I�m tempted to begin by saying "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," but all it really was, honestly, was the Olde Days. The really ancient days, when we had our first Catholic president, the family car didn�t come with a seat belt, and my driver�s license was my most prized possession.

In Texas in 1962, all boys and most girls were down at the Motor Vehicle Bureau the morning after their 16th birthday, bright-eyed and driver�s manual in hand. I never knew anyone who failed the written test, but the behind-the-wheel part was different. Your score depended not only on how accomplished and confident you were but on whether the examiner had had a fight with his wife that morning. I guess I lucked out as I scored a 94, having messed up only on the non-critical element of parallel parking.

But that laminated document with my photo on it gave me the freedom to go almost anywhere I wanted — at least, if I could borrow the family car. I was working part-time, sacking groceries, mostly on weekends, but school came first and there was no way I could save up enough to buy my own wheels, not to mention the gas and the insurance. Fortunately, my father had a slightly disreputable used car he drove to work (he worked odd hours in the business he owned so he wanted transportation he didn�t have to share), and my mother didn�t often go anywhere except morning shopping and afternoon visiting, so on Friday and Saturday nights I could usually borrow the station wagon if I had done my chores and homework and had behaved myself the previous week.

And so we come to that Friday afternoon in September. I was at my desk in my room, drafting a history report so I wouldn�t have to do it over the weekend. History and English and similar subjects came easy to me and I knew I was going to have to put in some relatively painful hours later on Math and Chemistry — the hard stuff — so I was trying to budget my time. But I was distracted by my sister, Claire, wandering into my room.

I had been trying for several years to get her to knock but she would only do that if my door was actually closed. If it stood open, she assumed that meant I was available for conversation or favors or whatever. (What it actually meant was, we didn�t have central air in those days and a closed door in San Antonio in September equaled muggy discomfort.)

Claire was fourteen and just starting high school. She had recently discovered the advantages of a brother who was now a senior because my status gave her second-hand entr�e into nearly all the social circles in school. So she had been extra careful lately to be nice to me. Not that we hadn�t always gotten along pretty well, but she wasn�t taking chances. She still wouldn�t knock, though.

"Tom, are you busy?"

I immediately gave up trying to work on the report. That polite question in that hopeful tone of voice meant she wanted something from me — guaranteed. If she was just bored and desired company, ordinarily she would flop on my bed and sigh loudly until she had my attention. But I was used to it and I didn�t really mind.

"Not really, no. Just getting some work done before the weekend starts." I swiveled around with my elbows propped on the armrests of my chair. I�d picked up that heavy wooden office chair the year before off a junk pile and except for a couple of gouges and a loose slat on the back, it was in pretty good shape. I liked to spin in it, round and round, but only when no one was looking.

"Um. . . You�re taking Allie to the first school dance tomorrow night, right?"

Allie Winters was my girlfriend. We had been dating off and on for more than a year and going steady since early that summer. She was a terrific girl — very smart, very nice, and very, very pretty — and I was still a little amazed that she was willing to wear my school ring. (On a chain around her neck, that it, because my hands were a lot bigger than hers.) But there was a problem this time.

"Well, actually, no. She got dragged out of town this weekend to a family thing in Houston. A wedding or something, I think." I shrugged. Sometimes you have no choice, you just have to go along with family plans even though it messes up your own. "I�m going stag anyway, though, since it�s the first dance of the year."

Claire had looked momentarily crestfallen when I said Allie wasn�t available but now she perked up again. "Well, um, I don�t have a date. I was hoping maybe I could bum a ride there with you and her, and then maybe a ride home again if couldn�t get a lift back with one of my friends. But, now. . . ." She raised her eyebrows and gave me her widest, most favor-begging smile.

I smiled back. "Claire, would you like to be my date for the dance tomorrow night?" She hurried over and threw her arms around my neck.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She hugged me hard, then leaned back and fixed me with a hopeful stare. "Does that mean you�ll dance with me, too?"

"Well, people would think it was strange if I took a date to a dance and didn�t actually dance with her, don�t you think?" Claire loved to dance and since 6th Grade she had pressed me into service on a regular basis as a training partner. I�d had lessons in ballroom dancing in junior high — that was just something you did in our circle — and I was willing to pass on what I knew. Anyway, that promise got me another quick hug and then Claire was clattering down the stairs, probably to tell Mom she had a "date" for her first-ever high school dance. I smiled and shook my head and went back to my report after all.

