inappropriately, that doesn’t make it right.” Finally, the argument going nowhere, Lily returned to her own room, slammed the door, and sulked. I waited a few minutes, then knocked on her door, but heard “Go away!” “It’s me, Lily,” I said, just loud enough for her to hear. She came and opened the door, and I went in, shutting it behind me. Her face was puffy; she had been crying, though she almost never did. Awkwardly, I put my arms around her and held her close, and she put her head on my shoulder and began sobbing again. I felt the old protectiveness surging up in me; I wanted to defend her from the irrationality of the outside world, to escape with her to where it was only us two and we could live in each other’s arms forever. To my dismay, I was hardening as I felt her tears wet my neck. I’d long ago stopped trying to conceal my erections from Lily but this one felt totally inappropriate and I did my best to hold myself away from her so she would feel it. When she calmed down a little, we went over to her bed and lay down. I stroked her cheek and she gazed into my eyes, still hiccuping from time to time. We said nothing, but after a while I started making funny faces at her and she cracked up. We lay there, holding each other the way we always did, then I felt an urge to do something I had never, ever done in all these years: I kissed her on the lips. I was acting on instinct; I’d never kissed anyone. But Lily responded immediately, holding the kiss, then opening her mouth a bit so that our tongues touched. We lay there, reveling in the new sensation. I’d learned in health class that the lips are the most sensitive part of the body, with over a million nerve endings, far more than in the fingertips or even the genitals. In my mind I had pooh-poohed this information – you’re telling me that my lips, which at most hurt a little when they got chapped in the winter, are more sensitive than my fingertips that I touch my sister all over with every night, feeling every tiny nuance of her body? More sensitive than her clitoris, which I gently rub until she dissolves into a puddle of ecstasy? More sensitive than my penis, which she encircles with *her* fingers every night and strokes until, with a mighty surge of joy, the semen rises from within and comes spurting out? And yet, lying next to her, my lips to hers, playfully fighting her tongue with mine, I could almost believe it. The feeling was exquisite, and it was totally new. It felt like we were changing the rules once again.

When we finally broke the kiss, I looked in her eyes and said the words that obviously belonged to this occasion: “I love you, Lil.” The response was unhesitating and definitive: “I love you, Robbie.” I mused that we had never really said those words, at least not in the sense we were saying them now. It kind of went without saying, didn’t it? Of course we loved each other – were in love. Had always been so. It just didn’t need to be verbalized. But it felt right, right now. I kissed her again, briefly, then hugged her close. She stroked my back as she always did, hands roaming over my t-shirt. Her new top was half off her shoulder and I could see her bra. I thought: yeah, Mom’s right, she can’t really wear this to school. I didn’t want her to – I didn’t want boys in her class getting interested. I brushed her hair out of her eyes – she had always worn it short, in a sort of 1970s pageboy cut, but she was growing it out now; I didn’t really know what style she was aiming at, but her hair did seem messier now, another thing she frequently argued with Mom about. It didn’t bother me; it was still Lily, however she wore her hair. In fact her attempts at looking different from day to day, along with her changing body, were a source of continual low-level excitement to me; just different enough that it felt like something new, but not so different that it felt off. She smiled, and closed her eyes. I put my right hand on her butt, a favorite resting place for her, and cupped the roundness over her weird, used-but-not-used jeans. I could almost imagine that I was with a girl from my school, and yet, I’d never really been interested in girls at my school – oh, sure, I found some of them attractive, but I didn’t have any intention to start dating. It would have been superfluous. What was I going to do, make out with them? Every night I went to sleep embracing and being embraced by my sister, naked, stroking and cuddling each other until we drifted off to sleep. More often than not we satisfied each other sexually first, almost always the same way: lying facing each other, as I rubbed her vulva and she stroked my penis. We had learned to slow down and speed up as necessary, so that we almost always came simultaneously. Most of the time they weren’t dramatic, moaning orgasms, but rather (for me at least) an intense, deep yearning at the moment just before, followed by a wave of ecstasy and the hot, pulsing expulsion of my semen. Lily would breathe in shorter and shorter gasps as she got close, squirm around, then lock her thighs together as she came. She’d always be unable to speak for a short while afterwards. then murmur the same words: “that was *nice*, Robbie.” Then we’d pull each other close, turn out the lights if we hadn’t already, and cuddle each other to sleep. In the morning, we’d wake up after untroubled sleep and cuddle some more before, talk a little, examine each other’s bodies in the morning light, before we got up to start the day.

