Kent Collins

First Time For Sister

Chapter 1

"It's nine o'clock; Billie-Ann!" Nora shouted from out back of the tumbledown shack. Billie opened her pale-blue eyes, stretched her long tanned legs in the bed and turned over with a sleepy groan. Not far from her room she heard her stepmother rattling a pail on the way out to feed the chickens. Feeding the chickens was Billie's job, but she got out of it about half the time by lazing the morning away in bed.

"Stir yourself a little, cain't ya?" Nora pleaded.

Billie-Ann pushed herself up and swung both feet to the floor. She always slept naked, because it was hot in July in that part of Missouri and because lately she'd grown to like the way it felt. Sometimes in the night she liked to touch one of her pubescent breasts or let her fingertips mingle in the sparse, fine down that had begun to cover her pubic mound. She never did much more than that… just touch… but it always gave her a warm, tingly feeling to drift back to sleep with.

Her room was an old storage closet with a blanket hung across the doorway to separate it from the rest of the house. Up against one wall was her narrow cot and nearby an ancient dresser with a cracked and mottled mirror. Billie-Ann had collected pieces of broken glass from colored bottles she'd found, and arranged them in her single small window to catch the morning sun. This morning they looked especially pretty, she thought as she brushed her hand through her sleep-tousled hair and watched the greens of patent cough-syrup bottles and the Milkof-Magnesia blues and the rich, red-brown of beer bottle bottoms crawl across her sheets.

Billie stretched again and her body felt firmer than ever and quiveringly fresh. Each day it was getting more and more that way and Billie couldn't keep from exploring the ever-changing places… massaging the soreness of her swelling titties and letting her palms trace the inward curve of her waist and then down to flare out ever so slightly where her hips had grown just a tiny bit wider.

Somewhere in the house a screen door clapped shut and Billie knew that Nora would be calling her again if she didn't get dressed and at least make a pretense of doing something. But there was time at least for her to bend over and watch the outline of her breasts enlarge as the flesh filled them. A little thrill went through her as she saw her pink nipples push out into firm little stalks. Tenderly she cupped one and felt the friction of her palm. At the same instant a tiny jolt of pleasure tickled inside the closed lips of her vulva.

"Gee, that's kinda funny," she whispered, tilting her head in puzzlement. She repeated the rubbing, then took one of the enlarged little breast buttons between thumb and finger… rolling it softly back and forth. Almost immediately she felt her crack go runny and hot and the beginnings of an itchy goodness made her shift her hips on the bed.

Her stepmother banged her bucket against the side of the house.

"Goddamn it, girl. If you don't get out here…"

"Coming, Nora… Coming!"

Billie let go of her nipple and let her hands lie soft and tan and pretty in her lap. She wished that Nora had told her more about sex. Of course, she would never ask the grumpy old woman. The only thing Billie-Ann had picked up for sure was that sex was trouble from the beginning. Girls were supposed to stay as far away from it as they could… and that meant staying away from boys and men.

Billie sighed and shifted her hips. The dainty place between her legs felt oilier than ever and she knew she just had to take a look.

With both slim feet flat on the floor, she parted her knees and bent over until her hair hung like a tawny curtain almost to the floor. Then she carefully placed a fingertip on each one of her pouty little labia and pulled. With a wet, sexy sound, they parted and a shiver of anticipation shook Billie's thin shoulders. It always did that to her to look at the glistening, delicate flesh of her secret place with its small inner lips and partly hooded clit button. The pretty cleft looked just too velvety wet to keep her hands off of.

Nora had always warned her about touching herself, but somehow the temptation this morning was far too great. Carefully holding herself open, she nudged one trembling fingertip into the mushy slickness. The heat of her juice felt nice, but there was nothing earthshaking about it.

Exploring further, she rubbed the finger up into the underside opening of the little clitoral hood, and the bottoms of her feet burned with a glow she'd never experienced in her life. Panting with delight from her new find, she pushed again… and again. Wonderful shivers went through her back and made her skinny toes spread against the worn hardwood floor.

"Wowee," she gasped, and kept rubbing, finding in a moment that the lighter touches made her thrill more than the rougher ones. No one had ever told her anything about this! Her girl parts had grown glossy with her juices now and every time she let her finger slip over the magic pinch of flesh she'd found, the luscious feeling grew more intense.