Saturday morning, Dad dropped me off at the Safeway and went to run some errands of his own. I sacked groceries until two o�clock, which included lugging them out to the car for older customers. (Checkers and baggers were separate jobs back then. And there was a lot more in the way of customer service, not like Wal-Mart today. And I was happy to get the tips.) My friend, Tucker, who was working similar hours at a sporting goods store a couple blocks away, and whose folks had bought him a car when he was seventeen, picked me up and gave me a lift home, and then accepted my mother�s invitation to come in for a hot leftover meatloaf sandwich with gravy. She nearly always invited him in like that, which was why I was always pretty sure I could get a ride home from work. I know, it all sounds very "Leave It to Beaver," but that�s just how things were in the early �60s. (And Beaver didn�t get himself nailed by a VC sniper six years later, the way Tucker did.)

After lunch, I went and wrote a thank-you note to my grandmother in California (she always sent each of her grandkids a small "back to school" check), and made sure I had a clean shirt and slacks for that evening, and then I went out to the driveway for awhile and practiced free throws on the hoop over the garage door. Then Dad wandered out to watch and we played a little one-on-one. I was several inches taller and, of course, much younger than he was, and I was on the second-string varsity team, but the old man was kind of no-holds-barred when it came to sports and I was hard put to hold my own. Then Mom hollered out the window that supper was only a shower away, so I trotted upstairs and got clean.

When I went into the kitchen to carry the big bowl of tossed salad into the dining room, my mother smiled in my direction. "It�s nice of you to take your sister to the dance, Tommy. I doubt many brothers would do that. This is kind of a milestone for her, you know."

"Well, I would have gone by myself anyway. I don�t mind taking Claire."

"And, of course, you�ll keep an eye on her."

"Of course. And I�ll try not to let her notice that I�m doing it." She patted me approvingly on the shoulder and began ladling the meat sauce over the plates full of steaming angel hair pasta.

It was clear that my kid sister was anxious to not make me regret my offer to be her date for the evening. As she had gotten older, it had begun taking longer for her to get herself dressed for any kind of occasion, but she was actually already waiting for me when I went downstairs. She was wearing the standard not-quite-dress-up outfit for high school girls of that time: A white, long-sleeved, Oxford-cloth blouse, a full-cut, knee-length tan skirt with a belt (no petticoats, though), white socks turned over at the top, and black suede Hush Puppies with shiny pennies stuck in them. Her hair was brushed to a high gloss and was gathered back in a swinging ponytail. She wore the tiny gold ear studs Mom had given her last Christmas (piercing your ears was a mark of near-adulthood) and just a touch of lipstick. (Last year, she wouldn�t have worn any makeup at all, but I guessed Mom had ruled that starting high school was a good enough excuse.) Anyway, she was very cute and I knew I wasn�t going to be embarrassed with Claire on my arm.

She was making an effort to appear nonchalant, but no matter how she tried to suppress it, the excitement was coming off her in waves. Dad was browsing through the TV GUIDE while watching his youngest from the corner of his eye and trying not to laugh. Mom was speaking very softly into Claire�s ear and my sister was nodding dutifully. Getting her instructions on ladylike behavior, no doubt.

Behind the high school�s band hall, right on the corner of the campus and next to the stadium parking lot, was a modest frame house known simply as the Clubhouse. Some alumnus or other a decade or two earlier had left it to the school in his will for the use of the student body, and a group of other alumni had paid to have it hauled to the campus, and now the student council managed it. Most of the non-load-bearing walls inside had been removed to create a central dance floor and the kitchen provided a place to prepare refreshments, and also for the adult chaperones to hang out. And there was a patio in back (well-lit, of course) where you could go and hold hands. Much better than having to hold dances in the gym and to be forever putting up and taking down decorations..

Claire spotted a group of her friends on the way in from the parking lot and went over to exchange hellos, but I noticed that she scurried back quickly so she could actually enter the front door with me. She seemed to be taking this "date" thing seriously.

And we both had a good time that evening. I danced with several girls who were particular friends of Allie�s, and whom she therefore couldn�t (or shouldn�t) object to, and Claire danced with several freshman and sophomore boys. I noticed a couple of senior guys eyeing her but, of course, they didn�t ask her to dance. There was kind of a rule about that: Boys at our school didn�t date girls older than they were, and they didn�t date girls more than one class younger, either. I don�t know why, really — that�s just the way it was. So the seniors were out of luck where my little sister was concerned.