Only on occasions that our parents went out did we make a habit of going a bit further with our explorations. We always began with a bath or shower together, and mostly ended up the same way as usual, masturbating each other to orgasm, but we took advantage of being alone to be a bit more daring. I remember, for instance, asking Lily if I could look closely at her privates. She of course assented immediately, and sat on the edge of the bed, spreading her legs. I knelt and put my head close to the increasingly dense mat of blond hair. It was slightly damp and I could sense her intoxicating scent. Below it, her clitoris had peeked out of its hood. Unbidden, she spread her labia apart with her fingers. I could see her urethra and her vaginal opening. It felt wonderful and exciting being in such close proximity to the center of her pleasure, and her natural fragrance was turning me on, but there didn’t seem to be that much to see close up. I wouldn’t particularly have wanted to look inside her mouth, either. It didn’t really occur to me to try licking her, although I am sure that had I had the idea (or had she asked me to, but she rarely asked me directly for anything) we both would have enjoyed it. On this occasion I eventually got up and lay next to her and we did what we always did, though I kissed and licked her breasts as I stimulated her: this always brought on a much more powerful orgasm for her, but we reserved it for when we were alone in the apartment, because Lily would moan loudly as she neared the climax. Another time, I gave in to an urge I had had for a long time and asked Lily to turn around. As I fondled her breasts from behind – they felt, in their growth, excitingly different from last time I’d done so – I nestled my erection in her butt crack and pressed repeatedly against it. Lily alternately clenched and released her thighs, as she had done when we first did this, before we had progressed to touching each other’s genitals directly. I knew that this was how she used to bring herself to orgasm. This time, though, I did what I had feared to then and continued rubbing myself against her, still feeling her breasts and stiff nipples, until I felt the familiar sensation and knew I was going to come. I warned Lily and she said, urgently, “Come, Robbie!” and I did, spraying semen up her back, as far as the nape of her neck. It was one of the most intense orgasms I’d experienced with her, but at the same time it felt somehow empty, insufficient: I’d essentially used her body to bring myself off, rather than our doing it mutually to each other. And she hadn’t come. I felt a little ashamed, but rolled her over, and finished her with my hands, sucking her breasts. She came harder than usual (it seemed to me), as well, actually moaning “Robbieeeee” – it almost almost turned into a yelp – as she finished, and, both exhausted, we fell asleep almost immediately. After that, on several occasions, she tried to initiate the same again, turning her back to me and pressing her butt against my penis, asking me to fondle her breasts, but I always demurred. Although we clearly had both enjoyed it in the end, I didn’t want to invite that empty feeling back even for a minute. Instead I would turn her back around and play with her breasts straight on, until her nipples were erect and she was clenching her thighs – having her breasts played with never failed to turn her on. When I deemed her ready, I would replace my hand on her breast with my mouth, then move my hand down to her crotch; she would spread her legs obediently, and take my penis into her hand, and we would finish the usual way.

