This is the third of five accounts I’d like to share with you about my experiences between 2008 and 2016. This account took place in the summer of 2011 when I was 19.

Saturday morning. I rang the bell and Martin’s mother answered the door. She gave me a big hug. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ she said, welcoming me in. ‘Are you excited about your trip?’

‘Yeah, I can’t wait,’ I said. ‘Thanks for offering to take us to the airport. Is Martin ready?’

Martin’s mother rolled her eyes. ‘Nowhere near. He’s only just started packing,’ she told me. ‘You better go up and give him a hand. I’ll make you some sandwiches to take on the flight.’

Martin’s mother was from Japan, though she’d moved to England with her parents when she was just a few years old. She had two children – Martin, who was the same age as me, and Esme, who was five years younger. Their father, who was from England, had left several years ago. Until Martin had gone to university last year, he and I had been pretty much inseparable, so this place was felt like a second home to me. However, since he’d started uni and I’d started work, we’d barely spent any time together; our Amsterdam trip was meant to rectify that, give us a chance to catch up and recollect old times and have some fun.

I went up the stairs to Martin’s room. He was wearing only his boxer shorts and he was stood on his chair, peering over the top of his wardrobe. ‘Dammit,’ he said, ‘I can’t find my suitcase.’

‘Bloody hell, Martin!’ I said. ‘Our flight’s at two o’clock. Why aren’t you ready yet?’

‘I’m nearly ready,’ he said. ‘Um, can you check whether there’s a spare suitcase on top of the wardrobe in the spare room? I’ll get dressed.’ I shook my head in disbelief. Martin could see I wasn’t impressed. ‘Honest, man,’ he said, ‘I’ve got all my stuff ready. I just need to bung it in a case and get dressed.’

I left him to put some clothes on and wandered down the hall to the spare room. Esme’s bedroom door was wide open, and I glanced in as I passed, not expecting her to be there. But she was there: she’d clearly just got out of the shower and was stood in the centre of her room, stark naked, drying her hair with a towel. I stopped dead in my tracks, mouth open, staring at her.

Whereas Martin had taken after his father, with brown hair and cleft chin and weedy build, Esme had Asian features like her mother: she was short and slight, with delicate skin, wide eyes, and long, wonderfully soft-looking, straight black hair. She was fourteen years old now – though she’d be fifteen next month – and she’d grown up a lot since the last time I’d seen her: she’d grown taller and lost the baby fat around her cheeks, and her breasts – albeit still very small – had filled out.

Esme towelled her hair for a minute or two, and only then glanced up, seeing me for the first time. I didn’t know what to do. I was still stood there staring at her. She laughed nervously. ‘Hey Dalziel,’ she said. ‘Um, I think I should probably close the door and get dressed, okay?’ She walked over and, just before she shut me out, she winked.

I stood there, facing the closed door, still speechless. As she’d walked over to close it, I’d caught the smallest glimpse of her sparse black pubic hair. My cock was hard in my pants. Oh god, this was so wrong, I thought to myself; she was my best friend’s sister, and she wasn’t even fifteen yet. I shook my head, trying to dispel the image of Esme’s tight young body. Oh god.

Then Martin came out of his room, finally dressed. ‘You found the suitcase yet?’ he asked.

Martin’s mother dropped us at the airport and gave us both massive hugs. ‘Remember to phone me as soon as you land.’

We extricated ourselves from her clutches, checked in, went through security, boarded the plane – and my boner still hadn’t abated, not for a moment. I could still see Esme’s firm little breasts, the wisps of dark hair at her crotch, the casual way she’d said hello and winked at me.

During the flight, Martin told me about a few girls from his art class that he’d been out with recently, and that didn’t help matters. In the past we’d always fantasised about girls, usually whilst masturbating in Martin’s bedroom. Martin’s recollections and my persistent thoughts of his younger sister only served to remind me that I was on a crowded flight with no easy way to relieve my sexual tension.