Naturally, I came in for some teasing from my friends about being so hard up I had to bring my sister to the dance. I waggled my eyebrows, inviting them to draw more interesting conclusions, which caused some laughter. I noticed several girls Claire�s age giving me thoughtful looks when they realized who she was there with. They seemed to consider it gallantry on my part.

Anyway, a couple of times during the evening, I went over and asked Claire to dance. The first time, she turned to one of her buddies and grinned ear to ear. She had recently learned the Twist and was delighted to be able to show it off. The second time, it was one of the slower dances. I hadn�t thought about that, really; I was just in between dancing with other girls myself. What it meant, though, was that I ended up holding my sister a bit closer than I would have done had I been thinking ahead. And she didn�t seem to mind — though we didn�t go into a clinch, as many of the couples on the floor were doing.

"How�s it going?" I asked as I led her around the floor, my hand on her narrow waist.

She smiled happily up at me. "It�s great, Tommy! I�m having so much fun. I really like being your date." She smirked a little. "Maybe you should drop Allie and go steady with me."

I had a momentary picture of one of the sweatier make-out sessions I had enjoyed with Allie, but with Claire substituted in the starring role. An interesting image, though a bit disconcerting.

After that, I stood off to one side for awhile, drinking punch and chatting with a couple of friends I hadn�t seen since school had let out last June. And as I talked and listened, I found myself watching Claire, who was swing-dancing with another freshman. Her skirt swayed and her ponytail bounced wildly and she looked very happy.

In the ordinary way of things, I had no reason to deliberately observe my sister, but I did now. Cute, yes, I certainly knew she was cute. But she somehow seemed older than I was used to thinking of her. The baby fat of the last couple of years was gone and she was filling out. There were definite curves there now. In fact, in addition to cute, she was becoming very pretty, which isn�t the same thing. Not to mention kind of sexy. I decided that by the time she was eighteen and a senior herself, the odds were excellent that my little sister would be downright gorgeous, a real heartbreaker. That might be an odd thought to have about your sister, but it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.

Towards the end of the evening, Claire came over, waited until I had finished exchanging gossip with one of Allie�s friends, and then put her hand on my arm. "Tom, I�m getting kind of hungry. Do you think we might go for a burger or something after? If not, I could always grab a sandwich here, though." She gestured to the tray of tuna-on-white and egg salad that weren�t being scarfed up as fast as one might expect in a room full of teenagers. She obviously hoped I wasn�t going to condemn her to that.

I shrugged. "Sure, I think so. Bun �N� Barrel okay?"

"That�d be terrific! Thanks!"

So when we waved our goodbyes and packed it in a short while later, instead of heading home we journeyed the two miles to Austin Highway, to one of the favorite hang-outs for students in our part of town. The Bun �N� Barrel was a traditional drive-in, complete with carhops, and had been around at least since World War II. The barbeque was terrific, as were the onion rings, and the root beer came in big frosted mugs. We sat on the front bench seat of the station wagon, paper napkins carefully spread around (Mom would not appreciate grease stains on the upholstery), and worked our way through a couple of sliced beef sandwiches oozing with sauce, a basket of battered onion rings, and maybe a quart of root beer, and compared notes on the year�s first social event. Claire asked about some of the couples she had noticed and I explained the current relationships, insofar as I understood them. It was hard to keep track sometimes. And I asked her about a couple of her friends, the cuter ones, and she laughingly gave me the low-down on them. As noted, they were too young and I wasn�t going to be able to ask them out (even if Allie weren�t in the picture), but it never hurt to know these things.

Of course, we weren�t the only ones to have come for barbecue after the dance, and several couples pulled out and sped away as we were finishing up. Claire watched them go and then turned to me. She seemed a bit hesitant and I raised my eyebrows at her.

"Are they, um, going out to Eisenhauer Road, do you think?"

"I wouldn�t be surprised," I replied with a grin.