Now, lying next to her, brushing her hair away, I thought: some day, some day, we will go somewhere where no one knows we are siblings, and we will live together, and make love every night. “Make love” – it was a phrase I had never applied to what we were doing, not even in my mind. We didn’t need to make love – we *had* love. It was implicit. Just like we’d never needed to say “I love you” the way a couple would; it was a central, unquestioned fact. But “making love,” I knew, entailed other physical things, things we had never done, never even come close to doing. Some day, I would put my penis *inside* her, into her vagina. “Take her virginity” as I’d read it described in books (the boys at school used a ruder expression). But we both knew that was dangerous in the extreme and had silently skirted away from it. Some day. I touched her face and she smiled at me. She said, “Robbie, let me turn around.” I let her. Clearly, dressed, and lying in her bed and not mine — ours, and with our parents home, we were not going to have a repeat of that occasion, but I knew she liked me fondling her like that. She scooted back, nestled into my arms with my hardon pressing, a little uncomfortable, through my old jeans and her new, faux-old ones, into her butt. I put my hands on her breasts and she began clenching her thighs as I touched them, feeling her weird stretchy-fabric bra under the controversial, overlarge blouse. We went on like this for a while, and when I could hear from her breathing that she was getting close, I was excited enough even fully dressed to grind myself against her backside. As she slid into a quiet orgasm, jerking her legs a few times, I too came, not very hard, but enough to soak my underwear and – I imagined, though I couldn’t see – leave a wet spot in my jeans. We fell asleep like that, my holding her from behind, my hands still on her breasts.

It’s ironic that, while I’d worried endlessly that we’d be discovered sleeping naked together, when the “other shoe finally fell,” it wasn’t that at all. I woke to a gentle knock on Lily’s door. Before I could come to my senses and disengage from her, Mom came in. “Lily,” she said. “I wanted to apologize for…” She stopped, staring at us. Guiltily, I jerked my hands away from Lily’s chest, and fumbled around for a while, not sure where to put them. Mom looked… well, surprised at the very least. I don’t think the full import of what she was seeing had registered. Of course, we were both fully dressed (insofar as Lily’s outfit, with her blouse hanging completely off her shoulder and her midriff showing, could be considered fully dressed). But unquestionably she had seen that my hands cupping Lily’s breasts, and it was dawning on her that something wasn’t quite right. To her credit, she didn’t freak out, or really even refer to the situation directly. She said, “Oh, Robbie. I didn’t realize you were here.” Lily was apparently awake (I couldn’t see if her eyes were open) and Mom apologized for just coming in and not waiting after she knocked, explaining that she wanted to apologize for the fight and that she’d discussed it with Dad and Lily could keep the outfit, and wear the jeans, but not to school. The blouse, she said, would still probably fit her in a few years and maybe she could wear that then – we’d see. She trailed off. After a pause, she said: “Robbie, you should go to bed. Lily, you need to get ready for bed too. Tomorrow is a school day.” Lily said, “OK, Mom,” and clambered out of her bed. So did I. I realized later that Mom might have seen the wet spot, as it was quite prominent. In any case, she left without further comment, and we took turns brushing our teeth and washing our faces. Then Lily followed me into “our” room. Mom had behaved so normally that I guess we both assumed that nothing had changed, but – as we were beginning to undress – Mom knocked on my door. I hurriedly pulled my jeans back up. Lily already had her top off, and stood there placidly in her bra, making no attempt to cover up. I said “yes?” and Mom said, “can I come in?” I shrugged and said “OK.” The door open, and Mom came in, looked first at me, then at Lily, and sighed.