‘When we go back to uni in September,’ Martin was telling me, ‘both Hannah and Sally have agreed to pose nude for me. I’ll send you copies of my sketches if you like? Hell, I wonder if they’ll let me take a few photos... ‘

I squirmed in my seat and tried to discreetly adjust my erection so it wasn’t quite so obvious. ‘Tell me about the hostel we’re staying at,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘Have we got a room to ourselves?’

‘No, they’re all shared rooms, between four and six bunks in each one. You get a bunkbed and a locker, that’s it. There are shared bathrooms and a kitchen and lounge on each floor.’

‘I hoped we’d get some downtime,’ I said gloomily. “Downtime” was what we called our joint masturbation sessions.

Martin shrugged. ‘It’s unlikely, I guess. But I’ve planned an itinerary, so we’ll be far too busy for that, anyway: coffee shops, you know, where you can smoke weed, the red-light district, a sex show, that sort of thing. I want to visit the Van Gogh museum too if that’s alright with you?’

I let Martin prattle on, and I closed my eyes and pictured Esme.

Martin had chosen the hostel because it was one of least expensive he could find in the centre of the city, just south of the canal. As we entered, I had to admit that it looked cheap – the paint was peeling and the carpets were threadbare.

‘Hi guys, welcome!’ said the receptionist. She was in her early twenties with spiky purple hair and a nose piercing, and she had a German accent. We gave her our booking details and she tapped away at her computer. ‘Who have we got here... ? Martin and Dall ... Dazz... ‘ She faltered over my name.

‘Dalziel,’ I said, saying it the way it sounded: Dee-yell. ‘Don’t worry, no-one ever says it right.’

‘Dalziel,’ she repeated. ‘That’s a cool name. My name’s Anja. And it looks like you’re staying in my room.’

I said, ‘Really?’ at the same time Martin said, ‘Awesome!’

The receptionist laughed. ‘I don’t actually work here. I’ve been staying here as a guest for a few weeks and I’m low on cash, so I’ve been helping out, looking after reception, that sort of thing. And yeah, you guys are staying in room 6, same as me.’ Anja showed us to our room, pointing out the kitchen and lounge and showers on the way. ‘I know this place looks old, but everyone is really friendly, and it’s clean. And our room is one of the biggest, and it has its own bathroom.’

The room was enormous. Instead of bunks like Martin had suggested, there were six single beds, each with its own locker beside it. There were even two small sofas and a low coffee table in the centre of the room. At the end of the room was the door to the bathroom. ‘The lock is broken,’ Anja explained, pointing at a cloth hanging from a hook on the back of the door. ‘When you use the bathroom, put the flannel over the door handle, then no-one will disturb you.’

Martin asked which beds were ours. ‘Any of those three,’ Anja replied, pointing. ‘The one nearest the door is mine. Lena and Sofie have those two.’

‘So, it’s just us two boys and three girls, right?’ asked Martin with a cheeky grin.

Anja laughed. ‘Behave,’ she told him, ‘they’ll have you for breakfast! There is one spare bed, but it’s not been booked yet.’

‘That can be the sex-bed,’ Martin said. I punched him in the arm, warning him he was taking it too far.

Anja laughed again, then looked at me. ‘I think your friend needs to visit De Wallen,’ she said.

‘What did she mean?’ asked Martin when Anja had gone.

We were taking a shower. We were eager to rinse off after our flight and get out to explore the city before it got too dark, and the bathroom was massive with a large shower cubicle. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ Martin had said. I didn’t mind, so we quickly stripped off and showered together.

‘De Wallen is the red-light district,’ I told him. ‘You way you were acting around her, you’re obviously gagging for it.’

‘And you’re not gagging for it, I suppose?’ he asked, glancing down at my cock. ‘You’ve had that hard-on since we left England.’

‘Oh, man,’ I said, groaning, ‘you won’t believe how uncomfortable it’s been. I really need to take care of it before we go out.’

‘Wanna wank together, like we used to?’ Martin asked.