Billie-Ann tried to remember what her friend Loreen had told her about babies and fucking and how boys did it to girls, but it had been more than a year since she'd seen any of her old friends in town, and the information had never been very clear in the first place.

All she knew for sure was that stallions and bucks and bulls put their cocks inside mares and does and cows and left a little animal to grow.

She guessed that men did the same thing to girls they caught out at night. That's what Nora had told her… that men hid out at night so they could drag young girls under a bush and hurt them with their cocks.

Her clit lump seemed to be pulsing against her fingertip, and Billie's heart was thumping hard against her ribs. She was sure that this itchiness she'd caused with her finger had something to do with sex.

Her long-lashed eyelids fluttered and closed and she breathed a deep, delicious sigh. The itch was getting too hard to take and her finger had started to jerk and twitch against her seeping parts. She felt like lying down and rubbing against something or crying out some word… a word like fuck!

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" she said softly. Billie knew it must be a magic word, because it always made her feel better to say it. And it made the itch burn like a diamond between her tan legs.

"If you don't get your butt outta bed and slop these hogs, I'm gonna take a stick to ya!" Nora screamed from outside.

Billie sighed and lay back on the bed as she closed her slender thighs.

Then she pulled her hands up along her quavering tummy and felt the slick, damp streaks cool there against her skin.

"It's a good thing I quit," she said, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet. Billie swayed across the room to the old dresser and pulled a pair of clean nylon panties from amidst the clutter of paperback books, movie magazines and garish bottles of cheap perfume.

She pulled the skimpy things up over her coltish knees and smooth thighs. "That could give a person a heart attack." She knew, of course, that Nora would disapprove. When she'd been young enough to get bathed by her stepmother, the stern old woman had spanked Billie's wrists once when her curious child fingers strayed to that curious place between her thighs. Nora had told her that a girl just doesn't touch herself there, and had quickly dripped a few suds over the childish mound.

Billie turned in front of the mirror and let her long, light-brown hair flare out over her shoulders. It tickled her back deliciously and she raised both arms, feeling her thin shoulder blades move and stretch against the skin of her perfect little back. She wanted to touch her breasts again but put her hands on her hips instead and tried a pout or two until she was satisfied with the sensuality of the reflection.

"Darn old freckles," she said, rubbing a finger across her short turned-up nose. Then she pouted again and slowly let the half-frown fade into an enticing smile. Billie thumbed one of the movie magazines open and studied the photo of a blonde starlet to make sure she was doing it right. Then with her eyes on herself once more, she let her lips fall slightly apart and pushed her tongue out sexily over each one until they were glossy and full-looking.

The secret folds and knots of her cunt were still pulsing crazily, but Billie tried to ignore the electric sensations, and ruffled through a deep drawer for something to wear. She had precious few clothes, and almost always she settled for a pair of ragged, cut-off Levi's that fit low and snug on her hips and clearly separated and defined the firm little cheeks of her ass. Billie-Ann cinched them tight with a wide leather belt she'd made herself from some worn-out mule harnesses.

Finally she pulled on an orange too-tight T-shirt, which didn't quite reach to the top of her shorts and clung prettily to the soft-risen flesh of the undersides of each small breast.

A pair of sandals were the only shoes Billie-Ann owned. Her father had given them to her just before he'd disappeared. They'd been a little too large for her then, but Billie had oiled them carefully and kept them wrapped in an old pillowcase until her thin feet had lengthened enough to fit snugly within the intermesh of straps and buckles. She liked the way sandals made her feet feel naked and free. They were the only things she had left that her daddy had left her… except for the large, bone-handled hunting knife hidden in the bottom of another drawer.

It was right after her daddy had gone that Nora made Billie-Ann quit school. Not that she made it the twenty miles into town that often anyway. Lots of kids dropped out of school early in that part of the country. Some to help with farming, some because they flunked out and some like Billie-Ann, who lived so far away from passable roads that it was just too much of a hassle.