“Kids,” she said, “Dad and I think you’re getting too old to be sleeping in the same bed anymore. I know” — she raised her hand in protest against the look of leaden shock on my face — “you’ve always done it, and it was fine, fine when you were younger, but…” She paused, then sighed. “Robbie, you’re already almost a man. Lily is developing into a young woman. It’s… it’s just not done. For a brother and sister to sleep together” — she hastily reworded her thought — “sleep in, in the same bed at your age. OK? I know it’ll be hard to get used to the change, but please do it for me.” I couldn’t look at her, or at Lily, but stared down at the floor, a flush suffusing my face. Mom had no idea, no idea at all of the whole compass of what Lily and I had been doing all this time. We’d just been caught, not even naked for God’s sake, just… just touching in an intimate way. And now, and now… it was all over. My life was over. I thought I could bear it if we weren’t able to make each other come any more, but I knew I couldn’t survive without the centering feeling of cuddling Lily every night. My mind raced through alternate scenarios – suppose Mom had found us in Lily’s bed, but just with our arms around each other as we had slept since we were little? Suppose she had come into *my* room, as I’d always feared, and found us not only embracing, but naked – perhaps it still would have seemed more innocent than me with my hands on Lily’s breasts, embracing her from behind. It was no use, though; that wasn’t what had happened. And as calmly as our mother was taking it, there was no question that she was laying down the law; neither of us would dare to disobey. We had never been rebellious, and our parents treated us (for the most part) as mature enough to be trusted; it wouldn’t have been in our nature to break that trust. Finally, we both muttered “OK,” and Mom left, and that was that. Lily looked at me sadly, then said, “Robbie… it’ll just be for a while. I’m sure she’ll let us do it again soon.” She didn’t look like she believed it. I took her into my arms and kissed her as I had earlier in the evening, deeply. Standing up, it felt different yet again, almost like we were actors in some romantic tragedy, kissing for the screen. I felt rotten. I stroked her hair, and said, “Well… I guess we’d better…” Lily nodded. She got a mischievous look in her eyes and lifted up her bra. “Kiss them!” she whispered. I did, one after the other. Her nipples were hard. “Robbie, they’ll go out some time.” I knew what she meant – our parents would go out, and we could do what we wanted then. The problem was — and I didn’t really know how to express this — that, as much as I loved “playing around” (as we never called it), giving each other orgasms, whatever, it wasn’t really *that* that I was devastated to lose. It was the simple joy of going to sleep and waking up in direct, skin-to-skin contact with my adorable little sister (OK, not quite so little any more), as I had almost every day for the past, I didn’t even know anymore how many years. I could live without orgasms (or rather, supply them myself), but I couldn’t live without *that*. And even if our parents went out, we wouldn’t dare fall asleep together. I didn’t say anything, but I nodded to show that I was looking forward to the next time we were alone. Lily pulled her bra back down, picked her blouse, and sadly walked out. Feeling like I was dead inside, I lay down, and tossed and turned for hours before I fell asleep.

Next morning we arrived, separately but almost at the same time, at the breakfast table, somewhat bashfully, but Mom smiled at us as if nothing had happened. Lily’s eyes looked puffy, as if she’d been crying. I felt almost nothing – like I was drifting in space, slowly turning, completely unmoored from anything. Mom frowned when she saw our expressions, but made no reference to the previous night. She served us cereal and tried to make small talk about school. Dad was getting ready for work. When he came out, dressed as usual in his suit and tie, he looked at Lily and me a bit quizzically, but didn’t comment, instead busying himself making coffee. We left for school at the usual time: Lily would, as always, wait downstairs for the school bus that took her to her rather posh private school, but I had to run, as I usually did, to brave the subway rush and get to my downtown public school in time for the first period. I wanted to kiss her goodbye, but couldn’t do it in front of the jovial doormen. Instead I just looked into her eyes. She smiled, sadly, at me. I sleepwalked through the day, conscious at all times that my world was collapsing in on itself. Once I got home, I greeted Lily, who was sitting on the couch in the living room; she’d gotten back a little earlier, as usual. Mom was in the kitchen, so i took advantage and planted a kiss on Lily’s lips. She grabbed my hands and pressed them to her breasts, but I wasn’t really up to doing anything. Instead I kissed her again, and went to the kitchen to get a snack. Mom looked at me, seriously. “Robbie…” She stopped, appeared unsure about what to say. Then: “Did you have a good day?” I nodded, lying. “That’s good. Dinner when your Dad gets home.” That was usually around 7. “We’re having roast beef.” I loved roast beef, but today I couldn’t have cared less. I hadn’t even eaten lunch at school, though I’d gone out to the coffee shop with the usual group of friends. I’d lied that I’d had a big breakfast and wasn’t hungry.