I can’t remember the first time we masturbated together – we had probably been about twelve or thirteen years old – but it had soon become a regular pastime. Sometimes we would watch porn, but usually we’d just chat and exchange fantasies about whatever girl we fancied at the time. And while we were quite open about watching each other and discussing techniques, we never touched one another. It wasn’t a rule as such; it was just that we were both comfortable in the knowledge that we were only sexually interested in girls.

Although I couldn’t remember the first time we’d masturbated together, I could clearly recall the last time. It had been the previous summer, the day before Martin started university. We had been in his bedroom, stark naked and jacking off, when the bedroom door had opened and Esme had walked in. She had obviously just got out of the bath and was wrapped in a towel. Martin had yelled at her, and she literally jumped in shock and dropped her towel. For a long moment we were like rabbits caught in the headlights; and then Esme squealed and ran out of the room, leaving her towel behind. I didn’t know why she’d entered the room like that – but I didn’t care either. Martin had been put off stroke, totally disgusted by Esme’s intrusion, but the fleeting glimpse of his nude sister was enough to make me come.

And now here we were, in a hostel in Amsterdam, masturbating together again for the first time in twelve months.

I was already at half-mast – I had been all day – and it only took a few strokes to become fully erect. There was a bottle of hair conditioner on the shelf next to the shower, so I squirted some into my hand and used it to lubricate my cock, gliding my hand smoothly up and down its length.

I glanced at Martin. His cock was still soft, but he was fondling it with one hand and caressing his balls with the other. He’d shaved off his pubic hair since the last time I’d seen him, probably in an effort to make his dick look bigger. (Martin had always wished he was better endowed, though I don’t really understand why. Flaccid, my cock was bigger the bigger of the two – four and a half inches compared to his meagre three inches; but when erect, Martin’s cock grew to almost six and a half inches, exceeding mine by a full inch.)

‘Who are you thinking of?’ Martin asked me.

I lied: ‘Anja,’ I said.

‘Oh, brother, me too.’ Martin closed his eyes and started pumping his cock with vigour. ‘I love that nose piercing,’ he said. ‘I wonder if she has any others? Like pierced nipples, or a pierced clit.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. My eyes were closed too, picturing Esme. First, I pictured her as she was a year ago, standing in Martin’s room, her towel at her feet: fourteen years old, no boobs to mention, a tiny hairless slit. And then I pictured her as she was this morning, drying her hair: tight, compact breasts, little wisps of black pubic hair. She was so cute, so innocent, and it felt wrong to be thinking of her like this – but then I remembered the sly wink she’d given me before she closed the door, and I grunted, and came hard.

I left Martin to finish. I got dressed and went downstairs to the reception to chat to Anja and get some advice on places to visit in the city. When I got there, Anja was already speaking to a girl who had just arrived. It sounded like they were talking in French. The girl looked about the same age as me, with tanned skin and curly dark red hair. She had a heart-shaped face with wide eyes that reminded me of Esme.

Rather than hang around whilst the girl checked in, I wandered outside and stood in the late-afternoon sun. A middle-aged man walked past, then stopped and picked something off the ground. ‘Yours?’ he asked. It was a passport.

‘Uh, no, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Can I see the picture?’ The man flicked through it to the picture page – it was the redheaded girl I’d seen inside. ‘Oh, it belongs to a girl in there,’ I said, pointing at the hostel. ‘Do you want me to take it, or will you take it in?’ The guy just shrugged and handed it to me, then went on his way.

I glanced at the picture again, and the details printed beside it. It was a French passport. The girl’s name was Emile and her date of birth, I noticed, was 16 February 1993 – she was exactly one year younger than me, to the day. I took it inside. The girl was still there, chatting with Anja. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I said, ‘but I think you dropped this.’

The girl was grateful. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. She had a thick French accent. ‘I would have been totally fucked if I’d lost this.’ She gave me a huge smile.