Eisenhauer Road is now in the midst of a group of subdivisions and several miles inside the city, but back then it was a three-mile-long country lane out beyond the built-up area on the north side, and it had wide gravel shoulders down one side with big, overhanging oak trees and no light poles. By a longstanding, unwritten, unspoken agreement between the cops and the teenagers in the area, Eisenhauer Road was neutral territory. We all went out there to park. And as long as there was no trouble — no drunken fights, no screams for help — the cops patrolled but didn�t interfere. As a matter of self-enforcement, it was guaranteed no one was going to mess up and bring the cops down on us. Anyone that selfish and stupid, . . . well, his life wouldn�t have been worth much among his peers. Actually, most of the officers who drove up and down the tarmac every thirty minutes or so weren�t much older than we were. It was a good deal all around. They kept us out of trouble and we had a certain amount of protection from outsiders. And the girls felt safe. And the deal was only in effect on Friday and Saturday nights. But I was pretty sure my little sister had never been out to Eisenhauer Road.

"Do you usually take Allie out there?" She was examining the next-to-last onion ring, carefully not looking at me.

"Not always," I replied. "But, yeah, usually."

"Do you think. . . ." She glanced up at me. "I�ve never been."

This was becoming slightly strange. "Claire, . . . are you asking me to take you parking?"

She colored a bit but shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe. I don�t know. I�d like to go and see it, anyway." She lifted her head and looked at me straight on. "Please, Tommy?"

Well, that was pretty explicit. Though I didn�t know what she thought she was going to see. Staying in your own car and out of sight was one of the main rules. But we gathered up our trash and I hopped out and deposited it in the barrel a few yards away. And then we pulled out and I drove us the half-dozen miles to Eisenhauer Road.

I pulled onto Eisenhauer a few minutes later, rolled down my window, flicked the lights on low-beam, and started down the three-mile stretch at a slow pace. No one drove very fast here; usually, they were looking for a vacant space along the side. A patrol car went past the other way and I raised a hand in greeting. The young cop driving waved back. Sometimes, the whole length of Eisenhauer was occupied, one car after another, but the shoulder was only about two-thirds full tonight. Perhaps it was too early in the school year and relationships were still sorting themselves out.

Claire was scanning the parked cars we passed with interest. A few of them had their windows fogged up. "What do you think they�re doing in there?" she asked in a low voice.

I just looked at her. "Probably studying Latin and listening to Beethoven. Or taking a nap." She smirked and punched me lightly on the arm. Then she cleared her throat.

"Tommy, could we stop? Just for a few minutes?"

In for a dime, in for the whole damn piggy bank, I thought. A few yards farther, there was a huge old oak and I pulled smoothly under its spreading branches, well off the pavement, and killed the lights completely. My sister rolled down her own window and we sat there a moment, listening to the near-silence. A few crickets, a bit of a breeze moving the leaves around. Sometimes, when I came out here with Allie, we did, in fact, just sit and cuddle and listen to how peaceful and quiet it was. Never for very long, though.

Claire scooted over to the middle of the seat and turned sideways, tucking one foot under herself. She laid a hand on my arm and gave it a little squeeze.

"Tom, I want to thank you for taking me to the dance tonight." I opened my mouth but she touched my lips with her finger. "Let me say it. You�ve always been so nice to me. You don�t know how much that means. You�re the best brother in the world and I love you, Tommy."

Then she got up on her knees and put her arms around my neck and hugged me. I was quite touched. I loved my sister, naturally. And I always had tried to treat her properly, at least since I was old enough to know better, to be aware of what I was doing. I never thought about why I did it, I just did it. Claire had often come to me with problems or questions, and I knew, usually, that I was her first stop. She hadn�t gone to our folks first. She trusted me to help her out or give her good advice, and so I tried to do that. She also trusted me not to make fun of her or to tell her to beat it, so I didn�t do those things. It seemed important, somehow, that my little sister should have a high opinion of me, that she should feel able to depend on me.

Anyway, I hugged her back and I stroked her hair and I whispered in her ear that I loved her, too. And if that was where it had ended, I would have had a nice, warm memory to tuck away and that would have been all. But sometimes fate has its own plans.

After a minute or so, Claire sat back on her heels and wiped her eyes with a sheepish smile. She was always rather sentimental. Then she raised up again and leaned forward and took my head in her hands, and she kissed me. Given what we had both just said, this didn�t surprise me, really. But it wasn�t just an affectionate kiss on the cheek. I felt her warm, soft lips on mine and it was an extraordinary sensation. She had closed her eyes but when I pressed my mouth back against hers, they opened wide. She pulled back a couple of inches and we stared into each other�s eyes. Her eyes seemed huge just then.