The rest of the week passed like a blur. On the weekend, though, a fresh new torture awaited. Dad made some excuse to go downtown and and asked me to come along. I wasn’t interested but agreed, just to get out of the house. It became apparent, though, that it was an ambush; he took me to lunch at a nice restaurant and, as we waited in silence for the appetizers to arrange, appeared to be trying to figure out what to say. Finally, over clams casino, he began to grill me, gently, about whether I had any girlfriends at school. I didn’t, and told him so. He sighed and said, “Well, don’t worry, son. You’ll get one eventually. I guess school is more important now.” *No!* I wanted to yell at him. *School is absolutely unimportant. Only one thing is important and that’s gone now.* I said nothing. We finished lunch almost in silence, with Dad asking the occasional random question and my answering in a one-word monotone. Apparently, his errand was of so little importance that it didn’t even need to be carried out, because we went right home after that. Comparing notes with Lily, it transpired that much the same had happened with her; while Mom and she had stayed home, she’d suffered a similar, forced-casual conversation about whether she liked any boys at school. She told me that she’d made up a crush on a non-existent boy named “Bobby” (I winced; it seemed dangerously close to my name), and Mom had been satisfied, not pressing the issue but probing about other aspects of her life. I wondered if I should have confabulated about a made-up girlfriend to Dad. He seemed so disappointed that I hadn’t named anyone.

In point of fact, I *did* have somewhat of a crush at school. It wasn’t a major part of my life, because Lily had filled it up so thoroughly that I barely had room to think of anyone else. As the weeks dragged on, though, and especially as our parents seem to have no plans for a night out any time soon, I found myself thinking more and more about the object of my affection, even to the point that I sometimes didn’t think exclusively about Lily when I masturbated. Unfortunately for Dad, if he were ever to find out, my crush wasn’t a girl. Timothy was a chubby, slightly dorky boy whom, against all odds, I’d befriended in homeroom class on my first day as a freshman. We mostly hung out in the company of other friends, but he and I clearly shared a somewhat stronger affinity than either of us did with the others. We’d always sit next to each other at the coffee shop and sometimes carry on our own conversation as the others joked around us. With three or four packed into each side of a booth, we’d be rubbing shoulders, literally, and I always felt a little bit of a frisson if my bare arm touched his. He seemed like he’d be soft and comfortable to make out with, but I didn’t think he was gay. I knew *I* wasn’t gay, but I’d always had occasional crushes on boys, even when I was little. I had vague memories of playing doctor with a close friend in elementary school and being excited and wanting to go further, but being rebuffed. I quickly learned this was something to be kept to yourself, but over the years I’d often had obscure fantasies about other boys’ naked bodies. I started masturbating quite late and when I did, it was often the mental image of boys (like the one I’d seen in a locker room) that brought me to the climax (if only because I’d seen them naked, whereas my girl classmates’ bodies remained a mystery). But all that had receded when Lily and I learned to bring each other to orgasm. Now, I found myself fantasizing about touching Timothy all over; thinking about seeing his bare midriff when he leaned back and laughed, wondering what his penis looked like. It didn’t seem to me that I’d ever be likely to find out, but as so often happened, events took their own course. Timothy and I had been talking more and more as I tried desperately to fill the empty hole in my life and he invited me over to play video games; he had a home computer, something we didn’t have that I didn’t know much about. As we sat in front of his Apple II and he demonstrated diskette after diskette (all, I gathered, copied from classmates; there was apparently a diskette trading ring at school) I looked at his smooth face and bright eyes and felt a little woozy. Timothy, amazingly, seemed to pick up on it, and even more amazingly, he wasn’t upset about it. In fact, he kept touching my arm as he talked enthusistically about computers. When his single mom came home from work, he suggested I stay for dinner. I called my parents, who knew I was visiting a friend after school (they seemed so happy when I told them in the morning) and they agreed; in fact, they suggested if I wanted tht maybe I could stay over, if not today, then some other day. And of course invite my friend over too. Naturally, I wasn’t going to ask Timothy or his mom if I could stay, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to. His mom turned out to be a fascinating, intelligent, and highly perceptive woman who asked didn’t mind talking, in an amazingly non-condescending, among-equals way with teenagers. Timothy obviously adored her, and I could see why. Of course I couldn’t tell her about the most important problem I had, but she probed me expertly and I found myself revealing thoughts and secrets that I didn’t even know I had. By the time we realized how late it was, Alice (she asked me to call her that) suggested that I just stay over, and I told her I knew my parents were OK with that. I was worried – I hadn’t actually said I was staying over, but it was rather late to call. Eventually I decided thqt they’d probably already assumed I was staying; I’d given them Timothy’s phone number and I though they’d probably have called if they were concerned.