‘No worries.’ I wanted to say more, but the girl had already turned and started speaking to Anja. ‘Um, catch you later, maybe,’ I said, and I went back outside to wait for Martin.

I’m not going to write about everything we got up to in Amsterdam, but I’ll mention a few of the highlights (and, indeed, some of the ‘low’ lights) of our holiday.

On the Saturday afternoon we just walked about the city and got our bearings, scouted out a few bars which we’d return to later in the week, and went to a sex-show. It was an awful affair, far more comical than erotic, with bored-looking performers. Within half-an-hour we’d had enough and left.

On the second day, we went to the Van Gogh museum. Martin was studying fine arts at university and whilst I’d always been quite creative, I wasn’t particularly interested in art history and I wasn’t looking forward to an afternoon traipsing around a museum. As it happened, Anja did voluntary work at the museum, got us free entry, and wandered around with us. (‘Do you work anywhere else?’ I asked her. ‘The laundrette next door to the hostel,’ she replied. ‘I like to keep busy.’)

We wandered through De Wallen a few times. It really came to life after dark, and there was a real buzz in the air as window booths lit up and the masses descended upon the cobbled streets (though the buzz was probably a result of the fumes from the coffee shops, Martin remarked). Martin was desperate to visit one of the girls, but it took several nights before he plucked up the courage. ‘Will you do it, too?’ he asked me. ‘No way,’ I said, but he wheedled and cajoled until I agreed. The woman he chose was a brunette in her mid-thirties. I hung back as he spoke to her and paid, and then he beckoned me in. Martin went first, and I sat on a chair and watched them, feeling utterly awkward. When Martin was done, the woman gestured for me to undress, but I chickened out and we left. Afterwards, when Martin complained, I told him I hadn’t been prepared to lose my virginity to a prostitute.

We didn’t see our roommates very often. On the first evening when we returned to the room, we didn’t see anyone at all, and when we woke in the morning it was still only the two of us in the room. There were a couple of evenings that we saw Anja – usually already fast asleep by the time we came back to the room, and up and away before we woke up. On Wednesday morning we met a tall blonde girl, who was coming back to the room just as we were leaving, but other than a brief ‘Hello’ we didn’t stop and chat. It wasn’t until Thursday, the day before we were due to fly back home, that we met all of our roommates.

We’d been out late the night before, and on Thursday morning we slept in until about 11am. No one was around when we woke up and, lulled into a false sense of security, we led in our beds and masturbated. The idea that at any moment someone might walk in and catch us made it all the more exciting and it didn’t take either of us long to come. Afterwards, Martin had a shave and cleaned his teeth whilst I showered, and then he had a shower after me. I cleaned my teeth and then, still naked, I sauntered over to my bed and tried to find something clean to wear from the pile of clothes in the bottom of my locker.

It was then that the door opened, and two blonde girls entered, followed by Anja. One of the blondes was the girl we’d briefly met the previous morning. They were talking in another language, maybe German, and when they saw me – facing them, stark naked – the two blonde girls paused for a moment, said hello, and then carried on chatting as if nothing had happened. Anja caught my eye and gave me a quizzical look, then shrugged and sat down on the sofa next to the girls.

I thought about covering myself, but it seemed a bit late. I glanced down. Thankfully, it was warm in the room, and I still hadn’t fully relaxed from that morning’s fapping session: my softening cock still looked slightly larger than usual, without sporting a noticeable erection. Nothing to be embarrassed of, I told myself, and I proceeded to get dressed. Once I was decent, I went and introduced myself to the girls.

‘Um, sorry about that,’ I said. They laughed and told me not to worry – it was one of the dangers of a shared room – and Anja introduced the girls as Lena and Sofie. They looked like twins – they were both tall and blonde with Slavic features – but as it turned out, they weren’t even from the same country, let alone related to one another; Lena was in her late twenties and came from Ukraine, while Sofie was twenty and from Russia. We chatted for a few minutes, and then Anja excused herself and made her way to the bathroom.