Nora had told her that they just couldn't afford the extra expense of sending her every day and though Billie-Ann went part-time for a while, she fell so far behind in her studies that one day she just never went back. She figured she wasn't missed much, because a truant officer had never knocked on the door their paintless, rust-streaked shack. But Billie had her paperback books and magazines to read. She traded them with old Willy Sudderland, the postman, and occasionally with a hired hand at another farm, Jed Judson. She didn't like Jed much at all, but he had a huge appetite for sexy detective stories and always gave Billie the ones he'd finished.

Billie had learned to read well since quitting school.

Since she hardly strayed more than a mile or two from the house and almost never went in to Dooberville, the nearest town, reading was the only way she could find out about… things. It was true they still had electricity, but the only radio in the house had been broken for months with no extra money to have it fixed and not enough saved to buy another. Her books were her life.

Billie-Ann finished fastening the buckles on her sandals and stood up.

The cover of one of her paperbacks caught her eye and she picked it up.

A woman in a sequined dress lay limp in the arms of a blond-headed detective as he shot his way out of a bedroom. It was one of Billie's favorite stories; she'd read it three times. Like the other books, this one was all about men after women or women after men, and Billie always searched every sentence carefully for some hint as to what happened after the hero and heroine relaxed in private somewhere. That was when the words got tricky and things started being left out.

She tossed the book back down on her dresser and sighed, remembering the sexy plot… especially the part where the muscled, tattooed man undressed the weak, innocent girl and dragged her into bed. Then the story had gotten mysterious and not very clear and Billie had guessed with a thrilling little flutter in her throat that the couple was doing more than just kissing. It was something like what Nora had warned her about… something like boys dragging young girls under bushes late at night and hurting them with their cocks. Whatever did happen in the books changed everything. Afterward the characters were either very, very happy or very, very sad.

"Billie-Ann, if you don't get out here this very minute I'll have some hide!"

Billie-Ann took a last look in the mirror, pushed her curtain-door quickly aside and saw her stepmother in the yard bending over the pail she was filling with feed. She could smell the acrid sharpness of chicken shit that the sun was heating up in the coop fifty yards away.

"Be there in a sec," she called, then slipped out into the cool hall and padded quickly through the house and down the front steps. She didn't have any intention of helping around the place today. It was the only time during the week that she could meet Jed Judson on his way to the farmers' co-op on the outskirts of Dooberville and pick up a few new books. She always had to walk three miles to the fork, but it was worth it, because Jed never let her down. Sometimes he even waited for her there if she was late. Besides the books, Billie enjoyed getting out of the hills-enjoyed the fifteen-mile drive and enjoyed sitting in the cab of the truck and watching the men laugh and spit and push each other around the dock of the co-op warehouse until it was time for them to load the heavy feed sacks and fertilizer into their own trucks and start back to their farms. It wasn't really much, but Billie-Ann thought she'd go crazy if she couldn't do that one thing every couple of weeks or so.

The house was almost out of sight behind her now, and as Billie crossed the dirt ruts and cut into a stand of large cottonwoods, she heard Nora's last call wavering faintly in the breeze. She went deeper into the woods and skirted behind the small parcel of land owned by the Allens, an old colored couple who'd lived in the hills ever since she could remember.

Old Allen made a fair living off of his few acres and it was talked around that his wife put up the best canned vegetables in the county.

They'd even sent their son Hanson away to the colored college upstate, Billie-Ann remembered, and then he'd gone on east to a bigger school.

Even the white folks from those parts rarely, if ever, managed something like that.

When she was close enough, Billie could see old Mrs. Allen stooping in her garden, her huge sunhat flopping whenever she jerked a weed free from the ground. Billie-Ann went on until she found the familiar path that hooked and meandered through the meadow behind the Allen farm and then dropped even deeper into the forest, passing Basset's Pond and coming out finally near the road again. It was the shortest way to the fork where she always met Jed, but most of all she liked being alone in the trees. The sun was always too hot for dirt roads that time of day and often she had time to stop at the pond and wade a little before hurrying on to the fork.

It was even nicer than usual in the woods that day. Billie kicked aside overhanging weeds and daydreamed as she walked. She'd forgotten just how close she was to Basset's Pond and was only a few yards from the water's edge when she heard the splashing.