Hesitantly, Claire licked her lips and leaned forward again. This time she seemed to be waiting for me to decide what we were about to do. I didn�t have to think about it. I pulled her a little closer and kissed her gently but very firmly. She leaned into the kiss and she still had her eyes open, watching me. I moved my hand slowly up and down her back. This time when the kiss drifted to an end, her eyes had half-closed. She sighed deeply and whispered "Oh, Tommy. . . ."

I admit, I didn�t quite know what I was doing — except that I had just kissed my sister with intent, just as if she had been a "real" date I had gone parking with. Just as if she had been Allie, in fact. And I knew, deep down, that I wanted to do it again. I wanted to hold her in my arms and feel the warmth of her body pressed against me and kiss her until we both ran out of breath. And a small voice in the back of my mind wanted to know, was this wrong? Frankly, I wasn�t thinking about it in those terms. There was no right or wrong here. This was a very sweet girl, a very cute girl, a girl I really liked, a girl who liked me just as much. That was all that mattered just then.

Claire blinked and studied my face, presumably just as overwhelmed with unexpected feelings as I was. I scooted over a little, out from under the wheel, and gently coaxed my little sister into my lap. She settled herself without hesitation and bent her knees. I felt the sole of one foot stroking my thigh. She must have dropped her shoes on the floor. Her skirt was spread out over her lap and I saw the pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. The top two buttons of her shirt had come undone.

She snuggled up against me and buried her face against the side of my neck. I let the tips of my fingers drift over the outline of her ear and down her throat, and she shivered and wrapped her fist in the front of my shirt. I laid my open hand against her soft cheek and she covered my hand with her own and nuzzled it.

And there I paused and tried again, not very successfully, to think about what exactly I was doing. What were my intentions here? Well, I didn�t have any, actually. All this sudden upwelling of passion wasn�t planned or expected. Five minutes ago I wouldn�t have believed we would be doing this. Now, I couldn�t believe we wouldn�t do it again.

And then Claire made a decision on her own. Moving my hand away from her cheek, she smiled up at me and pressed it over her breast. She wasn�t especially busty at fourteen but neither was she flat-chested. I could feel the shape of the mound and the exclamation point of her hard little nipple through her bra. I squeezed a little and she sucked in a deep breath and pressed herself against my hand. I understood that this was a completely new experience for her.

I drew her into another slow kiss and, just as slowly, massaged her breast. I could feel her pulse speeding up, not slowly at all. She made a little moaning sound deep in her throat that went straight to my groin. I took my hand away and began working on the third button of her shirt. I�d had enough experience at undoing shirt buttons one-handed that it should have been easy, but my fingers were shaking. I finally got it, though. And then the next one. My little sister sat there, lying back against my encircling arm, staring into my eyes with her lips parted, and let me do it. I concluded that she wasn�t going to stop me — I would have stopped, of course, if she had told me to — so I went on to the fifth and last button. Her shirt gaped open, displaying a white cotton bra with white lace scalloped across the front. She had apparently bought it new for the dance. I don�t think any nice girl in those days wore anything but white underwear.

I traced my fingertip along the edge of the cup and Claire shivered and gulped. Then she took a deep breath, pulled her shirt-tail out of her waistband, and reached behind and unhooked her bra with a quick motion. I stroked her cheek — I had learned long ago not to rush these things — and kissed her again. And then I let my hand slide down her throat, over her collarbone, to the first breast I found. I cupped its warmness and caught the hard, stiff nipple between my fingers. I pinched it a little and pulled it outward a little and my sweet little sister tilted her head back and let her eyelids drift down.

My other hand, still behind her, slipped up under the back of her shirt and stroked the small of her back. Claire writhed a little, hunching her shoulders and twisting her spine. She actually purred, which I had never heard a girl do before. I moved my hand to her other breast and repeated my performance. She pressed herself against my palm. Her nipple, if anything, became even more rigid.

"Do you like that, sweetheart?" I�ve always believed talking about it makes sex even sexier.

"Yes," she murmured. "Feels so good. . . ."

"Do you want me to suck your nipples?" I whispered. "Tell me."

She moaned again. "Oh, Tommy, . . . suck my nipples, please. Put your mouth on me, Tom." Her voice was low and husky and her eyes were still closed.