THe apartment was a small two-bedroom – actually more of a one bedroom with a very small office space off the main room that had been converted into Timothy’s room. Alice offered to set up an air mattress next to Timothy’s bed, but he utterly shocked me by saying “It’s OK Mom, I guess we can both squeeze into the bed.” I could barely believe my ears. Alice seemed utterly unfazed. “OK, guys, I’m hitting the sack. Don’t stay up too late, tomorrow’s another day.” Timothy and I took turns in the bathroom brushing our teeth; fortunately they had an unused spare toothbrush. We went into his tiny room, with barely enough space for a queen size bed and a small desk, and without further ado he stripped to his underwear. I must have been gawking. He was *cute* – hairless chest with slightly girlish breasts, chubby tummy, dark, tousled hair, sparse tufts of hair under his armpits. Puberty had not really finished its work on him. I was getting hard in spite of myself, and desperately hoped Timothy would turn out the light before I got undressed, but he made no move to do so. Finally I shrugged inwardly and peeled off my shirt. He was looking at me, I realized, with undisguised interest. My heart was pounding. I did my best to shield my tented underwear as I pulled down my jeans. Timothy got in, then held the comforter up. I slid in, thankful that he apparently hadn’t noticed my erection. I was lying facing away from him, but right away he touched my shoulder and said jokingly “Turn around, how are we supposed to stay up late talking if we can’t see each other?” I turned and looked him in the eyes. He said, apropos of nothing, “I usually sleep naked, but…” I don’t know what prompted me, but I replied, “Oh, I always sleep naked too.” Timothy said, “Well,…” then literally clambered right over me and out of bed. I felt his belly brush mine and I saw, at this point without much surprise, that he had a hard-on too under his underwear. He shimmied out of it and I saw his penis for the first time. It was small, even with a full-on erection, and his pubic hair, like his armpit hair was much sparser than mine. He made a big show of walking to his laundry bin, dropping in his underwear, and walking back – I swear it took him a minute to traverse the 10 feet and back. His penis was bouncing around and I stared, transfixed. He grinned, obviously aware that he’d got my attention. “Aren’t you going to take yours off, too?” My ears were roaring. I slowly got out of bed and pulled my briefs down. My penis sprang to attention, much larger than his. He was staring straight at it. I stood there awkwardly for a while, then made to get back into bed; Timothy brushed by me so that he could take the inner half of the bed. We pulled up the covers and he turned out the light. For a while, we just talked aimless about random topics, but I could tell Timothy was getting progressively closer to me, occasionally reaching out to touch my shoulder when he made a point. In the end, without much fanfare, like it was the obvious endpoint of a predetermined process, we ended up in each other’s arms. I felt his belly against mine and his face against my chest. His stiff little penis was rubbing up against mine. I put my hand on his ample butt and, feeling like I was in a dream, I began to nudge him to press in closer. We rubbed back and forth, my penis straining to maximize the sensation. I let my finger stray into his butt and even nudge his hole – I don’t know where that came from, but he obviously loved it, moaning loudly enough that I was sure his mother — Alice, that is — would hear. Finally, he made a little whimpering sound, his body stiffened, and he came. I could feel his semen, hot against my crotch; it wasn’t a huge amount but I felt like my penis was slipping around in it, reducing the sensation. Finally I pushed him a little bit away and my hands up on his breasts. I had the absurd thought that they were almost like Lily’s had been, before she had started “developing.” That pushed me over the edge; I groaned and pumped hot cum all over Timothy’s crotch and his now-soft penis.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/osgkui/changing_the_rules_of_the_happiness_game_part_3