Choking back a yelp of surprise, Billie sank quickly to her knees behind the thick tangled growth that bordered the pool on almost every side. There in the middle of the pond, knee deep in water, was a tall, muscled black man… without a single stitch of clothing. He turned slowly then and Billie saw that his face was young. Though she hadn't seen him for quite a long time she was sure at once that it was the Allen boy. The one who'd been away at college for four or five years.

"Gosh," she breathed, finally releasing the air she'd been holding in her chest. The ripples radiated from the young man's legs as he moved slowly in the pond. Billie remembered his name was Hanson-Hanson Allen, but she wasn't studying his face any longer. Her eyes seemed uncontrollably drawn to the long, drooping brown snake that hung from his groin. It was the strangest-looking thing she'd ever seen and so … big. A shudder of fear mixed with excitement made her heart pound.

She tried to imagine what Hanson would do with that thing after he dragged a girl under a bush at night. It didn't really look dangerous, though, and once when he bent over, she saw that the cock was soft rather than hard… soft and flexible-looking.

At that instant, Billie became acutely aware of her position behind the bush… peeking at a naked male. She blushed red and clamped her eyes in shame. But she couldn't keep them shut. It was the first time in her life she'd ever been able to see what a boy was made like, and though Hanson was colored he was a male, too-a real live male.

Then the fearful thought of what he might do to her if he found her peeking filled Billie with a gut-rending terror. She saw the huge muscled shoulders and broad chocolate-brown chest, the powerful legs and narrow bottom. If Hanson pulled her under a bush, she'd die. Even though Billie-Ann wasn't sure exactly what would happen, she knew she'd die. Die of fright if nothing else. But realizing all that, she parted the bushes and looked again.

Chapter 2

Hanson Allen cupped his brown hands into the water and raised them high, letting the cool droplets trickle onto his head and shoulders.

Much as he was trying not to, he had started to think of a certain Miss Pamela Whittier back in Boston. And thinking of Pamela always gave him a huge hard-on.

"Dumb white cunt!" he said under his breath. But Pamela's ivory legs and graceful hips came filtering into his mind as if he were witched or maybe something worse. It had been two years since the party in the village, where a white buddy had wanted to lay a chick on him. A girl who wigged over black men, his friend had said.

Hanson looked down at the mud he was stirring up with his feet and noticed that his cock wasn't drooping any more, but starting to swing upward a little, thickening near the head. The foreskin had slipped back over his glans, too, as the heated blood surged with every beat of his heart.

Hanson flexed his arms and yawned, trying to fool his body into relaxing. But even though he wasn't going back to the city… wasn't going to involve himself with Pamela Whittier any more, he couldn't forget her that easily. With a curse he let his breath out and let Pamela in. He could never forget the very first time. Her tawny, shoulder-length hair and large, high breasts. There had always been a kind of sexy invitation in the way she walked… either coming at you or going away. Pamela was an exotic hybrid of a woman.

The party where they met had been going strong, but Pamela insisted on a change of scene. It was winter in New York and the night had been cold and damp. By the time they'd gotten a cab and made it to Pamela's apartment, the tall girl was shivering against him. Hanson could remember every detail and he was too far into the reverie now to stop.

He took himself back, back four years, the smells, the tastes… all the way back.

***

"Aren't you going to warm me up?" Pamela cooed. Hanson took off his coat and came across the room. The rug was thick, the tables low and expensively stylish. Pamela had already kicked off her shoes and when he reached out for her fur wrap, she giggled teasingly and let it fall behind on the floor. Then, keeping her green eyes on his face, she pushed the thin straps of her white satin dress down off her shoulders.

Hanson watched her body undulate gracefully, and the silky material fell lower, catching for a tantalizing instant on the erect nipples of her breasts and then puddling at her feet in one swishing rush. He stared amazed at the dark curls of her pubic hair… just over the place where her slit began, a bright red ribbon was tied.

"I never wear panties," she simpered; "they bind me." Pamela made the word sound obscene. "Do you like me?"

Hanson nodded in a daze. "Yeah, I like you."

"Would you mind, please, kissing my breasts? I'm simply crazy about the way it feels!"

Obediently he cupped one of the firm orbs in his palm and raised it to meet his descending mouth. At first Pamela stood, hands on hips, but as he tongued the nipple stiff, she touched the side of his face, then let her fingers mingle in the short, tight curls at the nape of his neck.