I shifted position a little so I could lean her backward and she slid down in my arms. I leaned over and began drawing wet circles with my tongue around and around the tip of one breast, finally spiraling in and taking that sweet little rigidity between my lips and applying suction. Claire arched her head back even more as her breath caught. Her shirt had fallen back to the sides and her entire torso was exposed, from her belt to the bra tucked up under her chin. I loved the shape of her, laid out there across my lap.

I had been in almost exactly this same position with Allie and I found myself making comparisons, which probably was unfair to both girls. Allie was my age, much more developed and more experienced with boys. She had much larger tits — odd, how I thought of hers as "tits" but Claire�s as "breasts" — and wide, soft aureoles. I really liked the way they swung beneath her when she took off her top and bent over me, covering my face with soft, warm flesh. Physically, Claire was a very different sort of girl, but every bit as appealing. I resolutely ignored the fact that she was my sister.

Anyway, I sucked and licked one nipple for a little while, then switched over to the other one — though I was careful to keep the first one occupied with my fingers. Claire was writhing continuously now.

"Oh, God, Tom! Oh, God, that feels so good! Oh, I can�t believe how . . ." She broke off and swallowed, then cupped her hand behind my head and tried to push her entire small mound into my mouth.

Meanwhile, a separate part of my brain was thinking strategically. Guys do this, however coldblooded it might seem to the girls. They try to plan ahead. What can I do next, they think. What can I get away with? What will she allow? Maybe if I�m careful, she won�t realize what�s happening. All of which is ridiculous, as those same guys — the brighter ones — will realize before they�re too many years older. Teenage girls get just as horny as teenage guys, even back in the �60s. But society says (or used to say) that they should hide it, so they try to pretend they don�t know what�s going on and what the next logical step is. Then they have to decide what to do about it, whether to just float downstream with the program, or end it and paddle for shore. But they know.

I was thinking this way because Claire�s slide down across my lap had put her nearly horizontal and her skirt had climbed halfway up her thighs. While I was wrapping my tongue around those exquisite little nipples, my hand had begun stroking her leg, starting at her kneecap and climbing slowly but steadily upward. Now her legs were shifting back and forth restlessly as she got more and more worked up. And I was trying to decide whether to move my hand up under the raised hem of that skirt. Full-cut as it was, I wouldn�t have to wrestle with it, which meant my little sister might not realize where my hand was and what it was doing. (Yeah, like I said.)

While I was trying to decide, though, my hand had ceased waiting for instruction and simply followed its own desires. Claire had parted her legs, whether deliberately or unthinkingly, and I was now gently stroking the inside of her thigh. Her skin was very soft and smooth and warm. And my fingertips were no more than a couple of inches from her crotch. And I was aware at the same time of a rapidly increasing tightness across the front of my slacks.

Kissing Claire had turned out to be a very exciting exercise indeed and I wanted to do it again, so I stretched forward until I could reach her lips once more. And then I moved up to the next stage by sliding my tongue between her lips and pressing it against her teeth. She gave a little jerk and her breathing became even more ragged. When I swept my tongue back and forth behind her upper lip, she grabbed my hair at the back of my head and pulled. I thought she was demanding I stop and so I pulled back a bit, but she only sat there staring at me, lips parted and panting. Then she pulled me back to her and stuck her tongue in my mouth. I sucked on it and she moaned. In the back of my mind, I was wondering what I could — or ought to — do next.

Well, my hand was still lightly stroking the smooth, soft flesh of her upper thigh. I thought about how close I was to the most intimate, most carefully guarded part of her. Even in her novice state of arousal, would she allow me access to her pussy? Should I even attempt it? If that was going too far, I might ruin everything — which was something I wanted to avoid at all costs. I eased my fingertips a little farther up until they were no more than the width of a molecule from the expanse of cotton between her legs.

Then my little sister came to my rescue again, in a manner of speaking. Gazing straight into my eyes, puffing like a steam engine, she shifted position slightly — just enough to press the dampness of her panties against my fingers.

"Touch me," she added for good measure.

I began slowly stroking my fingers up and down the cotton, tracing the outline of her cleft.

"Oh, . . . God. . . ." Claire squeezed her eyes tight shut and arched her groin upward. Okay, a pretty clear invitation, I thought. I slipped a finger around the elastic and carefully stretched it out a bit, then shifted it over to expose her cunt to the open air. Her pubic hair wasn�t very thick but it was certainly damp and I could detect an aroma beginning to waft out from beneath her skirt.