"That's heavenly," she breathed; "bite me a little." Hanson bit her and suddenly the thin fingers of her hand were digging at his fly, unleashing his bound cock and stretching it out sensuously. He felt his belt loosen and his pants fall and he stepped out of them. Pamela's succulent white breast with its dark nipple quivered between his teeth.

"Touch my cunt," she moaned, voice deeper than before, "put your fingers up in me!"

Again Hanson did what she wanted, hooking one arm around the small of Pamela's back, sliding his mouth up her neck. The girl trembled in his arms, then pushed back from his embrace, leaning precariously over the back of the couch they were standing by. He watched in heated fascination as she arched even further away from him, pressing her loins out teasingly. Pamela's hair splashed over the white cushions, and her full breasts flattened some and shifted higher on her chest as she bobbed crazily upside down. When he put his hands on her wide, curving hips, she opened her thighs in final invitation. Burning with wild lust, Hanson guided the head of his cock between the girl's silken, slick pubes and drove forward. Pamela's hands flopped loosely to the floor and she bucked viciously against the back of the couch, making her navel stretch into a tight oval. Then she hooked her legs around Hanson's to keep from falling to the floor. Loins aching with pleasure, he moved forward again, feeling the slippery membranes of her tube caress and heat his cock skin.

"That's simply… deviiiine!" Pamela gasped, starting to move her pelvis in quick, sharp circles as Hanson went into her full length. The long muscles of her belly strained and jerked as she flopped like a fish backward against the sofa cushions. "Ohhh… like that!"

Unbelievably, she was about to come. Hanson was always right about those things and he was certain that Pamela's throes were rushing upon her. Their organs made wet, slick, sucking sounds and the tall girl's movements became more savage and convulsive. Her rippling, squirming body was beginning to milk the come from his own balls. Pamela's heels dug into the crack of his ass and made an excruciating pressure on his prostate. He humped violently, giving her the full benefit of his length until suddenly she straightened… came up from her upside-down flop on the divan cushions and wrapped her arms around his neck. The momentum sent them both stumbling back. Pamela's legs squeezed his waist while her twisting, plunging ass sucked huge glops of jizzum from his cock and she sank white teeth into his arm.

***

The rustle of leaves at the pond's edge brought Hanson plummeting back to the present. He turned quickly toward the sound, and his erection slapped heavily against his hipbone. "Goddamn it to hell," he cursed, angry with himself for letting the dream of Pamela enrapture him, angry with whoever had been peeking… if in reality it was somebody. Hanson squinted and searched the weedy banks of the pool. He listened. The sound of footsteps thumped in the stillness of the woods… running footsteps disappearing into the thickets and trees.

Forcing himself up out of the muddy bottom, Hanson lurched toward the trees, where he'd draped his clothes, swearing silently. "You is a jive-ass peeping fuckah!" he hollered into the silent woods, then threw back his head and laughed. It made him feel right and good to talk the way he'd talked all his life, even though he could conjure up perfect East Coast English whenever he wished… English as good as Pamela Whittier's any day. Fuck Pamela Whittier and her high-tone friends and her fucking high-class apartment and the way she giggled when she called him the "noble savage." That's what had finally gotten to him.

Pamela had started asking his closest friends over when he was there and then suggesting games in the bedroom… introducing every rich young jet-setter she knew to the wonders of being fucked by a… nigger. Hanson gritted his teeth and spat into the water as he pulled his shirt on. No, she'd never said the word, but that's the way it was.

Whenever he had wanted to discuss a book with her or go to a play, Pamela had thought it quaint. She preferred her own kind of evening's entertainment. Hanson picked his jeans off the tree where he'd hung them and struggled his wet legs in. Somehow rehashing the whole thing had made him feel a little better. At least he'd had strength enough not to let Pamela's image suck him into jacking his meat. The idea of spraying the pond with his hot, stringy seed for some reason caused him to laugh again; then he started up the path toward his parents' house.

"I ain't ever gonna think of Pamela Whittier again," he swore to the trees around him. "Ever."

Lucas Allen was sitting on the front porch of his house when he caught sight of his son coming out of the woods. Hanson crossed the stone walk he'd help lay himself ten years before and smiled up at his old man.