I let my finger glide up and down the soft, moist flesh of her labia, moving farther upward with each pass until I reached her clit. As my finger passed over it, Claire jerked again and her hand yanked at my shirt-front, and she made a slightly strangled sound. As I moved my finger back and forth over her stiff little bud, I lowered my head to her breast again and resumed licking and sucking.

Claire was trembling now, her legs quivering and her head moving back and forth, and I increased the pace. After a good deal of exploration and practice, I had learned how to make Allie come with this sort of attention and now my little sister was getting the benefit of my earlier experience. At the same time, of course, my imprisoned cock was becoming painful in its rigidity — but I was trying to exert self-discipline. One thing at a time. I wanted very much to get Claire off. I wanted to experience her climax as she lay in my arms.

And after a few minutes of stroking her clit and sucking her nipples, that�s exactly what happened. She gulped several times and screwed up her face, and then she jerked and went rigid, straining against me. Suddenly, my fingers in her cunt felt a good deal wetter. Then her breath came out in a rush and she relaxed, but she was gulping and still shaking. I didn�t know whether she quite understood what had happened. Did my little sister masturbate? How would I know? But she smiled up at me as she lay there trying to catch her breath, still twitching a little.

"Did I come?" she gasped. "Is that what that was?" I grinned at her and nodded. "God," she said, and swallowed again. "I can�t believe it. You made me come. My big brother made me come." She laughed in between twitches.

"That was your first time, I take it?"

"Oh, yeah," she nodded. "Definitely. But it�s not going to be my last. My God."

After another minute or two, Claire�s respiration had calmed down and she was able to sit up again. She didn�t bother to close her shirt or even lower her bra, and she didn�t move off my lap, either. I cupped her breast and squeezed a little, and she twitched and laughed again a bit breathlessly.

I looked at her and I had to ask. "Tell me the truth, Claire. Is this the reason you wanted to come out here?"

She swallowed and studied my arm as she stroked it lightly with her fingers. "I don�t know. I didn�t think so. I thought I just wanted to come out here and see what it was all about — but now, . . . I don�t know." She looked up at me. "Have you ever thought about making out with me, Tom?"

Um. Well, no, not really. Probably I had had a few fantasies when I was first negotiating puberty myself — but Claire was just my little sister, whom I mostly felt protective about. Things seemed to be changing. But she didn�t wait for me to answer.

"Because I guess I�ve been thinking about you that way." She licked her lips, as if nervous of my reaction. "I think about being with you sometimes at night. I�ve wondered what it would be like." She smiled. "I guess now I know, don�t I?"

"Yeah, I guess you do. I hope you enjoyed it," I added. She replied with a sisterly giggle. Then she seemed to consider. "Tommy, . . . do you think I could sort of be, . . . I don�t know. Your other girlfriend, maybe? The one that�s always available when you�re not with Allie? Or something?"

She was making a joke, I thought, like when she suggested I should dump my girlfriend in favor of her. But she seemed hesitant and half-serious. I put my arms around her again and hugged her.

"Sweetheart, you�ve been my �girlfriend� for a long time now and you always will be. And I think you know that."

She hugged me back and sighed. "I know. And I do love you, Tom."

She sat back and we both kind of blinked at each other for a moment. My brain suddenly woke up and I checked my wristwatch. Christ, almost midnight. Our folks were going to be wondering where in the hell we were.

Claire saw my concern and slid off my lap, back onto her own side of the seat, tugging her bra down and rehooking it as she went. "Don�t worry," she said with another smile. "I�ll say I got to talking to a bunch of my friends at the Bun �N� Barrel and we lost track of time. It isn�t like I was out with some guy, right?" The smile turned to a knowing grin. Then she twisted around toward me again as she was buttoning her blouse and put her lips up to my ear.

"I want you to promise you�ll bring me out here again, Tom. I don�t want this to be our only time together. Okay?" I had been about to turn the ignition key but I paused at the implication. "And next time---" (she reached down and squeezed my frustrated cock through my slacks, like she�d done it a thousand times) "---it�s going to be your turn. And that�s my promise." And she kissed my ear.

As I checked both ways for traffic and then pulled cautiously back out onto the road, I glanced up at the wide branches of the oak tree under which we had spent the past very interesting hour. I suspected my sister and I would become very familiar with that tree. And I wondered, just for a moment, what it might be like to park there with two girls at once.

Copyright 2012 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.